 Elder Brown's Backslide by Harry Stillwell Edwards. Elder Brown told his wife goodbye at the farmhouse door as mechanically as though his proposed trip to Macon ten miles away was an everyday affair. While, as a matter of fact, many years had elapsed since unaccompanied he set foot in the city. He did not kiss her. Many very good men never kiss their wives. But small blame attaches to the elder for his omission on this occasion, since his wife had long ago discouraged all amorous demonstrations on the part of her leech, Lord, and at this particular moment was filling the parting moments with a rattling list of directions concerning thread, buttons, hooks, needles, and all the many et cetera's of an industrious housewife's basket. The elder was laboriously assorting these post-script commissions in his memory, well knowing that to return with any one of them neglected would cause trouble in the family circle. Elder Brown mounted his patient steed that stood sleepily motionless in the warm sunlight, with his great pointed ears displayed to the right and left, as though their owner had grown tired of the life burdened their way to inflict it upon him, and was, old soldier fashion, ready to forego the once rigid alertness of early training for the pleasures of frequent rest on arms. And Elder, don't you forget them calicoir scraps, or you'll be wanting kiver soon, and no kiver will be a common. Elder Brown did not turn his head, but merely let the whip-hand which had been checked in its backward motion fall as he answered mechanically. The beast he bestowed responded with a rapid whisking of its tail and a great show of effort, as it ambled off down the sandy road, the rider's long legs seeming now and then to touch the ground. But as the zig-zag panels of the rail fence crept behind him, and he felt the freedom of the morning beginning to act upon his well-trained blood, the mechanical manner of the old man's mind gave place to a mild exuberance. A weight seemed to be lifting from a ounce by ounce as the fence panels, the weedy corners, the persimmon sprouts, and sassaprass bushes crept away behind him, so that by the time a mile lay between him and the life-partner of his joys and sorrows he was in a reasonably contented frame of mind, and still improving. It was a queer figure that crept along the road that cheery May morning. It was tall and gaunt, and had been for thirty years or more. The long head, bald on top, covered behind with iron gray hair, and in front with a short-tangled growth that curled and kinked in every direction, was surmounted by an old-fashioned stovepipe hat, worn and stained, but eminently impressive. An old-fashioned Henry Clay cloth coat, stained and threadbare, divided itself impartially over the donkey's back and dangled on his sides. This was all that remained of the elder's wedding suit of forty years ago. Only constant care and use of late years limited to extra occasions had preserved it so long. The trousers had soon parted company with their friends. The substitutes were red jeans which, while they did not well match his court costume, were better able to withstand the old man's abuse. For if, in addition to his frequent religious excursions astride his beast, there ever was a man who was fond of sitting down with his feet higher than his head. It was this self-same elder brown. The morning expanded, and the old man expanded with it. For while a vigorous leader in his church, the elder at home, was, it must be admitted, an uncomplaining slave. To the intense astonishment of the beast he rode there came new vigor into the wax which fell upon his flanks, and the beast allowed astonishment to surprise him into real life and decided motion. Somewhere in the elder's expanding soul a tune had begun to ring. Possibly took up the far, faint tune that came from the straggling gang of negroes away off in the field as they slowly chopped amid the thread-like rows of cotton plants which lined the level ground. For the melody he hummed softly and then sang strongly in the quavering, catchy tones of a good old country churchman was, I'm glad salvation's free. It was during the singing of this hymn that Elder Brown's regular motion-inspiring strokes were for the first time varied. He began to hold his hickory up at certain pauses in the melody, and beat the changes upon the sides of his astonished steed. The chorus under disarrangement was, I'm glad salvation's free. I'm glad salvation's free. I'm glad salvation's free. For all I'm glad salvation's free. Wherever there is an italic the hickory descended. It fell about as regularly and after the fashion of the stick beating upon the bass drum during a funeral march. But the beast, although convinced that something serious was impending, did not consider a funeral march appropriate for the occasion. He protested at first with vigorous whiskings of his tail and a rapid shifting of his ears. Finding these demonstrations unavailing and convinced that some urgent cause for hurry had suddenly invaded the Elder's serenity as it had his own, he began to cover the ground with frantic leaps that would have surprised his owner could he have realized what was going on. But Elder Brown's eyes were half closed, and he was singing at the top of his voice. Lost in a trance of divine exaltation, for he felt the effects of the invigorating motion, bent only on making the air ring with the lines which he dimly imagined were drawing upon him the eyes of the whole female congregation, he was supremely unconscious that his beast was hurrying. And thus the excursion proceeded until suddenly a chote surprised in his calm search for roots in a fence corner darted into the road and stood for an instant gazing upon the newcomers with that idiotic stare which only a pig can imitate. The sudden appearance of this unlooked-for apparition acted strongly upon the donkey. With one supreme effort he collected himself into a motionless mass of matter, bracing his front legs wide apart, that is to say, he stopped short. There he stood, returning the peggs idiotic stare with an interest which must have led to the presumption that never before in all his varied life had he seen such a singular little creature. End over end went the man of prayer, finally bringing up full length in the sand, striking just as he should have shouted, free, for the fourth time in his glorious chorus. Fully convinced that his alarm had been well founded, the chote sped out from under the gigantic missile hurled at him by the donkey and scampered down the road, turning first one ear and then the other to detect any sounds of pursuit. The donkey, also convinced that the object before which he had halted was supernatural, started back violently upon seeing it apparently turn to a man. But seeing that it had turned to nothing but a man he wandered up into the deserted fence corner and began to nibble refreshment from a scrub-oat. For a moment the elder gazed up into the sky, half impressed with the idea that the camp meeting platform had given way. But the truth forced its way to the front in his disordered understanding at last, and with painful dignity he staggered into an upright position and regained his beaver. He was shocked again. Never before in all the long years it had served him had he seen it in such shape. The truth is Elder Brown had never before tried to stand on his head in it. As calmly as possible he began to straighten it out, caring but little for the dust upon his garments. The beaver was his special crown of dignity. To lose it was to be reduced to a level with the common wool-hat herd. He did his best, pulling, pressing and pushing. But the hat did not look natural when he had finished. It seemed to have been laid off into counties, sections and townlots. Like a well-cut jewel it had a face for him. View it from whatever point he chose. A quality which so impressed him that a lump gathered in his throat and his eyes winked vigorously. Elder Brown was not, however, a man for tears. He was a man of action. The sudden vision which met his wandering gaze, the donkey calmly chewing scrub-buds with the green juice already oozing from the corners of his frothy mouth, acted upon him like magic. He was, after all, only human, and when he got hands upon a piece of brush he thrashed the poor beast until it seemed as though even its already half-tanned hide would be eternally ruined. Thoroughly exhausted at last he virily straddled his saddle, and with his chin upon his breast resumed the early morning tenor of his way. Good morning, sir. Elder Brown leaned over the little pine picket which divided the bookkeeper's department of a make and warehouse from the room in general and surveyed the well-dressed bag of a gentleman who was busily figuring at a desk within. The apartment was carpetless and the dust of a decade lay deep on the old books, shelves and the familiar advertisements of guano and fertilizers which decorated the room. An old stove rusty with the nicotine contributed by farmers during the previous season while waiting by its glowing sides for their cotton to be sold stood straight up in a bed of sand, and festoons of cobwebs clung to the upper sashes of the murky windows. The lower sash of one window had been raised and in the yard without, nearly an acre in extent, lay a few bales of cotton with jagged holes in their ends, just as the sampler had left them. Elder Brown had time to notice all these familiar points, for the figure at the desk kept serenely at its task and deigned no reply. Good morning, sir, said Elder Brown again in his most dignified tones. Is Mr. Thomas in? Good morning, sir, said the figure. I'll wait on you in a minute. The minute passed, and four more joined it, then the desk man turned. Well, sir, what can I do for you? The elder was not in the best of humor when he arrived, and his state of mind had not improved. He waited full a minute as he surveyed the man of business. I thought I might be able to make some arrangements with you to get some money, but I reckon I was mistaken. The warehouse man came nearer. This is Mr. Brown, I believe. I did not recognize you at once. You are not in often to see us. No, my wife usually tends to the town business while I run the church and farm. Got a fall from my donkey this morning, he said, noticing a quizzical interrogating look upon the face before him, and fell squire on the hat. He made a pretense of smoothing it. The man of business had already lost interest. How much money will you want, Mr. Brown? Well, about seven hundred dollars, said the elder, replacing his hat and turning a ferty look upon the warehouse man. The other was tapping with his pencil upon the little shelf lying across the rail. I can get you five hundred, but I already have seven. Can't arrange for that amount. Wait till later in the season and come again. Money is very tight now. How much cotton will you raise? Well, I count on a hundred bales, and you can't get the seven hundred dollars? Like to oblige you, but can't right now. We'll fix it for you later on. Well, said the elder slowly, fix up the papers for five and I'll make it go as far as possible. The papers were drawn, a note was made out for five hundred fifty-two dollars and fifty cents, for the interest was at one and a half percent for seven months, and a mortgage on ten mules belonging to the elder was drawn and signed. The elder then promised to send his cotton to the warehouse to be sold