 THE STAR CHILD by Oscar Wilde. Once upon a time two poor woodcutters were making their way home through a great pine forest. It was winter and a night of bitter cold. The snow lay thick upon the ground and upon the branches of the trees. The frost kept snapping the little twigs on either side of them as they passed, and when they came to the mountain torrent she was hanging motionless in air, for the ice-king had kissed her. So cold was it that even the animals and the birds did not know what to make of it. Ugh! snarled the wolf as he limped through the brushwood with his tail between his legs. This is perfectly monstrous weather. Why doesn't the government look into it? Weep, weep, weep, tittered the green linets. The old earth is dead, and they have laid her out in her white shroud. The earth is going to be married, and this is her bridal dress, whispered the turtle doves to each other. Their little pink feet were quite frost-bitten, but they felt that it was their duty to take a romantic view of the situation. Nonsense, growled the wolf. I tell you that it is all the fault of the government, and if you don't believe me, I shall eat you. The wolf had a thoroughly practical mind and was never at a loss for a good argument. Well, for my part, said the woodpecker who was a born philosopher. I don't care an atomic theory for explanations. If a thing is so, it is so, and at present it is terribly cold. Terribly cold it certainly was. The little squirrels who lived inside a tall fir tree kept rubbing each other's noses to keep themselves warm, and the rabbits curled themselves up in their holes and did not venture even to look out of doors. The only people who seemed to enjoy it were the great horned owls. Their feathers were quite stiff with rhyme, but they did not mind, and they rolled their large yellow eyes and called out to each other across the forest. To it! To who! To it! To who! What delightful weather we're having! On and on went the two woodcutters, blowing lustily upon their fingers and stamping with their huge iron-shod boots upon the caked snow. Once they sank into a deep drift and came out as white as millers are when the stones are grinding. And once they slipped on the hard smooth ice where the marshwooder was frozen and their faggots fell out of their bundles and they had to pick them up and bind them together again. And once they thought that they had lost their way, and a great terror seized on them, for they knew the snow is cruel to those who sleep in her arms. But they put their trust in the good Saint Martin, who watches over all travelers, and retraced their steps, and went warily, and at last they reached the outskirts of the forest and saw far down the valley beneath them the lights of the village in which they dwelt. So overjoyed were they at their deliverance that they laughed aloud, and the earth seemed to them like a flower of silver and the moon like a flower of gold. Yet after that they had laughed they became sad, for they remembered their poverty, and one of them said to the other, Why did we make Mary seeing that life is for the rich and not for such as we are? Better that we had died of cold in the forest, or that some wild beast had fallen upon us and slain us. Truly, answered his companion, Much is given to some, and little is given to others. Injustice has parceled out the world, nor is there equal division of ought save of sorrow. But as they were bewailing their misery to each other this strange thing happened. There fell from heaven a very bright and beautiful star. It slipped down the side of the sky, passing by the other stars in its course, and as they watched it, wondering, it seemed to them to sink behind a clump of willow trees that stood hard by a little sheepfold no more than a stone's throw away. Why, there is a crook of gold for whoever finds it, they cried, and they set to and ran, so eager were they for the gold. And one of them ran faster than his mate and outstripped him and forced his way through the willows and came out on the other side and lo, there was indeed a thing of gold lying on the white snow. So he hastened towards it, and stooping down placed his hands upon it, and it was a cloak of golden tissue, curiously wrought with stars and wrapped in many folds. And he cried out to his comrade that he had found the treasure that had fallen from the sky, and when his comrade had come up they sat them down in the snow and loosened the folds of the cloak that they might divide the pieces of gold. But alas, no gold was in it, nor silver, nor indeed treasure of any kind but only a little child who was asleep. And one of them said to the other, This is a bitter ending to our hope, nor have we any good fortune for what doth the child profit to a man. Let us leave it here and go our way, seeing that we are poor men and have children of our own whose bread we may not give to another. But his companion answered him, Nay, but it were an evil thing to leave the child to perish here in the snow, and though I am as poor as thou art, and have many mouths to feed and but little in the pot, yet will I bring it home with me, and my wife shall have care of it. So very tenderly he took up the child and wrapped the cloak around it to shield it from the harsh cold, and made his way down the hill to the village, his comrade marveling much at his foolishness and softness of heart. And when they came to the village his comrade said to him, Doth hast the child, therefore give me the cloak, for it is meat that we should share. But he answered him, Nay, for the cloak is neither mine nor thine, but the child's only. And he bade him God's speed, and went to his own house, and knocked. And when his wife opened the door and saw that her husband had returned safe to her, she put her arms round his neck and kissed him, and took from his back the bundle of faggots, and brushed the snow off his boots and bade him come in. But he said to her, I have found something in the forest, and I have brought it to thee to have care of it. And he stirred not from the threshold. What is it, she cried, show it to me, for the house is bare, and we have need of many things. And he drew the cloak back and showed her the sleeping child. Alack, good men, she murmured, have we not children of our own that thou must need bring us changeling to sit by the hearth? And who knows if it will not bring us bad fortune, and how shall we tend it? And she was wroth against him. But it is a star-child, he answered, and he told her the strange manner of the finding of it. But she would not be appeased, but mocked at him, and spoke angrily and cried, Our children lack bread, and shall we feed the child of another? Who is there to careth for us, and who giveth us food? Nay, but God careth for the sparrows even, and feedeth them, he answered. Do not the sparrows die of hunger in the winter, she asked? And is it not winter now? And the man answered nothing, but stirred not from the threshold. And a bitter wind from the forest came in through the open door, and made her tremble, and she shivered, and said to him, Will thou not close the door? There cometh a bitter wind into the house, and I am cold. Into a house where a heart is hard, cometh there not always a bitter wind, he asked? And the woman answered him nothing but crept closer to the fire. And after a time she turned round and looked at him, and her eyes were full of tears. And he came in swiftly, and placed the child in her arms, and she kissed it, and laid it in a little bed, where the youngest of their own children was lying. And on the morrow the woodcutter took the curious cloak of gold, and placed it in a great chest, and a chain of amber that was round the child's neck his wife took, and set it in the chest also. So the star-child was brought up with the children of the woodcutter, and sat at the same board with them, and was their playmate. And every year he became more beautiful to look at, so that all those who dwelt in the village were filled with wonder, for while they were swarthy and black-haired, he was white and delicate as sawn ivory. And his curls were like the rings of the daffodil. His lips also were like the petals of a red flower, and his eyes were like violets by a river of pure water. And his body, like the narcissus of a field where the mower comes not. Yet did his beauty work him evil? For he grew proud, and cruel, and selfish. The children of the woodcutter and the other children of the village he despised, saying that they were of mean parentage, while he was noble, being sprang from a star. And he made himself master over them, and called them his servants. No pity had he for the poor, or for those who were blind, or maimed, or in any way afflicted, but would cast stones at them, and drive them forth onto the highway, and bid them beg their bread elsewhere, so that none save the outlaws came twice to that village to ask for alms. Indeed, he was as one enamored of beauty as would mock at the weakly and ill-favored, and make jest of them and himself he loved, and in summer, when the winds were still, he would lie by the well in the priest's orchard, and look down at the marvel of his own face, and laugh for the pleasure he had in his fairness. Often did the woodcutter and his wife chide him, and say, We did not deal with thee as thou dealest with those who are left desolate, and have none to succor them. For art thou so cruel to all who need pity. Often did the old priest send for him, and seek to teach him the love of living things, saying to him, The fly is thy brother. Do it no harm. The wild birds that roam through the forest have their freedom. Snare them not for thy pleasure. God made the blind worm and the mole, and each has its place. Who art thou to bring pain into God's world? Even the cattle of the field praise him. But the star-child he did not their words, but would frown and flout, and go back to his companions and lead them. And his companions followed him, for he was fair and fleet of foot, and could dance and pipe and make music. And wherever the star-child led them they followed, and whatever the star-child bade them do, that they did. And when he pierced with a sharp reed the dim eyes of the mole, they laughed. And when he cast stones at the leper, they laughed also. And in all things he ruled them, and they became heart of heart, even as he was. Now there passed one day through the village a poor beggar woman. Her garments were torn and ragged, and her feet were bleeding from the rough road on which she had traveled, and she was in very evil plight. And being weary she sat her down under a chestnut tree to rest. But when the star-child saw her he said to his companions, See! there siteth a foul beggar woman under that fair and green leaf-tree. Come! let us drive her hence, for she is ugly and ill-favored. So he came near and threw stones at her and mocked her, and she looked at him with terror in her eyes. Nor did she move her gaze from him. And when the wood-cutter who was cleaving logs in a haggard hard by, saw what the star-child was doing, he ran up and rebuked him and said to him, Surely thou art heart of heart and noest not mercy. For what evil has this poor woman done to thee that thou shouldst treat her in this wise? And the star-child grew red with anger and stamped his foot upon the ground and said, Who art thou to question me what I do? I am no son of thine to do thy bidding. Thou speakest truly, answered the wood-cutter, yet did I show the pity when I found thee in the forest. And when the woman heard these words she gave a loud cry and fell into a swoon, and the wood-cutter carried her to his own house, and his wife had care of her. And when she rose up from the swoon into which she had fallen, they said, Meat and drink before her and bade her have comfort. But