 The Colonel Abroad, a sketch from real life by Anna Cora-Mollett. 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 Kelly Taylor. The Colonel Abroad. A few springs ago it was impossible to display one's gay attire in Broadway without becoming acquainted with the person of my hero, Augustus Blazen Esquire. The reader, who may have never rightly caught his name, will recognize him when I call to mind an individual who usually dazzled the public eye with a bright blue or green coat, crimson vest, and a greater quality of jewelry gracing that portion of his breasts in which Momus recommended a window, than would have shown to an advantage through one of Tenney's double-sized panes. So exceedingly slender was this gentleman that the cane, with its monkey head, which he invariably carried bore no slight resemblance to himself, but the material of which nature had stented him in breadth. She conscientiously returned him in height. He stood some six-foot-two in his boots. His pliant form was surmounted by a head in which shape I might almost say in size forcibly reminded me of that most insipid fruit, a shattuck. Doubtless some malicious persons would add that the simile might be carried out and a comparison made between the quality of the head and the shattuck's contents, but far be it from me, conversant as I am with Mr. Blazen's own peculiar talents, to be guilty of the detraction. Mr. Blazen, when I first beheld him, was a man seeking his proper sphere in society. This he did not seem likely to find. His father was a ship-builder, and had left him considerable property, sufficient, it might be supposed, to purchase the entree to that society in which he was calculated to cut a figure. Yet strange to say both he and his wealth were then totally unappreciated. He was a very ill-treated person, the butt of waggish young gentlemen, and the bore of fashionable young ladies. It was astonishing with what lack of discernment people of the whole tone declared that his manners were vulgar in the extreme, that he was uneducated, a booby, a bear, and those without daughters even went so far as to declare that his presence, in spite of his money, would be a disgrace to their balls. Augustus endured the horror incident upon this verdict, but one winter after he became of age, he suddenly disappeared from Broadway, and for a year I entirely lost sight of him. The ensuing autumn I was standing in the gallery of the Louvre, before one of David's most felicitous productions, when my attention was arrested by a person of aspiring stature beside me. His face recalled some face once familiar to my eye, but the long-curling hair, in color and shagginess, somewhat resembling a setter's. The bushy whiskers and sandy moustache so disguise those diminutive features that I could not recognize to whom they belonged. Upon the gentleman's armed leaned a lady, whose comfortable en bon pont recompense the eyes for the lanky spareness of her escort. To pronounce the lady's beauty is a delicate point. I leave the reader to judge her attractions. A horseback ride on the Champs-Élysées could alone have given her cheek that exceedingly brilliant bloom. The most celebrated powder in Paris certainly must have assisted in lending those strangely regular teeth, displayed by a perpetual smile, their dazzling whiteness. Nature seldom before clustered such a profusion of glossy black ringlets around a white forehead, or tinted brows so jetty a hue, or vermilion'd lips so exquisitely. In the eye alone she had made an error. It was decidedly too small for the lovingly languidness of its expression. As for the lady's age it might have been considered a compliment to call her actually young. At all events she was blooming still, had made the best of time and time return the compliment, and treated her gentilely. Was a thrilling and beautiful tableau, softly murmured the lady, pausing before a picture which represented a group of cupids sportively loosening their bows. Tollibly executed, why possible, not at all remarkable, however, said her critical companion. Here is a much finer. And he pointed out a dark painting in which the figures were obscured by a shade so deep they were hardly visible. Ah, Colonel, you are such a connoisseur! It is dangerous to express opinion before you, sighed the lady. Well, really I do pride myself on some taste in these matters. When a man has traveled all over Europe it is to be expected that he should be a judge of the fine arts. I have no doubt after a trip to Germany and Italy you may be as content as myself to pronounce upon them. But there is one thing in mind. Before you see a dark, dingy picture you may be sure it is worthy of praise, and certainly by a master. Obscurity is the greatest mark of beauty, but persons must travel to discover these things. The couple passed on, and I lost sight of them, until we met in the halls of statuary between the extensive gallery. Later I observed that the gentleman induced his companion to pause before every remarkably worn and discolored statue, or decayed relic, pointing out to her their hidden beauties, but hurrying by all the most attractive works of art that were unmarked by this defacing seal of time. Shortly afterwards we were waiting at the entrance of the palace for our Wattur d'Ormy, which had driven away when the colonel and his blooming lady passed us on the steps. They entered an elegant carriage which drove up to receive them, but before the door was closed, the sprucely liveried footman begged to make Monsieur la Cornel acquainted with a person who had some valuable relics, réatables curacités, that were really worth Monsieur la Cornel's examinations. Relics, let me see them by all means enthusiastically, exclaimed the colonel. I am making a collection to take to America. I know well enough when they are genuine. Come here, fellow, qu'avez-vous? Tous sortez deux choses, Monsieur, avoir de service, tout ce qu'il pouvait des dire. Antiquanarian Frenchman opening his large box. Voyez, vous voyez, je m'y m'en y. Said the colonel with the air of a man who knew very well what he was saying, if only he could keep from stammering. Montrez, a Monsieur, interpreted the officious footman, putting his own hand into the box. He, Monsieur la Cornel, is a nail actually taken from the cross. It has been in the possession of some monks hundreds of years. Of course, satiric is a little expensive, and here is one of Saint Anthony's teeth, and here a bottle of holy water, consecrated by the pope himself, and here is a vial containing some of the apostle Peter's teals, and here I could not catch the names of the other invaluable contents of the box, but I observed that a number were stowed into the carriage. When the Frenchman was paid, the footman, while he closed the coach door with his right hand, stretched out the left, significantly open, behind him. The dealer in antiques slyly laid a piece of money within it, and the footman, turning around, his mouth twitching with suppressed laughter, gave a glance at the other sufficiently expressive and comical. As the carriage drove off, we were joined by a countryman who bowed to the colonel and lady as they passed. "'My dear S,' said I, with an inquisitive haze, in all the name of all that is original, tell me, who is the individual to whom you bowed? Why surely you have not forgotten him, in spite of all the metamorphosis affected by the salt-alantic? Indeed I have, pray, who is he?' As he lost all resemblance to Augustus Blazen, a Broadway memory. Is it possible? But the lady calls him Colonel, to be sure, and a colonel he is, without doubt. He had himself made a colonel before he left America on purpose to gain a traveling title. But the lady, who is she? She is a charming widow, Madame D'Courtney. An English woman, it is reported, of immense fortune and of high rank, niece to a Lord, I have heard her say. She is passing the winner in Paris, and her business is probably to procure an eligible life-partner. Her apartment, Garnier, is in the Rue Rivoli, and are as splendid as any in Paris, and you saw her coach just now. She seems to understand how she got into society, but, as I said before, the French are not scrupulous. Colonel Blazen has been paying her attention some time, and she introduces him everywhere. I hear they are now engaged. She believes him worth ten thousand pounds a year, a colonel in the regular army, and his very remarkable excousonne, umblemished and genuine. Which he often expresses a strong desire to make America a permanent residence. Are your suspicions of the colonel never avowed? Oh, of course not. Communicativeness is not the fashion here. Everybody minds his own business, you will soon learn that. It is very possible that both Madame D'Courtney and Colonel Blazen, when they are fairly married, may discover each other to be somewhat different from what they now seem to be, all in due time, but that is entirely their own affair. Well, no place like Paris for acquiring the real Songfoil. I must have less curiosity before I am possessed of it, I fear. Not too many days after this conversation my friend joined us one evening at Tortones, for an ice and related with real enjoyment, whether it was of the ice or of his own story, I do not pretend to judge. The concluding scene of the colonel's adventures in Paris, Monsieur la colonel, was sitting in the very tasteful bourgeois of Madame D'Courtney, a few mornings previous to the one fixed for their anticipated union. Madame, in a very rich velvet robe, was reclining on the graceful car sofa, complacently surveying luxuries around her and making a calculation of those which were wanting and which the colonel would doubtless supply. The walls of the room were hung and the table covering, with drawings to which her own name was attached. A number of musical instruments were elegantly scattered about. And on some one of these the colonel was in treating her to play, but the piano, she said, she had relinquished for the harp, after which it sound harshly on her ear. Unfortunately several strings of the harp had been broken ever since her acquaintance with the colonel. She could touch the guitar to please him, but her voice was affected by a cold, and the instrument