 The African verdict from Leaves of Antiquity or the Poetry of the Hebrew Tradition by Johann Gottfried Herder, 1744 to 1803. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Alexander of Macedonia once entered into a neighboring and wealthy province of Africa. The inhabitants came forth to meet him, and brought him their robes filled with golden apples and fruits. "'Eat this fruit among yourselves,' said Alexander. "'Find that come to see your wealth, but to learn your customs.' They then conducted him to the market, where their king administered justice. A citizen just then came before him and said, "'I have bought of this man, O King, a sack full of shaft, and have found in it a secret treasure. The shaft is mine, but not the gold, and this man will not take it again. Command him, O King, that he receive it, for it is his own.' And his antagonist, a citizen also of the place, answered, "'Thou fearst to retain anything unjustly, and should not I also fear to receive such a thing from thee. I have sold thee the sack with all that was in it. Keep it, for it is thine. Command him, O King.' The king inquired of the first one, if he had a son. He answered, "'Yes,' he inquired of the other, if he had a daughter, and the same answer. Yes, was returned.' "'Well, then,' said the king, "'You are both just men. Marry your children to each other, and give them the discovered treasure as a marriage portion. That is my verdict.' Alexander was astonished when he heard this decision. "'Have I judged unjustly?' said the king of this remote country, that thou art thus astonished.' "'Not at all,' answered Alexander. But in our country they would have judged far otherwise. And how, then, would they have judged?' inquired the African king. "'Both parties would have lost their heads,' answered Alexander, and their treasure would have fallen into the hands of the king. Then the king clasped his hands together, and said, "'Does the sun then shine upon you, and do the heavens still shower their rain upon you?' Alexander replied, "'Yes.' "'It must then be,' continued the king, "'for the sake of the innocent beasts which live in your country, for upon such men no sun should shine, and no rain should fall.' End of THE AFRICAN VERDICT At first the road was smooth and level, there were no hills, and the man had many companions. They laughed with him and made merry, and there was no thought of the care. His pleasant life remembered the man. But even as he said the words he wondered half fearfully if it could last, if the country through which they passed would always be as pleasant. Gradually the way became harder. Quite often the man was compelled to pause for breath, for there were difficult places to get over, and when he turned for assistance to the companions who had laughed and gested with him but a little while before he found that they had passed just before calling distance. At least they seemed not to hear him, for they did not stop. But the way was not all hilly, and when he came to the smoother places the man hurried on faster than before, and catching up with his companions was welcomed by them, and they all made merry once more. The smoother places became rarer, however, and the man found himself alone many times, so one day he was joined by a new companion. He will be like the others, said the man bitterly. He will not stay with me, but the other heard him. Do not fear, he answered, I will stay with you, to the journey's end, I will never leave you. Nevertheless the man did not like his new companion. He was not like the others, he never gested and made merry, and after that first time he did not speak again. He was gaunt and thin, and was clothed in rags. But he stayed with the man when the others ran on ahead or lagged behind. One day when the man was wary, for there was no longer anyone to cheer him, and the way had become very hard. He plucked up courage to speak to his silent companion again. It is true you do not leave me, like the rest, he said. They all deserted me when they left the pleasant country. But I do not know you yet. If we must travel together, we should get better acquainted. Mine is not a pleasant name, and few care to know me better than necessity compels, answered the silent one. But had you waited a little longer, you would not have needed to ask. I am known by many names, but those who know me best call me poverty. The man picked himself up from where he had thrown himself to rest, and hurried on, trying to leave his companion behind. But the one in rags followed close, and when the man stumbled and fell, exhausted by his exertions, the other was just at his heels. And about this time the man noticed that the third way fairer had joined them. He could not see the newcomer's face, however, where he always kept a little way behind. And there seemed to be a kind of shroud-like hood over his head. There were no longer any easy stretches in the road, and the man moved slowly. Many times he stumbled and fell, and each time it was longer before he rose again. He wandered, but dared not ask the name of the new arrival, he had moved nearer, and was now but a few steps behind. At last the man came to be a part of the way more difficult than any before, and he lay down for a few minutes to rest. After a time he tried to go on, but could not. He was too weak, and his companion seemed to be conspiring to hold him back. He summoned all the strength, and made one last effort to go on. At first he seemed to advance a little, but the hand of the ragged one thrust him back. He stumbled, fell, rose again, and staggered on a few steps, then fell once more, and could not rise. This is the end, he heard the silent one saying, and I have kept my word, I am still with you. There was a sound of footsteps approaching stealthily, and the man opened his eyes with an effort. The companion who had always lagged behind was advancing swiftly, and the black hood was drawn away from his face. Painfully the man raised himself on his elbow and looked at the figure for a second, then fell back. How estranged that I did not know you before he muttered faintly, for he had seen the other's face and recognised that it was death. End of at the end of the road by Harle Orrin Cummings. Cooke Lane The Hound of Ulster by Eleanor Hull This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Chad Horner from Balli Clare in County Antrim, Northern Ireland, situated in the northeast of the island of Ireland. Cooke Lane The Hound of Ulster by Eleanor Hull Chapter 1 How Connor Became King of Ulster There was a great war between Connacht and Ulster. That is, between Connor, King of Ulster and Maeve, the pride and mighty Queen of Connacht. This was the cause of the war between them. When Connor was but a lad, his mother was a widow, and there was no thought that Connor would be king. For the King of Ulster at that time was Fergus MacRoy, a powerful and noble king, whom his people loved, and though Connor was of high rank and dignity, he stood not near the throne. But his mother, Ness, was ambitious for him, and she used all her arch to bring it about that he should be called to the throne of Ulster. Ness was a handsome woman and a woman of spirit, and in her youth she had been a warrior, and Fergus admired her, and she wrought upon him so that in the end he asked her to be his wife. She made it a condition that for one year Fergus would leave the sovereignty and that Connor should take his place. For, said she, I should like to have it, said that my son had been a king, and that his children should be called the descendants of a king. Fergus and the people of Ulster liked not her request, but she was firm, and Fergus all the more desired to marry her, because he found it not easy to get her, so at the last he gave way to her, and he resigned the kingdom for one year into the hands of Connor. But as soon as Connor was king, Ness set about to win away the hearts of the people of Ulster from Fergus, and to transfer them in their allegiance to Connor. She supplied her son with wealth, which he distributed secretly among the people, buying them over to his side, and she taught him how to act, so that he won over the nobles and the great men of the province. And when the year being out, Fergus demanded back the sovereignty, he found that the league formed against him was so strong that he could do nothing. The chief said that they liked Connor well, and that he was their friend, and they were not disposed to part with him. They said too that Fergus having abandoned the kingdom for a year, only to gain a wife, cared little for it, and had in fact resigned it, and they agreed that Fergus should keep his wife if he wished, but that the kingdom should pass to Connor, and Fergus was so wrath at this that he forsook his wife and went with a great host of his own followers into Connor, to take refuge with Queen Maeve and with Alil, her spouse. But he swore to be revenged upon Connor, and he waited only an opportunity to incite Maeve to gather her army together that he might try to win back the sovereignty, or at least to revenge the insult put upon him by Connor and by Ness. Now Fergus McRoy was of great stature, a mighty man, and a famous warrior, and his strength was that of a hundred heroes, and all men spoke of the sword of Fergus, which was so great and long that men said that it stretched like a rainbow, or like a weaver's beam, and that the head of his hosts was Cormac, the champion of the white corn of watching, a son of Connor who liked not the deed of his father, for he was young, and he had been one of the bodyguard of Fergus, and went with Fergus into exile to Connor, and that was called the Black Exile of Fergus McRoy. End of Chapter 1 How Connor Became King of Ulster by Eleanor