 THE ADVENTURE OF THE BLUE CARBUNCLE by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I had called upon my friend Sherlock Holmes upon the second morning after Christmas, with the intention of wishing him the compliments of the season. He was lounging upon the sofa, in a purple dressing gown, a pipe rack within his reach upon the right, and a pile of crumpled morning papers evidently newly studied, near at hand. Beside the couch was a wooden chair, and on the angle of the back hung a very seedy and disreputable hard-felt hat. Much the worse for wear, and cracked in several places. A lens and a forceps lying upon the seat of the chair suggested that the hat had been suspended in this manner for the purpose of examination. You are engaged, said I. Perhaps I interrupt you. Not at all. I am glad to have a friend with whom I can discuss my results. The matter is a perfectly trivial one. He jerked his thumb in the direction of the old hat. But there are points in connection with it which are not entirely devoid of interest, and even of instruction. I seated myself in his arm-chair, and warmed my hands before his crackling fire. For a sharp frost had set in and the windows were thick with the ice-crystals. I suppose, I remarked, that only, as it looks, this thing has some deadly story linked on to it. That it is the clue which will guide you in the solution of some mystery and the punishment of some crime. No, no, no crime, said Sherlock Holmes, laughing, only one of those whimsical little incidents which will happen when you have four million human beings all jostling each other within the space of a few square miles. Amid the action and reaction of so dense a swarm of humanity, every possible combination of events may be expected to take place, and many a little problem will be presented which may be striking and bizarre without being criminal. We have already had experience of such. So much so, I remarked, that of the last six cases which I have added to my notes, three have been entirely free of any legal crime. Precisely, you allude to my attempt to recover the Irene Adler papers, to the singular case of Miss Mary Sutherland, and to the adventure of the man with the twisted lip. Well, I have no doubt that this small matter will fall into the same innocent category. You know Peterson, the commissioner? Yes. It is to him that this trophy belongs. It is his hat. No, no, he found it. Its owner is unknown. I beg that you will look upon it not as a battered billycock, but as an intellectual problem, and first as to how it came here. It arrived upon Christmas morning in company with a good fat goose, which is, I have no doubt, roasting at this moment in front of Peterson's fire. The facts are these. About four o'clock on Christmas morning, Peterson, who as you know is a very honest fellow, was returning from some small jollification, and was making his way homeward down Tottenham Court Road. In front of him he saw in the gaslight a tallish man, walking with a slight stagger and carrying a white goose slung over his shoulder. As he reached the corner of Good Street, a row broke out between this stranger and a little knot of ruffs. One of the latter knocked off the man's hat, on which he raised his stick to defend himself, and swinging it over his head smashed the shop window behind him. Peterson had rushed forward to protect the stranger from his assailants, but the man, shocked at having broken the window and seeing an official-looking person in uniform rushing towards him, dropped his goose, took to his heels, and vanished amid the labyrinth of small streets which lie at the back of Tottenham Court Road. The ruffs had also fled at the appearance of Peterson, so that he was left in possession of the field of battle, and also of the spoils of victory in the shape of this battered hat and a most unimpeachable Christmas goose, which surely he restored to their owner. My dear fellow, there lies the problem. It is true that, for Mrs. Henry Baker, was printed upon a small card which was tied to the bird's left leg, and it is also true that the initials, H. B., are legible upon the lining of this hat. But as there are some thousands of bakers, and some hundreds of Henry bakers in this city of ours, it is not easy to restore lost property to any one of them. What then did Peterson do? He brought round both hat and goose to me on Christmas morning, knowing that even the smallest problems are of interest to me. The goose we retained until this morning, when there were signs that in spite of this slight frost, it would be well that it should be eaten without unnecessary delay. Its finder has carried it off, therefore, to fulfill the ultimate destiny of a goose, while I continue to retain the hat of the unknown gentleman who lost his Christmas dinner. Did he not advertise? No? Then what clue could you have as to his identity, only as much as we can deduce? From his hat? Precisely. But you are joking. What can you gather from this old battered felt? Here is my lens. You know my methods. What can you gather yourself as to the individuality of the man who has worn this article? I took the tattered object in my hands and turned it over rather ruefully. It was a very ordinary black hat of the usual round shape, hard and much the worse for wear. The lining had been of red silk, but was a good deal discolored. There was no maker's name, but, as Holmes had remarked, the initials H. B. were scrawled upon one side. It was pierced in the brim for a hat secure, but the elastic was missing. For the rest it was cracked exceedingly dusty and spotted in several places, although there seemed to have been some attempt to hide the discolored patches by smearing them with ink. I can see nothing, said I, handing it back to my friend. On the contrary, Watson, you can see everything. You fail, however, to reason from what you see. You are too timid in drawing your inferences. Then pray tell me what is it that you can infer from this hat? He picked it up and gazed at it in the peculiar introspective fashion which was characteristic of him. It is perhaps less suggestive than it might have been, he remarked, and yet there are a few inferences which are very distinct, and a few others which represent at least a strong balance of probability. That the man was highly intellectual is, of course, obvious upon the face of it, and also that he was fairly well-to-do within the last three years, although he has now fallen upon evil days. He had foresight, but has less now than formerly. Pointing to a moral retrogression, which when taken with the decline of his fortunes seems to indicate some evil influence, probably drink, at work upon him. This may account also for the obvious fact that his wife has ceased to love him. My dear Holmes! He has, however, retained some degree of self-respect, he continued, disregarding my remonstrance. He is a man who leads a sedentary life, goes out little, is out of training entirely, his middle-aged has grizzled hair which he has had cut within the last few days, and which he anoints with lime-cream. These are the more patent facts which are to be deduced from his hat. Also, by the way, that it is extremely improbable that he has gas laid on in his house. You are certainly joking, Holmes! Not in the least! Is it possible that even now, when I give you these results, you are unable to see how they are attained? I have no doubt that I am very stupid, but I must confess that I am unable to follow you. For example, how did you deduce that this man was intellectual? For answer, Holmes clapped the hat upon his head. It came right over the forehead and settled upon the bridge of his nose. It is a question of cubic capacity, said he. A man with so large a brain must have something in it. The decline of his fortunes, then. This hat is three years old. These flat brims curled at the edge came in then. It is a hat of the very best quality. Look at the band of ribbed silk and the excellent lining. If this man could afford to buy so expensive a hat three years ago, and has had no hat since, then he has assuredly gone down in the world. Well, that is clear enough, certainly. But how about the foresight and the moral retrogression? Sherlock Holmes laughed. Here is the foresight, said he, putting his finger upon the little disc and loop of the hat secure. They are never sold upon hats. If this man ordered one, it is a sign of a certain amount of foresight, since he went out of his way to take this precaution against the wind. But since we see that he has broken the elastic and has not troubled to replace it, it is obvious that he has less foresight now than formerly, which is a distinct proof of a weakening nature. On the other hand, he has endeavored to conceal some of these stains upon the felt by dobbing them with ink, which is a sign that he has not entirely lost his self-respect. Your reasoning is certainly plausible. The further points that he is middle-aged, that his hair is grizzled, that it has been recently cut, and that he uses lime cream are all to be gathered from a close examination of the lower part of the lining. The lens discloses a large number of hair ends, clean cut by the scissors of the barber. They all appear to be adhesive, and there is a distinct odor of lime cream. This dust, you will observe, is not the gritty gray dust of the street, but the fluffy brown dust of the house, showing that it has been hung up indoors most of the time, while the marks of moisture upon the inside are proof positive that the wearer perspired very freely and could therefore hardly be in the best of training. But his wife, you said that she had ceased to love him. This hat has not been brushed for weeks. When I see you, my dear Watson, with a week's accumulation of dust upon your hat, and when your wife allows you to go out in such a state, I shall fear that you also have been unfortunate enough to lose your wife's affection. But he might be a bachelor. Nay, he was bringing home the goose as a peace offering to his wife. Remember the card upon the bird's leg? You have an answer to everything. But how on earth do you deduce that the gas is not laid on in his house? One tallow stain, or even two, might come by chance. But when I see no less than five, I think that there can be little doubt that the individual must be brought into frequent contact with burning tallow. Walks upstairs at night, probably with his hat in one hand, and a guttering candle in the other. Anyhow he never got tallow stains from a gas jet. Are you satisfied? Well, it is very ingenious, said I laughing. But since you said just now there has been no crime committed, and no harm done save the loss of a goose, all this seems to be rather a waste of energy. Sherlock Holmes had opened his mouth to reply when the door flew open, and Peterson, the commissioner, rushed into the apartment with flushed cheeks and the face of a man who was dazed with astonishment. The goose, Mr. Holmes, the goose, sir, he gasped. Eh? What of it then? Has it returned to life and flapped off through the kitchen window? Holmes twisted himself round about the sofa to get a fairer view of the man's excited face. See here, sir, see what my