was nothing without a vocal accompaniment. In short, she preferred to hear him read one of the numerous poems addressed to herself, which she had bound in stamped velvet covers to grace her center table. The colonel was employed in giving voice to the Madame's versified praises, when a lady and gentleman entered, with whom Madame de Courtenay had but recently become acquainted. They happened to be Americans. The lady saluted Madame, who rose from her reclining position to receive her, looked down at the colonel as though he were not wholly unknown, and seated herself, without any sign of recognition passing between them. The American gentleman, however, whose manners and exterior were decidedly un-Parisian, immediately crossed to the colonel with, How do you do, Mr. Blazon, so you're in Paris, are you? I heard you cut New York, stupid place, is it not? The people are so deuce-particular, it makes society here so much preferable. We arrived ourselves about a fortnight ago. How are your sisters, Mr. Blazon? Well, I thank you, Mr. Andrews, said the colonel, trying to seem cool, while the hue of his very fingers evinced a superabundance of the caloric. Madame appeared to be discomposed, an ominous pause ensued. It was broken by an unceremonious Mr. Andrews. Are you going to remain in Paris all winter, Mr. Blazon? I guess it's just a place for you to pick up acquaintances, go about building more at home than actually when one is at home. I probably, that is, I might stay, said the colonel, glancing at the alarm countenance of Madame. Then, suddenly gaining courage, he began to talk with great fluency through open Madame's portfolio for the inspection of the visitors. And, if actually monopolized all the conversation. Oh, heaven's sake, colonel, whispered Madame de Courtenay, why does that gentleman call you Mr. Blazon? I'll tell you, my dear Madame, said the colonel, confidentially. It's really a misfortune. He is the most absent man in the world, never knows what he's saying, and has the worst memory. Yes, he cannot bear to be corrected, therefore it is better to take no notice of him. Mr. Blazon, said Mr. Andrews, I suppose you find all the balls here quite as splendid as the assemblies in New York for which we have such difficulty in getting our $10 tickets, don't you? Really, Mr. Andrews, you must be thinking of some other person to our assemblies to you alone, dear me, he continued driving forth with an air of express more. How time flies! I am very sorry, Madame, I have an engagement at this hour which calls me from you. I will fulfill it, and with your permission return in time to accompany you to the water-belong. Good morning. After the colonel left, Madame's regret as his absence must have affected her conversational powers, for she spoke with an obvious effort. With her visitors she was but slightly acquainted, and felt a natural delicacy in introducing the subject uppermost in her thoughts. But last when the lady rose to leave, Madame de Courtenay, fearing the opportunity for inquiry, might not be again offered, demanded rather abruptly. Were you acquainted with Colonel Blazon in America? The gentleman who just left the apartment, I presume you mean, Madame? No. And there was a slight expression of haughtiness in the lady's tone. He is not among the number of my acquaintance. The colonel is a friend of yours, sir, persisted Madame de Courtenay. The colonel? What colonel? Colonel who, ma'am? Colonel Blazon, who just left the room. I knew a Mr. Augustus Blazon in New York, but I never heard of him being a colonel before. Oh, sir, but he said your memory was so treacherous. You, ma'am, may not be equated with him, but you have heard of him? I have, ma'am, frequently. And he is a colonel then? I knew it was a mistake. Yes, I certainly believe him to be a colonel, I presume that you are aware of the existence of the militia, and that in America a man from almost any class of the community may become a militia colonel, or even a general. Mr. Blazon is a colonel doubtless, but he is a militia colonel. Is it possible? What will become of me? I am bewildered, my dear madam. We will put that door, sir, Camilla, my sole vultile. This room is so close. Hey, who is this gentleman then? A very good fellow, in his way, replied Andrews. Only considered rather sore for a Yankee, but I guess he does well enough here. His father has built many a good ship, and he is his son. That's who he is. But you will excuse me, said Madame de Courtenay, with a manner of a drowning person catching at a straw. He is very wealthy. Worth ten thousand pounds a year, is he not? Ten thousand pounds? We do not calculate by the pounds in our country, replied the lady. I suppose Mr. Blazon, for he is rich. Rich? He is really rich then. And the salvo, too, became subtly efficacious for the lady obviously revived. Yes, quite well off. This property yields him from two to three thousand dollars a year. Three thousand dollars? Merciful powers that would not support such an establishment as this in three months! Camilla, excuse me, I am ill, a sudden pain. And Madame de Courtenay sank on the sofa and hid her face with her handkerchief. Her visitors, observing themselves, decidedly detroit, wished her a speedy relief and left her to the consoling care of her pretty femme de chambre Camilla. I am ruined, Camilla, sobbed the afflicted widow. The Colonel, Colonel Blazon, is a militia colonel. Tinkers and tailors can be militia colonels. His father's a shipbuilder, and the rich, he has only worked three thousand dollars a year. Not ten thousand pounds. We shall never see America at all, what a horrid place it must be. Everything will be discovered here. We shall happily perish and hide ourselves in sheltering-home. The little, my poor husband left me is just hash, dear madams, said the maid. He comes the colonel. The Colonel entered hastily. What else, you dearest lady, said he, with unaffected anxiety, speak to me, look at me. And the gentleman tremblingly knelt beside the sofa, on which the fair sufferer was lying supported by her confidential grizzin. Back to you! Look at you, sir! said the lady, uncovering her distorted countenance. How you have deceived me! Betrayed me! What a garb, madame! Do not toss your head so prudently, whispered Camilla. Those classful poongers are so bad, they have let your hair slip all on one side. I deceived you, I, fairest of created beings, said the Colonel, devotedly. I would rather lose my life. Can you believe anything that vulgar fellow androids could say, a plague on his absolute mindedness? I shall send him a challenge to-morrow. Will that make you a colonel or a man of honor, either blazing, oh, I am too wretched? Madame, dear madame, again, whispered the maid, you forget yourself in your excitement. Pray, do not weep, madame, your cheeks will be all muck, your toilette is frightfully abime. Listen to me, my dear madame. I assure you that whatever Andrews might have said was out of spite, should anything shake your tender confidence in me after the promise you have given, you said this little white man, do not touch me, perspidious man, oh, I am ruined, what will become of me, perfectly regardless or unconscious of the Colonel's presence, the lady raved on. I shall be turned out of these elegant apartments, and my coach, my saddle horses, my box and the opera. Camilla, do you suppose they put women in prison for debt in this barbarous country? What shall I do? The Colonel sprang from his knees as though a thunderbolt had burst near him. He looked at the weeping fair one with unutterable horror depicted on his countenance. Calsine, madame, is a little out of her head, Monsieur le Colonel. She does not know what she is saying, oh, c'est diable de la vie mignon, oh, how easy go, though fail-leaves. The Colonel, for a moment or two, was incapable of motion. When animation was restored, he turned around, seized his hat, caught hold of the door handle, clinching it as though he was afraid of being forcibly detained, flung open the door with an ejaculation of what an escape, and vanished. The footman, who met him racing down the stairs, told Camilla that Monsieur le Colonel rubbed his hands exultingly as he ran, and that he heard him repeating to himself, what an escape, what an escape, that Andrews is the best friend I ever had in my life. After half a year's sojourn in Paris, we returned to America. The Colonel had sailed for New York immediately after his denouement with the charming widow, and as I felt the interest in him, which every student of human nature takes in the fate of decided character, I question a friend as to his farther history. Do you mean Colonel Blazen, as he is now generally called, though he seems to have got his title abroad, the traveller, was her reply? He is in New York, and a great personage here, I assure you. You may see him any day on Broadway. With his elegant span of horses driving his livery's footmen about, he has created a great sensation since his return. He is quite the rage, is received in first society, and is the avowed pet of all mamas. His reception abroad must have been exceeding flattering. His adventures are in everybody's mouth. The people are running crazy about his paintings and statues, and relics and curiosities. I don't know much about it, but they say his collection is invaluable. End of The Colonel Abroad by Anna Cora-Mollett Recorded by Kelly Taylor The Coquette by Anna Cora-Mollett Ritchie This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recorded by Kelly S. Taylor The Coquette The admired of many eyes and the beloved of numberless hearts, Mel ones, be it understood, for women are strangely cherry in bestowing affection upon her, is Amanda Littleton. See how regally she stands, begirt by her worshiping subjects. How the ballroom moths that float around her sun themselves in the light of her liberally dispensed smiles. Bright as the sun her eyes the gazers strike, but like the sun they shine on all alike. As a juggler plays with his glittering balls she is skillfully sporting with all those hearts, keeping them flying around her, yet attracted to her, powerless to break the charm circle. But the artillery with which she conquers is so light