Hull Farewell by Guy de Mopassant 1850-1893 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Peter Tomlinson The two friends were getting near the end of their dinner. Through the cafe windows, they could see the boulevard, crowded with people. They could feel the gentle breezes, which are wafted over Paris on warm summer evenings, and make you feel like going out somewhere. You cannot wear under the trees, and make you dream of moonlight rivers, of fireflies, and of larks. One of the two, Henry Seymour, heaved a deep sigh and said, Aha! I am growing old. It's sad. Formerly on evenings like this, I felt full of life. Now I only feel regrets. Life is short. He was perhaps forty-five years old, very bald and already growing stout. The other Pierre Carnier, a trifle older, but thin and lively, answered, Well, my boy, I have grown old without noticing it in the least. I've always been merry, healthy, vigorous, and all the rest. As one sees oneself in the mirror every day, one does not realise the work of age, for it is slow, regular, and it modifies the countenance so gently that the changes are unnoticeable. It is for this reason alone that we do not die of sorrow after two or three years of excitement, for we cannot understand the alterations which time produces. In order to appreciate them, one would have to remain six months without seeing one's own face. Then, oh, what a shock! And the women, my friend, how I pity the poor beings. All their joy, all their power, all their life lies in their beauty, which lasts ten years. As I said, I age without noticing it, I thought myself practically a youth when I was almost fifty years old. Not feeling the slightest infirmity, I went about happy and peaceful. The revelation of my decline came to me in a simple and terrible manner, which overwhelmed me for almost six months. Then I became resigned. Like all men, I've often been in love, but most especially once. I met her at the seashore at Etliat, about twelve years ago, shortly after the war. There is nothing prettier than this beach during the morning bathing hour. It is small, shaped like a horseshoe, framed by high white cliffs, which appears by strange holes called the port. One stretching out into the ocean, like the leg of a giant, the other short and dumpy. The women gather on the narrow strip of sand in this frame of high rocks, which they make into a gorgeous garden of beautiful gowns. The sun beats down on the shores, on the multicoloured parasols, on the blue-green sea, and all is gay, delightful, smiling. You sit down at the edge of the water, and you watch the vases. The women come down, wrapped in long bath robes, which they throw off daintily when they reach the foamy edge of the rippling waves, and they run into the water with a rapid little step, stopping from time to time for a delightful little thrill from the cold water, a short gasp. Very few stand the test of the bath. It is there that they can be judged, from the ankle to the throat. Especially on leaving the water are the defects revealed, although water is a powerful aid to flabby skin. The first time that I saw this young woman in the water I was delighted, entranced. She stood the test well. There are faces whose charms appeal to you at first glance and delight you instantly. You seem to have found the woman whom you were born to love. I had that feeling and that shock. I was introduced, and was soon smitten worse than I had ever been before. My heart longed for her. It is a terrible yet delightful thing, thus, to be dominated by a young woman. It is almost torture and yet infinite delight. Her look, her smile, her hair fluttering in the wind, the little lines of her face, the slightest movement of her features, delighted me, upset me, entranced me. She had captured me, body and soul, by her gestures, her manners, even by her clothes, which seemed to take on a peculiar charm as soon as she wore them. I grew tender at the sight of her veil, on some piece of furniture, her gloves thrown on a chair. Her gown seemed to me inimitable. Nobody has hats like hers. She was married, but her husband came only on Saturday, and left on Monday. I didn't concern myself about him, anyhow. I wasn't jealous of him. I don't know why. Never did a creature seem to me to be of less importance in life, to attract my attention less than this man. But she, how I loved her, how beautiful, graceful and young she was. She was youth, elegance, freshness itself. Never before had I felt so strongly what a pretty, distinguished, delicate, charming, graceful being woman is. Never before had I appreciated the seductive beauty to be found in the curve of a cheek, the movement of a lip, the pinkness of an ear, the shape of that foolish organ called the nose. This lasted three months. Then I left for America, overwhelmed with sadness. But her memory remained in me, persistent, triumphant. From far away I was as much hers as I had been when she was near me. Years passed by, and I did not forget her. The charming image of her person was ever before my eyes and in my heart. And my love remained true to her, a quiet tenderness now, something like the beloved memory of the most beautiful and the most enchanting thing I had ever met in my life. Twelve years are not much in a lifetime. One does not feel them slip by. The years follow each other gently and quickly, slowly yet rapidly. Each one is long and yet so soon over. They add up so rapidly. They leave so few traces behind them. They disappear so completely that, when one turns round to look back over bygone years, one sees nothing and yet one does not understand how one happens to be so old. It seemed to me, really, that hardly a few months separated me from that charming season on the sands of Etretat. Last spring I went to dine with some friends in Maison Lafay. Just as the train was leaving, a big fat lady escorted by four little girls got into my car. I hardly looked at this mother hen, very big, very round, with a face as full as the moon, framed in an enormous, be-ribboned hat. She was puffing out of restroom, having been forced to walk quickly. The children began to chatter. I unfolded my paper and began to read. We were just past as near as, when my neighbour suddenly turned to me and said, Excuse me, sir, but are you not Monsieur Garnier? Yes, madam. Then she began to laugh, the pleased laugh of a good woman, and yet it was sad. You do not seem to recognise me. I hesitated. It seemed to me that I had seen that face somewhere, but where, when? I answered, Yes and no. I certainly know you, and yet I cannot recall your name. She blushed a little. Madame Julie Lefevre. Never had I received such a shock. In a second it seemed to me as though it were all over with me. I felt that the veil had been torn from my eyes, and that I was going to make a horrible and heart-rending discovery. So that was she, that big, fat, common woman, she. She became the mother of these four girls since I had last seen her. And these little beings surprised me as much as their mother. They were part of her, they were big girls, and already had a place in life, whereas she no longer counted, she, that marvel of dainty and charming gracefulness. It seemed to me that I had seen her, but yesterday, and this is how I found her again. Was it possible? A poignant grief seized my heart, and also a revolt against nature herself, an unreasoning indignation against this brutal, nefarious act of destruction. I looked at her bewildered. Then I took her hand in mine, and tears came to my eyes. I wept for her lost youth, for I did not know this fat lady. She was also excited and stammered. I greatly changed, am I not? What can you expect? Everything has its time. You see, I have become a mother, nothing but a good mother. Farewell to the rest. That is over. Oh, who I never expected you to recognise me if we met. You, too, have changed. It took me quite a while to be sure that I was not mistaken. Your hair is all white. Just think. Twelve years ago. Twelve years. My oldest girl is already ten. I looked at the child, and I recognised in her something of her mother's old charm, but something as yet unformed, something which promised for the future. And life seemed to me as swift as a passing train. We had reached Maison-Lefitte. I kissed my old friend's hand. I had found nothing to utter but the most commonplace remarks. I was too much upset to talk. At night, alone, at home, I stood in front of the mirror for a long time, a very long time, and I finally remembered what I had been, finally saw in my mind's eye my brown moustache, my black hair, and the useful expression of my face. Now I was old. Farewell. End of Farewell by Guy de Maupassant Recording by Peter Tomlinson The Fillmore Elderberries by L. M. Montgomery, 1874 to 1942. This is a LibriVox Recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Peter Tomlinson. I expected as much, said Timothy Robinson. His tone brought the blood into Ellis Duncan's face. The lad opened his lips quickly, as if for an angry retort, but as quickly closed him again, with a set firmness, oddly like Timothy Robinson's own. When I heard that lazy, worthless father of yours was dead, I expected you and your mother would be looking to me for help. Timothy Robinson went on harshly, but you're mistaken if you think I'll give it. You've no claim on me, even if your father was my half-brother. No claim at all. And I'm not noted for charity. Timothy Robinson smiled grimly. It was very true that he was far from being noted for charity. His neighbours called him close and near. Some even went so far as to call him a miserly skin-flint. But this was not true. It was, however, undeniable that Timothy Robinson kept a tight clutch on his purse-strings. And although