she would neither eat nor drink, but said to the wood-cutter, Didst thou not say that the child was found in the forest, and was it not ten years from this day? And the wood-cutter answered, Yea, it was in the forest that I found him, and it is ten years from this day. And what signs didst thou find with him, she cried? Bear he not upon his neck a chain of amber? Was not round him a cloak of gold tissue broidered with stars? Truly, answered the wood-cutter, it was even as thou sayest, and he took the cloak and the amber chain from the chest where they lay, and showed them to her. And when she saw them she wept for joy, and said, He is my little son whom I lost in the forest, I pray thee send for him quickly, for in search of him I have wandered over the whole world. So the wood-cutter and his wife went out and called to the star-child, and said to him, Go into the house, and there shall thou find thy mother, who is waiting for thee. So he ran in, filled with wonder and great gladness. But when he saw her, who was waiting there, he left scornfully and said, Why, where is my mother? For I see none here but this vile beggar woman. And the woman answered him, I am thy mother. Thou art mad to say so, cried the star-child angrily, I am no son of thine, for thou art a beggar and ugly and in rags. Therefore get thee hence, and let me see thy foul face no more. Nay, but thou art indeed my little son whom I bear in the forest, she cried, and she fell on her knees and held out her arms to him. The robbers stole thee from me, and left thee to die, she murmured. But I recognized thee when I saw thee, and the signs also have I recognized, the cloak of golden tissue and the amber chain. Therefore I pray thee, come with me, for over the whole world have I wandered in search of thee. Come with me, my son, for I have need of thy love. But the star-child stirred not from his place, but shut the doors of his heart against her. Nor was there any sound heard save the sound of the woman weeping for pain. And at last he spoke to her, and his voice was hard and bitter. If in very truth thou art my mother, he said, it had been better had thou stayed away and not come here to bring me to shame, seeing that I thought I was the child of some star, and not a beggar's child, as thou tellest me that I am. Therefore get thee hence, and let me see thee no more. At last my son, she cried, wilt thou not kiss me before I go, for I have suffered much to find thee. Nay, said the star-child, but thou art too foul to look at, and rather would I kiss thee at her or the toad than thee. So the woman rose up and went away into the forest, weeping bitterly. And when the star-child saw that she had gone, he was glad and ran back to his playmates that he might play with them. But when they beheld him coming, they mocked him and said, Why thou art as foul as the toad and as loathsome as the adder. Get thee hence, for we will not suffer thee to play with us, and they drave him out of the garden. And the star-child frowned and said to himself, What is this that they say to me? I will go to the well of water and look into it, and it shall tell me of my beauty. So he went to the well of water and looked into it and lo, his face was as the face of a toad and his body was sealed like an adder. And he flung himself down on the grass and wept and said to himself, Surely this has come upon me by reason of my sin, for I have denied my mother and driven her away and been proud and cruel to her. Wherefore I will go and seek her through the whole world, nor will I rest till I have found her. And there came to him the little daughter of the wood-cutter, and she put her hand upon his shoulder and said, What doth it matter if thou hast lost thy comeliness? Stay with us, and I will not mock at thee. And he said to her, Nay, but I have been cruel to my mother, and as punishment has this evil been sent to me. Wherefore I must go hence and wander through the world till I find her, and she give me her forgiveness. So he ran away into the forest and called out to his mother to come to him, but there was no answer. All day long he called her, and when the sun set he lay down to sleep on a bed of leaves, and the birds and the animals fled from him, for they remembered his cruelty, and he was alone saved for the toad that watched him, and the slow adder that crawled past. And in the morning he rose up and plucked some bitter berries from the trees and ate them, and took his way through the great wood weeping sorely, and of everything that he met he made inquiry if per chance they had seen his mother. He said to the Mole, Thou canst go beneath the earth, tell me, is my mother there? And the Mole answered, Thou hast blinded mine eyes, how should I know? He said to the Linnet, Thou canst fly over the tops of the tall trees, canst see the whole world, tell me, canst thou see my mother? And the Linnet answered, Thou hast clipped my wings for thy pleasure, how should I fly? And to the little squirrel who lived in the fir tree and was lonely he said, Where is my mother? And the squirrel answered, Thou hast slain mine, does thou seek to slay thine also? And the star-child wept and bowed his head and prayed forgiveness of God's things and went on through the trees seeking for the beggar woman. And on the third day he came to the other side of the forest and went down into the plain. And when he passed through the villages the children mocked him and threw stones at him, and the Carlots would not suffer him even to sleep in the buyers lest he might bring mildew on the stored corn, so foul was he to look at, and their hired men draved him away, and there was none who had pity on him. Nor could he hear anywhere of the beggar woman who was his mother, though for the space of three years he wandered over the world and often seemed to see her on the road in front of him, and would call to her and run after her till the sharp flints made his feet to bleed. But overtake her he could not, and those who dwelt by the way did ever deny that they had ever seen her or any like her and they made sport of his sorrow. For the space of three years he wandered over the world, and in the world there was neither love nor loving-kindness nor charity for him. It was even such a world as he had made for himself in the days of his great pride. And one evening he came to the gate of a strong walled city that stood by a river, and weary in footzor, though he was, he made to enter in. But the soldiers who stood on guard dropped their halberts across the entrance and said roughly to him, What is thy business in the city? I am seeking my mother, he answered, and I pray ye to suffer me to pass, for it may be that she is in this city. But they mocked at him, and one of them wagged a black beard and sat down his shield, and cried, Of a truth thy mother will not be merry when she sees thee, for thou art more ill-favored than the toad of the marsh, or the adder that crawls in the fen. Get thee gone, get thee gone, thy mother dwells not in this city. And another, who held a yellow banner in his hand, said to him, Who is thy mother, and wherefore art thou seeking for her? And he answered, My mother is a beggar, even as I am, and I have treated her evilly, and I pray ye to suffer me to pass that she may give me her forgiveness, if it be that she tarryeth in this city. But they would not, and pricked him with their spears. And as he turned away weeping, one whose armor was inlaid with gilt flowers, and on whose helmet couched a lion that had wings, came up and made inquiry of the soldiers who it was who had sought entrance. And they said to him, It is a beggar, and the child of a beggar, and we have driven him away. Nay, he cried laughing, but we will sell the fouthing for a slave, and his price shall be the price of a bowl of sweet wine. And an old and evil visaged man who was passing by called out, and said, I will buy him for that price, and when he had paid the price he took the star-child by the hand and led him into the city. And after that they had gone through many streets they came to a little door that was set in a wall that was covered with a pomegranate tree, and the old man touched the door with a ring of graved jasper, and it opened, and they went down five steps of brass into a garden filled with black poppies and green jars of burnt clay. And the old man took then from his turban a scarf of figured silk and bound with it the eyes of the star-child, and draved him in front of him. And when the scarf was taken off his eyes the star-child found himself in a dungeon that was lit by a lantern of horn. And the old man set before him some moldy bread on a trencher and said, Eat! and some brackish wooder in a cup and said, Drink! And when he had eaten and drunk the old man went out locking the door behind him and fastening it with an iron chain. And on the morrow the old man, who was indeed the subtlest of the magicians of Libya, and had learned his art from one who dwelt in the tombs of the Nile, came to him and frowned at him, and said, In a wood that is nigh to the gate of this city of Giaours there are three pieces of gold. One is of white gold, and another is of yellow gold, and the gold of the third one is red. Today thou shalt bring me the piece of white gold, and if thou bringest it not back I will beat thee with a hundred stripes. Get thee away quickly, and at sunset I will be waiting for thee at the door of the garden. See that thou bringest the white gold, or it shall go ill with thee. For thou art my slave, and I have bought thee for the price of a bowl of sweet wine. And he bound the eyes of the star-child with the scarf of figured silk, and led him through the house, and through the garden of poppies, and up the five steps of brass, and having opened the little door with his ring he set him in the street. And the star-child went out of the gate of the city, and came to the wood of which the magician had spoken. Now, this wood was very fair to look at from without, and seemed full of singing birds, and of sweet-scented flowers, and the star-child entered it gladly. Yet did its beauty profit him little, for wherever he went harsh briars and thorns shot up from the ground and encompassed him. And evil nettles stung him, and the thistle pierced him with her daggers, so that he was in sore distress. Nor could he anywhere find the piece of white gold of which the magician had spoken, though he sought it from morn to noon and from noon to sunset. And at sunset he set his face towards home, weeping bitterly, for he knew what fate was in store for him. But when he had reached the outskirts of the wood he heard from a thicket a cry as of someone in pain, and forgetting his own sorrow he ran back to the place and saw there a little hare caught in a trap that some hunter had set for it. And the star-child had pity on it, and released it, and said to it, I am myself but a slave, yet may I give thee thy freedom. And the hare answered him, and said, Surely thou hast given me freedom, and what shall I give thee in return? And the star-child said to it, I am seeking for a piece of white gold, nor can I anywhere find it, and if I bring it not to my master he will beat me. Come thou with me, said the hare, and I will lead thee to it, for I know where it is hidden and for what purpose. So the star-child went with the hare, and lo, in the cleft of a great oak-tree he saw the piece of white gold that he was seeking, and he was filled with joy and seized it, and said to the hare, The service that I did to thee thou hast rendered back again many times over, and the kindness that I showed thee thou hast repaid a hundred fold. Nay, answered the hare, but as thou dealt with me so I did deal with thee. And it ran away swiftly, and the star-child went towards the city. Now at the gate of