that it seems cowardice to fly its graceful battery. The arts by which she snares are so subtle that the wisest of her train can neither analyze nor withstand them. The favors that she tosses as rewards to this or that suppliant are so harmless, so equally distributed, that none dare chide her prodigality. Tis but a languishing look she bestows on that adora, a triumphant smile on this, that tender sigh is for another, something very like a blush is the wearden of a fourth, who is pouring soft flattery into her ear, but even while she listens to his praises her eyes are wandering afar, and she arches her slender throat and glances over her snowy shoulder. The lodestone of that look attracts another admirer to her side, and the glance is repeated again and again with victorious result. An indefinable instinct, the fifth synth, which belongs to coquetterie, invariably warns her whenever a possible captive comes within reach of her enthrallment. What wondrous power lies concealed within the witching depths of those eyes of hers. We have watched their play, while her dewy lips mutely kissed each other, and the most impassioned words would have been less eloquent than the unspoken language telegraphed from those human windows. Now they are uplifted and saint-like expression, now musingly half-closed, now the clear orbs dance and flash, now gaze dreamily through liquid luster, subtly sweeping lashes drop in confusion over the blooming cheek, then are rapidly raised in glad surprise. No need of utterance to convey her real or simulated emotions with such eyes to say more than lips could fitly syllable. But do not imagine that she is always thus silent, far from it. Her voice imparts charm to the various persiflage by the rare faculty of attuning itself to the mood of the hearer. At one moment her tones are full of melting sweetness, at another ringing with mirth, again gravely subdued, or breaking forth into gush of silvery but never loud laughter. And now and then, as she speaks, her aromatic breath touches the cheek that bows towards her, and sets the listener's pulse throbbing in rapturous tumult, the very rustling of her dress as it sweeps along has an alarm that cries follow, and truly a motley procession follows at the signal. The modern Alcestinese walks arm in arm with the high priest of science, the laurel hero and the head with cap and bells loom out side by side. The solemn of the winch hobbles to keep pace with the springy step of the brainless exquisite. How we conveyed the impression that Amanda owes her fascination to the fatal gift of superlative beauty, that is an error. Strictly handsome she can scarcely be called, but she is so picomply, picturesquely irresistible in face and form and mean, and ways that the faultless beauty, who aspires to be a rival in her absence, flies the field. In the instant that Amanda appears, her supremacy lies in a kind of bewildering witchery which makes itself felt in the very opening and shutting of her fan, the motion of her delicate hand, the transient peeping of her small foot from beneath her ample drapery, the heaving of her alabaster breast, I, the very rebellion of that tiny curl which invariably breaks the bondage of those glossy braids. Too suggestive of liberty is that recurrent love-lock, which jeweled fingers are constantly thrusting back, or which a toss of the Fidian head sets quivering along with the red rose imprisoned in her soft tresses, and the long spray tipped with an opening bud that roams caressingly down her white shoulders. But there is no disorder about her toilette, save that which is apparent in the straying of the escaped ringlet, which brings to mind Pope's declaration that men's imperial race are snared by the fair tresses that beauty draws by a single hair, and recalls what some bard has sung about lovers being entangled in the meshes of Philius's locks. Did we venture to use the word disorder in relations to Amanda's toilette? That expression was singularly inappropriate, for she is attired with such exquisite elaborate care that one might imagine there was no leisure in her day for any other employment other than a reigning of her fair person, not time even for thanks to him who fashioned the loveliness she delights to deck, or else we might fancy that she had revived the custom of those courtly bells in days of yours whose toilettes and devotions progressed at the same moment, who worshipped the idol reflected in their mirrors and their gods together, who gave audience at once to the chaplain and the hairdresser, and joined in the prayers read by the former while the skillful fingers of the latter twinned the long ringlets braided in the shining tresses, or laced the broodered bodice over the unsanctified heart. But if Amanda pleads not guilty to this grave charge, and is virtuously indignant at the comparison to those historic dames, those hellands of a laxer age, we must venture to assure her that there are other respects in which she bears them too strong a resemblance for denial. Like them she is somewhat too generous in the revealing of her charms. Like them she will listen unreprovingly to words too bold and grant too much to man's entreaty. But she is prudent with all. She always pauses, self-possessed and immovable, on the verge of an indiscretion, and for it is not the compulsive ardor of a sensuous nature but a cold calculating barter for admiration that urges her to the brink of danger. Like when some true heart, wholly subdued by her spells, some honourable wooer thinks he has noted those weather signs of love which prognosticate a happy suit, and the hour comes for him to ask that question which is the highest tribute he can pay to womanhood. How is Amanda moved by the invitation to walk the long path by his side? Where is the bashful trimmer that runs through a responsive heart? Where is the mantling veil of the rose that seeks to enshroud the innocent face from a lover's gaze? Where is the downcast look of maidenly confusion, the stifled breath that with this strange new joy should choke her utterance, or turn her words into sobs? True, a flush is on her cheek, but it is the excellent flag uplifted at victory. The snowy lid falls over the eye, but it is to hide the glance of triumph. The voice has a faltering cadence, but it is not the accent of womanly agitation. Amanda feigns a most charming surprise at this unexpected declaration. She murmurs some incoherent platitudes about friendship, chides herself for the hardness of her heart, and is zealous, with honeyed words, to pluck out the sting from her rejection, that she may not wholly lose one of her train. Thus year after year she plays her game with consummate tact and unflagging spirit, and daily counts the hearts she has won as religiously as a devotee tells the beads of her rosary. Strange to say, the French bullion of Amanda's attraction has brighter glitter than the true gold of pure graces, and she holds her empire longer than many a lovelier, worthier contemporary. Two or three generations of lesser bells fade around her before time lays a destroying finger on her matriculous charms. Even he, the remorseless, is kept at bay by her witchcraft. But in the end the law of compensation will not suffer violence. We dare to predict that the retribution of one of two equally deplorable fates is awaiting the conquering Amanda. Either she will miss the love of the only man whose affection she could have returned, and will spend her desolate and uncomforted age in mourning over the vanished triumphs which were her soul happiness, but which can never return, or else, just as she suspects that her light is beginning to wane, she will allow the most abject of her admirers, after numerous petitions, to swear himself her slave for life. But when he humbly encircles her taper finger with the golden round, the twain will change places. All the chains with which Amanda has manacled others will seem gathered together, and their weight heaped upon her own spirit. All the arrows she has sped will fly back and transfix her own heart. She will find the slave of yore transformed into the most unsparing of tyrants, and the dethroned sovereign will hopelessly sink into the humblest, dullest, and most ejective of captives. Harken, fair Amanda, and be warned, surrender at discretion, lay down thine arms at the feet of some worthy suitor, yield thyself up, trustingly, to his mercy, and escape either destiny predicted. End of The Coquette by Anna Cora-Mawet Richie, read by Kelly Taylor. The Doctor by Pu Song Ling. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information on to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recorded by Chad Horner from Balli Clare in County Hunter, Northern Ireland, situated in the northeast of the island of Ireland. The Doctor. A certain per man, named Chang, who lived at Ai, fell in one day with a Taoist priest. The latter was highly skilled in the science of physiognomy, and, after looking at Chang's features, said to him, you would make your fortune as a doctor. Alas, replied Chang, I can barely read and write. How then could I follow such a calling as that? And where you, you simple fellow, asked a priest, is the necessity for a doctor to be a scholar? You just try, that's all. Thereupon Chang returned home, and, being very poor, he simply collected a few of the Communist prescriptions, and set up a small stall with a handful of fish's teeth and some dry honeycomb from a wasp's nest, hoping not to earn by his tongue enough to keep body and soul together, to which, however, no one paid any particular attention. Now, it chanced that, just as the Governor of Qingqiao was suffering from a bad cough, and had given orders to his subordinates to send to him the most skilful doctors in their respective districts, and the magistrate of Ai, which was an out-of-the-way mountainous district, being unable to lay his hands on anyone whom he could send in, gave orders to the beetle, to do the best he could under the circumstances. Accordingly, Chang was nominated by the people, and the magistrate put his name down to go in to the Governor. When Chang heard of his appointment, he happened to be suffering himself from a bad attack of bronchitis, which