he sometimes gave liberally enough to any cause which really appealed to him, such causes were few and far between. I'm not asking for charity, Uncle Timothy, said Ellis quietly. He passed over the slur at his father in silence, deeply as he felt it, for alas, he knew that it was only too true. I expect to support my mother by heart and on his work, and I'm not asking you for work on the ground of our relationship. I heard you wanted a hired man, and I've come to you as I should have gone to any other man about whom I'd heard it, to ask you to hire me. Yes, I do want a man, said Uncle Timothy dryly. A man, not a half-grown boy of 14, not worth his thought. I want somebody able and willing to work. Again Ellis flushed deeply and again he controlled himself. I am willing to work, Uncle Timothy, and I think you would find me able also if you would try me. I'd work for less than a man's wage at first, of course. You won't work for any sort of wages from me, interrupted Timothy Robinson decidedly. I tell you plenty as I won't hire you. You're the wrong man's son for that. Your father was lazy and incompetent and, worst of all, untrustworthy. I did try to help him once, and all I got was loss and ingratitude. I want none of his kind around my place. I don't believe in you, so you may as well take yourself off Ellis. I have no more time to waste. Ellis took himself off, his ears tingling, and as he walked homeward his thoughts were very bitter. All Uncle Timothy had said about his father was true, and Ellis realised what a count it was against him in his efforts to attain employment. Nobody wanted to be bothered with old Sam Duncan's son, though nobody had been so brutally outspoken as his uncle Timothy. Sam Duncan and Timothy Robinson had been half-brothers. Sam, the older, had been the son of Mrs. Robinson's former marriage. Never were two lads more dissimilar. Sam was a lazy, shiftless fellow, deserving all the hard things that came to be said of him. He was not work and nobody could depend on him, but he was a handsome lad with rather taking ways in his youth, and at first people had liked him better than the close, blunt, industrious Timothy. Their mother had died in their childhood, but Mr. Robinson had been fond of Sam and the boy had a good home. When he was twenty-two and Timothy eighteen, Mr. Robinson had died very suddenly, leaving no will. Everything he possessed went to Timothy. Sam immediately left. He said he would not stay there to be bossed by Timothy. He rented a little house in the village, married a girl, far too good for him, and started in to support himself and his wife by day's work. He had lounged, borrowed, and shirked through life. Once Timothy Robinson, perhaps moved by pity for Sam's wife and baby, had hired him for a year at better wages than most hired men received in Dalrymple. Sam idled through a month of it, then got offended and left in the middle of haying. Timothy Robinson washed his hands of him after that. When Ellis was fourteen, Sam Duncan died after an ingrained illness of a year. During this time the family were kept by the charity of pitying neighbours, for Ellis could not be spared from attendance on his father to make any attempt at earning money. Mrs. Duncan was a fragile little woman, worn out with her hard life, and not strong enough to wait on her husband alone. When Sam Duncan was dead and buried, Ellis straightened his shoulders and took counsel with himself. He must earn a livelihood for his mother and himself, and he must begin at once. He was tall and strong for his age and had a fairly good education, his mother having determined he kept him at school when he had pleaded to be allowed to go to work. He had always been a quiet fellow, and nobody in Dalrymple knew much about him, but they knew all about his father and nobody would hire Ellis unless he were willing to work for a pittance that would barely clothe him. Ellis had not gone to his uncle Timothy until he had lost all hope of getting a place elsewhere. Now this hope too had gone. It was nearly the end of June and everybody who wanted help had secured it. Look where he would, Ellis could see no prospect of employment. If I could only get a chance, he thought miserably, I know I am not idle or lazy, I know I can work if I could get a chance to prove it. He was sitting on the fence at the Fillmore elderbury pasture, as he said it, having taken a short cut across the fields. This pasture was rather noted in Dalrymple. Originally a mellow and fertile field had been almost ruined by a persistent, luxuriant growth of elderbury bushes. Old Thomas Fillmore had at first tried to conquer them by mowing them down in the dark of the moon, but the elderbridge did not seem to mind either moon or mowing, and flourished alike in all the quarters. For the past two years old Thomas had given up the contest, and the elderburys had it all their own sweet way. Thomas Fillmore, a bent old man with a shrewd nutcracker face, came through the bushes while Ellis was sitting on the fence. Howdy Ellis, seen anything of my spotted calves? I've been looking for him for over an hour. No, I haven't seen any calves, but a good many might be in this pasture without being visible to the naked eye, said Ellis with a smile. Old Thomas shook his head ruefully. Them elders have been too many for me, he said. Did you ever see a worse-looking place? You'd hardly believe that twenty years ago there wasn't a better piece of land in Dalrymple than this lot, would ye? Such grass has grew here. The soil must be as good as ever if anything had a chance to grow on it, said Ellis. Couldn't those elders be rooted out? It would be a back-breaking job, but I reckon it could be done if anyone had the muscle and patience and time to tackle it. I haven't the first at my age, and my hired man hasn't the last, and nobody would do it for what I could afford to pay. What would you give me if I had to take to clean the elders out of this field for you, Mr. Fillmore? asked Ellis quietly. Old Thomas looked at him with a surprised face, which gradually reverted to its original shrewdness when he saw that Ellis was in earnest. You must be hard up for a job, he said. I am, was Ellis's laconic answer. Well, let me see. Old Thomas calculated carefully. He never paid a cent more for anything than he could help, and was noted for hard bargaining. I'll give ye sixteen dollars if you clean out the whole field, he said at length. Ellis looked at the pasture. He knew something about cleaning out elderberry brush, and he also knew that sixteen dollars would be very poor pay for it. Most of the elders were higher than a man's head, with big roots, thicker than his wrist, running deep into the ground. It's worth more, Mr. Fillmore, he said. Not to me, responded Old Thomas dryly. I've plenty more land, and I'm an old fellow without any sons. I ain't going to pay out money for the benefit of some stranger who'll come after me. You can take it or leave it at sixteen dollars. Ellis shrugged his shoulders. He had no prospect of anything else, and sixteen dollars were better than nothing. Very well, I'll take it, he said. Well, now look here, said Old Thomas shrewdly. I'll expect you to do the work thoroughly, young man. Them roots ain't to be cut off, remember, they'll have to be dug out. And I expect you to finish the job if you undertake it too, and not drop it halfway through if you get a chance for a better one. I'll finish with your elderberries before I leave them, promised Ellis. Ellis went to work the next day. His first move was to chop down all the brush and cart it into heaps for burning. This took two days, and was comparatively easy work. The third day, Ellis tackled the roots. By the end of the four noon he had discovered just what cleaning out an elderberry pasture meant, but he set his teeth and resolutely persevered. During the afternoon, Timothy Robinson, whose farmer joined the Fillmore place, wandered by and halted with a look of astonishment at the sight of Ellis, busily engaged in digging and tearing out huge, tough, stubborn elder roots. The boy did not see his uncle, but worked away with a vim and vigor that were not lost on the latter. He never got that muscle from Sam, reflected Timothy. Sam would have fainted at the mere thought of stumping elders. Perhaps I've been mistaken in the boy. Well, well, we'll see if he holds out. Ellis did hold out. The elderberries tried to hold out too, but they were no match for the large perseverance. It was a hard piece of work, however, and Ellis never forgot it. Week after week he tore in the hot summer sun, digging, cutting and dragging out roots. The job seemed endless, and his progress each day was discouragingly slow. He had expected to get through in a month, but he soon found it would take two. Frequently Timothy Robinson wandered by and looked at the increasing pile of roots and the slowly extending stretch of cleared land. But he never spoke to Ellis and made no comment on the matter to anybody. One evening when the fill was about half done, Ellis went home more than usually tired. It had been a very hot day. Every boner muscle in he made, he wondered dismally if he would ever get to the end of that wretched elderberry field. When he reached home, Jacob Green from Westdale was there. Jacob lost no time in announcing his errand. My hired boys broke his leg and I must fill his place right off. Somebody referred me to you. Guess I'll try you. Twelve dollars a month, bored and lodging. What say? For a moment Ellis's face flushed with delight. Twelve dollars a month and permanent employment. Then he remembered his promise to Mr. Fulmore. For a moment he struggled with the temptation. Then he mastered it. Perhaps a discipline of his many encounters