the city there was seated one who was a leper. Over his face hung a cowl of gray linen, and through the eyelets his eyes gleamed like red coals. And when he saw the star-child coming he struck upon a wooden bowl and clattered his bell and called out to him and said, Give me a piece of money, or I must die of hunger, for they have thrust me out of the city, and there is no one who has pity on me. Alas! cried the star-child, I have but one piece of money in my wallet, and if I bring it not to my master he will beat me for I am his slave. But the leper entreated him and prayed of him till the star-child had pity and gave him the piece of white gold. And when he came to the magician's house the magician opened to him and brought him in and said to him, Has felt the piece of white gold? And the star-child answered, I have not. So the magician fell upon him and beat him and set before him an empty trencher and said, Eat, and an empty cup and said, Drink, and flung him again into the dungeon. And on the morrow the magician came to him and said, If today thou bringest me not the piece of yellow gold I will surely keep thee as my slave and give thee three hundred stripes. So the star-child went to the wood, and all day long he searched for the piece of yellow gold, but nowhere could he find it. And at sunset he sat him down and began to weep, and as he was weeping there came to him the little hair that he had rescued from the trap. And the hair said to him, Why art thou weeping and what dost thou seek in the wood? And the star-child answered, I am seeking for a piece of yellow gold that is hidden here and if I find it not my master will beat me and keep me as a slave. Follow me, cried the hair, and it ran through the wood till it came to a pool of water. And at the bottom of the pool the piece of yellow gold was lying. How shall I thank thee, said the star-child, for lo, this is the second time that you have sookered me. Nay, but thou hast pity on me first, said the hair, and it ran away swiftly. And the star-child took the piece of yellow gold and put it in his wallet and hurried to the city. But the leper saw him coming and ran to meet him and knelt down and cried, Give me a piece of money or I shall die of hunger. And the star-child said to him, I have in my wallet but one piece of yellow gold and if I bring it not to my master he will beat me and keep me as his slave. But the leper entreated him soar so that the star-child had pity on him and gave him the piece of yellow gold. And when he came to the magician's house the magician opened to him and brought him in and said to him, Has felt the piece of yellow gold? And the star-child said to him, I have not. So the magician fell upon him and beat him and loaded him with chains and cast him again into the dungeon. And on the morrow the magician came in and said, If to-day thou bringest me the piece of red gold I will set thee free. But if thou bringest it not I will surely slay thee. So the star-child went to the wood and all day long he searched for the piece of red gold but nowhere could he find it. And at evening he sat him down and wept and as he was weeping there came to him the little hare. And the hare said to him, The piece of red gold that thou seekest is in the cave that is behind thee. Therefore weep no more but be glad. How shall I reward thee, cried the star-child, for lo! this is the third time thou hast sookered me. Nay, but thou hadst pity on me first, said the hare, and it ran away swiftly. And the star-child entered the cavern and in the farthest corner he found the piece of red gold. So he put it in his wallet and hurried to the city. And the leper, seeing him coming, stood in the center of the road and cried out and said to him, Give me the piece of red money or I must die. And the star-child had pity on him again and gave him the piece of red gold, saying, Thy need is greater than mine. Yet was his heart heavy, for he knew what evil fate awaited him. But lo! as he passed through the gate of the city the guards bowed down and made obeisance to him, saying, How beautiful is our Lord! And a crowd of citizens followed him and cried out, Surely there is none so beautiful in the whole world. So that the star-child wept and said to himself, They are mocking me and making light of my misery. And so large was the concourse of the people that he lost the threads of his way and found himself at last in a great square in which there was a palace of a king. And the gate of the palace opened, and the priests and the high officers of the city ran forth to meet him, and they abased themselves before him and said, Thou art our Lord for whom we have been waiting, and the son of our king. And the star-child answered them and said, I am no king's son, but the child of a poor beggar woman. How say ye that I am beautiful, for I know that I am evil to look at. Then he whose armor was inlaid with gilt flowers, and on whose helmet crouched a lion that had wings held up a shield, and cried, How sayeth my Lord that he is not beautiful? And the star-child looked, and lo his face was even as it had been, and his comeliness had come back to him. And he saw that in his eyes which he had not seen there before. And the priests and the high officers knelt down and said to him, It was prophesized of old that on this day should come he who was to rule over us. Therefore let our Lord take this crown and this scepter, and be in his justice and mercy, our king over us. But he said to them, I am not worthy, for I have denied the mother who bear me, nor may I rest till I have found her and known her forgiveness. Therefore let me go, for I must wander again over the world, and may not tarry here, though ye bring me the crown and the scepter. When he spake he turned his face from them, towards the street that led to the gate of the city, and lo, amongst the crowds that pressed round the soldiers he saw the beggar woman who was his mother, and at her side stood the leper who had sat by the road. And a cry of joy broke from his lips, and he ran over and kneeling down he kissed the wounds on his mother's feet and wept them with his tears. He bowed his head in the dust and sobbing as one whose heart might break he said to her, Mother, I denied thee in the hour of my pride, accept me in the hour of my humility. Mother, I gave thee hatred, do thou give me love? Mother, I rejected thee, received thy child now. But the beggar woman answered him not a word. And he reached out his hands and clasped the white feet of the leper, and said to him, Thrice, did I give thee of my mercy? Bid my mother speak to me once. But the leper answered him not a word. And he sobbed again, and said, Mother, my suffering is greater than I can bear. Give me thy forgiveness and let me go back to the forest. And the beggar woman put her hand on his head and said to him, Rise. And the leper put his hand on his head and said to him, Rise, also. And he rose up from his feet and looked at them. And lo! they were a king and a queen. And the queen said to him, This is thy father whom thou hast suckered. And the king said, This is thy mother whose feet thou hast washed with thy tears. And they fell on his neck and kissed him, and brought him into the palace, and clothed him in fair rain-ment, and set the crown upon his head and the scepter in his hand, and over the city that stood by the river he ruled, and was its lord. Much justice and mercy did he show to all, and the evil magician he banished, and to the woodcutter in his wife he sent many rich gifts, and to their children he gave high honor. Nor would he suffer any to be cruel to bird or beast but taught love and loving kindness and charity, and to the poor he gave bread, and to the naked he gave rain-ment, and there was peace and plenty in the land. Yet ruled he not long, so great had been his suffering and so bitter the fire of his testing for after the space of three years, he died, and he who came after him ruled evilly. End of The Star Child by Oscar Wilde The Story of the Bad Little Boy by Mark Twain Once there was a bad little boy whose name was Jim, though, if you will notice, you will find that bad little boys are nearly always called James in your Sunday school books. It was strange, but still it was true, that this one was called Jim. He didn't have any sick mother either, a sick mother who was pious and had the consumption, and would be glad to lie down in the grave and be at rest, but for the strong love she bore for her boy and the anxiety she felt that the world might be harsh and cold towards him when she was gone. Most bad boys in the Sunday books are named James, and have sick mothers who teach them to say, Now I lay me down, etc., and sing them to sleep with sweet, plaintive voices, and then kiss them good night and kneel down by the bedside and weep. But it was different with this fellow. He was named Jim, and there wasn't anything at all the matter with his mother. No consumption or anything of that kind. He was rather stout than otherwise, and she was not pious. Moreover she was not anxious on Jim's account. She said if he were to break his neck it wouldn't be much loss. She always spanked Jim to sleep, and she never kissed him good night. On the contrary, she boxed his ears when she was ready to leave him. Once, this little bad boy stole the key of the pantry and slipped in there and helped himself to some jam and filled up the vessel with tar so that his mother would never know the difference. But all at once a terrible feeling didn't come over him, and something didn't seem to whisper to him, Is it right to disobey my mother? Isn't it sinful to do this? Where do bad little boys go who gobble up their good, kind mother's jam? And then he didn't kneel down all alone in promise never to be wicked any more and rise up with a light, happy heart and go to tell his mother all about it and beg for her forgiveness and be blessed by her with tears of pride and thankfulness in her eyes. No. That is the way with all other bad boys in the books, but it happened otherwise with this Jim, strangely enough. He ate that jam and said it was bully in his sinful vulgar way, and he put in the tar and said that was bully also, and laughed and observed that the old woman would get up and snort when she found it out. And when she did find it out he denied knowing anything about it, and she whipped him severely, and he did the crying himself. Nothing about this boy was curious. Everything turned out differently with him from the way it does to the bad James' in the books. Once he climbed up in Farmer Acorn's apple tree to steal apples, and the limb didn't break. And he didn't fall and break his arm and get torn by the farmer's great dog and then languish on a sickbed for weeks and repent and become good. Oh, no. He stole as many apples as he wanted and came down all right. And he was all ready for the dog too and knocked him endways with a brick when he came to tear him. It was very strange. Nothing like it ever happened in those mild little books with marbled backs and with pictures in them of men with shallow tailed coats and bell-crowned hats and pantaloons that are short in the legs, and women with the weights of their dresses under their arms and no hoops on. Once he stole the teacher's pen-knife, and when he was afraid it would be found out and he would get whipped he slipped it into George Wilson's cap, poor widow Wilson's son, the moral boy, the good little boy of the village who always obeyed his mother and never told an untruth and was fond of his lessons and infatuated with Sunday school. And when the knife dropped from the cap and poor George hung his head and blushed as if in conscious guilt, and the grieved teacher charged the theft upon him and was just in the very act of bringing the switch down upon his trembling