he was quite unable to cure, and he begged therefore to be excused. But the magistrate would not hear of this, and forwarded him at once in charge of some constables. While crossing the hills, he became very thirsty, and went into a village to ask for a drink of water. But water there was worth its weight in jade, and no one would give him any. By and by he saw an old woman washing a quantity of vegetables in a scanty supply of water, which was, consequently, very thick and muddy, and being unable to bear his thirst any longer, he obtained this and drank it up. Shortly afterwards he found that his cough was quite cured, and then it occurred to him that he had hit upon a capital remedy. When he reached the city, he learned that a great many doctors had already tried their hand upon the patient, but without success. So asking for a private room in which to prepare his medicines, he obtained from the town some bunches of bishopwort, and proceeded to wash them as the old woman had done. Then he took the dirty water and gave a dose of it to the governor, who was immediately and permanently relieved. The patient was overjoyed, and besides making Chang a handsome present, gave him a certificate written in golden characters in consequence of which his fame spread far and wide. And of the numerous cases he subsequently undertook, in not a single instance did he fail to affect a cure. One day, however, a patient came to him, complaining of a violent chill, and Chang, who happened to be tipsy at the time, treated him by mistake for remitted favour. When he got sober, he became aware of what he had done, but he said nothing to anybody about it, and three days afterwards the same patient waited upon him with all kinds of presents to thank him for a rapid recovery. Such cases as this were by no means rare to him, and soon he got so rich that he could not attend, when summoned to visit a sick person, unless the summons was accompanied by a heavy fee and a comfortable chair to ride in. End of The Doctor by Pu Songling. The Waste of Idleness, whose very languor is a punishment, heavier than the act of souls can feel or guess, words worth. Chapter 1 Ah, it's a dull world, a dull world. Hamlet was right, flat, stale, and unprofitable. Flat as the jokes of a pernicious punster, stale as the manoeuvres of women, and as unprofitable as a newspaper or a lecture. Frederick Faulkner, as he drawled out the last word, let fall the pamphlet, which he had been endeavoring to read, and stretched himself out at full length among the luxurious setees in the ladies' parlor at the aster. With his arms beneath his head and his eyes half shut, he lay for some time, gazing weirdly at the different articles of furniture, wondering why people gave themselves to the troubles to construct them, and at intervals expanding his finely shaped mouth to the utmost dimensions by a long but silent yawn. The drawing-room was vacant, for at that hour in the morning the ladies busied themselves in their own apartments, and the idlers of the other sex found greater attractions in the smoking and reading-rooms. It was therefore some time before the tediousness of Faulkner's meditations were disturbed. At length the door opened, but he did not troll himself to alter his recumbent posture, nor had he sufficient energy to start at the possibility of a feminine intruder. "'Hello, our Fred,' exclaimed Frank Gaylord, with a laugh, "'is that you? Are you asleep?' "'Sleep?' I wish I was, half-side, half-yawn Faulkner. "'Sleep! Sleep is too great a luxury for a fellow is tired to death of all the world and himself into the bargain.' "'Thank you for the implied compliment,' returned Gaylord. "'The world is much obliged to you, so is your humble servant.' "'It's the first time, then, I ever put the world under obligation,' replied Faulkner, listlessly. "'Perhaps that is the very reason you are so desperately disgusted with it. A man generally takes interest in his debtors, you know,' another long yawn, accompanied by an elongation of his well-dressed limbs, was Faulkner's only reply. Gaylord was one of those happy beings whose carries about heart as light as his purse, exemplifying the proverb that the absence of weight in one counterbalances the ill effects of emptiness in the other, full of projects of activity of hope, kindly in his feelings almost undiscriminating in his affections. He never gave offense and was never offended. Consequently the loud, light laugh which broke from his lips as he contemplated the prostrate ennui awoke no unpleasant emotions. "'Glad you're amused,' said Faulkner, turning on his sign. "'That's generous of you, my dear fellow, to find happiness and affording others what you cannot enjoy yourself, but let us know, Fred, what unexpected misfortune has tumbled you into the slough of despond,' questioned Gaylord. "'Never had a misfortune in my life.' "'What ails you then? You don't look like a dispeptic. You are not encumbered with a scolding wife. Report says you are worth ten thousand a year. And ten thousand blued devils to heighten its enjoyment. This Pepsi would be something to think about, and a scolding wife want to wake. I am dying of a stupor, occasioned by the absence of sensations.' "'Why do you not travel?' "'Oh, I've traveled, been jolted in every stagecoach, shaken in every rail-car, and cribbed up in every steamboat in Europe. Give me no good. Men and women, hills and mountains, lakes and rivers, herbs and trees, same all over. Come. There is another Penacea for ennui. Matrimony. Why do you not get married? Just some woman who thinks ten thousand a year sufficient inducement to permit me to encircle her finger with a ring and hang a chain upon my own inclinations. A rich man has not the privilege of marrying a wife. He can only expect to play the husband to a mercenary woman. That occupation is not to my taste. Nor upon my word does any other occupation seem to be. I beg your pardon, my dear Fred, but why do you not employ yourself? Oh, I've tried it. Tried to drink, gave me a headache. Preferred not to make a beast of myself. Tried to smoke, made me qualmish. Preferred not smelling like an old pipe. Tried to gamble. No fun in losing. Tried everything. It's no go. Having a pulse for enjoyment. Don't know what to do with myself. Tired some world. He concluded his sentence with a succession of yawns and stretching out his arm for an additional cushion which he placed beneath his head, laid himself on his back with his mouth half open and his eyes fixed upon the ceiling. Gaylord turned away, for he found the yawns contagious and was about to leave the room. Just as he reached the door, he looked back and said, By the way, Fred, they tell me you have a lawsuit pending. Why don't you amuse yourself with looking after that? Who is likely to win? Don't know. Don't care. If old Scrape-all gets it, I shan't be worth a copper. Can't help it. Don't believe he will. Don't care if he does. There will be plenty of anxious mommas and marriageable daughters to care I warrant, resumed Gaylord. But I'm afraid that your prospects of winning are too good for you to break the fair one's hearts by anything but your indifference. So I do. I wish you a happy deliverance from your Sir Rulian enemies. And Frank Gaylord made a sudden exit, for he perceived his friend's mouth slowly enlarging itself with another protracted yawn, and his own began to give tokens of sympathetic force of example. Faulkner lay a while longer, and after turning repeatedly from side to side and finding all positions equally uncomfortable, he languidly arose to his feet. The mirror, directly in front of him, reflected his attractive person. He walked slowly towards it, passed his finger through his dark and waving hair, contemplated for a moment his regular but inanimate features, and drawled out, wish I wasn't such a good-looking fellow, wish I'd been squid-eyed or lame or hunchbacked. Then I'd have something to think about. With this extraordinary regret, he turned away, paced the room once or twice, looked out of the window, first at the gloomy sky above, and then at the peripatetic umbrellas which jostled one another beneath. I'll take a walk, he suddenly exclaimed, with a kind of energy which resembled the desperate flickering of a candle just before it expires in the socket. Mackintosh, India rubber shoes, can't get wet, don't care if I do. He was soon prepared for his promenade, and slowly descended the steps of the aster, spreading his umbrella as he gave vent to his favorite ejaculation of tiresome world. Oh, very. It was a day in March and the air was getting cutting as the breath of scandal. The rain fell, was fine but penetrating, and the rain that darkly carpeted the paving-stones rendered the walking slippery and difficult. Faulkner sauntered, or rather slid down Broadway, not from any particular choice, but because his face happened to be turned in that direction when he issued from the hotel. The friends he met were hurrying along, intent on seeking shelter, when his slow pace plainly bespoke that the object of his walk was to find refuge from, on we, and its goal any which chance might offer. Give us a penny, a penny, please. Was the first sound that saluted his ears at one of the crossings, and two little hands were stretched out within the circumference of his umbrella. He looked down and saw a couple of ragged children, each with a wet broom in one hand, while the other was extended supplicatingly towards him. As a sort of diversion for himself, rather than with any defined desire of being charitable, he thrust his fingers into his waistcoat pocket and drew forth a two shilling piece. Just as he placed it in the hand of the elderly petitioner, his eye fell upon a third little girl who stood near the others. She was busily sweeping the crossing, and though she did not stretch forth her hand, she looked up at his face with a half timid, half imploring look, and then pertinaciously plied her broom. Divided amongst you, give that little girl some exclaimed falter as he passed on. After walking a few paces farther, he turned back to take one more look at the little street sweeps. The two that had addressed him were evidently quarreling about the