with those elderberry roots helped him to do so. I'm sorry, Mr. Green, he said reluctantly. I'd like to go, but I can't. I promised Mr. Fulmore that I'd finish cleaning up his elderberry pasture when I'd once begun it, and I shan't be through for a month yet. Well, I'd see myself turning down a good offer for old Tom Fulmore, said Jacob Green. It isn't for Mr. Fulmore. It's for myself, said Ellis steadily. I promised and I must keep my word. Jacob drove away grumblingly. On the road he met Timothy Robinson and stopped to relate his grievances. It must be admitted that there were times during the next month when Ellis was tempted to repent having refused Jacob Green's offer. By the end of the month the work was done and the Fulmore elderberry pasture was an elderberry pasture no longer. All that remained of the elder's root and branch was piled in a huge heap ready for burning. And I'll come up and set fire to it when it's dry enough, Ellis told Mr. Fulmore. I claim the satisfaction of that. You've done the job thoroughly, said old Thomas. There's your sixteen dollars and every cent of it was earned. If ever money was, I'll say that much for you. There ain't a lazy bone in your body. If you ever want a recommendation, just you come to me. As Ellis passed Timothy Robinson's place on the way home, that worthy himself appeared, strolling down his lane. Ah, Ellis, he said, speaking to his nephew for the first time since their interview two months before. So you've finished with your job. Yes, sir. Got your sixteen dollars, I suppose. It was worth four times that. Oh, Tom cheated you. You were foolish not to have gone to Green when you had the chance. I'd promised Mr. Fulmore to finish with his pasture, sir. Well, what are you going to do now? I don't know. Harvest will be on next week. I may get in somewhere as an extra hand for a spell. Ellis, said his uncle abruptly after a moment's silence. I'm going to discharge my man. He's no earthly good. Will you take his place? I'll give you fifteen dollars a month and found. Ellis stared at Timothy Robinson. I thought you told me you had no place for my father's son, he said slowly. I've changed my mind. I've seen how you went at that elderberry job. Great snakes. There couldn't be a better test for anybody than rooting out them things. I know you can work. When Jacob Green told me why you'd refused his offer, I knew you could be depended on. You come to me and I'll do well by you. I have no kith or kin of my own except you. And look here, Ellis. I'm tired of hired housekeepers. Will your mother come up and live with us and look after things a bit? I have a good girl and she won't have to work hard. But there must be somebody at the head of a household. She must have a good headpiece, for you have inherited good qualities from someone, and goodness knows it wasn't from your father. Uncle Timothy, said Ellis respectfully but firmly, I'll accept your offer gratefully and I'm sure mother will too. But there is one thing I must say, perhaps my father deserved all you say of him, but he is dead and if I come to you it must be with the understanding that nothing more is ever to be said against him. Timothy Robinson smiled, a queer twisted smile that yet had a hint of affection and comprehension in it. Very well, he said, I'll never cast his shortcomings up to you again. Come to me, and if I find you always as industrious and reliable as you prove yourself to be negotiating them elders, I'll most likely forget that you ate my own son, some of these days. End of the Film War Elderberries by L. M. Montgomery Recording by Peter Tomlinson This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Chad Horner from Ballycler in County Antrim Northern Ireland, situated in the northeast of the island of Ireland. The Genius by Theodore Dreiser Book 1 Chapter 3 Eugene grew more and more middy, and rather restless, under Stella's increasing independence. She grew steadily more indifferent because of his moods. The fact that other boys were crazy for her consideration was a great factor. The fact that one particular boy, Harvey Rutter, was persistently genial, not insistent. Really better looking than Eugene, and much better tempered, helped a great deal. Eugene saw her with him now and then, saw her go skating with him, or at least with a crowd of which he was a member. Eugene hated him heartily. He hated her at times for not yielding to him wholly, but he was nonetheless wild over her beauty. It stamped his brain with a type or ideal. Thereafter he knew, in a really definite way, what womanhood ought to be, to be really beautiful. Another thing it did was to bring home to him a sense of his position in the world. So far he had always been dependent on his parents for food, clothes, and spending money, and his parents were not very liberal. He knew other boys who had money to run up to Chicago or down to Springfield. The latter was newer. To have a Saturday and Sunday dark, no such ghetties were for him. His father would not allow it, or rather would not pay for it. There were other boys who, in consequence of Ampley, provided spending money were in the town dandies. He saw them kicking their heels outside the corner bookstore, the principal loafing place of the elite, on Wednesdays and Saturdays, and sometimes on Sunday evenings, preparatory to going somewhere, dressed in a luxury of clothing, which was beyond his wildest dreams. Ted Martinwood, the son of the principal dry goodsman, had a frock coat in which he sometimes appeared when he came down to the barbershop for a shave before he went to call on his girl. George Anderson was possessed of a dressuit and wore dancing pumps and all dances. There was Ed Waterbury, who was known to have a horse and runabout of his own. These youths were slightly older and were interested in girls of a slightly older set, but the point was the same. These things hurt him. He himself had no avenue of progress, which, so far as he could see, was going to bring him to any financial prosperity. His father was never going to be rich. Anybody could see that. He himself had no practical progress in schoolwork. He knew that. He hated insurance, soliciting or writing. Despised the sewing machine business and did not know where he would get with anything which he might like to do in literature or art, his drawing seemed a joke, his writing or wish for writing pointless. He was brutally unhappy. One day Williams, who had been watching him for a long time, stopped at his desk. I say, Whitla, why don't you go to Chicago? He said, there's a lot more up there for a boy like you than down here. You'll never get anywhere working on a country newspaper. I know it, said Eugene. Now, with me, it's different when I'm Williams. I've had my rhymes. I've got a wife and three children, and when a man's got a family, he can't afford to take chances. But you're young yet. Why don't you go to Chicago and get a paper? You could get something. What could I get, asked Eugene? Well, you might get a job as typesetter if you'd joined the union. I don't know how good you'd be. As a reporter, I hardly think that's your line. But you might study art and learn to draw. Newspaper artists make good money. Eugene thought of his art. It wasn't much. He didn't do much with it. Still, he thought of Chicago. The world appealed to him. If he could only get out of here, if he could only make more than $7 or $8 a week, he brood it about this. One Sunday afternoon, he and Stella went with Myrtle to Sylvia's home. And after a brief stay, Stella announced that she would have to be going. Her mother would be expecting her back. Myrtle was forgoing with her. But altered her mind when Sylvia asked her to stay to tea. Let Eugene take her home, Sylvia said. Eugene was delighted in his persistent, hopeless way. He was not yet convinced that she could not be one to love. When they talked out in the fresh, sweet air, it was nearing spring. He felt that now he should have a chance of saying something which would be winning, which would lure her to him. They went out on a street next to the one she lived on quite to the confines of the town. She wanted to turn off at her street, but he had urged her not to. Do you have to go home just yet? He asked pleadingly. No, I can walk a little way. She replied. They reached a vacant place, the last house a little distance, back talking idly. It was getting hard to make talk. In his efforts to be entertaining, he picked up three twigs to show her how a certain trick embalancing was performed. It consisted in laying two at right angles with each other and with a third using the latter as an upright. She could not do it, of course. She was not really very much interested. He wanted her to try, and when she did, took hold of her right hand to steady her efforts. No don't, she said, drawing her hand away. I can do it. She stifled with the twigs unsuccessfully and was about to let them fall. When he took hold of both her hands, it was so sudden that she could not free herself. And so she looked him straight in the eye. Let go, Eugene, please let go. He shook his head, gazing at her. Please let go, she went on. You mustn't do this. I don't want you to. Why? Because. Because why? Well, because I don't. Don't you like me any more, Stella? Really? he asked. I don't think I do, not that way. But you did. I thought I did. Have you changed your mind? Yes, I think I have. He dropped her hands and looked at her fixedly and dramatically. The attitude did not appeal to her. They strolled back to the street and when they neared her door, he said, Well, I suppose there's no use in my coming to see you anymore. I think you'd better not, she said simply. She walked in, never looking back, and instead of going back to his