in the fall, and with a cart anything else, and a thanky, that's all, the two parted. The elder Brown now made an effort to recall the supplemental commissions shouted to him upon his departure, intending to execute them first, and then take his written list item by item. His mental resolves had just reached this point when a new thought made itself known. Passersby were puzzled to see the old man suddenly snatch his headpiece off and pier with an intent and awestruck air into its irregular caverns. Some of them were shocked when he suddenly and vigorously ejaculated, Hannah Maria Gemini, gold, darn and blue blazes. He had suddenly remembered having placed his memoranda in that hat, and as he studied its empty depths his mind pictured the important scrap fluttering along the sandy scene of his early morning tumble. It was this that caused him to graze an oath with less margin than he allowed himself in twenty years. What would the old lady say? Alas, elder Brown knew too well. What she would not say was what puzzled him. But as he stood bare-headed in the sunlight a sense of utter desolation came and dwelt with him. His eye rested upon sleeping bailam anchored to a post in the street, and so as he recalled the treachery that lay at the base of all his affliction, gloom was added to the desolation. To turn back and search for the lost paper would have been worse than useless. Only one course was open to him, and at it went the leader of his people. He called at the grocery. He invaded the recesses of the dry goods establishments. He ransacked the hardware stores, and wherever he went he made life a burden for the clerks, overhauling showcases and pulling down whole shelves of stock. Occasionally an item of his memoranda would come to light, and thrusting his hand into his capacious pocket, where lay the proceeds of his check, he would pay for it upon the spot, and insist upon having it rolled up. To the suggestion of the slave whom he had in charge for the time being that the articles be laid aside until he had finished, he would not listen. "'Now you look here, sonny,' he said in the dry goods store, "'I'm conducting this revival, and I don't need no help in my line. Just you tie them stockens up and let me have them. Then I know I've got them.'" As each purchase was promptly paid for and change had to be secured, the clerk earned his salary for that day, at least. So it was when near the heat of the day the good man arrived at the drug store, the last and only unvisited division of trade. He made his appearance equipped with half a hundred packages, which nestled in his arms and bulged out about the sections of his clothing that boasted of pockets. As he deposited his deck load upon the counter, great drops of perspiration rolled down his face and over his waterlogged collar to the floor. There was something exquisitely refreshing in the great glasses of foaming soda that a spruce young man was drawing from a marble fountain, above which half a dozen polar bears in an ambitious print were disporting themselves. There came a break in the run of customers, and the spruce young man, having swept the foam from the marble, dexterously lifted a glass from the revolving rack which had rinsed it with a fierce little stream of water and asked mechanically, as he caught the intense look of the perspiring elder, what syrup, sir? Now it had not occurred to the elder to drink soda, but the suggestion coming as it did in his exhausted state was overpowering. He drew near awkwardly, put on his glasses, and examined the list of syrups with great care. The young man, being for the moment at leisure, surveyed critically the gaunt figure, the faded bandana, the antique clawhammer colt, and the battered stovepipe hat, with a gradually relaxing countenance. Even called the prescription clerk's attention by a cough and a quick jerk of the thumb, the prescription clerk smiled freely and continued his assaults upon a piece of blue mass. I reckon, said the elder, resting his hands upon his knees and bending down to the list, you may give me sarsaparilla and a little strawberry. Sarsaparilla is good for the blood this time or year, and strawberries good any time. The spruce young man let the syrup stream into the glass as he smiled affably, thinking perhaps to draw out the odd character he ventured upon a jest himself, repeating a pun invented by the man who made the first soda fountain. With a sweep of his arm he cleared away the swarm of insects, as he remarked. People who like to fly in theirs are easily accommodated. It was from sheer good nature only that Elder Brown replied with the usual broad social smile. Well, a fly now and then don't hurt nobody. Now if there's anybody in the world who prides himself on knowing a thing or two, it is the spruce young man who presides over a soda fountain. This particular young gentleman did not even deem a reply necessary. He banished an instant, and when he returned a close observer might have seen that the mixture in the glassy bore had slightly changed color and increased in quantity. But the elder saw only the whizzing stream of water dart into its center, and the rosy foam rise and tremble on the glass's rim. The next instant he was holding his breath and sipping the cooling drink. As Elder Brown paid his small score, he was at peace with the world. I firmly believed that when he had finished his trading and the little blue string packages had been stored away, could the poor donkey have made his appearance at the door and gazed with his meek, fawn-like eyes into his masters, he would have obtained full and free forgiveness. Elder Brown paused at the door as he was about to leave. A rosy cheek school girl was just lifting a creamy mixture to her lips before the fountain. It was a pretty picture, and he turned back, resolved to indulge in one more glass of the delightful beverage before beginning his long ride homeward. "'Fix it up again, sonny,' he said, renewing his broad confiding smile, as the spruce young man poised a glass inquiringly. The living automaton went through the same motions as before, and again Elder Brown quaffed the fatal mixture. What a singular power his habit. Up to this time Elder Brown had been entirely innocent of transgression, but with the old alcoholic fire in his veins, twenty years dropped from his shoulders, and a feeling came over him familiar to every man who has been in his cups. As a matter of fact, the Elder would have been a confirmed drunkard twenty years before had his wife been less strong-minded. She took the reins into her own hands. When she found that his business and strong drink did not mix well, worked him into the church, sustained his resolutions by making it difficult and dangerous for him to get to his toddy. She became the business head of the family, and he the spiritual. Only at rare intervals did he ever backslide during the twenty years of the new era, and Mrs. Brown herself used to say that the sugar in hisen turned agal before the backslide ended. People who knew her never doubted it. But Elder Brown's sin during the remainder of the day contained an element of responsibility. As he moved majestically down toward where Balaam slept in the sunlight, he felt no fatigue. There was a glow upon his cheekbones, and a faint tinge upon his prominent nose. He nodded familiarly to the people as he met them, and saw not the look of amusement which succeeded astonishment upon the various faces. When he reached the neighborhood of Balaam, it suddenly occurred to him that he might have forgotten some one of his numerous commissions, and he paused to think. Then a brilliant idea rose in his mind. He would forestall blame and disarm anger with kindness. He would purchase Hannah a bonnet. What woman's heart ever failed to soften at sight of a new bonnet? As I have stated, the elder was a man of action. He entered a store near at hand. Good morning, said an affable gentleman with a Hebrew countenance approaching. Good morning. Good morning, said the elder piling his bundles on the counter. I hope you're well. Elder Brown extended his hand fervently. Quite well, I thank you. What? And the little wife, said Elder Brown affectionately, retaining the Jew's hand. Quite well, sir. And the little ones. Quite well, I hope too. Yes, sir, all well, thank you. Something I can do for you. The affable merchant was trying to recall his customer's name. Not now, not now, thanky. If you're pleased to let my bundles stay until I come back, can I show you something, hat, coat? Not now, be back by and by. Was it chance or fate that brought Elder Brown in front of a bar? The glasses shone bright upon the shelves as the swinging door flat-backed to let out a coatless clerk, who passed him with a rush, chewing upon a farewell mouthful of brown bread and bologna. Elder Brown beheld for an instant the familiar scene with him. The screws of his resolution had been loosened. At sight of the glistening bar, the whole moral structure of twenty years came tumbling down. Mechanically he entered the saloon and laid a silver quarter upon the bar as he said, a little whiskey and sugar. The arms of the bartender worked like a fakers in a sideshow as he set out the glass with its little quart of short sweetening and a cut glass to canter and sent a half-tumber of water spinning along from the upper end of the bar, with a dime in change. Whiskeys, a iron it used to be, said Elder Brown, but the bartender was taking another order and did not hear him. Elder Brown stirred away the sugar and let a steady stream of red liquid flow into his glass. He swallowed the drink as unconcernedly as though his morning taut had never been suspended and pocketed the change. But it ain't any better than it was, he concluded, as he passed out. He did not even seem to realize that he had done anything extraordinary. There was a millenry store up the street, and with uncertain staff he wended his way, feeling a little more elate and altogether sociable. A pretty black-eyed girl struggling to keep down her mirth came forward and facing behind the counter. Elder Brown lifted his faded hat with the politeness, if not the grace, of a castilian and made a sweeping bow. Again he was in his element, but he did not speak. A shower of odds and ends, small packages, thread, needles, and buttons released from their prison rattled down about him. The girl laughed, she could not help it, and the elder leaning his hand on the counter laughed too, until several other girls came halfway to the front. Then they, hiding behind counters and suspended cloaks, laughed and snickered until they reconvolts the elder's vis-à-vis, who had been making desperate efforts to resume her demure appearance. Let me help you, sir, she said, coming from behind the counter, upon seeing Elder Brown beginning to adjust his spectacles for a search, he waved her back majestically. No, my dear, no. Can't allow it. You must sully them pretty fingers. No, ma'am, no gentleman will allow a lady to do such a thing. The elder was gently forcing the girl back to her place. Leave it to me. I picked up bigger things than them. Picked myself up this morning. Balem, you don't know Balem. He's my donkey. He tumbled me over his head in the sand this morning, and Elder Brown had to resume an upright position until his paroxysm of laughter had passed. You see this old hat, extending it half full of packages, I fell clear into it, just as clean into it as them things