alms which he had bestowed. The third little girl stood leaning upon her broom, anxiously regarding them, but without taking part in the dispute. Faulkner had an eye for the beautiful under all its guises and disguises, and he could not help remarking the almost inappropriate grace of the little girl's attitude. Her form, too, was remarkably slender, and mean as was her garment, there was an air of taste in its arrangement. The folded red shawl crossed over her expanding bosom and knotted behind, displayed the delicate roundness of her waist. The striped skirt cut so short that it escaped all contact with the mud, exposed to view a pair of small and well-turned ankles, the shoes, but those were large, badly shaped, and much worn, and if the feet within them corresponded to the ankles the shoemaker had done himself no credit, then the little blue hood tied so closely over the pale face the parlor of that face reminded him of the sorrowful expression of the large dark eyes that were, for a moment, turned to his. Faulkner walked slowly on, pondering upon the misery of street sweepers in general, and of this little trio in particular. One of his habitual yawns, which at that moment surprised him, made him come to the conclusion that, after all, they were not to be pitied as much as himself, and once or twice more exclaiming, Tyre some world, Tyre some world, he turned to retrace his steps, with the intent perhaps of, again, wooing Morpheus upon the comfortable lounges at the Aster. Once more he approached the crossing where the three little girls were stationed. Two of them were just starting in pursuit of a fat, good-natured-looking gentleman, who seemed half-disposed to listen to their prayers. The third, the one who had temporarily excited his interest, was still industriously sweeping away the mud, although her ungloved and purpled hands seemed almost too cold to grasp her broom. At the sound of his steps she raised her head, apparently recognized Faulkner, for the ashy hue of her cheek gave way to a slight flush. Then, with even quicker movements, resumed her occupation. Here, little girl, said Faulkner, yielding to a sudden impulse of generosity. Take this! And he placed in her half-frozen hand a gold-piece worth two-and-a-half dollars. The child, for she was scarcely more, gave one bewildered look at the gold, convulsively closed her fingers upon it, and with a cry of joy, which was almost wild in its sound, darted down the nearest street, her broom, which she still grasped, trailed after her without impeding her progress. The strings of her little blue hood loosened, and it fell to the ground, but she did not pause to recover it. Faulkner caught but one glimpse of the brown hair that curled in close round rings about her head, and she had disappeared. For several moments he stood gazing abstractly at the corner round which she vanished. The inquisitive glances of Passer-Spy recalled him to a sense of the ridiculousness of his situation. With a quicker step he returned to the aster and sought the lady's parlor, but he no longer felt any inclination to throw himself upon the setee, for his eyes had lost their heaviness, and his limbs partook of the activity of his mind. He walked about with rapid steps, that pale, thin face ever in a non-rising before him, and the strange cry that had burst from the little girl's lips ringing in his ear. And then he pictured to himself the relief, or at least the pleasure, which his accidental donation had afforded this unfortunate child, and wondered if her pale cheeks were not at that moment flushed, and her eyes bright and congratulated himself as the author of the unwanted hue and happy luster. At least I have purchased myself a sensation, cheap at two dollars and a half, and I do believe I have not yawned these three hours. As he uttered these words the dinner bell disrupted his reverie, and he hastened down with unusual accompaniment of an appetite. Before night, however, he had almost forgotten the little street sweep in his on-wee return with redoubled violence. CHAPTER II In the basement of a house situated in one of the most obscure parts of the city sat an old and decrepit man bending over a small table. Everything about him bespoke the most abject poverty. In his trembling hands he held a pen, and before him lay a paper which, strange to say, bore strong resemblance to a will. He was in the act of signing it, and two females stood beside him evidently as witnesses. He scarcely made one stroke with a pen before a violent fit of coughing interrupted his labors. Completely exhausted he laid back in in his chair, and the elder of the women advanced to support his head, but at the same time gave utterance to an exclamation of petulant disappointment. CHAPTER III You shall have it all, all when I am gone, but that won't be yet, all. Lucy shall never see the color of my gold. Never fear, never fear. I say you shall have it all. CHAPTER IV You are better now. Come, sign, sign," answered the woman, forcing her harsh voice to imitate the tone of kindness. CHAPTER VI Your signature is wanting. CHAPTER IX Never fear, never fear, plenty of time. I am not going yet. Another violent fit of coughing seemed to contradict his words. The repulsive countenance of the elder woman was distorted by mingled vexation and dread. She evidently exerted an all-powerful influence over the old man, and yet, though shattered by disease and the influence of evil passions, though sinking prematurely into his dotage, his ruling love, avarice, was stronger even than her fierce and despotic will. CHAPTER VI It's mine, the money's mine. Abby, you shall have it when I'm below ground, but it's all mine yet, and there's more coming to it, more, more, never fear. CHAPTER VI Abby replied by placing the pen in his hand, and whispering, CHAPTER VI Yes, more, but sign, or it will be Lucy's one day. CHAPTER VI Your name? Hiram Scraphal. It's soon written. CHAPTER VI As she spoke, she placed her own hand upon the one that held the pen and commenced grinding the fingers over the paper. A knock at the outer door, a low and timid knock, made the old man start up and drop the pen, for he was weak and nervous. CHAPTER VI What's that, Abby? What's that? he demanded, trembling. CHAPTER VI Lucy said Abby Conklin to the daughter, but do not admit anybody. CHAPTER VI The young girl, for though so old an appearance, so withered by care and worn by calculation, she had numbered but few years, gave a warning look to her mother and left the room. A few moments afterwards a beseeching voice was heard in the entry. CHAPTER VI Let me see him. I must. I will. CHAPTER VI With a sudden movement darting by the person who was attempting to prevent her entrance, a girl some fourteen or fifteen years of age rushed into the room. Mrs. Conklin seized her rudely by the arm, but she broke loose and with one bound stood beside the old man who was groaning and shaking in his chair. CHAPTER VI Who is it? Who is it? he gasped out, shrinking away from the intruder. Her thin and pallid face and those large, penetrating eyes fixed on his, alarming him. CHAPTER VI It's Grace. Your own grandchild answered the little girl in an excited, yet not unmusical tone. CHAPTER VI My mother is starving, dying. That woman, pointing to Mrs. Conklin, has driven me from your door day after day, but your own child is dying of want and I would see you. CHAPTER VI Let her die, fiercely ejaculated Mrs. Conklin. She married a beggar against her father's will. What should her child be but a beggar? And that inconsequence of his will? And as she shrieked forth these words, she pointed savagely to the document lying on the table. Grace turned slowly around, and even that evil woman quailed before her rebuking look, and the pitying reproach of her tone, as she said. CHAPTER VI You are a wicked woman. God forgive you. It was you who made my mother's life so wretched. She married to escape from your persecutions. You're incensed my grandfather against her. She is now almost the word that she was trying to utter seemed to choke her. CHAPTER VI Starving, she exclaimed at length, with a strong effect. And yet she is happier in the midst of misery, than all her father's wealth can render you in the very lap of luxury. Live it with rage. Mrs. Conklin once more seized the girl by the arm and attempted to force her out from the room. CHAPTER VI The old man seemed too terrified and bewildered exactly to comprehend what had passed. He looked at Mrs. Conklin, whose iron grasp had completely mastered Grace, with a vacant stare, and then gazing at the young girl muttered, Take her away! Take her away! Do you hear that, shrily screamed Mrs. Conklin? But perhaps he will give a message that you can carry to your dainty mother, she added maliciously. Then addressing the old man, he asked, What about Lucy? What were you saying of Lucy? Grace seemed to arouse him, and to recall the train of thought which Grace had interrupted, regrown up. She shall never see the color of my money! Never fear! Never fear! The money's mine! Oh mine! I'm not going yet! Never fear! Grace was too much shocked by these words to make any further resistant to Mrs. Conklin's will. Almost before she knew how she came there, she stood in the street, and the door was closed against her. Mrs. Conklin had returned to the room, to witness the appending of Scrape All's signature to the document which made her heir to a miser's carefully accumulated wealth. CHAPTER III I hate fine weather when the wind is so strong, exclaimed Faulkner, peevishly, putting his out his chamber window. How fast the sidewalks are drying! Street sweeps will soon be on Othello's predicament, occupation gone, dull times for them, just as dull for other people. And Faulkner drew his head in and closed the window, with more spleen and perhaps more energy than was his want. In a few moments more he was walking in the same direction as on the previous day, but his pace was brisker, there was less languor depicted on his features, less heaviness in his whole mean. He looked as though he had, or was persuading himself that he had, some in to accomplish, some duty to fulfill. Before he had gone far his steps unconsciously grew quicker, and his