wife found in its crop. He held out his hand and displayed upon the center of the palm a brilliantly scintillating blue stone rather smaller than a bean in size, but of such purity and radiance that it twinkled like an electric point in the dark hollow of his hand. Sherlock Holmes sat up with a whistle. By Joe Peterson, said he, this is treasure trove indeed. I suppose you know what you have got. A diamond, sir? A precious stone. It cuts into glass as though it were putty. It's more than a precious stone. It is THE precious stone. Not the Countess of Morkar's blue carbuncle, I ejaculated. Precisely so. I ought to know its size and shape, seeing that I have read the advertisement about it in the Times every day lately. It is absolutely unique, and its value can only be conjectured. But the reward offered of one thousand pounds is certainly not within a twentieth part of the market price. A thousand pounds? Great Lord of Mercy! the commissioner plumped down into a chair and stared from one to the other of us. That is the reward, and I have reason to know that there are sentimental considerations in the background which would induce the Countess to part with half her fortune if she could but recover the gem. It was lost, if I remember all right, at the Hotel Cosmopolitan, I remarked. Precisely so, on December 22nd, just five days ago, John Horner, a plumber, was accused of having abstracted it from the lady's jewel case. The evidence against him was so strong that the case had been referred to the assas. I have some account of the matter here, I believe. He rummaged amid his newspapers, glancing over the dates, until at last he smoothed one out, doubled it over, and read the following paragraph. Hotel Cosmopolitan, Jewel Robbery. John Horner, 26, plumber, was brought up upon the charge of having, upon the 22nd instant, abstracted from the jewel case of the Countess of Morcar, the valuable gem known as the Blue Carbuncle. James Ryder, upper attendant at the Hotel, gave his evidence to the effect that he had shown Horner up to the dressing room of the Countess of Morcar upon the day of the robbery, in order that he might solder the second bar of the grate which was loose. He had remained with Horner some little time, but had finally been called away. On returning he found that Horner had disappeared, that the bureau had been forced open, and that the small Morocco casket in which, as it afterwards transpired, the Countess was accustomed to Keeper Jewel, was lying empty upon the dressing table. Ryder instantly gave the alarm, and Horner was arrested the same evening. But the stone could not be found, either upon his person or in his rooms. Catherine Cusack, made to the Countess, deposed to having heard Ryder's cry of dismay on discovering the robbery, and to having rushed into the room where she found matters as described by the last witness. Inspector Bradstreet, B. Division, gave evidence as to the arrest of Horner, who struggled frantically, and protested his innocence in the strongest terms. Evidence of a previous conviction for robbery having been given against the prisoner. The magistrate refused to deal summarily with the offense, but referred it to the assas. Horner, who had shown signs of intense emotion during the proceedings, fainted away at the conclusion and was carried out of court. Hmm. So much for the police court, said Holmes thoughtfully, tossing aside the paper. The question for us now to solve is the sequence of events leading from a rifled jewel case at one end to the crop of a goose in Tottenham Court Road at the other. You see, Watson, our little deductions have suddenly assumed a much more important and less innocent aspect. Here is the stone. The stone came from the goose, and the goose came from Mr. Henry Baker, the gentleman with the bad hat and all the other characteristics with which I have bored you. So now we must set ourselves very seriously to finding this gentleman and ascertaining what part he has played in this little mystery. To do this we must try the simplest means first, and these lie undoubtedly in an advertisement in all the evening papers. If this fail I shall have recourse to other methods. What will you say? Give me a pencil, and that slip of paper. Now then. Found at the corner of Good Street, a goose and a black felt hat, Mr. Henry Baker can have the same by applying at 6.30 this evening at 221 B Baker Street. That is clear and concise. Very, but will he see it? Well, he is sure to keep an eye on the papers, since to a poor man the loss was a heavy one. He was clearly so scared by his mischance in breaking the window and by the approach of Peterson that he thought of nothing but flight. But since then he must have bitterly regretted the impulse which caused him to drop his bird. Then again the introduction of his name will cause him to see it, for everyone who knows him will direct his attention to it. Here you are, Peterson. Run down to the advertising agency and have this put in the evening papers. In which, sir? O, in the Globe, Star, Paul Mall, St. James, Evening News Standard, Echo, and any others that occur to you. Very well, sir, and this stone. Ah, yes, I shall keep the stone. Thank you. And I say, Peterson, just buy a goose on your way back and leave it here with me, for we must have one to give to this gentleman in place of the one which your family is now devouring. When the commissioner had gone, Holmes took up this stone and held it against the light. It's a bonny thing, said he. Just see how it glints and sparkles. Of course it is a nucleus and focus of crime. Every good stone is. They are the devil's pet baits. In the larger and older jewels every facet may stand for a bloody deed. This stone is not yet twenty years old. It was found in the banks of the Amoy River in southern China, and is remarkable in having every characteristic of the carbuncle save that it is blue in shade instead of ruby red. In spite of its youth it has already a sinister history. There have been two murders, a vitriol throwing, a suicide, and several robberies brought about for the sake of this forty-grain weight of crystallized charcoal. Who would think that so pretty a toy would be a purveyor to the gallows and the prison? I'll lock it up in my strongbox now and drop a line to the Countess to say that we have it. Do you think that this man Horner is innocent? I cannot tell. Well then, do you imagine that this other one, Henry Baker, had anything to do with the matter? It is, I think, much more likely that Henry Baker is an absolutely innocent man, who had no idea that the bird which he was carrying was of considerably more value than if it were made of solid gold. That, however, I shall determine by a very simple test if we have an answer to our advertisement. And you can do nothing until then? Nothing. In that case I shall continue my professional round, but I shall come back in the evening at the hour you have mentioned, for I should like to see the solution of so tangled a business. Very glad to see you. I dine at seven. There is a woodcock, I believe. By the way, in view of recent occurrences, perhaps I ought to ask Mrs. Hudson to examine its crop. I had been delayed at a case, and it was a little after half past six when I found myself in Baker Street once more. As I approached the house I saw a tall man in a scotch bonnet with a coat which was buttoned up to his chin, waiting outside in the bright semicircle which was thrown from the fanlight. Just as I arrived the door was opened and we were shown up together to Holmes' room. Mr. Henry Baker, I believe, said he, rising from his armchair, and greeting his visitor with the easy air of geniality which he could so readily assume. Pray take this chair by the fire, Mr. Baker. It is a cold night, and I observe that your circulation is more adapted for summer than for winter. Ah, Watson, you have just come at the right time. Is that your hat, Mr. Baker? Yes, sir, that is undoubtedly my hat. He was a large man with rounded shoulders, a massive head, and a broad, intelligent face, sloping down to a pointed beard of grizzled brown. A touch of red in nose and cheeks, with a slight tremor of his extended hand, recalled Holmes' surmise as to his habits. His rusty black frock coat was buttoned right up in front, with the collar turned up, and his lank wrist protruded from his sleeves without a sign of cuff or shirt. He spoke in a slow staccato fashion, choosing his words with care, and gave the impression generally of a man of learning and letters who had had ill usage at the hands of fortune. We have retained these things for some days, said Holmes, because we expected to see an advertisement from you giving your address. I am at a loss to know why you did not advertise. Our visitor gave a rather shame-faced laugh. Shilling have not been so plentiful with me as they once were, he remarked. I had no doubt that the gang of ruffs who assaulted me had carried off both my hat and the bird. I did not care to spend more money in a hopeless attempt at recovering them. Very naturally. By the way, about the bird. We were compelled to eat it. To eat it? Our visitor half rose from his chair in his excitement. Yes, it would have been of no use to anyone had we not done so. But I presume that this other goose upon the sideboard, which is about the same weight and perfectly fresh, will answer your purpose equally well. Oh, certainly, certainly, answered Mr. Baker with a sigh of relief. Of course, we still have the feathers, legs, crop, and so on of your own bird. So if you wish, the man burst into a hearty laugh, they might be useful to me as relics of my adventure, said he, but beyond that I can hardly see what use the dejective member of my late acquaintance are going to be to me. No, sir, I think that with your permission I will confine my attentions to the excellent bird which I perceive upon the sideboard. Sherlock Holmes glanced sharply across at me with a slight shrug of his shoulders. There is your hat, then, and there your bird, said he. By the way, would it bore you to tell me where you got the other one from? I am somewhat of a foul fancier, and I have seldom seen a better grown goose. Certainly, sir, said Baker, who had risen and tucked his newly gained property under his arm, there are a few of us who frequent the alpha inn near the museum. We are to be found in the museum itself during the day, you understand. This year our good host, Wendigan, by name, instituted a goose club by which, on consideration of some few pence every week, we were each to receive a bird at Christmas. My pence were duly paid, and the rest is familiar to you. I am much indebted to you. A Scotch bonnet is fitted neither to my years nor my gravity. With a comical pomposity of manner he bowed solemnly to both of us and strode off upon his way. So much for Mr. Henry Baker, said Holmes, when he had closed the door behind him. It is quite certain that he knows nothing whatsoever about the matter. Are you hungry, Watson? Not particularly. Then I suggest that we turn our dinner into a supper, and follow up this clue while it is still hot. By all means. It was a bitter night, so we drew on our ulsters and wrapped