there fell out in it. He laughed again, and so did the girls. But, my dear, I wailed half the hide off in him for it. Oh, sir, how could you? Indeed, sir, I think you did wrong. The poor brute did not know what he was doing, I daresay, and probably has been a faithful friend. The girl cast her mischievous eyes towards her companions, who snickered again. The old man was not conscious of the sarcasm. He only saw reproach. His face straightened, and he regarded the girl soberly. Maybe you're right, my dear, maybe I oughtn't. I am sure of it, said the girl. But now don't you want to buy a bonnet or a clothe to carry home to your wife? Well, you're whistling now, Bertie. That's my intention. Set them all out. Again, the elders' face shone with delight. And I don't want no one horse bonnet neither. Of course not. Now here is one, pink silk with delicate pale blue feathers. Just the thing for the season. We have nothing more elegant in stock. Elder Brown held it out, upside down, at arm's length. Well, now that's Southern-like. Will it suit a sort of red-headed woman? A perfectly sober man would have said the girl's corsets must have undergone a terrible strain, but the elder did not notice her dumb convulsion. She answered heroically, Perfectly, sir, it is an exquisite match. I think you're whistling again. Nancy's head's red. Red is a wood-pax. Sorrel's only halfway to the color of her top knot, and it do seem like red ought her to suit red. Nancy's red and the hat's red like goes with like, and birds of a feather flock together. The old man laughed until his cheeks were wet. The girl, beginning to feel a little uneasy and seeing a customer entering, rapidly fixed up the bonnet, took $15 out of a $20 bill and calmly asked the elder if he wanted anything else. He thrust his chain somewhere into his clothes and beat a retreat. It had occurred to him that he was nearly drunk. Elder Brown's step began to lose its buoyancy. He found himself utterly unable to walk straight. There was an uncertain straddle in his gate that carried him from one side of the walk to the other and caused people whom he met to cheerfully yield him plenty of room. Balem saw him coming. Poor Balem. He had made an early start that day, and for hours he stood in the sun, awaiting relief. When he opened his sleepy eyes and raised his expressive ears to a position of attention, the old familiar coat and battered hat of the elder were before him. He lifted up his honest voice and cried aloud for joy. The effect was electrical for one instant. Elder Brown surveyed the beast with horror, but again in his understanding there rang out the trumpet words. He stooped instinctively for a missile with which dismissed his accuser, but brought up suddenly with a jerk and a handful of sand. Straightening himself up with a majestic dignity, he extended his right hand impressively. Surely Coriolanus never turned his back upon Rome with a grander dignity than sat upon the old man's form as he faced about and left the brute to survey with anxious eyes the new departure of his master. He saw the elder zigzag along the street and beheld him about to turn a friendly corner. Once more he lifted up his mighty voice. Once more the elder turned with lifted hand and shouted back, You're a liar, Balaam, God darn you, you're our infamous liar. Then he passed from view. Mrs. Brown stood upon the steps, anxiously awaiting the return of her liege lord. She knew he had with him a large sum of money, or should have, and she knew also that he was a man without business methods. She had long since repented of the decision which sent him to town. When the old battered hat and flower-covered coat loomed up in the gloaming and confronted her, she stared with terror. The next instant she had seized him. For the Lord sakes, Elder Brown, what ails you, as I live if the man ain't drunk? Elder Brown, Elder Brown, for the life of me can I make you hear? You crazy old hypocrite, you desave an old sinner? You black-hearted wretch, where have you been? The elder made an effort to waver off. Woman, he said with grand dignity, you forget yourself. You know where I've been, swells I do. Bend a town, wife, and see here what I've brought. The finest hat, old woman, I could get. Look at the color, like goes its like. It's red, and you're red, and it's a dead man. What you mean? Hey, hold on, old woman. You! Hannah, you! She literally shook him into silence. You miserable wretch, you low-down drunken sot. What do you mean by coming home and insulting your wife? Hannah sees shaking him from pure exhaustion. Where is it, I say? Where is it? By this time she was turning his pockets wrongside out. From one she got pills. From another change. From another packages. The Lord be praised, and this is better luck than I hoped. Oh, Elder, Elder, Elder, what did you do it for? Why, man, where is Balaam? Thought of the beast choked off the threatened hysterics. Balaam? Balaam? said the Elder groggily. He's in town. The infernal old fool sullied me, and I left him to walk home. His wife surveyed him. Really, at that moment, she did think his mind was gone. But the leer upon the old man's face enraged her beyond endurance. You did, did you? Well, now I reckon you'll laugh for some cause, you will. Back you go, sir. Straight back. And don't you come home without that donkey, or you'll ruin it. Sure as my name is Hannah Brown. Alec! You alec! A black boy darted round the corner, from behind which, with several others, he had beheld the brief but stirring scene. Put a saddle on her mule. The Elder's going back to town, and don't you belong about it neither. Yes, him! Alec's ivory's gleamed in the darkness as he disappeared. Elder Brown was soberer at that moment than he had been for hours. Hannah, you don't mean it. Yes, sir, I do. Back you go to town, as sure as my name is Hannah Brown. The Elder was silent. He had never known his wife to relent on any occasion, after she had affirmed her intention, supplemented with, as sure as my name is Hannah Brown. It was her way of swearing. No affidavit would have had half the claim upon her as that simple enunciation. So all back to town went Elder Brown, not in the order of the early morn, but silently, moodily, despairingly, surrounded by mental and actual gloom. The old man had turned a last appealing glance upon the angry woman, as he mounted with Alec's assistance and sat in the light that streamed from out the kitchen window. She met the glance without a waiver. She means it, as sure as my name is Elder Brown, he said, thickly. Then he rode on. To say that Elder Brown suffered on this long journey back to Macon would only mildly outline his experience. His early morning's fall had begun to make itself felt. He was sore and uncomfortable. Besides, his stomach was empty and called for two meals that had missed for the first time in years. When sore and weary the Elder entered the city, the electric light shown above it like jewels in a crown. The city slept, that is, the better portion of it did. Here and there, however, the lower lights flashed out into the night. Moodily, the Elder pursued his journey, and as he rode far off in the night, there rose and quivered a plaintive cry. Elder Brown smiled virally. It was Balam's appeal, and he recognized it. The animal he rode also recognized it and replied, until the silence of the city was destroyed. The odd clamor and confusion drew from a saloon nearby a group of noisy youngsters who had been making a night of it. They surrounded Elder Brown as he began to transfer himself to the hungry beast to whose motion he was more accustomed, and in the hail-fellow well-met style of the day began to bandy jests upon his appearance. Now Elder Brown was not in a gesting humor. Positively he was in the worst humor possible. The result was that before many minutes passed, the old man was swinging several of the crowd by their collars and breaking the peace of the city. A policeman approached, and but for the good-humored party upon whom the Elder's pluck had made a favorable impression, would have run the old man into the barracks. The crowd, however, drew him laughingly into the saloon and to the bar. The reaction was too much for his half-rallied senses. He yielded again. The reviving liquor passed his lips. Gloom vanished. He became one of the boys. The company, into which Elder Brown had fallen, was what is known as first class. To such, nothing is so captivating as an adventure out of the common run of accidents. The gaunt countryman with his battered hat and claw-hammer coat was a prize of an extraordinary nature. They drew him into a rear room, whose gilded frames and polished tables betrayed the character and purpose of the place, and plied him with wine until ten thousand lights danced about him. The fun increased. One youngster made a political speech from the top of the table, another impersonated Hamlet, and finally Elder Brown was lifted into a chair and sang a camp meeting song. This was rendered by him with startling effect. He stood upright with his hat jointly knocked to one side, and his coattails ornamented with a couple of showbills, kindly pinned on by his admirers. In his left hand he waved the stub of a cigar, and on his back was an admirable representation of Baylum's head, executed by some artist with billiard chalk. As the elder sang his favorite hymn, I'm glad salvation's free. His stentorian voice awoke the echoes. Most of the company rolled upon the floor in convulsions of laughter. The exhibition came to a close by the chair overturning. Again Elder Brown fell into his beloved hat. He arose and shouted, "'Whoa, Baylum!' Again he seized the nearest weapon and sought satisfaction. The young gentleman with political sentiments was knocked under the table, and Hamlet only escaped injury by beating the infuriated elder into the street. What next? Well, I hardly know. How the elder found Baylum is a mystery yet. Not that Baylum was hard to find, but that the old man was in no condition to find anything. Still he did, and climbing laboriously into the saddle, he held on stupidly while the hungry beast struck out for home. Hannah Brown did not sleep that night. Sleep would not come. Hour after hour passed, and her wrath refused to be quelled. She tried every conceivable method, but time hung heavily. It was not quite peep of day, however, when she laid her well-worn family Bible aside. It had been her mother's, and amid all the anxieties and tribulations incident to the life of a woman who had free Negroes and a miserable husband to manage, it had been her mainstay in comfort. She had frequently read it in anger, page after page, without knowing what was contained in the lines. But eventually the words became intelligible, and took meaning. She rested consolation from it by mere force of will. And so on this occasion, when she closed the book, the fierce anger was gone. She was not a hard woman, naturally. Fate had brought her conditions which covered up the woman heart within her. But though it lay deep, it was there still. As she sat with folded hands, her eyes fell upon, what? The pink bonnet with the blue plume. It may appear strange to those who do not understand such natures, but to me her next action was perfectly natural. She burst into a convulsive laugh, then seizing the queer object, bent her face upon it, and sobbed hysterically. When the storm was over, very tenderly, she laid the gift aside, and bare-headed