shoulders, a white-haired improbable justice of the peace did not suddenly appear in their midst and strike an attitude and say, Spare this noble boy! There stands the cowering culprit! I was passing the school-door at recess and unseen myself, I saw the theft committed. And then Jim didn't get wailed, and the venerable justice didn't read the tearful school a homily and take George by the hand and say such a boy deserves to be exalted, and then tell him come and make his home with him and sweep out the office and make fires and run errands and chop wood and study law and help his wife do household labors and have all the balance of the time to play and get forty cents a month and be happy. No, it would have happened that way in the books, but didn't happen that way to Jim. No meddling old clam of a justice dropped in to make trouble, and so the model boy George got thrashed and Jim was glad of it, because, you know, Jim hated moral boys. Jim said he was down on them milk-sops. Such was the coarse language of this bad neglected boy. But the strangest thing that ever happened to Jim was the time he went boating on Sunday and didn't get drowned. And that other time that he got caught out in the storm when he was fishing on Sunday and didn't get struck by lightning. Why? You might look and look all through the Sunday school books from now until next Christmas and you would never come across anything like this. Oh, no. You would find that all the bad boys who go boating on Sunday invariably get drowned and all the bad boys who get caught out in storms when they are fishing on Sunday infallibly get struck by lightning. Boats with bad boys in them always upset on Sunday, and it always storms when bad boys go fishing on the Sabbath. How this Jim ever escaped is a mystery to me. This Jim bore a charmed life. That must have been the way of it. Nothing could hurt him. He even gave the elephant in the menagerie a plug of tobacco, and the elephant didn't knock the top of his head off with his trunk. He browsed around the cupboard after essence of peppermint and didn't make a mistake and drink aquafortis. He stole his father's gun and went hunting on the Sabbath and didn't shoot three or four of his fingers off. He struck his little sister on the temple with his fist when he was angry and she didn't linger in pain through long summer days and die with sweet words of forgiveness upon her lips that redoubled the anguish of his breaking heart. No. She got over it. He ran off and went to see it last and didn't come back and find himself sad and alone in the world, his loved ones sleeping in the quiet churchyard, and the vine-embowered home of his boyhood tumbled down and gone to decay. Ah, no. He came home as drunk as a piper and got into the station house the first thing. And he grew up and married and raised a large family and brained them all with an axe one night and got wealthy by all manner of cheating and rascality. And now he is the infernalist wickedest scoundrel in his native village and is universally respected and belongs to the legislature. So you see, there never was a bad James in the Sunday School books that had had such a streak of luck as this sinful gym with the charmed life. End of The Story of the Bad Little Boy by Mark Twain The Story of the Good Little Boy by Mark Twain Once there was a good little boy by the name of Jacob Blivins. He always obeyed his parents no matter how absurd and unreasonable their demands were, and he always learned his book and never was late at Sabbath school. He would not play hooky even when his sober judgment told him it was the most profitable thing he could do. None of the other boys could ever make that boy out. He acted so strangely. He wouldn't lie, no matter how convenient it was. He just said it was wrong to lie, and that was sufficient for him. And he was so honest that he was simply ridiculous. The curious ways that Jacob had surpassed everything. He wouldn't play marbles on Sunday. He wouldn't rob birds' nests. He wouldn't give hot pennies to organ-grinders' monkeys. He didn't seem to take any interest in any kind of rational amusement. So the other boys used to try to reason it out and come to an understanding of him. But they couldn't arrive at any satisfactory conclusion. As I said before, they could only figure out a sort of vague idea that he was afflicted. And so they took him under their protection and never allowed any harm to come to him. This good little boy read all the Sunday school books. They were his greatest delight. This was the whole secret of it. He believed in the good little boys they put in the Sunday school book. He had every confidence in them. He longed to come across one of them alive once, but he never did. They all died before his time, maybe. Whenever he read about a particularly good one, he turned over quickly to the end to see what became of him. Because he wanted to travel thousands of miles and gaze on him. But it wasn't any use. That good little boy always died in the last chapter, and there was a picture of the funeral with all his relatives and the Sunday school children standing around the grave in pantaloons that were too short and bonnets that were too large, and everybody crying into handkerchiefs that had as much as a yard and a half of stuff in them. He was always headed off in this way. He never could see one of those good little boys on account of his always dying in the last chapter. Jacob had a noble ambition to be put in a Sunday school book. He wanted to be put in, with pictures representing him gloriously declining to lie to his mother and her weeping for joy about it, and pictures representing him standing on the doorstep giving a penny to a poor beggar woman with six children and telling her to spend it freely but not to be extravagant, because extravagance is a sin, and pictures of him magnanimously refusing to tell on the bad boy who always lay in wait for him around the corner as he came from school and welted him so over the head with a laugh, and then chased him home saying, Hi, Hi, as he proceeded. That was the ambition of young Jacob Blivins. He wished to be put in a Sunday school book. It made him feel a life uncomfortable sometimes when he reflected that the good little boys always died. He loved to live, you know, and this was the most unpleasant feature about being a Sunday school boo-boy. He knew it was not healthy to be good. He knew it was more fatal than consumption to be so supernaturally good as the boys in the books were. He knew that none of them had ever been able to stand it long, and it pained him to think that if they put him in a book he wouldn't ever see it. Or even if they did get the book out before he died it wouldn't be popular without any picture of his funeral in the back part of it. It couldn't be much of a Sunday school book. What couldn't tell about the advice he gave to the community when he was dying? So at last, of course, he had to make up his mind to do the best he could under the circumstances, to live right and hang on as long as he could and have his dying speech all ready when his time came. But somehow nothing ever went right with the good little boy. Nothing ever turned out with him the way it turned out with the good little boys in the books. They always had a good time and the bad boys had the broken legs. But in his case there was a screw loose somewhere and it all happened just the other way. When he found Jim Blake stealing apples and went under the tree to read to him about the bad little boy who fell out of a neighbor's apple tree and broke his arm, Jim fell out of the tree too, but he fell on him and broke his arm and Jim wasn't hurt at all. Jacob couldn't understand that. There wasn't anything in the books like it. And once when some boys pushed a blind man over in the mud and Jacob ran to help him up and receive his blessing, the blind man did not give him any blessing at all but whacked him over the head with his stick and said he would like to catch him shoving him again and then pretending to help him up. This was not in accordance with any of the books. Jacob looked them all over to see. One thing that Jacob wanted to do was to find a lame dog that hadn't any place to stay and was hungry and persecuted and bring him home and pet him and have the dog's imperishable gratitude. And at last he found one and was happy and he brought him home and fed him. But when he was going to pet him the dog flew at him and tore all the clothes off him except those that were in the front and made a spectacle of him that was astonishing. He examined authorities but he could not understand the matter. It was of the same breed of dogs that was in the books, but it acted very differently. Whatever this boy did he got into trouble, the very things the boys in the books got rewarded for turned out to be about the most unprofitable things he could invest in. Once when he was on his way to Sunday school he saw some bad boys starting off pleasuring in a sailboat. He was filled with consternation because he knew from his reading that boys who went sailing on Sunday invariably got drowned. So he ran out on a raft to warn them but a log turned with him and slid him into the water. A man got him out pretty soon and the doctor pumped the water out of him and gave him a fresh start with his bellows. But he caught cold and lay sick a bed nine weeks. But the most unaccountable thing about it was that the bad boys in the boat had a good time all day and then reached home alive and well in the most surprising manner. Jacob Blivin said there was nothing like these things in the books. He was perfectly dumbfounded. When he got well he was a little discouraged but he resolved to keep on trying anyhow. He knew that so far his experiences wouldn't do to go in a book. But he hadn't yet reached the allotted term of life for good little boys and he hoped to be able to make a record yet if he could hold on till his time was fully up. If everything else failed he had his dying speech to fall back on. He examined his authorities and found that it was now time for him to go to sea as a cabin boy. He called on a ship captain and made his application and when the captain asked for his recommendations he proudly drew out a tract and pointed to the words to Jacob Blivin's from his affectionate teacher. But the captain was of course a vulgar man and he said, Oh that be blowed that wasn't any proof that he knew how to wash dishes or handle a slush bucket and he guessed he didn't want him. This was altogether the most extraordinary thing that had ever happened to Jacob in all his life. A compliment from a teacher on a tract had never failed to move the tenderest emotions of ship captains and opened the way to all offices of honor and profit in their gift it never had in any book that ever he had read. He could hardly believe his senses. This boy always had a hard time of it. Nothing ever came out according to the authorities with him. At last one day when he was around hunting up bad little boys to admonish he found a lot of them in the old iron foundry fixing up a little joke on fourteen or fifteen dogs which they had tied together in long procession and were going to ornament with empty nitroglycerin cans made fast to their tails. Jacob's heart was touched. He sat down on one of those cans for he never minded Greece when duty was before him and he took hold of the foremost dog by the collar and turned his reproving eye upon wicked Tom Jones. But just at that moment Alderman McWelter full of wrath stepped in. All the bad boys ran away but Jacob Blivin's rose in conscious innocence and began one of those stately little Sunday school book speeches which always commenced with, oh sir, in dead opposition to the fact that no boy good or bad ever starts a remark