cravats about our throes. Outside the stars were shining coldly in a cloudless sky, and the breath of the passers-by blew out into smoke like so many pistol shots. Our footfalls rang out crisply and loudly as we swung through the doctor's quarter, Wimpole Street, Harley Street, and so through Wigmore Street into Oxford Street. In a quarter of an hour we were in Bloomsbury at the Alpha Inn, which is a small public house at the corner of one of the streets which runs down into Holburn. Holmes pushed open the door of the private bar, and ordered two glasses of beer from the ruddy-faced, white, aproned landlord. Your beer should be excellent if it is as good as your geese, said he. My geese? The man seemed surprised. Yes, I was speaking only half an hour ago to Mr. Henry Baker, who was a member of your goose club. Ah yes, I see. But you see, sir, them's not our geese. Indeed. Who's then? Well, I got the two dozen from a salesman in Covent Garden. Indeed. I know some of them, which was it. Breckenridge is his name. Ah, I don't know him. Well, here's your good health, landlord, and prosperity to your house. Good night. Now for Breckenridge, he continued, buttoning up his coat as we came out in the frosty air. Remember, Watson, that though we have so homely a thing as a goose at one end of this chain, we have at the other a man who will certainly get seven years' penal servitude unless we can establish his innocence. It is possible that our inquiry may but confirm his guilt. But in any case we have a line of investigation which has been missed by the police and which a singular chance has placed in our hands. Let us follow it out to the bitter end, faces to the south then, and quick march. We passed across Holburn, down Endell Street, and so through a zigzag of slums to Covent Garden Market. One of the largest stalls bore the name of Breckenridge upon it, and the proprietor, a horsey-looking man, with a sharp face and trim side whiskers, was helping a boy to put up the shutters. "'Good evening. It's a cold night,' said Holmes. The salesman nodded and shot a questioning glance at my companion. "'Sold out of geese, I see,' continued Holmes, pointing at the bare slabs of marble. "'Let you have five hundred tomorrow morning. That's no good. Well, there are some on the stall with the gas flare. Ah, but I was recommended to you. Who by? The landlord of the Alpha. Oh, yes. I sent him a couple of dozen. Fine birds they were, too. Now where did you get them from? To my surprise, the question provoked a burst of anger from the salesman. "'Now, then, mister,' said he, with his head caught in his arms of Kimball. What are you driving at? Let's have it straight now. It is straight enough. I should like to know who sold you the geese which you supplied to the Alpha. Well, then, I shan't tell you. So now. Oh, it is a matter of no importance. But I don't know why you should be so warm over such a trifle. Warm? You'd be as warm, maybe, if you were as pestered as I am. When I pay good money for a good article there should be an end of the business. But it's where are the geese, and who did you sell the geese to, and what will you take for the geese? One would think they were the only geese in the world to hear the fuss that is made over them. Well, I have no connection with any other people who have been making inquiries, said Holmes carelessly. If you won't tell us the bet is off, that is all. But I'm always ready to back my anun on a matter of fouls. And I have a fiver on it that the bird I ate is country bread. Well, then, you've lost your fiver for its town bread, snapped the salesman. It's nothing of the kind. I say it is. I don't believe it. Do you think you know more about fouls than I, who have handled them ever since I was a nipper? I tell you, all those birds that went to the Alpha were town bread. You'll never persuade me to believe that. Will you bet, then? It's merely taking your money, for I know that I am right. But I'll have a sovereign on with you just to teach you not to be obstinate. The salesman chuckled grimly. Bring me the books, Bill, said he. The small boy brought round a small thin volume, and a great greasy back one, laying them out together beneath the hanging lamp. Now then, Mr. Cockshore, said the salesman, I thought that I was out of geese. But before I finish, you'll find that there is still one left in my shop. You see this little book? Well, that's the list of the folk from whom I buy. Do you see? Well, then, here on this page are the country folk, and the numbers after their names are where their accounts are in the big ledger. Now then, you see this other page in Red Ink. Well, that is a list of my town suppliers. Now look at that third name. Just read it to me. Mrs. Oakshot, 117 Brixton Road, 249 Red Homes. Quite so. Now turn that up in the ledger. Holmes turned to the page indicated. Here you are. Mrs. Oakshot, 117 Brixton Road. Egg and poultry supplier. Now then, what's the last entry? December 22nd, 24 geese at seven shilling sixpence. Quite so. There you are, and underneath? So to Mr. Wendigit of the Alpha at twelve shillings. What have you to say now? Sherlock Holmes looked deeply chagrined. He drew a sovereign from his pocket and threw it down upon the slab, turning away with the air of a man whose disgust is too deep for words. A few yards off he stopped under a lamppost and laughed in the hearty noiseless fashion which was peculiar to him. When you see a man with whiskers of that cut, and the pinken protruding out of his pocket, you can always draw him by a bat, said he. I daresay that if I had put one hundred pounds down in front of him, that man would not have given me such complete information as was drawn from him by the idea that he was doing me on a wager. Well, Watson, we are, I fancy, nearing the end of our quest, and the only point which remains to be determined is whether we should go on to this Mrs. Oaks shot to-night, or whether we should reserve it for tomorrow. It is clear, from what that surly fellow said, that there are others besides ourselves who are anxious about the matter, and I should, his remarks were suddenly cut short by a loud hubbub which broke out from the stall which we had just left. Turning round we saw a little rat-faced fellow standing in the center of the circle of yellow light which was thrown by the swinging lamp. While Breckenridge, the salesman, framed in the door of his stall, was shaking his fist fiercely at the cringing figure. I've had enough of you and your geese, he shouted. I wish you were all at the devils together. If you come pestering me any more with your silly talk, I'll sit the dog at you. You bring Mrs. Oaks shot here, and I'll answer her. But what have you to do with it? Did I buy the geese off you? No, but one of them was mine all the same, whined the little man. Well, then ask Mrs. Oaks shot for it. She told me to ask you. Well, you can ask the king of Prussia for all I care. I've had enough of it. Get out of this. He rushed fiercely forward, and the inquirer flittered away into the darkness. Ha! This may save us a visit to Brixton Road, whispered Holmes. Come with me, and we will see what is to be made of this fellow. Striding through the scattered knots of people who lounged around the flaring stalls, my companion speedily overtook the little man and touched him upon the shoulder. He sprang round, and I could see in the gaslight that every vestige of color had been driven from his face. Who are you then? What do you want? he asked in a quavering voice. You will excuse me, said Holmes Blanley, but I could not help overhearing the questions which you put to the salesman just now. I think that I could be of assistance to you. You? Who are you? How could you know anything of the matter? My name is Sherlock Holmes. It is my business to know what other people don't know. But you can know nothing of this. Excuse me, I know everything of it. You are endeavouring to trace some geese which were sold by Mrs. Oakshot of Brixton Road to a salesman named Breckenridge by him in turn to Mr. Windigate of the Alpha, and by him to his club of which Mr. Henry Baker is a member. Oh, sir, you are the very man whom I have longed to meet, cried the little fellow with outstretched hands and quavering fingers. I can hardly explain to you how interested I am in the matter. Sherlock Holmes hailed a four-wheeler which was passing. In that case we had better discuss it in a cozy room rather than in this windswept marketplace, said he. But pray tell me, before we go farther, who is it that I have the pleasure of assisting? The man hesitated for an instant. My name is John Robinson, he answered with a side-long glance. No, no, the real name, said Holmes sweetly. It is always awkward doing business with an alias. A flush sprang to the white cheeks of the stranger. Well then, he said, my real name is James Rider. Precisely so, head attendant at the Hotel Cosmopolitan. Pray step into the cab, and I shall soon be able to tell you everything which you would wish to know. The little man stood glancing from one to the other of us with half-frightened, half-hopeful eyes, as one who is not sure whether he is on the verge of a windfall or of a catastrophe. Then he stepped into the cab, and in a half an hour we were back in the sitting-room at Baker Street. Nothing had been said during our drive, but the high, thin breathing of our new companion and the claspings and unclaspings of his hands spoke of the nervous tension within him. Here we are, said Holmes cheerily as we filed into the room. The fire looks very seasonable in this weather. You look cold, Mr. Rider. Pray take the basket chair. I will just put on my slippers before we settle this little matter of yours. Now then, you want to know what became of those geese? Yes, sir. Or rather I fancy of that goose. It was one bird. I imagine in which you were interested, white with a black bar across the tail. Rider quivered with emotion. Oh, sir, he cried. Can you tell me where it went to? It came here. Here? Yes, and a most remarkable bird it proved. I don't wonder that you should take an interest in it. It laid an egg after it was dead. The bonniest, brightest little blue egg that ever was seen. I have it here in my museum. Our visitor staggered to his feet and clutched the mantelpiece with his right hand. Holmes unlocked his strong box and held up the blue carbuncle, which shone out like a star with a cold, brilliant, many-pointed radiance. Rider stood glaring with a drawn face, uncertain whether to claim it or to disown it. The game's up, Rider, said Holmes quietly. Hold up, Anne, or you'll be into the fire. Give him an arm back into his chair, Watson. He's not got blood enough to go in for felony with impunity. Give him a dash of brandy. So now he looks a little more human. What a shrimp it is, to be sure. For a moment he had staggered and nearly fallen, but the brandy brought a tinge of color into his cheeks, and he sat staring with frightened eyes at his accuser. I have almost every link in my hands and all the proofs which I could possibly need, so there is little which you need tell me. Still, that little may as well be cleared up to make the case complete. You