passed out into the night. For a half-hour she stood at the end of the lane, and then hungry Bailam and his master Hove inside. Reaching out her hand, she checked the beast. William, said she, very gently. Where is the mule? The elder had been asleep. He woke and gazed upon her blankly. What mule, Hannah? The mule you rode to town. For one full minute the elder studied her face. Then it burst from his lips. Well, bless me, if I didn't bring Bailam and forget the mule. The woman laughed till her eyes ran water. William, said she, you're drunk. Hannah, said he meekly. I know it. The truth is, Hannah, I— Never mind now, William, she said gently. You're tired and hungry. Come into the house, husband. Leading Bailam she disappeared down the lane, and when a few minutes later Hannah Brown and her husband entered through the light that streamed out of the open door, her arms were around him, and her face upturned to his. End of Elder Brown's back slide. The Exiles Club by Lord Duncany It was an evening party, and something someone had said to me had started me talking about a subject that is to me full of fascination, the subject of old religions forsaking gods. The truth, for all religions have some of it, the wisdom, the beauty of the religions of countries to which I travel, have not the same appeal for me. For one only notices in them their tyranny and intolerance in the abject servitude that they claim from thought. But when a dynasty has been dethroned in heaven, and goes forgotten and outcast even among men, one's eyes no longer dazzle by its power find something very wistful in the faces of fallen gods, suppleant to be remembered. Something almost tearfully beautiful, like a long warm summer twilight fading gently away after some day memorable in the story of earthly wars. Between what Zeus, for instance, has been once in the half-remembered tale he is today, there lies a space so great that there is no change of fortune known to man whereby we may measure the height down which he has fallen. And it is the same with many another god, at whom once the ages trembled, and the twentieth century treats as an old wives tale. The fortitude that such a fall demands is surely more than human. Some such things as these I was saying, and being upon a subject that attracts me, I possibly spoke too loudly. Certainly I was not aware that standing close behind me was no less a person than the ex-king of Eretavaria, the thirty islands of the east, or I would have moderated my voice and moved away a little to give him more room. I was not aware of his presence until his satellite, one who had fallen with him into exile, but still revolved about him, told me that his master desired to know me, and so to my surprise I was presented, though neither of them even knew my name. And that was how I came to be invited by the ex-king to dine at his club. At the time I can only account for his wishing to know me by supposing that he found in his own exile conditions some likeness to the fallen fortunes of the gods of whom I talked unwittingly in his presence. But now I know that it was not of himself he was thinking when he asked me to dine at that club. The club would have been the most imposing building in any street in London, but in that obscure mean quarter of London in which they had built it, appeared unduly enormous. Lifting right up above those grotesque houses and built in that Greek style we called Georgian, there was something Olympian about it. To my host an unfashionable street could have meant nothing. Through all his youth wherever he had gone had become fashionable the moment he went there. Words like East End could have no meaning to him. Whoever built that house had enormous wealth and cared nothing for fashion, perhaps despised it. As I stood gazing at the magnificent upper windows draped with great curtains, indistinct in the evening, on which huge shadows flickered my host attracted my attention from the doorway. And so I went in and met for the second time the ex-king of Eretavaria. In front of us a stairway of rare marble led upstairs. He took me through a side door and downstairs and we came into a banqueting hall of great magnificence. A long table ran up the middle of it laid for quite twenty people, and I noticed a peculiarity that instead of chairs there were thrones for everyone except me, who was the only guest and for whom there was an ordinary chair. My host explained to me when we all sat down that everyone who belonged to that club was by right a king. In fact none was permitted, he told me, to belong to the club until his claim to a kingdom made out in writing had been examined and allowed by those whose duty it was. The whim of a populace or the candidate's own misrule were never considered by the investigators. Nothing counted with them but heredity and lawful dissent from kings. All else was ignored. At that table there were those who would once reign themselves. Others lawfully claimed dissent from kings that the world had forgotten. The kingdoms claimed by some had even changed their names. Hatzger, the Mountain Kingdom, is almost regarded as mythical. I have seldom seen greater splendor than that long hall provided below the level of the street. No doubt by day it was a little somber, as all basements are. But at night with its great crystal chandeliers and the glitter of heirlooms that had gone into exile, it surpassed the splendor of palaces that have only one king. They had come to London suddenly most of those kings or their fathers before them or forefathers. Some had come away from their kingdoms by night in a light sleigh flogging the horses or had galloped clear with mourning over the border. Some had trudged roads for days from their capital in disguise. Yet many had had the time, just as they left, to snatch up some small thing without price in markets, for the sake of old times, as they said. But quite as much, I thought, with an eye to the future. And there these treasures glittered on that long table in the banqueting hall of the basement of that strange club. Merely to see them was much, but to hear their story that their owners told was to go back in fancy to epic times on the romantic border of fable and fact, where the heroes of history fought with the gods of myth. The famous silver horses of Gilgianza were there climbing their sheer mountain, which they did by miraculous means before the times of the Goths. It was not a large piece of silver, but its workmanship outrivaled the skill of the bees. A yellow emperor had brought out of the east a piece of that incomparable porcelain that had made his dynasty famous, though all their deeds are forgotten. It had the exact shade of the right purple. And there was a little golden statuette of a dragon stealing a diamond from a lady. The dragon had the diamond in his claws, large and of the first water. There had been a kingdom whose whole constitution and history were founded on the legend, from which alone its kings had claimed their right to the scepter, that a dragon stole the diamond from a lady. When its last king left that country, because his favorite general had used a peculiar formation under the fire of artillery, he brought with him the little ancient image that no longer proved him a king outside that singular club. There was a pair of amethyst cups of the turban king of Fu, the one that he drank from himself, and the one that he gave to his enemies. I could not tell which was which. All these things the ex-king of Eredivaria showed me, telling me a marvelous tale of each, of his own he had brought nothing, except the mascot that once used to sit on the top of the water tube of his favorite motor. I have not outlined a tenth of the splendor of that table. I had meant to come again and examine each piece of plate and make notes of its history. Had I known that this was the last time I should wish to enter that club, I should have looked at its treasures more attentively. But now as the wine went round, and the exiles began to talk, I took my eyes from the table and listened to the strange tales of their former state. He that has seen better times has usually a poor tale to tell. Some mean and trivial thing has been as undoing. But they that dined in that basement had mostly fallen like oaks on nights of abnormal tempest, had fallen mightily and shaken a nation. Those who had not been kings themselves, but claimed through an exiled ancestor, had stories to tell of even grander disaster, history seeming to have melanched their dynasty's fate, as moss grows over an oak a great while fallen. There were no jealousies there as so often there are among kings. Rivalry must have ceased with the loss of their navies and armies, and they showed no bitterness against those that had turned them out. One speaking of the era of its prime minister by which he had lost his throne as poor old Friedrich's heaven-sent gift of tacklessness. They gossed pleasantly of many things. The tidal title we all had to know when we were learning history, and many a wonderful story I might have heard. Many a sidelight on mysterious wars had I not made use of one unfortunate word. That word was upstairs. The ex-king of Eredivaria, having pointed out to me those unparalleled heirlooms to which I have eluded, and many more besides, hospitably asked me if there was anything else I would care to see. He meant the pieces of plate that they had in the cupboards, the curiously graven swords of other princes, historic jewels, legendary seals. But I who had had a glimpse of their marvelous staircase, whose balustrade I believed to be solid gold, and wondering why in such a stately house they chose to dine in the basement, mentioned the word upstairs. A profound hush came down on the whole assembly, the hush that might greet levity in a cathedral. Upstairs, he gasped, we cannot go upstairs. I perceived that what I had said was an ill-chosen thing. I tried to excuse myself, but knew not how. Of course, I muttered, members may not take guests upstairs. Members, he said to me, we are not the members. There was such reproof in his voice that I said no more. I looked in him questioningly. Perhaps my lips moved. I may have said, what are you? A great surprise had come on me at their attitude. We are the waiters, he said. That I could not have known. Here at last was honest ignorance that I had no need to be ashamed of, the very opulence of their table denied it. Then who were the members, I asked? Such a hush fell at that question, such a hust of genuine awe that all of a sudden a wild thought entered my head. A thought strange and fantastic and terrible. I gripped my host by the wrist and hushed my voice. Are they two exiles? I asked. Twice, as he looked in my face, he gravely nodded his head. I left that club very swiftly indeed, never to see it again, scarcely pausing to say farewell to those menial kings. And as I left the door, a great window opened far up at the top of the house, and a flash of lightning streamed from it and killed a dog. End of The Exiles Club by Lord Dunsany, recorded by James Christopher, JX Christopher at Yahoo.com LibriVox.org Goody Two Shoes Farmer Meanwhile was at one time a very rich man. He owned large fields and had fine flocks of sheep and plenty of money. But all at once, his good fortune seemed to desert him. Year after year, his crops failed, his sheep died off, and he was obliged to borrow money, to pay his rent, and the wages of those who