sisters, he went home. He was in a very gloomy mood, and after sitting around for a while, went to his room. The night fell and he sat there looking out at the trees and grieving about what he had lost. Perhaps he was not good enough for her. He could not make her love him. Was it that he was not handsome enough? He did not really consider himself good looking, or what was it, a lack of courage or strength? After a time, he noticed that the moon was hanging over the trees, like a bright shield in the sky. Two layers of thin clouds were moving in different directions on different levels. He stopped in his cogitations to think where these clouds came from. On sunny days, when there were great arcacies of them, he had seen them disappear before his eyes, and then marvel of marvels reappear out of nothingness. The first time he ever saw this, it astonished him greatly, for he had never known up to them what clouds were. Afterward, he read about them in his physical geography. Tonight, he thought of that, and of the great plains over which these winds swept, and of the grass and trees, great forests of them, miles and miles. What a wonderful world, poets wrote about these things, Longfellow and Byron and Tennyson. He thought of Thanatopsis and of the Elegy, both of which he admired greatly. What was this thing, life? Then he came back to Stella with an ache. She was actually gone, and she was so beautiful. She would never really talk to him anymore. He would never get to hold her hand or kiss her. He clenched his hands with the hurt. Oh, that night on the ice, that night in the sleigh, how wonderful they were. Finally, he undressed and went to bed. He wanted to be alone, to be lonely. On his clean white pillow, he lay and dreamed of the things that might have been kisses, caresses, a thousand joys. On Sunday afternoon, he was lying in his hammock, thinking, thinking of what a dreary place Alexandria was. Anyhow, when he opened a Chicago Saturday afternoon paper, which was something like a Sunday one, because it had no Sunday edition, and went glimly through it. It was, as he had always found, full of a subtle wonder. The wonder of the city, which drew him like a magnet. Here was the drawing of a big hotel someone was going to build. There was a sketch of a great pianist who was coming to play, an account of a new comedy drama of a little romantic section of Guss Island in the Chicago River, with its old decayed boats turned into houses and geese waddling about. An item of a man falling through a coal hole on South Holstead Street fascinated at him. This last was at sixty-two hundred, and something, and the idea of such a long street seized on his imagination. What a tremendous city Chicago must be. The thought of car lines, crowds, trains, came to him with almost a yearning, a pale. All at once the magnet got him. It gripped his very soul, this wonder, this beauty, this life. I'm going to Chicago, he thought, and got up. There was his nice, quiet little home laid out before him, inside where his mother, his father, myrtle. Still he was going. He could come back. Sure I can come back, he thought, propelled by this magnetic power. He went in and upstairs to his room, and got a little grip of, per month, too, he had. He put in it the things he thought he would immediately need. In his pocket were nine dollars, money he had been saving for some time. Finally he came downstairs and stood in the door of the sitting room. What's the matter? Asked his mother, looking at his solemn introspective face. I'm going to Chicago, he said. When, she asked, astonished, a little uncertain of just what he meant. Today, he said. No, you're joking. She smiled, unbelievably. This was a boyish prank. I'm going today, he said. I'm going to catch that four o'clock train. Her face saddened. You're not, she said. I can come back, he replied, if I want to. I want to get something else to do. His father came in at this time. He had a little workroom out in the barn, where he sometimes cleaned machines and repaired vehicles. He was fresh from such a task now. What's up, he asked, seeing his wife close to her boy. Eugene's going to Chicago. Since when, he inquired amusedly. Today, he says he's going right now. He don't mean it, said Whitley, astonished. He really did not believe it. Why don't you take a little time and think it over? What are you going to live on? I'll live, said Eugene. I'm going. I've had enough of this place. I'm going to get out. All right, said his father, who, after all, believed in initiative. Evidently, after all, he hadn't quite understood this boy. Got your trunk packed? No, but mother can send me that. Don't go today, played at his mother. Wait until you get something ready, Eugene. Wait and do a little thinking about it. Wait until tomorrow. I want to go today, ma. He slipped his arm around her, little ma. He was bigger than she, but now he's still growing. All right, Eugene, she said softly. But I wish you wouldn't. Her boy was leaving her. Her heart was hurt. I can come back, ma. It's only a hundred miles. Well, all right, she said finally. Trying to brighten up, hike your bag. I have already. She went to look. Well, it'll soon be time, said Whitla. He was thinking that Eugene might back down. I'm sorry. Still, it may be a good thing for you. You're always welcome here, you know. I know, said Eugene. They went finally to the train together. He and his father are myrtle. His mother couldn't. She stayed to cry. On the way to the depot, they stopped at Sylveus. Why, Eugene, she exclaimed. However, Dicholus, don't go. He said, said Whitla. Eugene finally got this. He seemed to be fighting love, home ties, everything. Every step of the way. Finally, he reached the depot. The train came. Whitla grabbed his hand affectionately. Be a good boy, he said, swallowing a gulp. Myrtle kissed him. You're so funny, Eugene. Right me. I will. He stepped on the train. The bell rang. Out the cars rolled. Out and on. He looked out on the familiar scenes, and then a real ache came to him. Stella, his mother, his father, Myrtle, the little home. They were all going out of his life. He half-growned, clearing his throat. Gee! And then he sank back and tried, as usual, not to think. He must succeed. That's what the world was made for. That was what he was made for. That was what he would have to do. End of book one, chapter three, by Theodore Dreiser. You'll Raise Flower Pot, by J. M. Barry. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Colleen McMahon. I charge Gilray's unreasonable-ness to his ignoble passion for cigarettes, and the story of his flower pot has, therefore, an obvious moral. The want of dignity he displayed about that flower pot on his return to London would have made anyone sorry for him. I had my own work to look after, and really could not be tending his chrysanthemum all day. After he came back, however, there was no reasoning with him, and I admit that I never did water his plant, though always intending to do so. The great mistake was in not leaving the flower pot in charge of William John. No doubt I readily promised to attend to it, but Gilray deceived me by speaking as if the watering of a plant was the nearest pastime. He had to leave London for a short provincial tour, and, as I see now, took advantage of my good nature. As Gilray had owned his flower pot for several months, during which time I take him at his word, he had watered it daily. He must have known he was misleading me. He said that you got into the way of watering a flower pot regularly, just as you wind up your watch. That certainly is not the case. I always wind up my watch, and I never watered the flower pot. Of course, if I had been living in Gilray's rooms with the thing always before my eyes, I might have done so. I proposed to take it into my chambers at the time, but he would not hear of that. Why? How Gilray came by this chrysanthemum I do not inquire, but whether in the circumstances he should not have made a clean breast of it to me is another matter. Undoubtedly, it was an unusual thing to put a man to the trouble of watering a chrysanthemum daily without giving him its history. My own belief has always been that he got it in exchange for a pair of boots and his old dressing gown. He hints that it was a present, but as one who knows him well, I may say that he is the last person a lady would be likely to give a chrysanthemum to. Besides, if he was so proud of the plant, he should have stayed at home and watered it himself. He says that I never meant to water it, which is not only a mistake but unkind. My plan was to run downstairs immediately after dinner every evening and give it a thorough watering. One thing or another, however, came in the way. I often remembered about the chrysanthemum when I was in the office, but even Gilray could hardly have expected me to ask leave of absence merely to run home and water his plant. You must draw the line somewhere, even in a government office. When I reached home, I was tired, inclined to take things easily and not at all in a proper condition for watering flower pots. Then Arcadians would drop in. I put it to any sensible man or woman. Could I have been expected to give up my friends for the sake of a chrysanthemum? Again, it was my custom of an evening, if not disturbed, to retire with my pipe into my cane chair, and there past the hours communing with great minds, or when the mood was on me trifling with a novel. Often when I was in the middle of a chapter, Gilray's flower pots stood up before my eyes crying for water. He does not believe this, but it is the solemn truth. At those moments it was touch and go whether I watered his chrysanthemum or not. Where I lost myself was in not hurrying to his rooms at once with a