had heard, Rider, of this blue stone of the Countess of Morkar's? It was Catherine Cusack who told me of it, said he in a crackling voice. I see, her ladyship's waiting made. Well, the temptation of sudden wealth so easily acquired was too much for you, as it has been for better men before you. But you were not very scrupulous in the means you used. It seems to me, Rider, that there is the making of a very pretty villain in you. You knew that this man Horner, the plumber, had been concerned in some such matter before, and that suspicion would rest the more readily upon him. What did you do then? You made some small job in my lady's room. You and your confederate Cusack. And you managed that he should be the man sent for. Then, when he had left, you rifled the jewel case, raised the alarm, and had this unfortunate man arrested. You then, Rider threw himself down suddenly upon the rug, and clutched at my companion's knees. Oh, for heaven's sake, have mercy, he shrieked. Think of my father, my mother. It would break their hearts. I never went wrong before. I never will again. I swear it. I swear it on a Bible. Oh, don't bring me into court. For heaven's sake, don't. Get back into your chair, said Holmes Stirling. It is very well to cringe and crawl now. But you've thought little enough of this poor Horner in the dock for a crime of which he knew nothing. I will fly, Mr. Holmes. I will leave the country, sir. Then the charge against him will break down. Hmm. We will talk about that. And now let us hear a true account of the next act. How came the stone into the goose? And how came the goose into the open market? Tell us the truth, for there lies your only hope of safety. Rider passed his tongue over his partslips. I will tell you it, just as it happened, sir, said he. When Horner had been arrested, it seemed to me that it would be best for me to get away with the stone at once, for I did not know at what moment the police might take it into their heads to search me and my room. There was no place about the hotel where it would be safe. I went out, as if on some commission, and I made for my sister's house. She had married a man named Oakshot, and lived in Brixton Road, where she fattened fowls for the market. All the way there every man I met seemed to me to be a policeman or a detective. And for all that it was a cold night the sweat was pouring down my face before I came to the Brixton Road. My sister asked me what was the matter, and why I was so pale, but I told her that I had been upset by the jewel robbery at the hotel. Then I went into the backyard and smoked a pipe and wondered what it would be best to do. I had a friend once called Maudsley, who went to the Bad, and has just been serving his time in Pentonville. One day he had met me and fell into talk about the ways of thieves and how they could get rid of what they stole. I knew that he would be true to me, for I knew one or two things about him. So I made up my mind to go right on to Kilburn, where he lived, and take him into my confidence. He would show me how to turn the stone into money, but how to get to him in safety. I thought of the agonies I had gone through in coming from the hotel. I might, at any moment, be seized and searched, and there would be the stone in my waistcoat pocket. I was leaning against the wall at the time and looking at the geese which were waddling about round my feet, and suddenly an idea came into my head which showed me how I could beat the best detective that ever lived. My sister had told me some weeks before that I might have the pick of her geese for a Christmas present, and I knew that she was always as good as her word. I would take my goose now, and in it I would carry my stone to Kilburn. There was a little shed in the yard, and behind this I drove one of the birds, a fine big one, white with a barred tail. I caught it, and prying its bill open, I thrust the stone down its throat as far as my finger could reach. The bird gave a gulp, and I felt the stone pass along its gullet and down into its crop. But the creature flapped and struggled, and out came my sister to know what was the matter. As I turned to speak to her the brute broke loose and fluttered off among the others. Whatever were you doing with that bird, Jem, said she. Well, said I. You said you'd give me one for Christmas, and I was feeling which was the fattest. Oh, said she, we've set yours aside for you. Jem's bird, we call it. It's the big white one over yonder. There's twenty-six of them, which makes one for you and one for us, and two dozen for the market. Thank you, Maggie, says I. But if it is all the same to you, I'd rather have that one I was handling just now. The other is a good three-pound heavier, said she. And we fattened it expressly for you. Never mind, I'll take the other, and I'll take it now, said I. Oh, just as you like, said she, a little huffed. Which is it you want, then? That white one with the barred tail, right in the middle of the flock. Oh, very well. Kill it and take it with you. Well, I did what she said, Mr. Holmes, and I carried the bird all the way to Kilburn. I told my pal what I had done, for he was a man that it was easy to tell a thing like that, too. He laughed until he choked, and we got a knife and opened the goose. My aunt turned to water, for there was no sign of the stone, and I knew that some terrible mistake had occurred. I left the bird, rushed back to my sisters, and hurried into the backyard. There was not a bird to be seen there. Oh, where are they all, Maggie? I cried. Gone to the dealer's, Jim. Which dealer's? A brick and ridge of Covent Garden. But was there another with a barred tail, I asked, the same as the one I chose? Yes, Jim, there were two barred tailed ones, and I could never tell them apart. Well, then, of course, I saw it all, and I ran off as hard as my feet would carry me to this man's brick and ridge, but he had sold the lot at once, and not one word would he tell me as to where they had gone. You heard him yourselves tonight. Well, he has always answered me like that. My sister thinks that I am going mad. Sometimes I think that I am myself, and thou. And now I am myself a branded thief without ever having touched the wealth for which I sold my character. Heaven help me! Heaven help me! He burst into convulsive sobbing with his face buried in his hands. There was a long silence, broken only by his heavy breathing, and by the measured tapping of Sherlock Holmes' fingertips upon the edge of the table. Then my friend rose and threw open the door. Get out! said he. What, sir? Oh, heaven bless you! No more words! Get out! And no more words were needed. There was a rush, a clatter upon the stairs, the bang of a door, and the crisp rattle of running footfalls from the street. After all, Watson, said Holmes, reaching up his hand for his clay pipe, I am not retained by the police to supply their deficiencies. If Horner were in danger it would be another thing, but this fellow will not appear against him, and the case must collapse. I suppose that I am commuting a felony, but it is just possible that I am saving a soul. This fellow will not go wrong again. He is too terribly frightened. Send him to jail now, and you make him a jailbird for life. Besides, it is the season of forgiveness. Chance has put in our way a more singular and whimsical problem, and its solution is its own reward. If you will have the goodness to touch the bell, doctor, we will begin another investigation in which also a bird will be the chief feature. End of The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The wind was a norwester blowing squally off the sea, and cliffs and spouting breakers were the only things a lee. They heard the surfer roaring before the break of day, but was only with the peep of light we saw how ill we lay. We tumbled every hand on decked in stanter with a shout, and we gave her the main tops, and stood by to go about. All day we tacked and tacked between the south head and the north. All day we hauled the frozen sheets and got no further forth. All day as cold as charity in bitter pain and dread, for very life and nature we tacked from head to head. We gave the south the wider berth, for there the tide race roared. By every tack we made we brought the north head close aboard. So as we saw the cliffs and houses and the breakers running high, and the coast guard in his garden with his glass against his eye. The frost was on the village roofs as white as ocean foam. The good red fires were burning bright in every long shore home. The windows sparkled clear, and the chimneys volleied out, and I vowed we'd sniffed the victuals as the vessel went about. The bells upon the church were rung with a mighty jovial cheer, for it's just that I should tell you how, of all days in the year, this day of our adversity was blessed Christmas morn. And the house above the coast guards was the house where I was born. Oh well I saw the pleasant room, the pleasant faces there, my mother's silver spectacles, my father's silver hair. And well I saw the firelight like a flight of homely elves, go dancing round the china plates that stand upon the shelves. And well I knew the talk they had, the talk that was of me, of the shadow on the household, and the sun that went to sea. And oh the wicked fool I seemed in every kind of way, to be here and hauling frozen ropes on blessed Christmas day. They lit the high sea-light, and the dark began to fall. All hands to loose top-gallant sails, I heard the captain call. By the Lord she'll never stand it! Our first mate Jackson cried. It's the one way or the other, Mr. Jackson, he replied. She staggered to her bearings, but the sails were new and good, and the ship smelt up to windward just as though she understood. As the winter's day was ending, in the entry of the night, we cleared the weary headland and passed below the light. And they heaved the mighty breath, every soul on board but me, as they saw her nose again, pointing handsome out to sea. But all that I could think of, in the darkness and the cold, was just that I was leaving home, and my folks were growing old. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. The Christmas Fairy of Strasbourg. This is a Lubrivox recording. All Lubrivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Lubrivox.org. This reading by Lucy Burgoyne. The Christmas Fairy of Strasbourg by J. Sterling Coyne. A German Folktale. Once long ago, there lived near the ancient city of Strasbourg on the River Rhine, a young and handsome count whose name was Otto. As the years flew by, he remained unwed and never so much cast a glance at the fair maidens of the country round. For this reason, people began to call him Stoneheart. A chance that Count Otto, on one Christmas Eve, ordered that a great hunt should take place in the forest surrounding his castle. He and his guests and his many retainers rode forth, and the chase became more and more exciting. It led through thickets and over pathless tracks of forest until at length Count Otto found himself separated from his companions. He rode on by himself until he came to a spring of clear, bubbling water, known to the people around as the Fairy Whale. Here Count Otto dismounted. He bent over the spring and began to lathe his hands in the sparkling tide, but to his wonder he found that though the weather was cold and frosty, the water was warm and delightfully caressing. He felt a glow of joy pass through his veins, and as he plunged his hands deeper, he fancied that his right hand was grasped by another, soft and small, which gently slipped from his finger, the gold ring he always wore, and low when he drew out his hand the gold ring was gone. Full of wonder at this mysterious event the Count mounted his horse and returned to his castle, resolving in his mind that the very next day he would have the Fairy Whale emptied by his servants. He retired to his room and, throwing himself just as he was upon his couch, tried to sleep, but the strangeness of the adventure kept him restless and wakeful. Suddenly he heard the horse baying at the watchhounds in the courtyard and then the creaking of the drawbridge as though it were being lowered. Then came to his ear the patter of many small feet on the stone staircase, and next he heard indistinctly the sound of light footsteps in the chamber adjoining his own. Count Otto sprung from his couch and as he did so there sounded a strain of delicious music, and the door of his chamber was flung open. Hurrying into the next room he found himself in the midst of numberless fairy beings clad in gay and sparkling robes. They paid no heed to him but begun to dance and laugh and sing to the sound of mysterious music. In the centre of the apartment stood a splendid Christmas tree, the first ever seen in that country. Instead of toys and candles, they're hung on its lighted boughs, diamond stars, pearl necklaces, bracelets of gold ornamented with coloured jewels, a grits of rubies and sapphires, silk and belts embroidered with oriental pearls, and daggers mounted in gold and studded with the rarest gems. The whole tree swayed, sparkled and glittered in the radiance of its many lights. Count Otto stood speechless, gazing at all this wonder, when suddenly the fairy stopped dancing and fell back to make room for a lady of dazzling beauty who came slowly toward him. She wore on her raven black tresses a golden diadem set with jewels. Her hair flowed down upon a robe, a rosy satin and creamy velvet. She stretched out two small white hands to the count and addressed him in sweet alluring tones. Dear Count Otto, said she, I come to return your Christmas visit. I am Ernestine, the queen of the fairies. I bring you something you lost in the fairy well. And as she spoke she drew from her bosom a golden casket set with diamonds and placed it in his hands. He opened it eagerly and found within his lost gold ring. Carried away by the wonder of it all, and overcome by an irresistible impulse, the Count pressed the fairy Ernestine to his heart, while she, holding him by the hand, drew him into the magic mazes of the dance. The mysterious music floated through the room and the rest of that fairy company circled and whirled around the fairy queen and Count Otto, and then gradually dissolved into a mist of many colours, leaving the Count and his beautiful guest alone. Then the young man, forgetting all his former coldness towards the maidens at the country round about, fell on his knees before the fairy and besought her to become his bride. At last she consented on the condition that he should never speak the word death in her presence. The next day the wedding of Count Otto and Ernestine, queen of the fairies, was celebrated with great pomp and magnificence, and the two continued to live happily for many years. Now it happened on a time that the Count and his fairy wife were to hunt in the forest around the castle. The horses were settled and bridled, and standing at the door the company waited, and the Count paced the hall in great impatience. But still fairy Ernestine tarried long in her chamber. At length she appeared at the door of the hall, and the Count addressed her in anger. You have kept us waiting so long, he cried, that you would make a good messenger to send for death. Scarcely had he spoken the forbidden and fatal word, when the fairy, uttering a wild cry, vanished from his sight. In vain Count Otto, overwhelmed with grief and remorse, searched the castle and the fairy well. No trace could he find of his beautiful lost wife, but the imprint of her delicate hand set in the stone arc above the castle gate. Years passed by and the fairy Ernestine did not return. The Count continued to grieve. Every Christmas eve he set up a lighted tree in the room where he had first met the fairy, hoping in vain that she would return to him. Time passed and the Count died. The castle fell into ruins, but to this day may be seen above the massive gate, deeply sunken in the stone arc, the impress of a small and delicate hand. And such, said the good folk of Strasbourg, was the origin of the Christmas tree. End of The Christmas Fairy of Strasbourg by J. Stirling Coyne The Christmas Present by Rich Mole Crompton Red for LibraVox.org by Alan Davis Drake Mary Clay looked out of the window of the old farmhouse. The view was dreary enough, hill and field and woodland, bare, colorless, mist covered, with no other house in sight. She had never been a woman to crave for company. She liked sewing. She was passionately fond of reading. She was not fond of talking. Probably she could have been very happy at Cromb Farm alone. Before her marriage she had looked forward to the long evenings with her sewing and reading. She knew that she could be busy enough in the day, for the farmhouse was old and rambling, and she was to have no help in the housework. But she looked forward to quiet, peaceful, lamplet evenings, and only lately, after ten years of married life, had she reluctantly given up the hope of them. For peace was far enough from the old farm kitchen in the evening. It was driven away by John Clay's loud voice, raised always in orders or complaints, or in the stumbling, incoherent reading aloud of his newspaper. Mary was a silent woman herself, and a lover of silence. But John liked to hear the sound of his voice. He liked to shout at her, and to call for her from one room to another. Above all, he liked to hear his voice reading the paper out loud to her in the evening. She dreaded that, most of all. It had lately seemed to jar on her nerves till she felt she must scream aloud. His voice going on, raucous and sing-song, became unspeakably irritating. His Mary, summoning her from the household work to wherever he happened to be, his Get My Slippers, or Bring My Pipe, exasperated her almost to the point of rebellion, Get Your Own Slippers, had trembled on her lips, but had never passed them, for she was a woman who could not bear anger. Noise of any kind appalled her. She had borne it for ten years, so surely she could go on with it. Yet today, as she gazed hopelessly at the wintery countryside, she became acutely conscious that she could not go on with it. Something must happen. Yet what was there that could happen? It was Christmas next week. She smiled ironically at the thought. Then she noticed a figure of her husband coming up the road. He came in at the gate and round to the side door. Mary! She went slowly and answered to the summons. He held a letter in his hand. Met the postman, he said, from your aunt. She opened the letter and read it in silence. Both of them knew quite well what it contained. She wants us to come over for Christmas again, said Mary. He began to grumble. She's as deaf as a post. She's most as deaf as her mother was. She ought to know better than to ask folks over when she can't hear a word anyone says. Mary said nothing. He always grumbled about the invitation at first, but really he wanted to go. He liked to talk with her uncle. He liked the change of going down to the village for a few days and hearing all its gossip. He could quite well leave the farm to the hands for that time. The crude deafness was proverbial. Mary's great-grandmother had gone stone deaf at the age of 35. Her daughter had inherited the affliction and her granddaughter. The aunt with whom Mary had spent her childhood had inherited it also at exactly the same age. All right, he said at last, rudgingly as though in answer to her silence, we'd better go. Right and say we'll go. It was Christmas Eve. They were in the kitchen of her uncle's farmhouse. The deaf old woman sat in her chair by the fire knitting. Upon her sunken face there was a curious sardonic smile that was her habitual expression. The two men stood in the doorway. Mary sat at the table looking aimlessly out of the window. Outside the snow fell in blinding showers. Inside the fire gleamed on to the copper pots and pans, the crockery on the old oak dresser, the hams hanging from the ceiling. Suddenly James turned. Jane, he said. The deaf woman never stirred. Jane! Still there was no response upon the enigmatic old face by the fireside. Jane! She turned slightly towards the voice. Get them photos from upstairs to show John, he bawled. What about the boats? She said. Photos! roared her husband. Coats! she quavered. Mary looked from one to the other. The man made a gesture of irritation and went from the room. He came back with a pile of picture postcards in his hand. It's quicker to do a thing oneself, he grumbled. They're what my brother sent from Switzerland, where he's working now. It's a fine land to judge from the views of it. John took them from his hand. She gets worse, he said, nodding towards the old woman. She was sitting gazing at the fire. Her lips curved into the curious smile. Her husband shrugged his shoulders. Hi, it takes longer to tell her to do something than to do it myself. And deaf folks get a bit stupid too. Can't see what you mean. They're best let alone. The other man nodded and let his pipe. And then James opened the door. Ah, the snow stopped, he said. Shall we go to the end of the village and back? The other nodded and took his cap from behind the door. A gust of cold air filled the room as they went out. Mary took a paperback book from the table and came over to the fireplace. Mary! she started. It was not the sharp, quarrelous voice of the deaf old woman. It was more like the voice of the young aunt whom Mary remembered in childhood. The old woman was leaning forward, looking at her intently. Mary! a happy Christmas to ye! And as if in spite of herself, Mary answered in her ordinary low tones. The same to you, auntie. Thank ye, thank ye! Mary gasped. Aunt, can you hear me speaking like this? The old woman laughed silently, rocking to and fro in her chair, as if with pent-up merriment of years. Yes, I can hear ye, child. I've always heard ye. Mary clasped her hand eagerly. Then you're cured, aunt. I am cured as far as there was ever anything to be cured. You? I was never deaf, child, nor never will be, please God. I've took you all in fine. Mary stood up in bewilderment. You? never deaf? The old woman chuckled again. No, nor my mother, nor her mother, neither. Mary shrank back from her. I don't know what you mean, she said, unsteadily. Have you been pretending? I'll make you a Christmas present of