worked on the farm. At last, he had to sell his farm, but even this did not bring him in money enough to pay his debts, and he was worse off than ever. Among those who had lent money to farmer meanwhile, were Sir Thomas Gryb and a farmer named Grassball. Sir Thomas was a very rich man indeed, and farmer Grassball had more money than he could possibly use. But they were both very greedy and covetous, and particularly hard on those who owed them anything. Farmer Grassball abused farmer Meanwhile, and called him all sorts of dreadful names. But the rich Sir Thomas Gryb was more cruel still, and wanted the poor debtor shut up in jail. So poor farmer Meanwhile had to hasten from the place where he had lived for so many years, in order to get out of the way of these greedy men. He went to the next village, taking his wife and his two little children with him. But though he was free from Gryb and Grassball, he was not free from trouble and care. He soon fell ill, and when he found himself unable to get food and clothes for his family, he grew worse and worse, and soon died. His wife could not bear the loss of her husband, whom she loved so dearly, and in a few days she was dead. The two orphaned children seemed to be left entirely alone in the world, with no one to look after them, or care for them, but their heavenly father. They trotted around hand in hand, and the poorer they became, the more they clung to each other. Poor, ragged, and hungry enough they were. Tommy had two shoes, but Marjorie went barefoot. They had nothing to eat, but the berries that grew in the woods, and the scraps he could get from the poor people in the village. And at night they slept in barns, or under haystacks. Their rich relations were too proud to notice them. But Mr. Smith, the clergyman of the village where the children were born, was not that sort of man. The rich relation came to visit him, the kind-hearted gentleman, and the clergyman told him all about Tommy and Marjorie. The kind gentleman pitted them, and ordered Marjorie a pair of shoes, and gave Mr. Smith money to buy her some clothes, which she needed slightly. As for Tommy, he said he would take him off to sea with him, and make him a sailor. After a few days, the gentleman said he must go to London, and would take Tommy with him, and said it was the parting between the two children. Poor Marjorie was very lonely indeed without her brother. They might have cried herself sick, but for the new shoes that were brought home to her. They turned her thoughts from her grief, and as soon as she had put them on, she ran into Mrs. Smith and cried out, Two shoes, ma'am, two shoes. These words she repeated to everyone she met, and thus it was she got the name of Goody Two Shoes. Little Marjorie had seen how good and wise Mrs. Smith was, and thought it was because of his great learning, and she wanted, above all things, to learn to read. At last she made up her mind to ask Mrs. Smith to teach her when he had a moment to spare. He readily agreed to do this, and Marjorie read to him an hour every day, and spent much time with her books. Then she laid out a plan for teaching others more ignorant than herself. She cut out of thin pieces of wood, ten sets of large and small letters of the alphabet, and carried these with her when she went from house to house. When she came to Billy Wilson's, she threw down the letters all in a heap, and Billy picked them out and sorted them in lines, thus, A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H, I, J, K, and so on, until all the letters were in the right place. From there, Goody Two Shoes trotted off to another cottage, and here were several children waiting for her. As soon as a little girl came in, they all crowded around her, and were eager to begin the lessons at once. Then she threw the letters down, and said to the boy next to her, What did you have for dinner today? Bread, answered the little boy. Well, put down the first letter, said Goody Two Shoes. Then he put down D, and the next child R, and the next E, and the next A. And the next D. And there was the whole word, bread. What did you have for dinner, Polly Driggs? Apple Pie, said Polly, upon which she laid down the first letter, A, and the next put down a P, and the next another P, and so on, until the words Apple and Pie were united, and stood thus, Apple Pie. Now it happened one evening that Goody Two Shoes was going home rather late. She had made a longer round than usual, and everybody had kept her waiting, so that night came on before her day's work was done. Right glad was she to set out for her own home, and she walked along contentedly through the fields, and lanes, and roads, enjoying the quiet evening. The evening was not cool, however, but clothes and sultry, and betokened a storm. Presently a drop fell in Goody's face. What should she do? If she did not make haste, she would soon be wet to the skin. Fortunately, there was an old barn down the road, in which she could find shelter, and Goody Two Shoes gathered her skirts about her, and took to her heels, and ran as if somebody was after her. The owner of the barn had died lately, and her property was to be sold, and there was a lot of loose hay on the floor, which had not yet been taken away. Goody Two Shoes cuddled down in a soft hay, glad of a chance to rest her weary limbs, and quite out of breath with her long run. And just then down rattled the rain, the thunder roared, the lightning flashed, and the old barn trembled, and so did Goody Two Shoes. She had not been there long before she had footsteps, and three men came into the barn for shelter. The hay was piled up between her and them, so that they could not see her, and thinking they were alone, they spoke quite loudly. They were plotting drops quiet Truman, who lived in the great house in Marjory's village, and were to break in and steal all they could that very night. This was quite enough for Goody Two Shoes. She waited for nothing, but dashed out of the barn, and ran through rain and mud, till she came to Desquire's house. He was at dinner with some friends, and anyone else but Goody would have found it difficult to gain admission to him. But she was well known to the servants, and was so kind and obliging, that even the big fat butler could not refuse to do her bidding, and went and told Desquire that Goody Two Shoes wished very much to see him. So Desquire asked his friends to excuse him for a moment, and came out and said, Well, Goody Two Shoes, my good girl, what is it? Oh, sir, she replied, If you do not take care, you will be robbed and murdered this very night. Then she told all she had heard the men say while she was in the barn. Desquire saw there was not a moment to lose, so he went back and told his friends the news he had heard. They all said they would stay and help him take the thieves. So the lights were put out to make it appear as if all the people in the house were in bed, and servants and all kept a close watch, both inside and outside. Sure enough, at about one o'clock in the morning, the three men came creeping, creeping up to the house with a dark lantern and the tools to break in with. Before they were aware, six men sprang out on them and held them fast. The thieves struggled in vain to get away. They were locked in an outhouse until daylight, when a cart came and took them off to jail. They were afterwards sent out of the country, where they had to work in chains on the roads, and it is said that one of them behaved so well that he was pardoned, and went to live at Australia, where he became a rich man. The other two went from bad to worse, and it is likely that they came to some dreadful end, for sin never goes unpunished, but to return to goody-touches. One day, as she was walking through the village, she saw some wicked boys with a raven at which they were going to throw stones. To stop this cruel sport, she gave the boys a penny for the raven, and brought the bird home with her. She gave him the name of Rave, and he proved to be a very clever creature indeed. She taught him to spell and to read, and he was so fond of playing with the large letters that the children called them Rave's alphabet. Some days after goody had met with the raven, she was passing through a field, when she saw some naughty boys who had taken a pigeon and tied a string to its legs in order to let it fly, and draw it back again when they pleased. Goody could not bear to say anything tortured like that, so she bought the pigeon from the boys, and taught him how to spell and read, but he could not talk. And as Rave the raven took the large letters, Peter the pigeon took care of the small ones. Mrs. Williams, who lived in Marjory's village, kept school, and taught the little ones their ABCs. She was now old and feeble, and wanted to give up this important trust. This being known to Sir William Dove, he asked Mrs. Williams to examine Goody two shoes, and see if she was not clever enough for the office. This was done, and Mrs. Williams reported that Little Marjory was the best scholar, and had the best heart of anyone she'd ever examined. All the country had a great opinion of Mrs. Williams, and this report made them think highly of Ms. Marjory, as we must now call her. So Marjory meanwhile was now a school mistress, and a capital one she made. The children all loved her, for she was never weary of making plans for the happiness. The room in which she taught was large and lofty, and there was plenty of fresh air in it. And as she knew the children like to move about, she placed her sets of letters all round the school, so that everyone was obliged to get up to find a letter, or spell a word, when it came their turn. This exercise not only kept the children in good health, but fixed the letters firmly in their minds. The neighbours were very good to her, and one of them made her a present of a little skylark, whose early morning song told the lazy boys and girls that it was time they were out of bed. Some time after this, a poor lamb lost its dam, and a farmer being about to kill it, she bought it of him, and brought it home to play with the children. Soon after this, a present was made to Ms. Marjory, of a dog, and as he was always in good humour, and always jumping about, the children gave him the name of Jumper. It was his duty to guard the door, and no one could go out or come in without leave from his mistress. Marjory was so wise and good that some foolish people accused her of being a witch, and she was taken to court and tried before the judge. She soon proved that she was the most sensible woman, and Sir Charles Jones was so pleased with her that he offered her a large sum of money to take care of his family, and educate his daughter. At first, she refused, but afterwards, went and behaved so well, and was so kind and tender, that Sir Charles would not permit her to leave the house, and soon after made her an offer of marriage. The neighbours came in crowds to the wedding, and all were glad that one who had been such a good girl, and had grown up such a good woman, was to become a grand lady. Just as a clergyman had opened his book, a gentleman, richly dressed, ran into the church and cried, Stop! Stop! Great alarm was felt, especially by the bride and groom, with whom he said he wished to speak privately. Sir Charles stood motionless with surprise, and the bride fainted away in the stranger's arms. For this richly dressed gentleman turned out to be little Tommy