tumbler. I said to myself that I would go when I had finished my pipe, but by that time the flower pot has escaped my memory. This may have been weakness. All I know is that I should have saved myself much annoyance if I had risen and watered the chrysanthemum there and then. But would it not have been rather hard on me to have had to forsake my books for the sake of Gilray's flowers and flower pots and plants and things? What right has a man to go and make a garden of his chambers? All the three weeks he was away, Gilray kept pestering me with letters about his chrysanthemum. He seemed to have no faith in me, a detestable thing in a man who calls himself your friend. I had promised to water his flower pot, and between friends a promise is surely sufficient. It is not so, however, when Gilray is one of them. I soon hated the sight of my name in his handwriting. It was not as if he said outright that he wrote entirely to know whether I was watering his plant. His references to it were introduced with all the appearance of afterthoughts. Often they took the form of post-scripts. By the way, are you watering my chrysanthemum? Or the chrysanthemum ought to be a beauty by this time. Or you must be quite in a depth now at watering plants. Gilray declares now that in answer to one of these ingenious epistles, I wrote to him saying I had just been watering his chrysanthemum. My belief is that I did no such thing. Or if I did, I meant to water it as soon as I'd finished my letter. He has never been able to bring this home to me, he says, because he burned my correspondence. As if a businessman would destroy such a letter. It was yet more annoying when Gilray took to postcards, to hear the postman's knock and then discover when you are expecting an important communication, that it is only a postcard about a flower pot. That is really too bad. And then I consider that some of the postcards bordered upon insult. One of them said, what about chrysanthemum? Reply it once. This was just like Gilray's overbearing way, but I answered politely and so far as I know truthfully chrysanthemum all right. Knowing that there was no explaining things to Gilray, I redoubled my exertions to water his flower pot as the day for his return drew near. Once, indeed, when I rang for water, I could not for the life of me remember what I wanted it for when it was brought. Had I had any forethought, I should have left the tumbler stand, just as it was, to show Gilray on his return. But unfortunately, William John had misunderstood what I wanted the water for, and put a decanter down beside it. Another time I was actually on the stair rushing to Gilray's door when I met the housekeeper, and stopping to talk to her lost my opportunity again. To show how honestly anxious I was to fulfill my promise, I need only add that I was several times awakened in the watches of the night by a haunting consciousness that I had forgotten to water Gilray's flower pot. On these occasions, I spared no trouble to remember again in the morning. I reached out of bed to a chair and turned it upside down, so that the sight of it when I rose might remind me that I had something to do. With the same object, I crossed the tongs and poker on the floor. Gilray maintains that instead of playing fool's tricks like these, fool's tricks, I should have got up and gone at once to his rooms with my water bottle. What, and disturbed my neighbors? Besides, could I reasonably be expected to risk catching my death of cold for the sake of a wretched chrysanthemum? One reads of men doing such things for young ladies who seek lilies in dangerous ponds, or edelweiss on overhanging cliffs. But Gilray was not my sweetheart, nor I feel certain any other persons. I come now to the day prior to Gilray's return. I had just reached the office when I remembered about the chrysanthemum. It was my last chance. If I watered it once, I should be in a position to state that whatever condition it might be in, I had certainly been watering it. I jumped into a handsome, told the cabbie to drive to the inn, and twenty minutes afterwards had one hand on Gilray's door, while the other held the largest water can in the house. Opening the door, I rushed in. The can nearly fell from my hand. There was no flower pot. I rang the bell. Mr. Gilray's chrysanthemum, I cried. What do you think William John said? He coolly told me that the plant was dead and had been flung out days ago. I went to the theatre that night to keep myself from thinking. All next day I can try to remain out of Gilray's sight. When we met, he was stiff and polite. He did not say a word about the chrysanthemum for a week, and then it all came out with a rush. I let him talk. With servants flinging out the flower pots faster than I could water them, what more could I have done? A coolness between us was inevitable. This I regretted, but my mind was made up on one point. I would never do Gilray a favour again. End of Gilray's Flower Pot by J. M. Barry Recording by Colleen McMahon The Goatherd from Scandinavian and North German Tales This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org The Goatherd Footnote The story which suggested to Washington Irving the legend of Happy Hollow Rip Van Winkle End Footnote Peter Klaus, a Goatherd from Sittendorf, who led his herd to pasture on the Keifhauser, was accustomed in the evening to stop and let them rest in a place enclosed by old walls, and there to count them. He had observed for several days that one of his finest goats, as soon as they came to this place, disappeared and did not follow the herd till quite late. He watched it more closely, and saw that it crept through a rent in the wall. He followed and found it in a cave comfortably enjoying some oats, which were falling from the roof. He looked up at seeing the rain of oats, but with all his peering was unable to solve the mystery. At length he heard the naan and stamping of horses overhead, from whose cribs the oats must have fallen. While the Goatherd was thus standing, lost in astonishment at hearing the sound of horses in such an uninhabited mountain, a young man suddenly appeared who silently beckoned Peter to follow him. The Goatherd ascended some steps and came through a walled courtyard to a deep dell, enclosed by steep craggy precipices, down into which a dim light penetrated through the dense foliage of the overhanging branches. Here he found on a well-leveled, cool grass plot, twelve grave nightly personages playing at skittles, not one of them uttering a word. Peter was silently directed to set up the fallen skittles. He began his task with trembling knees, when with a stolen glance he viewed the long beards and slashed doublets of the noble knights. By degrees, however, use made him bolder. He gazed around him with a more observing eye, and at length ventured to drink from a can that stood near him, the wine in which exhaled towards him a delicious fragrance. He felt as if inspired with new life, and as often as he was fatigued he drew fresh strength from the inexhaustible wine can, but at length he was overpowered by sleep. When he awoke he found himself again on the enclosed plain, where his goats had been accustomed to rest. He rubbed his eyes, but could see neither dog nor goats. He was astonished at the height of the grass, and at the sight of shrubs and trees which he had never before observed. Shaking his head he walked on through all the ways and paths along which he had been in the daily habit of wandering with his herd, but nowhere could he find a trace of his goats. At his feet he saw Sitendorf, and with quicken steps began to descend the mountain for the purpose of inquiring in the village after his herd. The people he met coming from the village were all strangers to him, and differently clad, and did not even speak like his acquaintances. Everyone stared at him when he inquired after his goats, and stroked their chins. He unconsciously did the same, and found to his astonishment that his beard was more than a foot long. He began to think that both himself and all around were bewitched. Nevertheless he recognized the mountain he had just ascended as the Keifhauser. The houses also, with their gardens, were familiar to him. Some boys, too, when asked by a traveller the name of the place, answered, Sitendorf. He now walked up the village towards his own hut. He found it in a very runous condition. Before it lay a strange herd boy in a ragged jacket, and by him a half-famished dog which showed its teeth and snarled when he called to it. He passed through an opening where once had been a door. When he entered he found all void and desolate. Like a drunken man he wheeled out at the back door, calling on wife and children by name. But no one heard, no voice answered. Soon many women and children collected round the old gray beard, all eagerly asking him what he sought. To ask before his own house after his wife and children, or after himself, appear to him so extraordinary that in order to get rid of his questioners he named the first one that recurred to his memory, Kurt Steffen. All were now silent, and looked at each other. At length an aged woman said, For more than twelve years he has dwelt under the Sassenberg, but you will not get so far today. Where is Veltar Meyer? God be merciful to him, answered an old crone, leaning on her crutches. For more than fifteen years he has lain in that house, which he will never leave. Shuddering he now recognized a neighbor, though, as it seemed to him, grown suddenly old. But he had lost all desire to make further inquiries. There now pressed forward through the inquisitive crowd a young comely woman, with a boy in her arms about a year old, and a little fellow of four years holding by her hand. They were