it, dearie, said the old woman. My mother made me a Christmas present of it when I was your age, and her mother made her one. I haven't a last of my own to give it to, so I give it to you. It can come on quite sudden-like, if you want it, and then you can hear what you choose and not hear what you choose. Do you see? She leaned nearer and whispered, You're shut out of it all, of having to fetch and carry for them. Answer their daft questions and run their errands like a dog. I've watched you, my lass. You don't get much peace, do you? Mary was trembling. Oh, I don't know what to think, she said. I couldn't do it. Do as you like, said the old woman. Take it as a present, always. The crude deafness for a Christmas present. She chuckled. Use it or not, as you like. You'll find it main amusing, always. And into the old face there came again that curious smile, as if she had carried in her heart some jest fit for the gods on Olympus. The door opened suddenly with another gust of cold wind, and the two men came in again, covered with fine snow. I'll not do it, whispered Mary, trembling. We didn't get far. It's coming on again, remarked John, hanging up his cap. The old woman rose and began to lay the supper, silently and deftly, moving from cupboard to table without looking up. Mary sat by the fire, motionless and speechless, her eyes fixed on the glowing coals. Any signs of deafness in her? Whispered James, looking towards Mary. It come on my wife, just when she was that age. I, so I've heard. And he said loudly, Mary! A faint pink color came into her cheeks, but she did not show by look or movement that she had heard. James looked significantly at her husband. The old woman stood still for a minute with a cup in each hand, and smiled her slow, subtle smile. End of the Christmas present. This recording is in the public domain. A Christmas Star by Catherine Pyle. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. A Christmas Star by Catherine Pyle. Come now, my little dear stars, said Mother Moon, and I will tell you the Christmas story. Every morning, for a week before Christmas, Mother Moon used to call all the little stars around her and tell them a story. It was always the same story, but the stars never wearied of it. It was the story of the Christmas star, the star of Bethlehem. When Mother Moon had finished the story, the little stars always said, And this star is shining still, isn't it, Mother Moon, even if we can't see it? And Mother Moon would answer, Yes, my dears, only now it shines for men's hearts, instead of their eyes. Then the stars would bid the Mother Moon good night, and put on their little blue night-caps, and go to bed in the sky-chamber. For the star's bedtime is when people down on earth are beginning to waken and see that it is morning. But that particular morning, when the little stars said good night and went quietly away, one golden star still lingered beside Mother Moon. What is the matter, my little star? asked the Mother Moon. Why don't you go with your little sisters? Oh, Mother Moon! said the golden star. I am so sad. I wish I could shine for someone's heart, like that star of wonder that you tell us about. Why, aren't you happy up here in this guy-country? asked Mother Moon. Yes, I have been very happy, said the star. But tonight it seems, just as if I must find some heart to shine for. Then if that is so, said Mother Moon, the time has come, my little star, for you to go through the wonder-entry. The wonder-entry? What is that? asked the star. But the Mother Moon made no answer. Rising she took the little star by the hand, and led it to a door that it had never seen before. The Mother Moon opened the door, and there was a long, dark entry. At the far end was shining a little speck of light. What is this? asked the star. It is the wonder-entry, and it is through this that you must go to find the heart where you belong, said the Mother Moon. Then the little star was afraid. It longed to go through the entry, as it had never longed for anything before, and yet it was afraid and clung to the Mother Moon. But very gently, almost sadly, the Mother Moon drew her hand away. Go, my child, she said. Then wondering and trembling, the little star stepped into the wonder-entry, and the door of the sky-house closed behind it. The next thing the star knew, it was hanging in a toy shop, with a whole row of other stars, blue and red and silver. It itself was gold. The shop smelled of evergreen, and was full of Christmas shoppers, men and women and children, but of all of them the star looked at no one but a little boy standing in front of the counter. For as soon as the star saw the child, it knew that he was the one to whom it belonged. The little boy was standing beside a sweet-faced woman in a long black veil, and he was not looking at anything in particular. The star shook and trembled on the string that held it, because it was afraid lest the child should not see it, or last if he did he would not know it as his star. The lady had a number of toys on the counter before her, and she was saying, Now, I think we have presents for every one. There's the doll for Lou, and the game for Ned, and the music box for May, and then the rocking-horse and the sled. Suddenly the little boy caught her by the arm. Oh, mother! he said. He had seen the star. Well, what is it, darling? asked the lady. Oh, mother! just see that star up there. Oh, I wish. I do wish I had it. Oh, my dear, we have so many things for the Christmas tree, said the mother. Yes, I know, but I do want the star, said the child. Very well, said the mother smiling, and we'll take that too. So the star was taken down from the place where it hung, and wrapped up in a piece of paper, and all the while it thrilled with joy, for now it belonged to the little boy. It was not until the afternoon before Christmas, when the tree was being decorated, that the golden star was unwrapped, and taken out from the paper. Here is something else, said the sweet-faced lady. We must hang this on the tree. Paul took such a fancy to it that I had to get it for him. He will never be satisfied unless we hang it on, too. Oh, yes, said someone else who was helping to decorate the tree. We will hang it here on the very top. So the little star hung on the highest branch of the Christmas tree. That evening all the candles were lighted on the Christmas tree, and there were so many that they fairly dazzled the eyes, and the golden silver balls, the fairies, and the glass fruits shone and twinkled in the light, and high above them all shone the golden star. At seven o'clock a bell was rung, and then the folding doors of the room where the Christmas tree stood were thrown open, and a crowd of children came trooping in. They laughed and shouted and pointed, and all talked together, and after a while there was music and presents were taken from the tree and given to the children. How different it was from the great wide, still, sky-house! But the star had never been so happy in all its life, for the little boy was there. He stood apart from the other children, looking up at the star, with his hands clasped behind him, and he did not seem to care for the toys and the games. At last it was all over. The lights were put out, the children went home, and the house grew still. Then the ornaments on the tree began to talk among themselves. So that is all over, said the silver ball. It was very gay this evening, the gayest Christmas I remember. Yes, said a bunch of grapes, the best of it is over. Of course people will come to look at us for several days yet, but it won't be like this evening. And then, I suppose, we'll be laid away for another year, said a paper fairy. Really, it seems hardly worth the while. Such a few days of the year, and then to be shut up in the dark box again, I almost wish I were a paper doll. The bunch of grapes was wrong in saying that people would come to look at the Christmas tree the next few days, for it stood neglected in the library and nobody came near it. Everybody in the house went about very quietly, with anxious faces, for the little boy was ill. At last one evening a woman came into the room with a servant. The woman wore the cap and apron of a nurse. That is it, she said, pointing to the golden star. The servant climbed up on some steps and took down the star and put it in the nurse's hand, and she carried it out into the hall and upstairs to the room with the little boy lay. The sweet-faced lady was sitting by the bed, and as the nurse came in she held out her hand for the star. Is this what you wanted, my darling? she asked, bending over the little boy. The child nodded and held out his hands for the star, and as he clasped it a wonderful, shining smile came over his face. The next morning the little boy's room was very still and dark. The golden piece of paper that had been the star lay on a table beside the bed, its five points very sharp and bright. But it was not the real star any more than a person's body is the real person. The real star was living and shining now in the little boy's heart, and it had gone out with him into a new and more beautiful sky country than it had ever known before. The sky country where the little child angels live, each one carrying in its heart its own particular star. And of A Christmas Star by Catherine Pyle Christmas Storms and Sunshine This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. This reading by Lucy Burgoyne Christmas Storms and Sunshine by Elizabeth Gaskell In the town of No Matter Where there circulated two local newspapers No Matter When Now the flying post was long established and respectable. Aaliyah's bigoted and Tory, the examiner, was spirited and intelligent. Aaliyah's newfangled and democratic. Every week these newspapers contained articles abusing each other, as cross and peppery as articles could be, and evidently the production of irritated minds, although they seem to have one stereotyped commencement. Though the article appearing in last week's post, or examiner, is below contempt, yet we have been induced etc etc, and every Saturday the radical shopkeepers shook hands together and agreed that the post was done for by the slashing clever examiner, while the more dignified Tories begun by regretting that Johnson should think that low paper only read by a few of the vulgar, worth wasting his wit upon, however the examiner was at its last gasp. It was not though. It lived and flourished, at least paid its way, as one of the heroes of my story could tell. He was chief compositor, or whatever title may be given to the head man of the mechanical part of the newspaper. He hardly confined himself to that department. Once or twice, unknown to the editor, when the manuscript had fallen short, he had filled up the vacant space by compositions of his own, announcements of the forthcoming crop of green peas in December, a grey thrush having been seen, or a white hair, or such interesting phenomena invented for the occasion. I must confess, but what of that? His wife always knew when to expect a little specimen of her husband's literary talent by peculiar cop, which served as prelude, and judging from this encouraging sign and