Meanwell, who had just come from sea, who had here to make a large fortune. Sir Charles and Lady Jones lived very happily together, and the great lady did not forget the children, but was just as good to them as she had always been. She was always kind and good to the poor, and the sick, and a friend to all who were in distress. Her life is a great blessing, and her death the greatest calamity that ever took place in the neighbourhood where she lived, and was known as Goody Two Shoes. End of Goody Two Shoes. Recorded by Ernst Patinama. Amsterdam, The Netherlands. July the 13th, 2008. Let us coast down, Nadia. I beg. Just once. I promise you nothing will happen. But Nadia was timid. The long slope from where her little overshoes were planted to the foot of the ice-clad hill looked to her like the wall of a terrible yawning chasm. Her heart stopped beating, and she held her breath as she gazed into the abyss, while I urged her to take her seat on the sled. What might not happen were she to risk a flight over that precipice. She could die. She would go mad. Come, I implore you. I urged her again. Don't be afraid. It is cowardly to fear, to be timid. At last Nadia consented to go, but I could see from her face that she did so, she thought, at the peril of her life. I seated her, all pale and trembling in the little sled, put my arms around her, and together we plunged into the abyss. The sled flew like a shot out of a gun. The riven wind lashed our faces. It howled and whistled in our ears, and plucked furiously at us, trying to wrench our heads from our shoulders. Its pressure stifled us. We felt as if the devil himself had seized us in his talons, and were snatching us with a shriek down into the infernal regions. The objects on either hand melted into a long and madly flying streak. Another second it seemed we would be lost. I love you, Nadia. I whispered, and now the sled began to slacken its pace. The howling of the wind and the swish of the runners sounded less terrible. We breathed again. We found ourselves at the foot of the mountain at last. Nadia, more dead than alive, was breathless and pale. I helped her to her feet. Not for anything in the world would I do that again. She said, gazing at me with wide, terror-stricken eyes. Not for anything on earth. I nearly died. In a few minutes, however, she was herself again, and already her inquiring eyes were asking the question of mine. Had I really uttered those four words, or had only fancied, she heard them in the tumult of the wind. I stood beside her smoking a cigarette and looking attentively at my glove. She took my arm and we strolled about for a long time at the foot of the hill. It was obvious that the riddle gave her no peace. Had I spoken those words or not, it was for her a question of pride, of honor, of happiness, of life itself, a very important question, the most important one in the whole world. Nadia looked at me now impatiently, now sorrowfully, now searchingly. She answered my questions at random and waited for me to speak. Oh, what a pretty play of expression flitted across her sweet face. I saw that she was struggling with herself. She longed to say something, to ask some question, but the words would not come. She was terrified and embarrassed and happy. Let me tell you something. She said, without looking at me. What? I asked. Let us, let us slide down the hill again. We mounted the steps that led to the top of the hill. Once more I seated Nadia, pale and trembling, in the little sled. Once more we plunged into that terrible abyss. Once more the wind howled and the runners hissed, and once more, at the wildest and most tumultuous moment in our descent, I whispered, I love you, Nadia. When the sleigh had come to a standstill, Nadia threw a backward look at the hill down which we had just sped, and then gazed for a long time into my face, listening to the calm, even tones of my voice. Every inch of her, even her muff and her hood, every line of her little frame, expressed the utmost uncertainty. On her face was written the question, What could it have been? Who spoke those words? Was it he, or was it only my fancy? The uncertainty of it was troubling her, and her patience was becoming exhausted. The poor girl had stopped answering my questions. She was pouting and ready to cry. Had we not better go home? I asked. I, I love coasting. She answered with a blush. Shall we not slide down once more? She loved coasting, and yet, as she took her seat on the sled, she was as trembling and pale as before, and scarcely could breathe for terror. Because the down for the third time, and I saw her watching my face and following the movements of my lips with her eyes, but I put my handkerchief to my mouth and coughed, and when we were halfway down I managed to say, I love you, Nadia. So the riddle remained unsolved. Nadia was left pensive and silent. I escorted her home, and as she walked she shortened her steps and tried to go slowly, waiting for me to say those words. I was aware of the struggle going on in her breast, and of how she was forcing herself not to exclaim, the wind could not have said those words. I don't want to think that it said them. Next day I received the following note. If you are going coasting today, call for me. N. Thenceforth Nadia and I went coasting every day, and each time that we sped down the hill on our little sled, I whispered the words, I love you, Nadia. Nadia soon grew to crave this phrase as some people crave morphine or wine. She could no longer live without hearing it, though to fly down the hill was as terrible to her as ever. Danger and fear lent a strange fascination to those words of love, words which remain a riddle to torture her heart. Both the wind and I were suspected. Which of us two was confessing our love for her, now seemed not to matter. Let the draft be but hers, and she cared not for the goblet that held it. One day at noon I went to our hill alone. There I perceived Nadia. She approached the hill, seeking me with her eyes, and at last I saw her timidly mounting the steps that led to the summit. Oh, how fearful, how terrifying she found it to make that journey alone. Her face was as white as the snow, and she shook as if she were going to her dune, but up she climbed, firmly, without one backward look. Clearly she was determined to discover once for all whether these wondrously sweet words would reach her ears if I were not there. I saw her seat herself on the sled, with a pale face and lips parted with horror. Saw her shut her eyes and push off, bidding farewell forever to this world. Zzzzzz, hissed the runners. What did she hear? I know not. I only saw her rise tired and trembling from the sled, and it was clear from her expression that she could not herself have said what she had heard. On her downward rush terror had robbed her of the power of distinguishing the sounds that came to her ears. And now, with March, came the spring. The sun's rays grew warmer and brighter. Our snowy hillside grew darker and duller, and the ice crust finally melted away. Our coasting came to an end. Nowhere could poor Nadia now hear the beautiful words, for there was no one to say them. The wind was silent, and I was preparing to go to St. Petersburg for a long time. Perhaps forever. One evening, two days before my departure, I sat in the twilight in a little garden separated from the garden where Nadia lived by a high fence surmounted by iron spikes. It was cold, and the snow was still on the ground. The trees were lifeless. But the scent of spring was in the air, and the rooks were crawling noisily as they settled themselves for the night. I approached the fence, and for a long time peered through a chink in the boards. I saw Nadia come out of the house and stand on the doorstep, gazing with anguish and longing at the sky. The spring wind was blowing directly into her pale sorrowful face. It reminded her of the wind that had howled for us on the hillside when she had heard those four words. And with that recollection her face grew very sad indeed, and the tears rolled down her cheek. The poor child held out her arms, as if to implore the wind to bring those words to her ears once more. And I, waiting for a gust to carry them to her, said softly, I love you, Nadia. Heavens, what an effect my words had on Nadia. She cried out and stretched forth her arms to the wind, blissful, radiant, beautiful. And I went to pack up my things. All this happened a long time ago. Nadia married. Whether for love or not matters little. Her husband is an official of the nobility, and she now has three children, but she has not forgotten how we coasted together and how the wind whispered to her, I love you, Nadia. That memory is for her the happiest, the most touching, the most beautiful one of her life. But as for me, now that I have grown older, I can no longer understand why I said those words, and why I gested with Nadia. End of A Joke. Read for LibriVox.org by Alan Davis Drake. This recording is in the public domain. The Nice People by Henry Keiler Bunner. 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 Ralph Snelson. The Nice People by Henry Keiler Bunner. They certainly are nice people, I assented to my wife's observation using the colloquial phrase with a consciousness that it was anything but nice English, and I'll bet that their three children are better brought up than most of two children, corrected my wife. Three, he told me. My dear, she said, there were two. He said, three. You've simply forgotten. I'm sure she told me they had only two, a boy and a girl. Well, I didn't enter into particulars. No, dear, and you couldn't have understood him. Two children. All right, I said, but I did not think it was all right. As a nearsighted man learns by enforced observation to recognize persons at a distance when the face is not visible to the normal eye, so the man with a bad memory learns almost unconsciously to listen carefully and report accurately. My memory is bad, but I had not had time to forget that Mr. Brewster Breed had told me that afternoon that he had three children at present left in the care of his mother-in-law while he and Mrs. Breed took their summer vacation. Two children, repeated my wife, and they are staying with his aunt Jenny. He told me with his mother-in-law, I put in. My wife looked at me with a serious expression. Men may not remember much of what they are told about children, but any man knows the difference between an aunt and a mother-in-law, but don't you think they're nice people? asked my wife. Oh, certainly, I replied. Only they seem to be a little mixed up about their children. That isn't a nice thing to say, returned my wife. I could not deny it. And yet the next morning, when the Breeds came down and seated themselves opposite us at table, beaming and smiling in their natural, pleasant, well-bred fashion, I knew to a social certainty that they were nice people. He was a fine-looking fellow in his neat tennis flannels, slim, graceful, twenty-eight or thirty years old, with a Frenchy-pointed beard. She was nice in all her pretty clothes, and she herself was pretty with that type of prettiness which outwears most other types, the prettiness that lies in a rounded figure, a dusky skin, plump, rosy cheeks, white teeth, and black eyes. She might have been twenty-five. You guessed that she was prettier than she was at twenty, and that she would be prettier still at forty. And nice people were all we wanted