all three, the image of his wife. What is your name? asked he with astonishment. Maria, and your fathers. God be merciful to him, Peter Kloss. It was now twenty years and more that we searched for him a whole day and night upon the Kifehauser, the herd having come back without him. I was then seven years old. No longer could the goat herd dissemble. I am Peter Kloss, he exclaimed, and no other, taking the boy out of his daughter's arms. Everyone stood as if petrified. Until first one voice and then another exclaimed, Yes, this is Peter Kloss. Welcome, neighbor, welcome, after twenty years. And of the goat herd, from Scandinavian and North German Tales. In the marketplace, and each will turn upon his neighbor anxious eyes that ask, aren't they the man we hunted came some centuries ago across the world that bred the fear our own mistakes maintain today, vibrates, moralities. Shakespeare says something about worms, or it may be giants or beetles, turning if you tread on them too severely. The safest plan is never to tread on a worm, not even on the last new subaltern from whom, with his buttons hardly out of their tissue paper, and the red of sappy English beef in his cheeks. This is the story of the worm that turned. For the sake of brevity, we will call Henry Augustus Ramsey Vizane the worm, although he really was an exceedingly pretty boy without a hair on his face, and with a waist like a girl's when he came out to the second chicarus, and was made unhappy in several ways, the chicarus or a high cast regiment, and you must be able to do things well, play a banjo or ride more than a little or sing or act to get on with them. The worm did nothing except fall off his pony and not chips out of gate posts with his trap, even that became monotonous after a time. He objected to West cut the cloth at billiards, sang out of chin, kept very much to himself, and wrote to his mama and sisters at home. Four of these five things were vices, which the chicarus objected to and set themselves to eradicate. Everyone knows how subalterns are, by brother subalterns, softened and not permitted to be ferocious. It is good and wholesome, and has no harm unless tempers are lost, and then there is trouble. There was a man once, but that is another story. The chicarus, chicard, the worm very much, and he bore everything without winking. He was so good and so anxious to learn, and flushed so pink, that his education was cut short, and he was left to his own devices by everyone except the senior subaltern, who continued to make life a burden to the worm. The senior subaltern meant no harm, but his chaff was coarse and he didn't quite understand where to stop. He had been waiting too long for his company, and that always sars a man. Also he was in love, which made him worse. One day after he had borrowed the worm's trap for a lady who never existed, had used it himself all the afternoon, had sent a note to the worm purporting to come from the lady, and was telling the mess all about it. The worm rose in his place and said in his quiet ladylike voice, that was a very pretty cell, but I'll lay you a month's pay, to a month's pay when you get your step, that I work a cell on you that you'll remember for the rest of your days, and the regiment after you when you're dead or broke. The worm wasn't angry in the least, and the rest of the mess shouted. Then the senior subaltern looked at the worm from the boots upwards and down again and said, dumb baby, the worm took the rest of the mess to witness that the bet had been taken and retired into your book with a sweet smile. Two months past and the senior subaltern still educated the worm, who began to move about a little more as the hot weather came on. I have said that the senior subaltern was in love, the curious thing is that a girl was in love with the senior subaltern. Though the colonel said awful things and the majors snorted and married captains looked unutterable, wisdom and the juniors scoffed, those two were engaged. The senior subaltern was so pleased with getting his company and his acceptance at the same at the same time that he forgot to bother the worm. The girl was a pretty girl and had money of her own. She does not come into this story at all. One night at the beginning of the hot weather all the mess, except the worm, who had gone to his own room to write home letters, were sitting on the platform outside the mess hall house. The band had finished playing but no one wanted to go in and the captain's wives were there also. The folly of a man in love is unlimited. The senior subaltern had been holding forth on the merits of the girl he was engaged to and the ladies were powering approval. While the men yawned when there was a rustle of skirts in the dark and a tired faint voice lifted itself. Where's my husband? I do not wish in the lace to reflect on the mortality of the of the Socarus but it is on record that four men jumped up as if they had been shot. Three of them were married men. Perhaps they were afraid that their wives had come from whom unbeknownst. The four said that he had acted on the impulse of the moment. He explained this afterwards then the voice cried oh Leonel. Leonel was the senior subaltern's name. A woman came into the little circle of light by the candles on the peg tables stretching out her hands to the dark where the senior subaltern was unsalbing. We rose to our feet feeling that things were going to happen and ready to believe the worst. In this bad small world of ours one knows so little of the life of the next man which after all is entirely his own concern that one is not surprised when a crash comes anything might turn up any day for anyone. Perhaps the senior subaltern had been trapped in his yith. Men are crippled though that way occasionally. We didn't know. We wanted to hear and the captain's wives were as anxious as we. If he had been trapped he was to be excused for the woman from nowhere in the dusty shoes and grey traveling dress where it was very lovely with black hair and great eyes full of tears. She was tall with a fine figure and her voice had a running sob in it painful pitiful to hear. As soon as the senior subaltern stood up she threw her arms round his neck and called him my darling and said she could not bear waiting alone in England and his letters were so short and cold that she was his to the end of the world and would he forgive her. This did not sound quite like a lady's way of speaking it was too demonstrative. Things seemed black indeed and the captain's wives peered under their eyebrows of the senior subaltern and the colonel's face set light like the day of judgment framed in grey bristles and no one spoke for a while. Next the colonel said very shortly well sir and the woman saw up to fresh. The senior subaltern was half choked with the arms round his neck but he grasped out it said the lie I never had a wife in my life don't swear said the colonel come into the mess we must sift this clear somehow and he sighed to himself for he believed in his scars. Did the colonel we tripped into the hunting room under the full lights and there we saw how beautiful the woman was. She stood up in the middle of us all sometimes choking with crying then hard and proud and then holding out her arms to the senior subaltern. It was like the fourth act of a tragedy she told us how the senior subaltern had married her when he was home and on leave 18 months before and she seemed to know all that we knew and more to his people and his past life. He was white and ashy grey trying now and again to break into the torrent of her words and we noting how lovely she was and what a criminal he looked esteemed him a beast of the worst kind we felt sorry for him though I shall never forget the entitlement of the senior subaltern by his wife normally it was so sudden rushing out of the dark unannounced into our dull lives the captain's wife stood back their eyes were alight and you could see that they had already convicted and sentenced the senior subaltern the colonel seemed five years older. One major was shading his eyes with his hand and watching the woman from underneath it another was chewing his moustache and smiling quietly as if he were witnessing a play full in the open space in the center by the west tables the senior subaltern's terrier something for fleas I remember all this as clearly as though a photograph were in my hand I remember the look of horror on the senior subaltern's face it was rather like saying a man hanged but much more interesting finally the woman wound up by saying that the senior subaltern carried a double FM a tattoo on his left shoulder we all knew that and to our innocent minds it seemed to clinch the matter but one of the bachelor majors said very politely I presume that your married certificate would be more to the purpose that raised the woman she stood up and sneered at the senior subaltern for a cure and abused the major and the colonel and all the rest then she swept then she wept and then she pulled a paper from her breast saying apparently take that and let my husband my lovely wedding husband read it aloud if he dare there was a hush and the men looked into each other's eyes as the senior subaltern came forward in a dazed and dizzy way and took the paper we were wondering as we stared whether there was anything against any one of us that might turn up later on senior subaltern's throat was dry but as he ran his eye over the paper he broke out into your hush cackle of relief and said to the woman you young black guard but the woman fled through a door and on the paper was written this is to certify that I the worm have paid in full my debts to the senior subaltern and further that the senior subaltern is my debtor by agreement on the 23rd