eyes were eagerly fixed upon some object in the distance. Was it his little street sweep? He felt certain that it was she, and yet her back was churned, and the pretty blue hood had been replaced by a faded, bondrous handkerchief apparently tied beneath her chin. Her head was drooped dejectedly on her bosom, and she moved her broom more languidly on the preceding day. I wonder if she is very poor. If she has parents, if they are suffering. What she does with herself when the pavement is not muddy, whether she finds it a tiresome world, and for once Faulkner murmured these last two words to himself without the accompaniment of a yawn. He had approached the little girl unperceived. Mud's drying, eh! She started violently at the sound of his voice, and the fair-faced raise to his was suffused with crimson. After a glance of recognition and a slight quivering of the lips, as though words of thanks for his yesterday's charity were hovering upon them, she attempted to continue sweeping, but her hands trembled, and the broom, though it should beneath them, seemed fastened to the ground, and the black mud laid unmolested upon it. Every instant Faulkner became more interested. He did not care who saw him, for he was generally too indifferent to everything to be tenacious of the world's opinion. A conversation with a street sweep was something novel. He who had found the world so dull could not lose the opportunity of enjoying any novelty, however it might subject him to ridicule. Have you parents, inquired he of the little girl? Only a mother, she replied, in a low voice, the sound of which thrilled him strangely. And she is poor, very, very poor, and a suppressed sob caught his ear as she articulated the last word. Do you live far from here? The girl shook her head, for she was too much abashed or moved to give utterance to the negative. Come, said Faulkner, suddenly his countenance brightened, and till his expression became truly beautiful. I will go see your mother. Will you show me the way? The girl looked at him a moment, her face full of wonder. He returned her glance for the shrug of the shoulders, which was followed by a smile. The first said, if you choose you need not believe me, the last said, indeed I am in earnest. There was too much encouragement in that smile for her to doubt its meaning. My mother will thank you, she murmured, with a swelling heart, and commenced in walking in the same direction which she had taken with so much speed on the previous day. Faulkner followed at a short distance behind her, muttering to himself, an odd way of putting the blue devils to flight, like it because it's new, Faulkner will do me good. The last casual exclamation awoke an unusual trait of thoughts, and he added thoughtfully, good. I shouldn't wonder if it did, in more ways than one. I began to feel as if it had done me some good already. The girl turned into a very narrow and filthy street. Faulkner's deity senses, especially his olfactory organs, began to excite him, in a repugnance to following her any further. He was deliberating upon the practicality of giving her a few dollars and turning back, when for the first time she looked around, one more glance at that pallid face, silenced the murmurings of the rebellious sense, and he walked riskily on. In a few moments more the girl stopped at the head of a flight of steps, which led into a cellar dignified by the name of a basement story. She descended and entered a small room, dark, damp, cold and cheerless. A few ashes on the hearth told that on the previous night some attempt had been made to kindle a fire of chips, but now not even a dying spark gave out its feeble warmth. There was neither chair nor table in the room, but an old box served as both. The only article of furniture was a narrow cot, a slumbering woman lay upon it, but so completely enveloped in a thick woollen blanket that only a small portion of her face was visible. This blanket was almost the only covering of the bed, but it was warm, clean, and apparently new. After giving one hasty glance around the room, Faulkner's eyes rested upon the comfortable blanket. Those of the young girl followed his, and smiling, it was a faint and sad smile, the first that he had seen allume her countenance, she whispered. She sleeps. For many nights the cold would not let her sleep, but she is warm now. The money you gave me bought this, and she laid her hand upon the blanket and looked into his face, with an expression of gratitude that made Faulkner draw his breath with unwanted rapidity, while a thrill of pleasure sent blood to his cheek and unusual moisture to his eye. He felt as though that small piece of gold so little prize by him had purchased more than the one sensation upon which he had congratulated himself the day before, and that even the warm woollen blanket was not the most valuable thing it had procured. Several minutes he stood contemplating the slumbering woman, for the young girl made no attempt to disturb her rest. The face of the sleeper was, if possible, even more ghastly than that of her child. Disease had aided want in imparting to those regular and delicate features a death-like hue. Never was the stamp of suffering more legible. And yet there was a placidity upon the sleeping face, an air of resignation that softened the impress of sorrow, and gave an expression almost angelic to the wand countenance. At an involuntary movement of Faulkner's the closed lids quivered and slowly opened. A look of terror convolts the woman's feature at the side of a stranger standing beside her cot. Grace, where's Grace, she almost shrieked. By your side, mother, replied Grace, softly, and then, bending her head close to her mother's, she whispered a few words which explained the appearance of so unusual a visitor. But the mother seemed scarcely satisfied. She looked at her child inquiringly, and at Faulkner almost with dread. The tongue of the latter refused to perform its appointed office. He shrank, without knowing why, before that searching glance, and turned to the young girl, as though appealing to her to relieve his embarrassment. "'We have not thanked him, mother,' said Grace, half reproachfully. "'Oh, I want no thanks. Don't mention it,' answered Faulkner, suddenly regaining the use of his tongue. I hope that I shall be able to do something for you, my good woman. I shall try upon my word, I will. But I see you're busy now. That is, I'm in haste myself, so I won't detain you. I mean, I can't stay any longer. You must make yourself comfortable here. A little present from a friend, only a trifle.' And he dropped the well-filled purse which he had agitatedly drawn from his pocket upon the bed. He was turning away hastily, but Grace seized his hand, and her face streaming with tears pressed it between her own icy palms and said, "'Oh, sir, you have saved my mother. God will reward you.' And then, as though ashamed of this burst of emotion, she hung her head, and covering her face with her hands wept in silence. Faulkner was too much unused to such situations to know how to act. He twirled his hat with an air of indecision for a moment, then bowed to the mother, who, leaning upon her elbow, was steadfastly regarding him, and hastily withdrew. A thousand thronging thoughts gave activity to his brain as he walked homeward. I must do something for them. A little of the money, nothing but a curse to me. What a blessing it might be to them. She shall sweep the streets no longer. I wonder what she can do. Mantua-making, millinery, waistcoat stitching, profitable but tedious, too tedious, wish I could hit upon something pleasanter. While these thoughts were chasing each other through his mind, his eyes accidentally rested upon a bunch of orange blossoms, which was conspicuously displayed in the window of an establishment for making artificial flowers. Flower-making, joining together the brightly colored leaves, blending them in form, weaving them in wreaths. Those delicate little hands of hers are just suited to such an occupation. It will be easy to obtain her admission as an apprentice here. Money can accomplish that if it is not to be done any other way. Then, when she has learnt the art, an establishment of her own. She shall be its mistress. I will advance her mother the capital. Flower-making, flower-making, the little street sweeper, a maker of artificial flowers. And he rubbed his hands together as he spoke, in actual delight. Then, walking into the store, he purchased the identical bunch of orange blossoms which first attracted his attention. And, entering into conversation with the mistress of the establishment, soon obtained from her all the information concerning her occupation which he desired. He had built a thousand castles in the air before he reached the Aster. And again and again he pictured the little street sweep and her mother in an elevated position, healthy, happy, prosperous, all through his exertions. Since the days of his boyhood his heart had not beat so lightly, nor his spirits been so buoyant. Frank Gaylord accidentally encountered him upon the stairs. Well, Fred, tiresome world, eh? said Gaylord, accosting him laughingly. My dear Frank, I've just come to the conclusion that nothing makes the world so tiresome as to be of no use in it, replied Faulkner, shaking hands with him warmly. Take care of my arm, will you? replied Gaylord, withdrawing his hand from Faulkner's gasp. Remember, my dear fellow, that I do not suffer from the same absence of sensation as you do, and the friends parted. That night, sweet sleep and sweeter dreams visited Faulkner's pillow. Immediately after breakfast he took a walk, in the hope of seeing Grace at her usual post. Her little companions were there, but she was absent. He returned home, and after a few hours again walked that way. Still she did not appear. Again towards dusk he saw it, but he did not find her. Impatient to put into execution his schemes for her benefit he hurried to the house with her she had conducted him on the previous day. He found it without difficulty. With a throbbing heart descended the flight of steps and knocked. No answer. Again and again the knock was repeated, and at last his impatience gaining a victory over