the high-pitched and emphatic voice in which he read them, she was inclined to think that an ode to an early rosebud in the corner devoted to original poetry, and a letter in the correspondence department, signed Pro Bono Publico, were her husband's writing, and to hold up her head accordingly. I could never find out what it was that occasioned the Hodgson's to lodge in the same house as the Jenkins's. Jenkins held the same office in the Tory paper as Hodgson did in the examiner, and as I said before, I leave you to give it a name. But Jenkins had a proper sense of his position, and a proper reverence for all his authority, from the king down to the editor, and the sub-editor. He would as soon have thought of borrowing the king's crown for a nightcap, or the king's skeptic for a walking stick, as he would have thought of filling up any space corner with any production of his own, and I think it would have even added to his contempt of Hodgson's, if that were possible. Had he known of the productions of his brain, as the letter fondly alluded to the paragraphs he inserted when speaking to his wife, Jenkins had his wife too. Wives were wanting to finish the completeness of the quarrel, which existed one memorable Christmas week, some dozen years ago, between the two neighbours, the two compositors. And with wives it was a very pretty, a very complete quarrel, to make the opposing parties still more equal, still more well matched, if the Hodgson's had a baby, such a baby, a poor, puny little thing. Mrs Jenkins had a cat, such a cat, a great nasty, meowing Tomcat, that was always stealing the milk put by for little angel supper. And now, having matched Greek with Greek, I must proceed to the tug-of-war. It was the day before Christmas, such a cold east wind, such an inky sky, such a blue-black look in people's faces, as they were driven out more than usual to complete their purchases for the next day's festival. Before leaving home that morning, Jenkins had given some money to his wife to buy the next day's dinner. My dear, I wish for turkey and sausages. It may be a weakness, but I own, I am partial to sausages. My deceased mother was. Such toasts are hereditary. As to sweets, whether plum pudding or minced pies, I leave such considerations to you. I only beg you not to mind expense. Christmas comes but once a year. And again he had called out from the bottom of the first flight of stairs, just close to the Hodgson's door. Such ostentatiousness, as Mrs Hodgson's observed. You will not forget the sausages, my dear. I should have liked to have had something above common. Mary said Hodgson's, as they too made their plans for the next day. But I think roast beef must do for us. You see, love, we're a family. Only one gem. I don't want more than roast beef though. I'm sure. Before I went to service, mother and me would have thought roast beef a very fine dinner. Well, let's settle it then. Roast beef and a plum pudding. And now, goodbye. Mind and take care of little Tom. I thought he was a big horse this morning. And off he went to his work. Now it was a good while since Mrs Jenkins and Mrs Hodgson had spoken to each other. Although they were quite as much in possession of the knowledge of events and opinions as though they did. Mary knew that Mrs Jenkins despised her for not having a real lace cap which Mrs Jenkins had, and for having been a servant which Mrs Jenkins had not. And the little occasional pinchings which the Hodgson's were obliged to resort to, to make both ends meet, would have been very patiently endured by Mary if she had not winced under Mrs Jenkins' knowledge of such economy. But she had her revenge. She had a child, and Mrs Jenkins had none. She'll have had a child, even such a puny baby as a little Tom. Mrs Jenkins would have worn commoness caps and clean grates and drudged her fingers to the bone. The great unspoken disappointment of her life soured her temper and turned her thoughts inward and made her morbid and selfish. Hang that cat. He's been stealing again. He's gnawed the cold mutton in his nasty mouth till it's not fit set before a Christian. And I've nothing else for Jen's dinner. But I'll give it him now. I've caught him. That I will. So saying Mrs Hodgson's caught up her husband Sunday came, and despite Pussy's cries and scratches, she gave him such a heating as she hoped might cure him of his thiebish propensities. When, lo and behold, Mrs Jenkins stood at the door with the face a bitter breath. Aren't you ashamed of yourself, ma'am, to abuse a poor dumb animal, ma'am, as knows no better than to take food when he sees it, ma'am? He only follows the nature which God has given him, ma'am, and it's a pity your nature, ma'am, which I've heard, is of the stingy saving species, does not make you shut your cupboard door a little closer. There is such a thing as law for brute animals. I'll ask Mr Jenkins, but I don't think them radicals has done away with that law yet, for all their reformed bill, ma'am. My poor precious love of a tommy, is he hurt, and is his leg broke for taking a mouthful of scraps, as most people would have given away to a beggar, if he'd take him? Wound up, Mrs Jenkins, casting a contemptuous look on the remnant of a scrap end of mutton. Mary felt very angry and very guilty, for she really pitted the poor, limping animal as he crept up to his mistress, and there lay down to bemoan himself she wished she had not beaten him so hard, for it certainly was her own careless way of never shutting the cupboard door that had tempted him to his fault. But the sneer of her little bit of mutton turned her penitence to fresh breath, and she shut the door in Mrs Jenkins' face, as she stood caressing her cat in the lobby with such a bang that awakened little Tom, and he began to cry. Everything was to go wrong with Mary today. Now, baby was awake. Who was to take her husband's dinner to the office? She took the child in her arms, and tried to hush him off to sleep again, and as she sung, she cried. She could hardly tell why. A sort of reaction from her violent, angry feelings. She wished she had never beaten the poor cat. She wondered if his leg was really broken. What would her mother say if she knew how cross and cruel her little Mary was getting, if she could live to beat her child in one of her angry fits? It was of no use lullabying while she sobbed so. It must be given up, and she must just carry her baby in her arms, and take him with her to the office, for it was long past dinner time. So she peered the mutton carefully, although by so doing, she reduced the meat to an infinitesimal quantity, and taking the baked potatoes out of the oven, she popped them piping hot into her basket with the etc. of plate, butter, salt, and knife and fork. It was indeed a bitter wind. She bent against it as she ran, and the flakes of snow were sharp and cutting as ice. Baby cried all the way, though she cuddled him up in her shawl. Then her husband had made his appetite up for a potato pie, and literally, man as he was, his body got so much the better of his mind that he looked rather black at the cold mutton. Mary had no appetite for her own dinner when she arrived at home again. So, after she had tried to feed the baby, and he had fretfully refused to take his bread and milk, she laid him down as usual on his quilt, surrounded by playthings, while she sided away and chopped soot for the next day's pudding. Early in the afternoon a parcel came, done up first in brown paper, then in such a white grass bleached, sweet smelling towel, and a note from her dear, dear mother, in which quaint writing she endeavored to tell her daughter that she was not forgotten at Christmas time. But that learning that Farmer Burton was killing his pig, she had made interest for some of his famous pork, out of which she had manufactured some sausages, and flavoured them just as Mary used to like when she lived at home. Dear, dear mother, said Mary to herself, there never was anyone like her for remembering other folk. What rare sausages she used to make. Home things have a smack with them, no bought things can ever have. Set them up with their sausages. I have a notion, if Mrs Jenkins had ever tasted mothers, she have no fancy for them town-made things, they need took in just now. And so she went on thinking about home, till the smiles and the dimples came out again at the remembrance of that pretty cottage, which would look green even now in the depth of winter. With its pyroganthus and its holly bushes, and the great Portugal laurel that was her mother's pride, and the back path through the orchard to Farmer Burton's, how well she remembered it. The bushels of unripe apples she had picked up there, and distributed among his pigs, till he had scolded her for giving them so much green trash. She was interrupted, her baby, I call him a baby, because his father and mother did, and because he was so little of his age, that I rather think he was eighteen months old. Had fallen asleep some time before among his playthings, an uneasy, restless sleep, but of which Mary had been thankful, as his morning snap had been too short, and as she was so busy. But now he began to make such a strange crowing noise, just like a chair drawn heavily and gratingly along a kitchen floor. His eyes were open, but expressive of nothing but pain. Mother's darling, said Mary, in terror, lifting him up, baby, try not to make that noise. Hush, hush, darling, what hurts him? But the noise came worse and worse. Fanny, Fanny, Mary called in mortal fright, for her baby was almost black, with his grasping breath. And she had no one to ask for aid or sympathy, but her landlady's daughter, a little girl of twelve or thirteen, who attended to the house in her mother's absence, as daily cook in gentlemen's families. Fanny was more especially considered the attendant of the upstairs lodgers, who paid for the use of the kitchen, for Jenkins could not abide the smell of meat cooking. But just now she was fortunately sitting at her afternoon's work of darning stockings, and hearing Mrs Hodgson's cry of terror, she ran to her sitting room, and understood the case at a glance. He's got crew, oh Mrs Hodgson, he'll die as sure as fate. Little brother had it, and he died in no time. The doctor said he could do nothing for him, it had gone too far. He said if we put him in a warm bath at first, it might have saved him. But, bless you, he was never half as bad as your baby. Unconsciously, there mingled in her statement, some of a child's love of producing an effect, but the increasing danger was clear enough. Oh, my baby, my baby, oh love, love, don't look so ill, I cannot bear it. And my fire so low, there I was thinking of home, and picking currants, and never minding the fire. Oh, Fanny, what is the fire like in the kitchen? Speak. Mother told me to screw it up, and throw some slack on it as soon as Mrs Jenkins had done with it. And so I did. It's very low and black. But oh, Mrs Hodgson, let me run for the doctor. I cannot bear to hear him. It's so like little brother. Through her screaming tears, Mary motioned her to go, and trembling, sinking, sick at heart, she laid her boy in his cradle, and ran to