of February by the mess attested as by the mess attested to the extent of one month's captain's pay in the lawful currency of the indian empire then a deputation set off for the worm for the worm's quarters and found him betwixt him between on lacing his stays with the hat wig sir dress etc on the bed he came over as he was and the cicarus shouted till the gunners mess sent over to know if they might have a share of the fun I think we were all except the colonel and the senior subaltern a little disappointed that the scandal had come to nothing that is human nature there could be no two words about the worms acting it leaned as near to a nasty tragedy as anything this side of a joke can when most of the subaltern sat upon him with suffocations to find out why he had not said that acting was his strong point he answered very quietly i don't think he ever asked me i used to act at home with my sisters but no acting with girls could account for the worms display that night personally i think it was a bad it was a bad taste besides or besides being dangerous there is no sort of use in playing with fire even for fun cicarus made him president of the regimental dramatic club and when the senior subaltern paid up his debt which he did at once the worms sank the money in scenery and dresses he was a good worm and the cicarus were proud of him the only back truck the only drawback is that he has been christened mrs senior subaltern and as there are now two mrs senior subalterns in the station this is sometimes confusing to strangers later on i will tell you of a case something like this but with all the jest left out and nothing in it but real trouble end of his wedded wife by roger kaplan hunted by a wild stallion by j e collins this is a leber vox recording all leber vox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit leber vox.org recording by anita sloma martinez hunted by a wild stallion towards the last of august my cousin and myself both of us lads of sixteen had been plover shooting on the airy plains near island head on the newfoundland coast having occasion to go from the cape to a miners camp near the head we decided to proceed around the cliffs where the air was fresh embracing and preference to the sod and tires and marshes further inland about three o'clock we set out having a tramp of eight miles before us our course lay close to the edge of those sheer iron bound cliffs that rise hotly out of the sea to a height of from two hundred to five hundred feet not a bush was in sight upland and hollow being covered with the short thick growth of grass and succulent weeds it was tiresome and sometimes perilous work to descent a couple of hundred feet into one of these gorges and scale the other side again i have often won a lad inquired whence came the succession of these mighty hollows along this and other parts of my native coast at first sight you would not attribute the tremendous gouging out to the action of flood for only a tiny brook a couple of feet wide and incapable of rounding its pebbles hurries along to fling its little thin silvery body over the precipice into the sea but reflection has since taught me that they must be due to mighty torrents caused by the melting glacier that spared newfoundland then a part of the mainland no more than any other portion of the continent on the mountain tops we shot plover and curlew till our ammunition was exhausted and the sun was only half an hour high then we quickened our pace for the cap of the miners was still six miles distant as we reached the top of the highest plateau jaded from the exhausting climb we heard the far off but keen vicious winny of a horse we spoke not but looked at each other for we were now aware of what we had forgotten before that the wild stallion black glossy was grazing about those airy meadows further down the coast were other stallions let loose during the summer while the fishermen were away in their boats but none was so much to be dreaded as this fierce brute whose name sent terror into the heart of every timid traveler we had no means of defense having fired away our ammunition but we were cool and promptly decided to get off level ground and trust to escape in some cliff-sider slope where the beast could not get a footing so we were off with the speed of the wind about a third of a mile beyond us lay the edge of a slope that ran down to a small cave and from a dim recollection which I had retained of the spot I was in hopes if we could reach there before the stallion to make our escape again came the same wild knee and in the distance we could hear the dull thud of hoofs upon the hard dry top of the upland I glanced hastily around and at a distance of about a third of a mile saw our pursuer he was as black as a raven and the shining of his coat I could see even at that distance his head curved downward his body seemed to be gathered up and shortened and his tail streamed out behind him our terror almost lent wings to our feet nearer and wilder grew the winnie but we scarce trusted ourselves to look back we were nearing the slope but I was not certain that the portion we were approaching was gradual enough to afford a foothold I had breath enough to say to my cousin Ned if he overtakes us our only chance is to stop short swerve aside and then dart straight ahead again which will cause him to curve round and lose time it is his heels that we have most guard against we were at the slope and found that it was not so steep as we could have desired it below a small brook brawled over the stones down the incline to be lulled and lost in the sand between high tide mark and the stretch of wild meadows at the foot of the hill nimbly we ran down but fifteen paces above us at the spot where we had begun the descent was the stallion he did not as I supposed he would rush headlong down but snorted and pawed the sand with his forehooks then wheeling he galloped in the direction of a faint path that led through a more level passage we knew that he must reach the bottom of the valley almost as soon as we could so we sprang ran and sometimes found ourselves rolling down the steep grassy slope the naing of the infuriated brooch was now more constant and more appallingly shrill and the three walls of the hollow gave echoes of the vicious cry till it seemed to our terrified imagination as if we were being pursued by twenty demon horses the sun too had just gone down and in this lonely place swallowed by great mountains with a weird marsh and a complaining surf before us superstitious fear was added to the terror of pursuit we reached the bottom safely and observed running out into the cave a narrow ledge of rock upon that was all I had breath to say hastily indicating the rock with my hand then we struck out across the marsh and the terrible brute was close by us his tail in the air nostrils distended his eyes bloodshot we stopped short and swerved to the left when he was so close that we might have felt his hot breath upon us and as he curved round almost losing his legs we darted on I shall never forget the thrill of that moment in watching the result of our maneuver as he swept round his tongue was out and he flung foam from his open jaws his thin slippers right from running over the grass gleaned almost in our faces as he wheeled round our ruse had saved us air was necessary to repeat the trick we had both mounted the rock and were nimbly running out to its furthest point where the spray broke slightly over us from this point we could leap upon a larger rock once we might take a long range of strand to our right after the tide had ebbed another half hour now the danger and the terror over we could not but enjoy the discomforture of our baffled pursuer a dozen times did he rush out to the serve plash the water with his hoofs and plow up the sand then he would go careering along the marsh's merge with main erect uttering his shrill fierce winning and filling every nook about the cliffs with terrifying echoes we jumped upon the larger rock and stood there awaiting the fall of the tide the gloaming deepened and still the maddened brute raved up and down the strand plashed into the marsh tearing up the lilies and the violet flag blooms with his inferior feet crying all the while like a balked fiend and when it became totally dark before the rising of the moon we could see gleaming out of the deep dusk by the verge of the marsh two eyes that resembled kindled emeralds beyond the rock on which we stood every now and again a fin or tail would break the surface of the water and scatter myriad little phosphorescent beads about like showers of silver spray the splashing was probably made by sharks for before the darkness came we could see them lurking around the rocks in the clear green waters and at intervals pushing a black fin above the surface we had at the first thought of leaving our guns behind us on the rock and waiting and swimming around the point to the strand but the terror of a shark's crunching jaws was not more welcomed than the shining heels or the vicious teeth of the stallion when the moon rose above the sea the tide was out and left a dark belt around the base of the rock once more our eyes searched for the foiled horse he was beyond the marsh standing in deep gloom under the shoulder of the precipice the last thing i remembered noting as i slid from the rock upon the clammy shingle were two globes of smoldering fire looking toward our point of departure and as we passed around the point that terrible knee it was the last time we heard it again started a hundred echoes about nine o'clock we reached the miners camp eating the more heartily and sleeping the more soundly for our afternoon of strain and terror end of hunted by a wild stallion by J. E. Collins