with, oh sir, but the Alderman never waited to hear the rest. He took Jacob Blivin's by the ear and turned him around and hit him a whack on the rear with the flat of his hand, and in an instant that good little boy shot out through the roof and soared away towards the sun with the fragments of those fifteen dogs stringing after him like the tail of a kite. And there wasn't a sign of that Alderman or that old iron foundry left on the face of the earth. And as for young Jacob Blivin's, he never got a chance to make his last dying speech after all, his trouble fixing it up. Unless he made it to the birds, because although the bulk of him came down all right in a treetop in an adjoining county, the rest of him was apportioned around among four townships, and so they had to hold five inquests on him to find out whether he was dead or not and how it occurred. He never saw a boy scattered so. Thus perished the good little boy who did the best he could but didn't come out according to the books. Every boy who ever did as he did prospered except him. His case is truly remarkable. It will probably never be accounted for. The Story of the Good Little Boy by Mark Twain The Strategist by Sarkie Mrs. Jallot's young people's parties were severely exclusive. It came cheaper that way because you could ask fewer to them. Mrs. Jallot didn't study cheapness, but somehow she generally attained it. There'll be about ten girls, speculated Rollo as he drove to the function. And I suppose four fellows, unless the Rotsleys bring their cousin which heaven forbid. That would mean Jack and me against three of them. Rollo and the Rotsleys brethren had maintained an undying feud almost from nursery days. They only met now and then in the holidays, and the meeting was usually tragic for whichever happened to have the fewest backers on hand. Rollo was counting to-night on the presence of a devoted and muscular partisan to hold an even balance. As he arrived he heard his prospective champion's sister apologising to the hostess for the unavoidable absence of her brother. A moment later he noted that the Rotsleys had brought their cousin. Two against three would have been exciting and possibly unpleasant. One against three promised to be about as amusing as a visit to the dentist. Rollo ordered his carriage for as early as was decently possible, and faced the company with a smile that he imagined the better sort of aristocrat would have worn when mounting to the guillotine. "'So glad you are able to come,' said the elder Rotsleys heartily. "'Now you children will like to play games, I suppose,' said Mrs. Jallot, by way of giving things a start. And as they were too well bred to contradict her, there only remained the question of what they were to play at. "'I know of a good game,' said the elder Rotsleys innocently. The fellows leave the room and think of a word, then they come back again and the girls have to find out what the word is.' Rollo knew the game. He would have suggested it himself if his faction had been in the majority. "'It doesn't promise to be very exciting,' sniffed the superior Dolores Sneep, as the boys filed out of the room. Rollo thought differently. He trusted to Providence that Rotsleys had nothing worse than knotted handkerchiefs at his disposal. The word choosers locked themselves in the library to ensure that their deliberations should not be interrupted. Rots turned out to be not even decently neutral. On a rack on the library wall were a dog-whip and a whale-bone riding switch. Rollo thought it criminal negligence to leave such weapons of precision lying about. He was given a choice of evils and chose the dog-whip. The next minute or so he spent in wondering how he could have made such a stupid selection. Then they went back to the languidly expectant females. "'The words, Camel,' announced the Rotsley cousin blunderingly. "'You stupid!' screamed the girls. "'We've got to guess the word. Now you'll have to go back and think of another.' "'Not for words,' said Rollo. "'I mean, the word isn't really, Camel. We were rotting.' "'Pretend it's dromedary,' he whispered to the others. "'I heard them say dromedary. I heard them. I don't care what you say. I heard them,' squealed the odious Dolores. "'With ears as long as hers, one would hear anything,' thought Rollo savagely. "'We shall have to go back, I suppose,' said the elder Rotsley, resignedly. The conclave locked itself once more into the library. "'Look here, I'm not going through that dog-whip business again,' protested Rollo. "'Certainly not, dear,' said the elder Rotsley. "'Well, try the whale-bone switch this time, and you'll know which hurts most. It's only by personal experience that one finds out these things. It was swiftly borne in upon Rollo that his earlier selection of the dog-whip had been a really sound one. The conclave gave his underlip time to steady itself, while it debated the choice of the necessary word. Mustang was no good, as half the girls wouldn't know what it meant. Finally Quagger was pitched on. "'You must come and sit down over here,' chorused the investigating committee on their return. But Rollo was obdurate in insisting that the questioned person always stood up. On the whole it was a relief when the game was ended and supper was announced. Mrs. Jallot did not stint her young guests, but the more expensive delicacies of her supper table were never unnecessarily duplicated, and it was usually good policy to take what you wanted while it was still there. On this occasion she had provided sixteen peaches to go round among fourteen children. It was really not her fault that the two rotslies in their cousin, foreseeing the long foodless drive home, had each quietly pocketed an extra peach, but it was distinctly trying for Delores and the fat and good-natured Agnes Blake to be left with one peach between them. "'I suppose we'd better half it,' said Delores sourly. But Agnes was fat first and good-natured afterwards. Those were her guiding principles in life. She was profuse in her sympathy for Delores, but she hastily devoured the peach, explaining that it would spoil it to divide it. The juice ran out so. "'Now, what would you all like to do?' demanded Mrs. Jallit by way of diversion. The professional conjurer whom I had engaged has failed me at the last moment. Can any of you recite?' There were symptoms of a general panic. Delores was known to recite Loxley Hall on the least provocation. There had been occasions when her opening line, "'Comrades, leave me here a little!' had been taken as a literal injunction by a large section of her hearers. There was a murmur of relief when Rollo hastily declared that he could do a few conjuring tricks. He had never done one in his life, but those two visits to the library had goaded him to unusual recklessness. "'You have seen conjuring-chaps take coins and cards out of people?' he announced. "'Well, I'm going to take more interesting things out of some of you. Mice, for instance.' "'Not mice!' a shrill protest rose as he had foreseen from the majority of his audience. "'Well, fruit, then!' the amended proposal was received with approval. Agnes positively beamed. Without more ado, Rollo made straight for his trio of enemies, plunged his hand successively into their breast-pockets, and produced three peaches. There was no applause, but no amount of hand-clapping would have given the performer as much pleasure as the silence which greeted his coon. "'Of course we were in the know,' said the rotsly cousin, lamely. "'That's done it,' chuckled Rollo to himself. "'If they had been confederates, they would have sworn they knew nothing about it,' said Dolores with piercing conviction. "'Do know any more tricks?' asked Mrs. Jallot hurriedly. Rollo did not. He hinted that he might have changed the three peaches into something else, but Agnes had already converted one into girl food, so nothing more could be done in that direction. "'I know a game,' said the elder rotsly heavily, where the fellows go out of the room and think of some character in history, then they come back and act him, and the girls have to guess who it's meant for. "'I'm afraid I must be going,' said Rollo to his hostess. "'Your carriage won't be here for another twenty minutes,' said Mrs. Jallot. "'It's such a fine evening, I think I'll walk and meet it.' "'It's raining rather steadily at present. You've just time to play that historical game.' "'We haven't heard Dolores recite,' said Rollo desperately. As soon as he had said it he realised his mistake. Confronted with the alternative of Locksley Hall, public opinion declared unanimously for the history game. Rollo played his last card. In an undertone meant apparently for the rotsly boy, but carefully pitched to reach Agnes. He observed, "'All right, old man, we'll go and finish those chocolates we left in the library.' "'I think it's only fair that the girls should take their turn in going out,' exclaimed Agnes briskly. She was great on fairness. "'Nonsense,' said the others, there are too many of us. "'Well, four of us can go. I'll be one of them.' And Agnes darted off towards the library, followed by three less eager damsels.' Rollo sank into a chair and smiled ever so faintly at the rotslies, just a momentary bearing of the teeth, an otter escaping from the fangs of the hounds into the safety of a deep pool might have given a similar demonstration of feelings. From the library came the sound of moving furniture. Agnes was leaving nothing unturned in her quest for the mythical chocolates. And then came a more blessed sound, wheels crunching wet gravel. "'It has been a most enjoyable evening,' said Rollo to his hostess. End of The Strategist by Sarkie, recording by Ruth Golden. A Stroll by Guy de Maupassant, taken from the Project Gutenberg e-book of Maupassant original short stories, e-book number 3090. This reading is based upon a translation by Albert MC McMaster, A.E. Henderson, Madame Cassata, and others. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and to find out who you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. An old man, Lora, who keeper from ashures, labours, and company, left the store. He stood for a minute bewildered at the glory of the setting sun. He had worked all day in the yellow light of a small jet of gas, far in the back of the store, on a narrow court as deep as a well. The little room where he was spending his days for 40 years was so dark that even in the middle of the summer, one could hardly see without gaslight from 11 until 3. It was always damp and cold, and from his hole on which his window opened came the musty odor of the sewer. For 40 years, M. Lora had been arriving every morning in this prison at 8 o'clock, and he would remain there until 7 at night, bending over his books, writing with the industry of a good clerk. He was now making 3,000 francs a year, having started at 1,500. He remained a bachelor, as his means did not allow him the luxury of a wife. And as he had never enjoyed anything, he desired nothing. From time to time, however, he tired of this continuous and monotonous work. He formed a Platonic wish, Gad, if I had only an income of 15,000 francs, I could take life easy. He had never taken life easy, as he had never had anything but his monthly salary. His life had been uneventful, without emotions, without hopes. The faculty of dreaming, which everyone is blessed, had never developed in the mediocrity of his ambitions. When he was 21, he entered the employ of M. LeBouz and Company, and he had never left them. In 1856, he had lost his father, and then his mother, in 1859. Since then, the only incident in his life was when he moved, in 1868, because his landlord tried to raise his rent. Every day, his alarm clock, with a frightful noise of rattling chains, made him spring out of bed at six o'clock precisely. Twice, however, this piece of mechanism had been out of order, once in 1866. And again, in 1874, he had never been able to find out the reason why. He would dress, make his bed, sweep his room, dust his chair, and the top of his bureau. All this took him an hour and a half. Then he would go out and buy a roll at the Heure Bakery, in which he had seen 11 different owners without the name ever changing, and he would eat the roll on his way to the office. His entire existence had been spent in the narrow, dark office, which was still decorated with the same wallpaper. He had entered there as a young man, an assistant to M. Brumet, and with the desire to replace him. He had taken his place and wished for nothing more. The whole harvest of memories, which other men reap in their span of years, the unexpected events, the sweet or tragic loves, adventurous journeys, all the occurrences of a free existence, all these things had remained unknown to him. Days, weeks, months, seasons, years, all were alike to him. He got up every day at the same hour, started out, arrived at the office, ate luncheon, went away, had dinner, and went to bed without ever interrupting the regular monotony of similar actions, deeds, and thoughts. Formerly, he used to look at his blonde mustache and wavy hair in the little round mirror left by his predecessor. Now, every evening before leaving, he would look at his white mustache and bald head in the same mirror. 