his discretion he opened the door and entered the room. It was empty. The cot was gone, no fire, nor even ashes upon the hearth. The old box was all that remained to assure him that he was not mistaken in the room. Disappointed and almost confounded, he left the apartment through a door which opened into an entry and walked upstairs to seek someone whom he could question concerning Grace and her mother. He encountered an old woman upon the stairs. To his half-articulated and hasty inquiries she replied, Lord bless you, sir. They took themselves off by daylight this morning. Poor enough they are, but they paid the rent down. The little girl was taken on sadly, and the mother hardly able to stir a limb, but they would go. I believe it was something about a wild young man, and the mother thought it best Grace should not be in his way, for she's a handsome girl, sir, but that's the short and long of their going off so sudden-like. Faulkner had not the heart to ask another question. Frustrated in his first endeavor to be of service to his fellow-creatures. Disappointed in the first scheme with which he, for years, had endeavored to occupy himself, he returned home dissatisfied, sad, and weary. And yet those mingled feelings were less oppressive than the blank over-spreading the mind that distaste for enjoyment, and sluggishness of thought called ennui. CHAPTER IV A year after the occurrence of the events related in the previous chapter, Frederick Faulkner was seated in a small office in the fourth story of a building in Wall Street. Upon the table before him lay a number of legal-looking papers carefully fastened with red tape. He was apparently occupied in another which was to be added to their number. One glanced at his features, his attitude, his movements, told that he was no longer the weary idler, the listless ennuié who had found the world and its occupants so exceedingly tiresome twelve months before. Actually a couple of weeks after his rencontre with the little street-sweeper and her sudden disappearance scrape all unexpectedly gain the lawsuit upon which Faulkner's wealth depended. He found himself suddenly deprived of the means of sustenance. Strange to say he invents little chagrin on the occasion and seemed almost glad to be relieved even by misfortune from the lethargic incubus which weighed down his spirits. Before he reached his majority his father had insisted that he should qualify himself to become a lawyer, and he had accordingly passed an examination and received his diploma. But he had not then the energy to commence practice. A necessity did not compel him to abandon his habits of idleness. Once dependent on his own resources he seemed inspired with a new spirit. He found the panacea for his greatest ill in occupation and gave promise of becoming eminent in the profession. He never regretted his lost wealth except when he remembered how many heavy hearts he might have lightened, how many sufferers soothed by its mean. The inexpressible pleasure he had received in befriending the little street sweeper had never been equal and never forgotten. The pale face of the little girl frequently rose before him. The burst of gratitude, the words of thanks, sobbed rather than spoken. These were often in his ears. For many months one glimpse of the broom in the hands of a young girl made him quick in his face and his heart would be tumultuously. But he was doomed to continual disappointment. Street sweepers in abundance he encountered every day, but grace was never among them. After some of these disappointments he would return home, open the box where the beautiful little sprig of orange blossoms had been carefully stored, and bitterly mourn over the unavoidable frustration of his first project for the benefit of a human being. He no longer lodged at the Aster, for he was forced to study economy, his practice being as yet exceedingly limited. He had not visited his old residence, the scene of so many weary hours, for several months, when the arrival of a friend in town brought him once more to the Aster. Frank Gaylord chanced to be the first person who accosted him. Where have you been hiding yourself, Fred? What have you been doing with yourself? I declare you you look younger and handsomer than ever. By the way, he rattled on, there's a chance of your regaining your fortune with a most delightful encumbrance. Scrape-all, you know, died some ten months ago. A will was found leaving his money to some woman, his housekeeper, I believe, but the signature to his will was only commenced. His property has therefore gone to his daughter and her child. The mother and young lady are staying here. They are in the parlor at this moment. Let me introduce you. No, no, replied Faulkner. I am not so much in love with money as to contemplate marrying it by means of a priest. Besides, I have a sort of superstition that it is in the keeping of the blue devils who hover around it night and day. I have no inclination to renew my acquaintance with them. But I tell you, it is in the keeping of an angel, and her acquaintance you will soon have an inclination to make, if you see once her face, the most artless, gentle little creature, not yet sixteen, and possessing all the grace and simplicity of a child. I hear that she spends half the day studying under the direction of the most accomplished master. For hers is a strange story, but do let me introduce you. See, there she is, sitting on the sofa beside her mother. Gaylord, as he spoke, drew Faulkner towards the open door. They had taken but one step into the room when a cry of astonishment burst from the lips of the latter, and he stood as though transfixed on the spot, spellbound by an apparition. At the same moment Grace started from her seat and joyfully sprang towards him. Grace, Grace, could it be Grace, that fair young child with the rose of health upon her cheek, that beautiful woman who bore about her all the refinement and dignity suited to an elevated station? But Faulkner soon answered the question to himself when the soft and thrilling voice which so long had haunted his dreams once more addressed him as a benefactor, a first and never-forgotten friend. Another six months and once more the delicate bunch of orange blossoms was taken from its little box, this time to twine among the brown locks that clustered about the blushing cheeks of Grace. And over the orange flowers and the rich curls floated a bridal veil, and by the side of Grace stood Faulkner with more than a bright groom's happiness pictured upon his radiant countenance. A few moments after the ceremony which united the young couple was ended, Frank Gaylord, who officiated as groomsman, whispered to Faulkner as he shook his hand, "'My dear fellow, I wish you joy of the good angel which you have taken to yourself, to exercise the blue devils.' "'Thank you,' replied Faulkner. "'But since the day that I discovered that it was a curse to be of no use in the world, they have seldom attacked me. To ensure my happiness the good angel will only have to remind me, it brings a blessing to bless.' She is pretty sure of doing that by her own practical illustration of the Maxel. End of On We and Its Anadote by Anna Cora-Mollett Read by Kelly S. Taylor THE FIRST GRAY HAIR by Anna Cora-Mollett Ritchie This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Kelly Taylor THE FIRST GRAY HAIR I feel that I am growing old for want of somebody to tell me that I am looking as young as ever, charming falsehood, there is a vast deal of vital air in loving words. This was the passage that Millicent Beauregard read from Landor. Her eyes wandered off the volume and a troubled look stalled over their Juno-like irids. Her delicate white hand was pressed upon the Papin page, and the faintest contradiction, the mere sous-saint of a frown, shadowed her ample brow. Some cord of sympathy with the rider was touched, and its vibration started a train of unwanted reflections, growing old. When was that sound musical to the ears of womanhood? It could not, even by a stretch of courtesy, be called young, nor in her full bloom. Yet we have some scruples about proclaiming the exact date of her birthday. She had long passed the season when the transient blooms of an American woman's springtime wither, and the briefly expanded rose-leaves of her summer fall. Yet Millicent possessed so large a store of internal freshness and buoyancy, her mental powers invents so little decadence, time had dealt so leniently with her face and form. She was so wonderfully bien conservée that the inevitable necessity of growing old and far worse of looking old had not intruded itself upon her contemplation. Yet even by the poet's measurement of existence which says, We live indeed not years, in thought not breaths, in feelings not in figures on the dial, we should not count time by heart-throbs, he most lives, who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best. And counting her life by its events, emotions, actions, by what she had suffered, enjoyed, achieved, it had not been short, for hers was not one of those empty, passive, purposeless lives that glide on from youth to age without leaving landmarks on the road to warn others who may pass that way. Growing old for want of somebody to tell me that I was looking as young as ever, wrote Landoor, looking as young as ever, sighed Millicent, why, that was once a familiar greeting to my ear. And Landoor is right, truly, its flattery was rejuvenating, but, me thinks, no one has told me of late that I am looking as young as ever. Was it a mere chance omission or am I? She broke off abruptly, and stifled a half-side that crushed, in its turn, a rising regret. What said the reflecting truth-teller Yonder? She closed the book, walked up to the large mirror that stood between the windows of her chamber, and scanned her own countenance with uncompromising earnestness, resolved to detect every footprint the years had left in their journey. Those cheeks, she remembered, when their dimpled fullness was suffused with a soft aurorial tint. Now their hue was that of a rose pressed in a book. Their roundness was gone. Their dimples had deteriorated into something that was nearer an approach to wrinkles. The