to make us happy in Mr. Jacobus' summer boarding house on top of Orange Mountain. For a week we had come down to breakfast each morning, wondering why we wasted the precious days of idleness with the company gathered around the Jacobus sword. What joy of human companionship was to be had out of Mrs. Tab and Mrs. Hogan Camp, the two middle-aged gossips from Scranton, PA. Out of Mr. and Mrs. Bigel, an indurated head bookkeeper, and his prim and sensorious wife. Out of old Major Halcott, a retired businessman, who having once sold a few shares on commission, wrote for circulars of every stock company that was started, and tried to induce everyone to invest who would listen to him. We looked around at those dull faces, the truthful indices of mean and barren minds, and decided that we would leave that morning. Then we ate Mrs. Jacobus' biscuit, light as Aurora's cloudless, drank her honest coffee, inhaled the perfume of the late Azaleas with which she decked her table, and decided to postpone our departure one more day, and then we wandered out to take our morning glance at what we called our view, and it seemed to us as if Tab and Hogan Camp and Halcott and the Bigelzes could not drive us away in a year. I was not surprised when, after breakfast, my wife invited the Breeds to walk with us to our view. The Hogan Camp-Bigel-Tab-Halcott contingent never stirred off Jacobus' veranda. But we both felt that the Breeds would not profane that sacred scene. We strolled slowly across the fields, passed through the little belt of woods, and, as I heard Mrs. Breeds' little cry of startled rapture, I motioned a breed to look up. By Jove, he cried, Heavenly! We looked off from the brow of the mountain over fifteen miles of bellowing green, to where, far across a far stretch of pale blue, lay a dim purple line that we knew was Staten Island, towns and villages lay before us and under us. There were ridges and hills, uplands and lowlands, woods and plains, all masked and mingled in that great silent sea of sunlit green. For silent it was to us, standing in the silence of a high place, silent with the Sunday stillness that made us listen without taking thought for the sound of bells coming up from the spires that rose above the treetops, the treetops that lay as far beneath us as the light clouds were above us, that dropped great shadows upon our heads and faint specks of shade upon the broad sweep of land at the mountain's foot. And so that is your view, asked Mrs. Breed, after a moment. You are very generous to make it ours, too. Then we lay down on the grass, and Breed began to talk in a gentle voice, as if he felt the influence of the place. He had paddled a canoe in his earlier days, he said, and he knew every river and creek and that vast stretch of landscape. He found his landmarks and pointed out to us where the Paseik and the Hackensack flowed, invisible to us, hidden behind great ridges that in our sight were but comings of the great waves upon which we looked down. And yet on the further side of those broad ridges and rises were scores of villages, a little world of country life lying unseen under our eyes. A good deal like looking at humanity, he said. There is such a thing as getting so far above our fellow men that we see only one side of them. Ah, how much better was this sort of talk than the chatter and gossip of the tab and the hooping camp than the major's dissertations upon his everlasting circulars. My wife and I exchanged glances. Now, when I went up the Matterhorn, Mr. Breed began. Why, dear, interrupted his wife, I didn't know you ever went up the Matterhorn. It was five years ago, said Mr. Breed hurriedly. I didn't tell you when I was on the other side, you know. It was rather dangerous. Well, as I was saying, it looked, oh, it didn't look at all like this. A cloud floated overhead, throwing its great shadow over the field where we lay. The shadow passed over the mountain's brow and reappeared far below, a rapidly decreasing blot, flying eastward over the golden green. My wife and I exchanged glances once more. Somehow the shadow lingered over us all. As we went home the Breeds went side by side along the narrow path, and my wife and I walked together. Should you think, she asked me, that a man would climb the Matterhorn the very first year he was married? I don't know, my dear, I answered evasively. This isn't the first year I have been married, not by a good many, that I wouldn't climb it for a farm. You know what I mean, she said. I did. When we reached the boarding house, Mr. Jacobus took me aside. You know, he began his discourse, my wife, she used to live in New York. I didn't know, but I said yes. She says the numbers on the streets runs crisscross-like. Thirty-four's on one side of the street, and thirty-five on't other. How's that? That is the invariable rule, I believe. Then I say these here new folk that you and your wife seem so mighty taken up with. Do you know anything about them? I know nothing about the character of your boarders, Mr. Jacobus. I replied, conscious of some irritability. If I choose to associate with any of them, just so, just so, broke in Jacobus. I ain't nothing to say against your sociability. But do you know them? Why, certainly not, I replied. Well, that was all I was asking you. You see, when he come here to take the rooms, you wasn't here then. He told my wife that he lived at number thirty-four in his street, and yesterday she told her that they lived at number thirty-five. He said he lived in an apartment house. Now, there can't be no apartment house on two sides of the same street, can they? What street was it, I inquired warily? 121st Street. Maybe, I replied, still more warily. That's Harlem. Nobody knows what people will do in Harlem. I went up to my wife's room. Don't you think it's queer, she asked me. I think I'll have a talk with that young man tonight, I said, and see if he can give some account of himself. But, my dear, my wife said gravely, she doesn't know whether they've had the measles or not. Why, great Scott, I exclaimed, they must have had them when they were children. Please, don't be stupid, said my wife. I meant their children. After dinner that night, or rather after supper, for we had dinner in the middle of the day at Jacobus's, I walked down the long veranda to ask Breed, who was placidly smoking at the other end, to accompany me on a twilight stroll. Halfway down I met Major Halket. That friend of yours, he said, indicating the unconscious figure at the further end of the house, seems to be a queer sort of a dick. He told me that he was out of business and just looking round for a chance to invest his capital. And I'd been telling him what an everlasting big show he had to take stock in the capital trust company. Starts next month, four million capital. I told you all about it. Oh, well, he says, let's wait and think about it. Wait, says I. The capital trust company won't wait for you, my boy. This is letting you in on the ground floor, says I. And it's now or never. Oh, let it wait, says he. I don't know what's into the man. I don't know how well he knows his own business, Major, said I as I started again for Breed's end of the brand. But I was troubled nonetheless. The Major could not have influenced the sale of one share of stock in the capital line company. But that stock was a great investment, a rare chance for a purchaser with a few thousand dollars. Perhaps it was no more remarkable that Breed should not invest than that I should not. And yet it seemed to add one circumstance more to the other suspicious circumstances. When I went upstairs that evening I found my wife putting her hair to bed. I don't know how I can better describe an operation familiar to every married man. I waited until the last trespass was coiled up and then I spoke. I talked with Breed, I said, and I didn't have to cataclyse him. He seemed to feel that some sort of explanation was looked for, and he was very outspoken. You were right about the children, that is, I must have misunderstood him. There are only two. But the Matterhorn episode was simple enough. He didn't realize how dangerous it was until he had got so far into it that he couldn't back out, and he didn't tell her because he'd left her here, you see, and under the circumstances, left her here, cried my wife. I'd been sitting with her the whole afternoon, sowing, and she told me that he left her at Geneva and came back and took her to Basel, and the baby was born there. Now I'm sure, dear, because I asked her. Perhaps I was mistaken when I thought he said she was on this side of the water, I suggested, with bitter, biting irony. You poor dear, did I abuse you, said my wife. But do you know Mrs. Tab said that she didn't know how many lumps of sugar he took in his coffee? Now that seems queer, doesn't it? It did. It was a small thing, but it looked queer, very queer. The next morning it was clear that war was declared against the breeds. They came down to breakfast, somewhat late, and as soon as they arrived the biggles as hooped up the last fragments that remained on their plates and made a stately march out of the dining room. Then Miss Hugenkamp arose and departed, leaving a whole fish-ball on her plate. Even as Atlanta might have dropped an apple behind her to tempt her pursuer to check his speed. So Miss Hugenkamp left that fish-ball behind her and between her maiden self and contamination. We had finished our breakfast, my wife and I, before the breeds appeared. We talked it over and agreed that we were glad that we had not been obliged to take sides upon such insufficient testimony. After breakfast it was the custom of the male half of the Jacobus household to go round the corner of the building and smoke their pipes and cigars where they would not annoy the ladies. We sat under a trellis covered with a grapevine that had borne no grapes in the memory of man. This vine, however, bore leaves and these on that pleasant summer morning shielded from us two persons who were in earnest conversation in the straggling half-dead flower garden at the site of the house. I don't want, we heard Mr. Jacobus say, to enter in no man's privacy, but I do want to know who it may be like that I have in my house. What I ask of you and I don't want you to take it as in no way personal is have you your marriage license with you? No, we heard the voice of Mr. Breed reply. Have you yours? I think it was a chance shot, but it told all the same. The major, he was a widower, and Mrs. Bigel and I looked at each other, and Mr. Jacobus on the other side of the grape trellis looked at, I don't know what, and was as silent as we were. Where is your marriage license, married reader? Do you know? Four men, not including Mr. Breed, stood or sat on one side or the other of that grape trellis, and not one of them knew where his marriage license was. Each of us had one, the major had had three, but where were they? Where is yours? Tucked in your best man's pocket, deposited in his desk, or washed to a pulp in his white waistcoat, if white waistcoats be the fashion of the hour, washed out of existence. Can you tell where it is? Can you, unless you are one of those people who frame that interesting document and hang it upon their drawing room walls? Mr. Breed's voice arose after an awful stillness of what seemed like five minutes and was probably thirty seconds. Mr. Jacobus, would you make out your bill at once, and let me pay it? I shall