40 years had rolled by, long and rapid, dreary as a day of sadness, and as similar as the hours of a sleepless night. 40 years of which nothing remained, not even a memory, not even a misfortune since the death of his parents, nothing. That day, Monsieur Laurent stood by the door, dazzled at the brilliancy of the setting sun, and instead of returning home, he decided to take a little stroll before dinner, a thing which happened to him four or five times a year. He reached the boulevard where people were streaming along under the green trees. It was a spring evening. One of those first warm and pleasant evenings which filled the heart with joy of life. Monsieur Laurent went along with his mincing old man's step. He was going along with joy in his heart, at peace with the world. He reached the Champs-Elysées, and continued to walk, and livened by the sight of young people trotting along. The whole sky was aflame. The Arc de Triomphe stood out against the brilliant background of the horizon like a giant surrounded by fire. As he approached the immense monument, the old bookkeeper noticed that he was hungry, and he went into a wine dealers for dinner. The meal was served in front of the store on the sidewalk, and consisted of some mutton, salad, and asparagus. It was the best dinner that Monsieur Laurent had had in a long time. He washed down his cheese with a small bottle of burgundy, had his after dinner cup of coffee, a thing which he rarely took, and finally, a little pony of brandy. When he had paid, he felt quite youthful, even a little moved, and he said to himself, What a fine evening. I will continue my stroll as far as the entrance to the Bois de Boulogne. It will do me good, he said out. An old tune, which one of his neighbors used to sing, kept returning to his mind. He kept on humming it over and over again. A hot, still night had fallen over Paris. Monsieur Laurent walked along the avenue de Bois de Boulogne and watched the cabs drive by. They kept coming with their shining lights, one behind the other, giving him a glimpse of the couples inside. The women in their light dresses, the men dressed in black. It was one long procession of lovers, riding under the warm, starlit sky. It kept on coming in rapid succession. It passed by in carriages, silent, side by side, lost in their dreams, in the emotion of desire, in the anticipation of the approaching embrace. The warm shadows seemed to be full of floating kisses. A sensation of tenderness filled the air. All these carriages, full of tender couples, all these people intoxicated with the same idea, with the same thought, seemed to give him a disturbing, subtle emanation. At last, Monsieur Laurent grew a little tired of walking and he sat down on a bench to watch these carriages pass by with their burdens of love. Almost immediately, a woman walked up to him and sat down beside him. Good evening, papa, she said. He answered, Madam, you are mistaken. She slipped her arm through his, saying, Come along now, don't be foolish, listen. He rose and walked away, sadness in his heart. A few yards away, another woman walked up to him and asked, Won't you sit down beside me? He said, What makes you take up this life? She stood before him and in an altered horse angry voice exclaimed, Well, it isn't for the fun of it anyhow. He insisted in a gentle voice, Then what makes you? She grumbled, I've got to live, foolish question. And she walked away coming. Monsieur Laurent stood there bewildered. Other women were passing by near him, speaking to him, calling to him. He felt as though he were enveloped in darkness by something disagreeable. He sat down again on a bench. The carriages were still rolling by. He thought, I should have done better not to come here. I feel all upset. He began to think of all this venal and passionate love of all these kisses sold or given which were passing by in front of him. He scarcely knew it. In his lifetime he had only known two or three women, his means of forcing him to live a quiet life. He looked back at the life which he had led so different from everybody else. So dreary, so mournful, so empty. Some people are really unfortunate. Suddenly, as though a veil had been torn from his eyes, he perceived the infinite misery, the monotony of his existence. The past, the present, the future misery. His last day similar to his first one with nothing before him, behind him or about him, nothing in his heart or any place. The stream of carriages was still going by. In the rapid passage of the open carriage, he still saw the two silent loving creatures. It seemed to him that the whole of humanity was flowing on before him, intoxicated with joy, pleasure, and happiness. He alone was looking on. Tomorrow he would again be alone, always alone. More so than anyone else. He stood up, took a few steps, and suddenly he felt as tired as though he had taken a long journey on foot, and he sat down on the next bench. What was he waiting for? What was he hoping for? Nothing. He was thinking of how pleasant it must be in old age to return home and find the little children. It is pleasant to grow old when one is surrounded by those beings who owe their life to you, who love you, who caress you, who tell you charming and foolish little things which warm your heart and console you for everything. And thinking of his empty room, clean and sad, where no one but himself ever entered, a feeling of distress filled his soul, and the place seemed to him more mournful even than his little office. Nobody ever came there. No one ever spoke in it. It was dead, silent, without the echo of a human voice. It seems as though walls retain something of the people who live within them, something of their manner, face, and voice. The very houses inhabited by happy families are gayer than dwellings of the unhappy. His room was as barren of memories as his life, and he thought of returning to this place all alone, of getting into bed, of again repeating all the duties and actions of every evening. This thought terrified him as though to escape farther from this sinister home and from the time when he would have to return to it. He rose and walked along the path to a wooded corner where he sat down on the grass. Above him, about him, everywhere, he heard a continuous, tremendous, confused rumble composed of countless and different noises, a vague and throbbing pulsation of life, the life breath of Paris, breathing like a giant. The sun was already high and shed a flood of light on the Bois de Boulogne. A few carriages were beginning to drive about and people were appearing on horseback. A couple was walking through a deserted alley. Suddenly the young woman raised her eyes and saw something brown in the branches. Surprised and anxious, she raised her hand exclaiming, look, what is that? Then she shrieked and fell into the arms of her companion who was forced to lay her on the ground. The policeman who had been called cut down an old man who had hung himself by his suspenders. Examination showed that he had died that evening before. Capers found on him showed that he was a bookkeeper for messieurs, le Bois and company, and that his name was Laraz. His death was attributed to suicide, the cause of which could not be suspected. Perhaps a sudden access of madness. The End of the Stroll by Guy de Maupassant, read by Roy Schreiber. Tarquin of Cheapside by F. Scott Fitzgerald. 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 Greg Marguerite. Tarquin of Cheapside by F. Scott Fitzgerald. Running footsteps, light, soft sold shoes made of curious leathery cloth brought from Ceylon setting the pace. Thick flowing boots, two pairs, dark blue and gilt, reflecting the moonlight in blunt gleams and splotches following a stone's throw behind. Soft shoes flashes through a patch of moonlight, then darts into a blind labyrinth of alleys and becomes only an intermittent scuffle ahead somewhere in the enfolding darkness. In go, flowing boots, with short swords, lurching and long plumes awry, finding a breath to curse God in the black lanes of London. Soft shoes leaps a shadowy gate and crackles through a hedgerow. And there, startlingly, is the watch ahead. Two murderous pikemen of ferocious cast of mouth acquired in Holland and the Spanish marches. But there is no cry for help. The pursuit does not fall, panting at the feet of the watch, clutching a purse. Neither do the pursuers raise a hue and cry. Soft shoes goes by in a rush of swift air. The watch curse and hesitate, glance after the fugitive and then spread their pikes grimly across the road. Darkness, like a great hand, cuts off even the flow of the moon. The hand moves off the moon, whose pale caress finds again the eaves and lintels, and the watch, wounded and tumbled in the dust. Up the street, one of flowing boots leaves a black trail of spots until he binds himself clumsily as he runs with fine lace caught from his throat. It was no affair for the watch. Satan was at large tonight. Satan seemed to be he who appeared dimly in front, heel over gate, knee over fence. Moreover, the adversary was obviously travelling near home, or at least in that section of London consecrated to his coarser whims. For the street narrowed like a road in a picture, and the houses bent over further and further, cooping in natural ambushes suitable for murder, and its histrionic sister, sudden death. Down the road, one of flowing boots leaves a black trail of spots until he binds himself clumsily as he runs with fine lace. Up the street, one of flowing boots suddenly dies. Down long and sinuous lanes twisted the hunted and the harriers, always in and out of the moon in perpetual queen's move over a checkerboard of glints and patches. Ahead the quarry minus his leather jerkin now, and half blinded by drips of sweat, had taken to scanning his ground desperately on both sides. As a result he suddenly slowed short and retracing his steps a bit, scooted up an alley so dark that it seemed that here, sun and moon had been in eclipse since the last glacier slipped roaring over the earth. Two hundred yards down he stopped and crammed himself into a niche in the wall where he huddled and panted silently, a grotesque god without bulk or outline in the gloom. Flowing boots, two pairs, drew near, came up, went by, halted twenty yards beyond him and spoke in deep lunged