eyes had their brilliancy, had sunken strangely, and what dark rings encircled them. There were lines, light but distinct, stretching across the brow, curving softly about the mouth, and more sharply around the eyes. Suddenly the vision of the furlough's countenance that the glass once mirrored rose before her, the same visage, but in its girlhood a fair, unwritten page. It is not upon the smooth blank scroll of the story loose youth that we ever find the highest most eloquent loveliness, as mind and heart develop and mature feelings and thoughts chronicle their histories upon the countenance, and give new play and more varied expression to the features. Lines of beauty may be red that were not visible before, a past is trace upon the face, as well as a present. Often a poem is inscribed there, in the most touching characters with which poetry was ever recorded. But Millicent made no such reflection. She saw what luster her countenance had lost, not what charms it had gained, and though she was more free from vanity than handsome women in general, she had womanly weakness enough to be shocked at the sudden discovery. Almost involuntarily she lifted the comb that fastened her hair. It fell around her in luxuriant masses of shining darkness. It had always been one of her special beauties, praised by lovers and sung by poets. How could she help smiling to see its link abundance hue unchanged? She took up the comb that was lying temptingly upon the toilette, and drew it musingly through one long crest that swept over her shoulder. What glitter so brightly from out the glossy blackness? A single thread gleams whitely through the whole length of the lock. A thread of silver, yes distinctly unmistakably silver, a gray hair. The first gray hair. Millicent drew it out slowly, thoughtfully. Shall we dare to say, sadly, unwelcome monitor? It spoke of decay, of the wearing out and crumbling to dusk of this mortal frame. But that sorrowful voice only proceeded from the unilluminated depths of this lower sphere. A more melodious tone sounded higher up, and told of the exchange of that perishable form for one befitting the changeless youth of eternity, and bade her remember the death was but a grander development of life. Millicent's existence was affluent in blessings. She was not weary of the world in which she had filled a useful, happy, and honorable place. Winding the silver thread about her finger, she sank into the chair where she had sat while reading, and was soon lost in a deep reverie. Was she indeed growing old? Yes, here was a gray hair, at last. Women, ten, fifteen, twenty years her junior, had sighed over their whitening locks. While upon her favorite head no winter had left its trace of snow, here was the first faint track. She too was growing old, then, granted. And, after all, why should the knowledge cause her a pain? It was only the first spasmodic shock imparted by the recognition of the fact which it was hard to bear. What if age was slowly stealing upon her, had not her existence been enriched by the honor, love, obedience, troops of friends, which Shakespeare tells us should be ours when our may of life falls into the sear and yellow leaf? Was not there truth in the words of the philosopher who declared that a woman of really noble attributes resembles a veal which gains softness and mellowness of tone with years, had not each year that stole a portion of her youth away left some more valuable gift in its place? Was there not a store of precious images garnered up in the treasury of her heart, had she not found pleasure in pondering upon their beauty? Did she not delight in dreaming over the past, which memory always chronicled in poetry? Did she not find profit in looking back upon the steps she had taken in noting wither each had led, and thus recounting to herself happily now and then to others the story of her own life? Was it not a happiness to have watched the working out of the great ends which sprung from the causes that once appeared to her so mysterious? To have seen the completed painting of pictures which she never imagined could grow out of those tints on the pallets of life? To have beheld the perfect embroidery of the tapestry of existence over which she had marveled during its incompletion, never divining the groundwork of inharmonious threads, what noble design could be wrought? And heartwarming reflection with every year had not her sphere of love grown wider, had not her affections radiated further out from herself, had not her interest in others become more extended and hopeful? Then too had she not more ties in that better land to which many of her beloved ones had led the way, ties that linked her to that world as the loved ones who remained attached to her, to this, until she felt that she had a home in both, and dear ones awaited her there as here? Next the startling query, which all shall be asked, What use has thou made of thy time? Millicent pondered upon the work she had been made an instrument to accomplish. She was not content with the amount, though others might have deemed it large. She sighed over her own insufficiency, over the good that she might have done, which she had left undone, over precious hours wasted, and golden opportunities neglected. And now she was growing old, growing old. What then? Age ought to bring wisdom, and would teach her soul larger movements, and give it more glorious fruition. There was time for noble toil ere God measured the task. That would not be until the days out and the labor is done. If Millicent could have seen the expression on her own face, sublime by holy aspiration, she would have known that there was an imperishable beauty which takes the place of soft bloom, the brilliant tints, the smoothness and roundness which time destroys. A beauty that will clothe the spirit with eternal youth in the life to come. Millicent sat thoughtfully, winding the long shining hair about her finger, and smiling at the passing dread that had seized her, at the startling discovery that she might be growing old. Why, what an idle bugbear she exclaimed! We make of the years, with what silly horror we shrink from the thought of blanched locks, if they were only white records of white deeds. The silver crown of age should be deemed more beautiful than the golden circlet of youth. True, vanity cries out against the gray hair, but that is simply because she is ignorant. Nature, from whom art learnt all her beautifying secrets, sent the snowy frame to soften faces which have been despoiled of their fresh coloring and to render their losses less apparent. We have learned landers grown over growing old, but if I mistake not, there is more conciliatory voice breathing from some healthier pages at hand. She approached a small hanging library filled with choice volumes, her favorite textbooks, and selected Hilliard's Italy. And, after a rapid turning over of leaves redolent with the fragrant memories of that land of the sun, red aloud, growing old seems to depend much upon the temperament, and somewhat upon the will, with an act of mind and warm heart, all that is dark and unlovely in age, may be kept off very long, if not to the end. To the end, a, to the end, so shall it be, responded Millicent. Replacing the volume, while an expression of serene satisfaction played over her fine features, a look which strongly contrasted with the troubled shadow that had obscured their beauty when that wail of land ores set her musing. End of The First Gray Hair. The Hip Critical Cat by W. H. D. Ruse. 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 Chad Horner from Balli Clare in County Antrim, Northern Ireland, situated in the northeast of the island of Ireland. The Hip Critical Cat. Once upon a time there was a trip of rats that used to live in holes by a riverside. A certain cat often saw them going to and fro, and longed to have them to eat. But he was not strong enough to attack them altogether besides that would not have sit at his purpose, because most of them would have run away. So he used to stand early in the morning, not far from their holes, with his face towards the sun, snuffing up the air, and standing on one leg. The rats wondered why he did that, so one day they all tripped up to him in a body and asked the reason, What is your name, sir? they began. Holy is my name, said the cat. Why do you stand on one leg? Because if I stood on all four, the earth could not bear my weight. And why do you keep your mouth open? Because I feed on the air and never eat anything else. And why do you face the sun? Because I worship the sun. What a pious cat, the rats all thought. Ever after that, when they started out in the morning they did not fail first to make their bow to the cat one by one and to show thus their respect for his piety. This was just what our cat wanted every day as they filed past. He waited till the tail of the string came up, then, like lightning, punched upon the hindmost and gobbled him up in a trice, after which he stood on one leg as before, licking his lips greedily. For a while, all went well for the cat's plan, but at last the chief of the rats noticed that the trip seemed to grow smaller. Here and there he missed some familiar face. He could not make it out, but at last a thought came into his mind that perhaps the pious cat might know more about it than he chose to tell. Next day, accordingly, he posted himself at the tail of the trip where he could see everything that went on. And as the rats one by one bowed before the cat, he watched the cat out of the end of his eye. As he came up, the cat prepared for his pints, but our rat was ready for him and dodged out of the way. Aha! says the rat, so that is your piety. Feeds on the air does he and worships his son, eh? What a humbug! And with one spring he was at the cat's throat and his sharp teeth fast. The other rats heard the scuffle and came tripping back, and it was crunch and munch till not a vestige remained of the hypocritical cat. Those who came first had cat to eat, and those who came last went sniffing about at the mouths of their friends and asking what was the taste of cat's meat, and ever after the cats lived in peace and happiness. End of A Hypocritical Cat by W. H. D.