fill her kettle. Mrs Jenkins, having cooked her husband's snug little dinner, to which he came home, having told him her story of Pussy's beating, at which he was justly and dignifiedly indignant, saying it was all of a peace with that abusive examiner, having received the sausages and turkey and minced pies, which her husband had ordered, and cleaned up the room, and prepared everything for tea, and coaxed and duly bemoaned her cat, who had pretty nearly forgotten his beating, but very much enjoyed the petting. Having done all these, and many other things, Mrs Jenkins sat down to get up the real life cap. Every thread was pulled out separately, and carefully stretched. When, what was that, outside in the street, a chorus of piping children's voices sung, the old carol she had heard a hundred times in the days of her youth. As Joseph was awaking, he heard an angel sing, This night shall be born our heavenly king. He neither shall be born in housing nor in hall, nor in the place of paradise, but in an ox's stall. He neither shall be clothed in purple, nor in pool, but all in fair linen, as were babies all. He neither shall be rocked in silver, nor in gold, but in a wooden cradle that rocks on the mould, etc. She got up and went to the window. There below stood the group of grey-black little figures, relieved against the snow, which now enveloped everything. For old's sake's sake, as she phrased it, she counted out half a penny apiece for the singers, out of the copper bag, and threw them down below. The room had become chilly while she had been counting out and throwing down her money, so she stirred her already glowing fire, and sat down right before it, but not to stretch her lace. Like Mary Hodgson, she began to think over long past days, on softening remembrances of the dead and gone, on words long forgotten, on holy stories heard at her mother's knee. I cannot think what come over me tonight, said she, half aloud, recovering herself by the sound of their own voice, from her train of thought. My head goes wandering on them old times. I'm sure more texts have come into my head with thinking on my mother within this last half hour than I've thought on for years and years. I hope I'm not going to die. Folks say, thinking too much on the bed, the tokens were going to join them. I should be loved to go just yet, such a fine turkey as we've got for dinner tomorrow too. Knock, knock, knock at the door, as fast as knuckles could go, and then, as if the comma could not wait, the door was opened, and Mary Hodgson stood there as white as death. Mrs Jenkins, oh, your kettle is boiling, thank God, let me have the water for my baby, for the love of God. He's got croop and he's dying. Mrs Jenkins turned on her chair with a wooden, inflexible look on her face. That, between ourselves, her husband knew and dreaded for all his pompous dignity. I'm sorry I can't oblige you, ma'am. My kettle is wanted for my husband's tea. Don't be afraid. Tommy, Mrs Hodgson, won't venture to intrude herself where she's not desired. You'd better send for the doctor, ma'am. Instead of wasting your time in ringing your hands, ma'am, my kettle is engaged. Mary clasped her hands together with passionate force, but spoke no word of intruding to that wooden face. That sharp, determined voice. But, as she turned away, she prayed for strength to bear the coming trial, and strength to forgive Mrs Jenkins. Mrs Jenkins watched her go away meekly, as one who has no hope, and then she turned upon herself as sharply as she ever did on anyone else. What a brute I am. Lord, forgive me. What's my husband's tea to a baby's life? In croop too, where time is everything. You craved old vikes anew. Anyone may know you never had a child. She was downstairs, kettle in hand, before she'd finished herself up raiding, and when, in Mrs Hodgson's room, she rejected all thanks. Mary had not the voice for many words. Saying stiffly, I'd do it for the poor baby's sake, ma'am, hoping he may live to have mercy to poor dumb beasts, if he does, forget to lock his cupboards. But she did everything, and more than Mary, with her young inexperience, could have thought of. She prepared the warm bath, and tried it with her husband's own thermometer. Mr Jenkins was as punctual as crock roof, in noting down the temperature of every day. She let his mother's place her baby in the tub, still preserving the same rigid, a front of aspect, and then she went upstairs without a word. Mary longed to ask her to stay, but dared not, though, when she left the room, the tears chased each other down her cheeks, faster than ever. Poor young mother, how she counted the minutes till the doctor should come. But before he came, down again stalked Mrs Jenkins with something in her hand. I've seen many of those crook fits, which I take it, you've not, ma'am. Mr Plasters is very sovereign, put on the throat. I've been up and made one, ma'am, and, by your leave, I'll put it on the poor little fellow. Mary could not speak, but she sighed her grateful ascent. It began to smart, while they still kept silence, and he looked up to his mother as if seeking courage from her looks to bear the stinging pain. But she was softly crying, to see him suffer, and her want of courage reacted upon him, and he began to sob aloud. Instantly, Mrs Jenkins' apron was up, hiding her face. Pete, though baby, said she, as merrily as she could. His little face brightened, and his mother, having once got the cue. The two women kept the little fellow amused, until his plaster had taken effect. He's better. Oh, Mrs Jenkins, look at his eyes. How different, and he breathes quite softly. As Mary spoke thus, the doctor entered. He examined his patient. Baby was really better. It has been a sharp attack, but the remedies you have applied have been worth all the paracopeia, and hour later. I shall send a powder, etc., etc. Mrs Jenkins stayed to hear this opinion, and her heart wonderfully, more easy, was going to leave the room. When Mary seized her hand and kissed it, she could not speak her gratitude. Mrs Jenkins looked affronted and awkward, and as if she must go upstairs and wash her hand directly. But, in spite of these sour looks, she came softly down an hour or so afterwards to see how baby was. The little gentleman slept well after the fright he had given his friends, and on Christmas morning, when Mary awoke and looked at the sweet little pale face lying on her arm, she could hardly realise the danger he had been in. When she came down, later than usual, she found the household in a commotion. What do you think had happened? Why? Pussy had been a traitor to his best friend, and eaten up some of Mrs Jenkins's own special sausages, and gnawed and tumbled the rest so that they were not fit to be eaten. There were no bounds to that cat's appetite. He would have eaten his own father if he had been tender enough. And now Mrs Jenkins stormed and cried, hang the cat. Christmas day two, and all the shops shut. What was turkey without sausages? Gruffly asked Mr Jenkins. Oh, Jim, whispered Mary. Harken, what a piece of work he's making about sausages. I should like to take Mrs Jenkins up some of mothers. They're twice as good as bought sausages. I see no objection, my dear. Sausages do not involve intimacies, else his politics are what I can no ways respect. But, oh Jim, if you had seen her last night about baby, I'm sure she may scold me forever, and I'll not answer. I'd even make her cat welcome to the sausages. The tears gathered to Mary's eyes as she kissed her boy. Better take them upstairs, my dear, and give them to the cat's mistress. And Jim chuckled at his saying. Mary put them on a plate, but still she lauded. What must I say, Jim? I never know. Say, I hope you'll accept these sausages, as my mother. No, that's not grammar. Say what comes uppermost, Mary. It will be sure to be right. So Mary carried them upstairs, and knocked at the door. And when told to come in, she looked very red. But went up to Mrs Jenkins saying, Please take these. Mother made them. And was away before an answer could be given. Just as Hodgson was ready to go to church, Mrs Jenkins came downstairs and called Fanny. In a minute the latter entered the Hodgson's room and delivered Mr and Mrs Jenkins compliments, and they would be particular glad if Mr and Mrs Hodgson would eat their dinner with them. And carry baby upstairs in a shawl, be sure, added Mrs Jenkins' voice in the passage close to the door, whether she had followed her messenger. There was no discussing the matter, with the certainty of every word being overheard. Mary looked anxiously at her husband. She he's saying he did not approve of Mr Jenkins' politics. Do you think it would do the baby? asked he. Oh yes, answered she eagerly. I would wrap him up so warm. And I've got our room up to sixty-five already, for all it's so frosty, added the voice outside. Now how do you think they settled the matter? The very best way in the world. Mr and Mrs Jenkins came down into Hodgson's room and dined there. Turkey at the top, roast beef at the bottom, sausages at one side, potatoes at the other, second course, plum pudding at the top, and minced pies at the bottom. And after dinner Mrs Jenkins would have baby on her knee, and he seemed quite to take to her. She declared he was admiring the real lace on her cap. But Mary thought, though she did not say so, that he was pleased by her kind looks and coaxing words. Then he was wrapped up and carried carefully upstairs to tea in Mrs Jenkins' room. And after tea Mrs Jenkins and Mary and her husband found out each other's mutual liking for music, and sat singing old glies and catches, till I don't know what o'clock, without one word of politics or newspapers. Before they parted Mary had coaxed pussy onto her knee. The Mrs Jenkins would not part with baby who was sleeping on her lap. When you're busy bring him to me. Do now, it will be a real favour. I know you must have a deal to do with another coming. Let him come up to me. I'll take the greatest cares of him. Pretty darling, how sweet he looks when he's asleep. When the couples were once more alone, the husbands unburdened their minds to their wives. Mr Jenkins said to his, Do you know Burgess tried to make me believe Hodgson was such a fool as to put paragraphs into the examiner now and then. But I see he knows his place and has got too much sense to do any such thing. Hodgson said, Mary love I almost fancy from Jenkins' way of speaking so much civiler than I expected. He guessed I wrote that pro bono and the rosebud at any rate. I've no objection to your naming it. If the subject should come uppermost I should like him to know I'm a literary man. Well I've ended my tale. I hope you don't think it too long. But before I go just let me say one thing. If any of you have any quarrels or misunderstandings or coolness or cold shoulders or shynesses or tiffs or myths or huffs with anyone else just make friends before Christmas you will be so much merrier if you do. I ask it of you for the sake of that old angelic song heard so many years ago by the shepherds keeping watch by night on Bethlehem Heights. End of Christmas Storms and Sunshine by Elizabeth Gaskell