scanty whispers. I was attuned to that scuffle. Within twenty paces he's hid. Stay together now. We'll cut him up. The voice faded into a low crunch of a boot, nor did soft shoes wait to hear more. He sprang in three leaps across the alley where he bounded up, flapped for a moment on the top of the wall like a huge bird and disappeared, gulped down by the hungry knight at a mouthful. Section two. He read at wine. He read in bed. Loud had he the breath. His every thought was with the dead, and so he read himself to death. Any visitor to the old James the First graveyard near Peats Hill may spell out this bit of dogrel, undoubtedly one of the worst recorded of an Elizabethan, on the tomb of Wessel Caster. This death of his, says the antiquary, occurred when he was thirty-seven. But as this story is concerned with the night of a certain chase through darkness we find him still alive, still reading. His eyes were somewhat dim, his stomach somewhat obvious. He was a miss-built man, and indolent, oh heavens. But an era is an era, and in the reign of Elizabeth, by the grace of Luther, Queen of England, no man could help but catch the spirit of enthusiasm. Every loft in Cheapside published its magnumfolium, or magazine, of its new blank verse. The Cheapside players would produce anything on site and got away from those reactionary miracle plays. And the English Bible had run through seven very large printings in as many months. So Wessel Caster, who in his youth had gone to sea, was now a reader of all on which he could lay his hands. He read manuscripts in holy friendship. He dined rotten poets. He loitered about the shops where the magnifolia were printed, and he listened tolerantly while the young playwrights wrangled each other's backs made bitter and malicious charges of plagiarism, or anything else they could think of. Tonight he had a book, a piece of work which, though inordinately versed, contained he thought some rather excellent political satire. The Fairy Queen by Edmund Spencer lay before him under the tremulous candlelight. He had plowed through a canto. He was beginning another. The Legend of Brito Martis, or of Chastity. It falls me here to right of Chastity, the fairest virtue far above the rest. A sudden rush of feet on the stairs, a rusty swing open of the thin door, and a man thrust himself into the room, a man without a jerkin, panting, sobbing, on the verge of collapse. Wessel, words joked him, stick me away somewhere, love of our lady! Caster rose carefully closing his book and bolted the door in some concern. I pursued, cried out soft shoes. I vow there's two short-witted blades trying to make me into mincemeat and near succeeding. They saw me hop the back wall. It would need, said Wessel, looking at him curiously. Several battalions armed with blunderbuses and two or three armadas to keep you reasonably secure from the revenges of the world. Soft shoes smiled with satisfaction. His sobbing gasps were giving away to quick, precise breathing. His hunted air had faded to a faintly perturbed irony. I feel a little surprised, continued Wessel. They were two such dreary apes, making a total of three. Only two unless you stick me away. Man, man, come alive! They'll be on the stairs in a spark's age! Wessel took a dismantled pike-staff from the corner and, raising it to the high ceiling, dislodged a rough-trap door opening into a garret above. There's no ladder. He moved a bench under the trap upon which soft shoes mounted, crouched, hesitated, crouched again, and then leaped amazingly upward. He caught at the edge of the aperture and swung back and forth for a moment, shifting his hold, finally doubled up and disappeared into the darkness above. There was a scurry, a migration of rats as the trap door was replaced. Silence. Wessel returned to his reading-table, opened to the legend of Brito Martis or of Chastity, and waited. Almost a minute later there was a scramble on the stairs and an intolerable hammering at the door. Wessel sighed and, picking up his candle, rose. Who's there? Open the door! Who's there? An aching blow frightened the frail wood, splintering it around the edge. Wessel opened it as scarce three inches and held the candle high. His was to play the timorous, irrespectable citizen, disgracefully disturbed. One small hour of the night for rest is that too much to ask from every brawler and quiet gossip. Have you seen a perspiring fellow? The shadows of two gallants fell in immense wavering outlines over the narrow stairs. By the light, Wessel scrutinized them closely. Gentleman they were, hastily but richly dressed, one of them wounded severely in the hand, both radiating a sort of furious horror, waving aside Wessel's ready mis-comprehension they pushed by him into the room and, with their swords, went through the business of poking carefully into all suspected dark spots in the room, further extending their search to Wessel's bed-chamber. Is he hid here, demanded the wounded man fiercely? Is who here? Any man but you. Only two others that I know of. For a second, Wessel feared that he had been too damned funny for the gallants made as though to prick him through. I heard a man on the stairs, he said hastily, full five minutes ago it was. He most certainly failed to come up. He went on to explain his absorption in the fairy queen, but for the moment at least his visitors, like the great saints, were anesthetic to culture. What's been done, inquired Wessel? Violence said the man with the wounded hand. Wessel noticed that his eyes were quite wild. My own sister, oh, Christ in heaven, give us this man! Wessel winced. Who is the man? God's word, we know not even that. What's that trap up there, he added suddenly? It's nailed down, it's not been used for years. He thought of the pole in the corner and quailed in his belly, but the utter despair of the two men dulled their astuteness. It would take a ladder for anyone not a tumbler, said the wounded man listlessly. His companion broke into a hysterical laughter. A tumbler, oh, a tumbler, oh! Wessel stared at them in wonder. That appeals to my most tragic humor, cried the man, that no one, oh, no one could get up there but a tumbler. The gallant with the wounded hand snapped his good fingers impatiently. We must go next door, and then on. Helplessly they went as two walking under a dark and storm-swept sky. Wessel closed and bolted the door and stood a moment by it frowning and pity. A low breath, ha! made him look up. Soft shoes had already raised the trap and was looking down into the room. His rather elfish face squeezed into a grimace, half of distaste, half of sardonic amusement. They take their heads off with their helmets, he remarked in a whisper. But as for you and me, Wessel, we are two cunning men. Now you be cursed, cried Wessel vehemently. I knew you for a dog, but when I hear even half of a tale like this, I know you for such a dirty curve that I am minded to club your skull. Soft shoes stared at him, blinking. At all events, he replied finally, I find dignity impossible in this position. With this he let his body through the trap, hung for an instant, and dropped the seven feet to the floor. There was a rat considering my ear with the air of a gourmet. Today he continued, dusting his hands on his breeches. I told him in the rat's peculiar idiom that I was deadly poisoned, so he took himself off. Let's hear of this knight's lechery, insisted Wessel angrily. Soft shoes touched his thumb to his nose and wiggled the fingers derisively at Wessel. Street-gammon, muttered Wessel. Have you any paper demanded soft shoes irrelevantly and then rudely added, or can you write? Why should I give you paper? You wanted to hear of the knight's entertainment, so you shall, and you give me pen, ink, a sheaf of paper, and a room to myself. Wessel hesitated. Get out, he said finally. As you will, yet you have missed a most intriguing story. Wessel wavered. He was soft as taffy that man, gave in. Soft shoes went into the adjoining room with the begrudged writing materials and precisely closed the door. Wessel grunted and returned to the fairy queen, so silence came once more upon the house. Section 3 Three o'clock went into four. The room paled, the dark outside was shot through with damp and chill, and Wessel cupping his brain and his hands bent low over his table, tracing through the patterns of knights and fairies and the harrowing distresses of many girls. There were dragons chortling along the narrow street outside. When the sleepy armorer's boy began his work at half past five, the heavy clink and clank of plate and linked mail swelled to the echo of a marching cavalcade. A fog shut down at the first flare of dawn, and the room was grayish-yellow at six when Wessel tiptoed to his cupboard bed-chamber and pulled open the door. His guest turned on him a face pale as parchment in which two distraught eyes burned like great red letters. He had drawn a chair close to Wessel's Purdue, which he was using as a desk, and on it was an amazing stack of closely written pages. With a long sigh Wessel withdrew and returned to his siren, calling himself fool for not claiming his bed here at dawn. The dump of boots outside, the croaking of old bell-doms from attic to attic, the dull murmur of mourning unnerved him and dozing he slumped in his chair, his brain overladen with sound and color, working intolerably over the imagery that stacked it. In this restless dream of his, he was one of a thousand groaning bodies crushed near the sun, a helpless bridge for the strong-eyed Apollo. The dream tore at him, scraped along his mind like a ragged knife. When a hot hand touched his shoulder, he awoke with what was nearly a scream to find the fog thick in the room, and his guest a grey ghost of misty stuff beside him with a pile of paper in his hand. It should be a most intriguing tale. I believe, though, it requires some going over. May I ask you to lock it away, and in God's name let me sleep? He waited for no answer, but thrust the pile at Wessel and literally poured himself like stuff from a suddenly inverted bottle upon a couch in the corner, slept with his breathing regular, but his brow wrinkled in a curious and somewhat uncanny manner. Wessel yawned sleepily and glanced at the scrawled on certain first page. He began reading aloud, very softly. The rape of Lucretia, from the besieged Ardia all in post, borne by the trustless wings of false desire, lust-breathing Tarquin leaves the Roman host. End of Tarquin of Cheapside by F. Scott Fitzgerald Tombstones by Guy de Massapar. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and to find out how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Tombstones by Guy de Massapar. This recording is based upon the translation by Albert MC McMaster, A. E. Henderson, Madame Cassata, and others. The five friends had finished dinner, five men of the world, mature, rich, three married, two others bachelors. They met like this every month in memory of their youth, and after dinner they chatted until two in the morning, having remained intimate friends and enjoying each other's society. They probably considered these the pleasantest evenings of their lives. They talked on every subject, especially of what interested in amused Parisians, their conversation was, as in the majority of salons elsewhere, a verbal rehash of what they had read in the morning papers. One of the most lively of them was Joseph de Bardin, a celibate living the Parisian life in its fullest and most whimsical matter. He was not a debauchee nor depraved, but a singular happy fellow, still young, for he was scarcely forty, a man of the world in its widest and best sense, gifted with a brilliant but not profound mind, with much varied knowledge but no true area-edition, ready comprehension without true understanding. He drew from his observations, his adventures, from everything he saw, met with and found, anecdotes at once comical and philosophical, and made humorous remarks that gave him a great reputation for cleverness in society. He was the after-dinner speaker and had his own story each time, upon which they counted, and he talked without having to be coaxed. As he sat smoking, his elbows on the table, a small glass half full beside his plate, half torpid in an atmosphere of tobacco blended with steaming coffee, he seemed to be perfectly at home. He said between two whiffs, a curious thing happened to me some time ago. Tell it to us, they all exclaimed at once, with pleasure. You know that I wonder about Paris a great deal, like book collectors who ransack bookstalls. I just look at the sights and at the people and at all that is passing by and all that is going on. Toward the middle of September, it was beautiful weather. I went out one afternoon, not knowing where I was going. One always has a vague wish to call on some pretty woman or other. One chooses among them in one's metal picture gallery, compares them in one's mind, weighs the interest with which they inspire you, their comparative charms, and finally decides according to the influence of the day. But when the sun is very bright and the air warm, I light it a day from all you desire to make calls. The sun was bright, the air warm. I lighted a cigar and sauntered aimlessly along the outer boulevard. Then as I strolled on, it occurred to me to walk as far as Montmartre and to go into the cemetery. I am very fond of cemeteries. They rest me and give me a feeling of sadness. I need it. And besides, I have good friends in there. Those that one no longer goes to call on and I go there from time to time. It is in this cemetery of Montmartre that is buried a romance of my life, a sweetheart who made a great impression on me, a very emotional, charming little woman whose memory, although it causes me great sorrow, also fills me with regrets, regrets of all kinds. And I go to dream beside her grave she has finished with life. And then I like cemeteries because there are immense cities filled to overflowing with inhabitants. Think how many dead people there are in this small space. Think of all the generations of Parisians who are housed there forever, veritable troglodytes enclosed in their little vaults, in their little graves covered with a stone or marked by a cross. While living beings take up so much room and make so much noise, imbeciles that they are. Well, there I was in Montmartre Cemetery and was all at once filled with sadness. Sadness that is not all pain, a kind of sadness that makes you think when you are in good health. This place is not amusing, but my time has not yet come. The feeling of autumn, of the warm moisture which is redolent of the death of leaves, and the weakened, weary, anemic sun increased while rendering it poetical and the sensation of solitude and a finality that hovered over this spot which savers of human mortality. I walked along slowly amid these streets of tombs where the neighbors do not visit each other, do not sleep together or do not read the newspapers. And I began to read the epitaphs. That is the most amusing thing in the world. Never did Libos or Mediak make me laugh as I have laughed at the comical inscriptions on tombstones. Oh, how much superior to the books of Paul de Coq for getting rid of the spleen are these marble slabs and these crosses where the relatives of the deceased have unburdened their sorrow, their desires for the happiness of the vanished ones and their hope of rejoining them humbugs. But I love above all in the cemetery the deserted portion, solitary, full of great use and cypresses, the older portion, belonging to those dead long since, and which will soon be taken into use again the growing trees nourished by human corpses cut down in order to bury and rose beneath little slabs of marble, those who have died more recently. When I sauntered out long enough to refresh my mind I felt that I would soon have had enough of it, and that I must place the faithful homage of my remembrance of my little friend's last resting place. I felt a tightening of the heart as I reached her grave, poor dear, she was so dainty, so loving, and so white and fresh, and now if one should open the grave. Leaning over the iron grating I told her of my sorrow in a low tone, which she doubtless did not hear, and moving away when I saw a woman in black in deep mourning, kneeling next to a grave, her crepe veil was turned back and covering a pretty fair head, and the hair in Madonna bands looking like rays of dawn beneath her somber headdress I stayed. Surely she must be in profound grief, she had covered her face with her hands and, standing there in meditation rigid as a statue, gave up to her grief telling the sad rosary of her remembrances within the shadow of her concealed and closed eyes. She herself seemed like a dead person mourning another who was dead all at once a little motion of her back like a flutter of wind through a willow led me to suppose that she was going to cry. She wept softly at first, then louder with quick motions of her neck and shoulders suddenly she uncovered her eyes they were full of tears and charming the eyes of a bewildered woman with which she glanced about her as if weakening from a nightmare she looked at me, seemed abashed and hit her face completely with her hands then she sobbed convulsively and her head slowly bent down toward the marble. She leaned her forehead on it and her veil spreading around her covered the white corners of the beloved's tomb like a fresh token of mourning I heard her sigh and then she sank down with her cheek on the marble slab and remained there motionless unconscious I daunted toward her she slapped her hands, blew on her eyelids while I read this simple epitaph. Here lies Louis Theodore Carell captain of marine infantry killed by the enemy atong kin pray for him. He had died some months before. I was affected to tears and redoubled my attentions they were successful she regained consciousness I appeared very much moved I'm not bad looking, I'm not 40 I saw by her first glance she would be polite and grateful she was and amid more tears she told me her history in detached fragments as well as her gasping breath would allow how the officer was killed atong kin when they had been married a year how she had married for love being an orphan she had only the usual dowry I consoled her, I comforted her raised her and lifted her on her feet then I said do not stay here come I am unable to walk she murmured I will support you thank you sir you are good did you also come to mourn for someone yes madam dead friend yes madam your wife a friend one may love a friend as much as they love their wife love has no law yes madam and we set off together she leaning on my arm well I almost carried her along the path of the cemetery when we got outside she faltered I feel as if I'm going to be ill would you like to go in anywhere to take something yes monsieur I perceived a restaurant one of those places where the mourners of the dead go to celebrate the funeral you went in I made her drink a cup of hot tea which seemed to revive her a faint smile came to her lips she began to talk about herself it was sad so sad to be always alone in life alone in one's home night and day to have no one on whom one can still affection confidence, intimacy that sounded sincere sounded pretty from her mouth I was touched she was very young perhaps twenty I paid her compliments which she took in good part then as time was passing I suggested taking her home in a carriage she accepted and in the cab we sat so close that our shoulders touched when the cab stopped at her house she murmured I do not feel equal to going upstairs alone for I live on the fourth floor you have been so good but you let me put your arm as far as my own door I agreed with eagerness she ascended the stairs slowly breathing hard then as we stood at her door she said come in for a few moments so that I may thank you and by Jove I went in everything was modest even rather poor but simple and in good taste we sat down side by side on a little sofa and she began to talk again about her loneliness she rang for her maid in order to give me some wine the maid did not come I was delighted thinking that this maid probably came in the morning only what one calls a charwoman she had taken off her hat she was really pretty and she gazed at me with her clear eyes gazed so hard and her eyes were so clear that I was terribly tempted I caught her in my arms and rain kisses on her eyelids but she closed suddenly and asked me a way saying have done, have done but I next kissed her on the mouth and she did not resist and as our glances met after this out raging memory of the captain killed in Tonkin I saw she had a languid resigned expression that set my mind at rest I became very attentive and after chatting for some time I said where do you dine? in a little restaurant in the neighborhood you dine with me? where? in a good restaurant on the boulevard she demurred a little I insisted she yielded saying by way of apology to herself I am so lonely, so lonely then she added I must put on something less somber and went into her room when she reappeared she was dressed in a half morning charming, dainty, and slender in a very simple grey dress she evidently had a costume for the cemetery and one for the town enjoyable, she drank some champagne brightened up, grew lively and I went home with her this friendship begun amidst the tombs lasted about three weeks but one gets tired of everything especially of women I left her under pretext of an imperative journey she made me promise that I would come and see her on my return she seemed to be really rather attached to me other things occupied my attention and it was about a month before I thought much about this little cemetery friend I did not forget her the recollection of her haunted me like a mystery, like a psychological problem one of those inexplicable questions whose solution baffles us I do not know why but one day I thought I might possibly meet her in the mamatra cemetery and I went there I walked about a long time without meeting any but the ordinary visitors to this spot those who have not yet broken off all relations with their dead the grave of the captain killed atang kin there was no dinner on its marble slab no flowers, no wreath but as I wandered in another direction of this great city of the dead I perceived suddenly at the end of a narrow avenue of crosses a couple in deep mourning walking toward me a man and a woman oh horrors, as they approached I recognized her it was she she saw me, blushed as I brushed past her she gave me a little signal a tiny little signal with her eye which meant do not recognize me and also seemed to say come back to see me again, my dear the man was a gentleman distinguished, chic, an officer of the Legion of Honor about 50 years old he was supporting her as I supported her myself when we were leaving the cemetery I went my way filled with amazement asking myself what this all meant of what race of beings belong this huntress of the tombs was she just a common girl one who went to seek among the tombs for men who were in sorrow haunted by the recollection of some woman a wife or a sweetheart and still troubled by the memory of vanished caresses was she unique? are there many such? is it a profession? do they parade the cemetery as they parade the street? or else was she only impressed with the admirable, profoundly philosophical idea of exploiting loves recollections which are revived in these funeral places and I would have liked to know whose widow she was on that special day read by Roy Schreiber