leave by the six o'clock train, and would you also send the wagon for my trunks? I ain't said I wanted to have you leave, began Mr. Jacobus, but Breed cut him short. Bring me your bill. But, remonstrated Jacobus, if you ain't bring me your bill, said Mr. Breed. My wife and I went out for our morning's walk, but it seemed to us, when we looked at our view, as if we could only see those invisible villages of which Breed had told us. That other side of the ridges and rises of which we catch no glimpse from lofty hills or from the heights of human self-esteem, we meant to stay out until the Breeds had taken their departure. But we returned just in time to see Pete, the Jacobus Darkie, the blacker of boots, the brasser of coats, the general handyman of the house, loading the Breed trunks on the Jacobus wagon. And as we stepped upon the veranda, down came Mrs. Breed, leaning on Mr. Breed's arm as though she were ill, and it was clear that she had been crying. There were heavy rings about her pretty black eyes. My wife took a step toward her. Look at that dress, dear, she whispered. She never thought anything like this was going to happen when she put that on. It was a pretty, delicate, dainty dress, a graceful, narrow striped affair. Her hat was trimmed with a narrow striped silk of the same colors, maroon and white. And in her hand she held a parasol that matched her dress. She's had a new dress on twice a day, said my wife, but that's the prettiest yet. Oh, somehow I'm awfully sorry they're going. But, going they were, they moved toward the steps. Mrs. Breed looked toward my wife, and my wife moved toward Mrs. Breed. But the ostracized woman, as though she felt the deep humiliation of her position, turned sharply away, and opened her parasol to shield her eyes from the sun. A shower of rice, a half-pound shower of rice, fell down over her pretty hat and her pretty dress, and fell in a spattering circle on the floor, outlining her skirts, and there at lay, in a broad, uneven band, bright in the morning sun. Mrs. Breed was in my wife's arms, sobbing as if her young heart would break. Oh, you poor, dear, silly children, my wife cried as Mrs. Breed sobbed on her shoulder. Why didn't you tell us? We didn't want to be taken for a bridal couple, sobbed Mrs. Breed. And we didn't dream what awful lies we'd have to tell, and all the awful mixed-upness of it. Oh, dear, dear, dear. Pete, commanded Mr. Jacobus, put back them trunks. These folks stay here as long as they want Mr. Breed, he held out a large, hard hand. I'd ordered known better, he said, and my last doubt of Mr. Breed vanished as he shook that grimy hand in manly fashion. The two women were walking off toward our view, each with an arm about the other's waist, touched by a sudden sisterhood of sympathy. Gentlemen, said Mr. Breed, addressing Jacobus, Bigel, the Major, and me, there is a hostory down the street where they sell honest New Jersey bear. I recognize the obligations of the situation. We five men filed down the street. The two women went toward the pleasant slope where the sunlight gilded the forehead of the Great Hill. On Mr. Jacobus's veranda lay a spattered circle of shining grains of rice. Two of Mr. Jacobus's pigeons flew down and picked up the shining grains, making grateful noises far down in their throats. End of the nice people. Oysters by Anton Chekhov This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and to learn how to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Translation by Constance Garnett I need no great effort of memory to recall, in every detail, the rainy autumn evening when I stood with my father in one of the more frequented streets of Moscow, and felt that I was gradually being overcome by a strange illness. I had no pain at all, but my legs were giving way under me. The words struck in my throat. My head slipped weakly on one side. It seemed as though, in a moment, I must fall down and lose consciousness. If I had been taken into the hospital at that minute, the doctors would have to ride over my bed. Fames. A disease which is not in the manuals of medicine. Beside me on the pavement stood my father in a shabby summer overcoat and surge cap, from which a bit of white wadding was sticking out. On his feet he had big heavy galoshes. Afraid, vain man, that people would see that his feet were bare under his galoshes. He had drawn the tops of some old boots up round the calves of his legs. This poor foolish queer creature, whom I love the more warmly, the more ragged and dirty his smart summer overcoat became, had come to Moscow five months before to look for a job as copy clerk. For those five months he had been trudging about Moscow looking for work, and it was only on that day that he had brought himself to go into the street to beg for alms. Before us was a big house of three stories adorned with the blue signboard with the word's restaurant on it. My head was drooping feebly backward and to one side, and I could not help looking upward at the lighted window of the restaurant. Human beings were flitting about at the windows. I could see the right side of the orchestrion, two oleographs, hanging lamps. Staring into one window I saw a patch of white. The patch was motionless, and its rectangular outline stood out sharply against the dark brown background. I looked intently and made out the patch of white placard on the wall. Something was written on it, but what it was I could not see. For half an hour I kept my eyes on the placard. Its white attracted my eyes, and as it were hypnotized my brain. I tried to read it, but my efforts were in vain. At last the strange disease got the upper hand. The rumble of the carriages began to seem like thunder. In the stench of the street I distinguished a thousand smells. The restaurant lights and the lamps dazzled my eyes like lightning. My five senses were overstrained and sensitive beyond the normal. I began to see what I had not seen before. Oysters. I made out on the placard a strange word. I had lived in the world eight years and three months and had never come across that word. What did it mean? Surely it was not the name of the restaurant keeper. But signboards with names on them always hang outside, not on the walls indoors. Papa, what does oysters mean? I asked in a husky voice, making an effort to turn my face towards my father. My father did not hear. He was keeping a watch on the movement of the crowd and following every passer-by with his eyes. From his eyes I saw that he wanted to say something to the passer-by, but the fatal word hung like a heavy weight on his trembling lips and could not be flung off. Even took a step after one passer-by and touched him on the sleeve, but when he turned round he said, I beg your pardon, was overcome with confusion and staggered back. Papa, what does oysters mean? I repeated. It is an animal that lives in the sea. I instantly pictured to myself this unknown marine animal. I thought it must be something midway between a fish and a crab. As it was from the sea, they made of it, of course, a very nice hot fish soup with savory pepper and laurel leaves, or broth with vinegar and fricassee of fish and cabbage, or crayfish sauce, or served it cold with horseradish. I vividly imagined it being brought from the market, quickly cleaned, quickly put in the pot, quickly, quickly, for everyone was hungry, awfully hungry. From the kitchen rose the smell of hot fish and crayfish soup. I felt that this smell was tickling my palate and nostrils, that it was gradually taking possession of my whole body. The restaurant, my father, the white placard, my sleeves were all smelling of it, smelling so strongly that I began to chew. I moved my jaws and swallowed, as though I really had a piece of this marine animal in my mouth. My legs gave way from the blissful sensation I was feeling. I clutched at my father's arm to keep myself from falling, and lent against his wet summer overcoat. My father was trembling and shivering. He was cold. Papa, are oysters a lenton dish? I asked. They are eaten alive, he said. They are in shells like tortoises, but in two halves. The delicious smell instantly left off affecting me, and the illusion vanished. Now I understood it all. How nasty! I whispered, how nasty! So that's what oysters meant. I imagined to myself a creature like a frog, a frog sitting in a shell, peeping out from it with big glittering eyes and moving its revolting jaws. I imagined this creature in a shell with claws, glittering eyes, and slimy skin being brought from the market. The children would all hide while the cook, frowning with an air of disgust, would take the creature by its claw, put it on a plate, and carry it into the dining room. The grown-ups would take it and eat it, eat it alive with its eyes, its teeth, its legs, while it squeaked and tried to bite their lips. I frown, but why did my teeth move as though I were munching? The creature was loathsome, disgusting, terrible. But I ate it, ate it greedily, afraid of distinguishing its taste or smell. As soon as I had eaten it, I saw the glittering eyes of a second, a third. I ate them too. At last I ate the table napkin, the plate, my father's galoshes, the white placard. I ate everything that caught my eye, because I felt that nothing but eating would take away my illness. The oysters had a terrible look in their eyes and were loathsome. I shuddered at the thought of them, but I wanted to eat, to eat. Oysters, give me some oysters! was the cry that broke from me, and I stretched out my hand. Help us, gentlemen! I heard at that moment my father say, in a hollow and shaking voice, I am ashamed to ask, but, my God, I can bear no more! Oysters! I cried, pulling my father by the skirts of his coat. Do you mean to say that you eat oysters? A little chap like you. I heard laughter close to me. Two gentlemen in top hats were standing before us, looking into my face and laughing. Do you really eat oysters, youngster? That's interesting! How do you eat them? I remember a strong hand dragged me into the lighted restaurant. A minute later there was a crowd round me, watching me with curiosity and amusement. I sat at a table, and ate something slimy, salt with a flavor of dampness and moldiness. I ate greedily without chewing, without looking, and tried to discover what I was eating. I fancied that if I opened my eyes, I should see glittering eyes, claws, and sharp teeth. All at once I began biting something hard. There was a sound of scrunching. Ha! Ha! Ha! He's eating the shells! Laughed the crowd. Little silly! Do you suppose you can eat that? After that I remember a terrible thirst. I was lying in my bed, and could not sleep for a heartburn and the strange taste of my parched mouth. My father was walking up and down, gesticulating with his hands. I believe I have caught a cold, he muttered. I have a feeling in my head as though someone was sitting on it. Perhaps it was because I have not eaten anything today. I really am a queer stupid creature. I saw those gentlemen pay ten rubles for the oysters. Why didn't I go up to them and ask them to lend me something? They would have given something. Towards morning I fell asleep, and dreamt of a frog sitting in a shell, moving its eyes. At midday I was awakened by thirst and looked for my father. He was still walking up and down, and gesticulating. End of Oysters by Anton Chekhov. This recording is in the public domain. Read for LibriVox.org by Alan Davis-Strake.