Librivox Short Story Collection Vol. 030 by Various

1 An Encounter With an Interviewer 6:56

An Encounter with an Interviewee. The nervous, dapper, pert young man took the chair I offered him and said he was connected with the daily thunderstorm, and added, hoping it's no harm. I've come to interview you. Come to what? Interview you. Ah, I see. Yes, yes, hmm. Yes, yes. I was not feeling bright that morning. Indeed, my power seemed a bit under a cloud. However, I went to the bookcase, and when I had been looking six or seven minutes, I found I was obliged to refer to the young man. I said, how do you spell it? Spell what? Interview. Oh, my goodness. What do you want to spell it for? I don't want to spell it. I want to see what it means. Well, this is astonishing, I must say. I can tell you what it means if you—if you—oh, all right, that will answer, and much obliged to you two.

I-n-n-t-e-r-ter-enter—then you spell it with an I. Why, certainly. Oh, that is what took me so long. Why, my dear sir, what did you propose to spell it with? Well, I—I hardly know. I had the unabridged, and I was ciphering around the back end, hoping I might trigger among the pictures. But it's a very old edition. Why, my friend, they wouldn't have a picture of it even in the latest—my dear sir, I beg your pardon. I mean no harm in the world, but you do not look as—intelligent as I expected you would. No harm—I mean no harm at all. Oh, don't mention it. It has often been said, and by people who would not flatter, and could have no inducement to flatter, that I am quite remarkable in that way.

Yes, yes, they always speak of it with rapture. I can easily imagine it. But about this interview. You know it is a custom now to interview any man who has become notorious. Indeed. I have not heard of it before. It must be very interesting. What do you do it with?" Ah, well, well, this is disheartening. It ought to be done with a club in some cases, but customarily it consists in the interviewer asking questions, and the interviewed answering them. It is all the rage now. Will you let me ask you certain questions calculated to bring out the salient points of your public and private history? Oh, with pleasure, with pleasure. I have a very bad memory, but I hope you will not mind that. That is to say, it is an irregular memory.

Singularly irregular. Sometimes it goes at a gallop, and then again it will be as much as a fortnight passing a given point. This is a great grief to me. Oh, it is no matter. So you will try to do the best you can. I will. I will put my whole mind on it. Thanks. Are you ready to begin? Ready. How old are you? Nineteen in June. Indeed. I would have taken you for thirty-five or six. Where were you born? In Missouri. When did you begin to write? In eighteen thirty-six. Why, how could that be if you were only nineteen now? I don't know. It does seem curious somehow. It does indeed. Whom do you consider the most remarkable man you ever met? Aaron Burr. But you could never have met Aaron Burr if you were only nineteen years.

Now, if you know more about me than I do, what do you ask me for? Well, it was only a suggestion, nothing more. How did you happen to meet Burr? Well, I happened to be at his funeral one day, and he asked me to make less noise, and— But, good heavens, if you were at his funeral, he must have been dead. And if he was dead, how could he care whether you made a noise or not? I don't know. He was always a particular kind of man that way. Still, I don't understand at all. You say he spoke to you, and that he was dead. I didn't say he was dead. But wasn't he dead? Well, some said he was, some said he wasn't. What do you think? Oh, it was none of my business. It wasn't any of my funeral. Did you? However, we can never get this matter straight.

Let me ask about something else. What was the date of your birth? Monday, October 31st. Sixteen-ninety-three. What? Impossible! That would make you a hundred and eighty years old. How do you account for that? I don't account for it at all. But you said at first you were only nineteen, and now you make yourself out to be one hundred and eighty. It is an awful discrepancy. Why, have you noticed that? Shaking hands. Many a time it has seemed to me like a discrepancy, but somehow I couldn't make up my mind. How quick you notice a thing! Thank you for the compliment, as far as it goes. Had you or have you any brothers or sisters? Eh? I—I—I—I think so, yes. But I don't remember. Well, that is the most extraordinary statement I've ever heard.

Why, what makes you think that? How could I think otherwise? Why, look here. Who is this a picture of on the wall? Isn't that a brother of yours? Oh, yes—yes, yes. Now you remind me of it. That was a brother of mine. That's William. Bill, we called him. Poor old Bill. Why, is he dead, then? Ah, well, I suppose so. We never could tell. There was a great mystery about it. That is sad. Very sad. He disappeared, then. Well, yes, in a sort of general way. We buried him. Buried him? Buried him without knowing whether he was dead or not. Oh, no, not that. He was dead enough. Well, I confess that I can't understand this. If you buried him, and you knew he was dead. No, no. We only thought he was. Oh, I see.

He came to life again. I bet he didn't. Well, I never heard anything like this. Somebody was dead. Somebody was buried. Now, where was the mystery? Ah! That's just it. That's it, exactly. You see, we were twins, defunct, and I, and we got mixed up in the bathtub when we were only two weeks old. And one of us was drowned. But we didn't know which. Some think it was Bill. Some think it was me. Well, that's remarkable. What do you think? Goodness knows! I would give whole worlds to know. This solemn, this awful mystery has cast a gloom over my whole life. But I will tell you a secret now, which I have never revealed to any creature before. One of us had a peculiar mark, a very large mole on the back of his left hand.

That was me. That child was the one that was drowned. Very well, then. I don't see that there is any mystery about it after all. You don't? Well, I do. Anyway, I don't see how they could ever have been such a blundering lot as to go and bury the wrong child. But, shh, don't mention it where the family can hear of it. Heaven knows they have heart-breaking troubles enough without adding this. Well, I believe I have got material enough for the present, and am very much obliged to you for the pains you have taken. But I was a good deal interested in that account of Aaron Burris's funeral. Would you mind telling me what particular circumstances it was that made you think Burr was such a remarkable man?

Oh, it was a mere trifle. Not one man in fifty would have noticed it at all. When the sermon was over, and the procession all ready to start for the cemetery, and the body all arranged nice in the hearse, he said he wanted to take a last look at the scenery, and so he got up and rode with the driver. Then the young man reverently withdrew. He was very pleasant company, and I was sorry to see him go. End of An Encounter with an Interviewer by Mark Twain. Recording by James Christopher. jxchristopher at yahoo.com.

2 Evil Allures, But Good Endures 6:06

Evil allures, but good endures.

Translation by Constance Garnett.

There lived in olden times a good and kindly man. He had his world's goods in abundance, and many slaves to serve him. And the slaves prided themselves on their master, saying, There is no better lord than ours under the sun. He feeds and clothes us well, and gives us work suited to our strength. He bears no malice, and never speaks a harsh word to anyone. He is not like other masters, who treat their slaves worse than cattle, punishing them whether they deserve it or not, and never giving them a friendly word. He wishes us well, does good, and speaks kindly to us. We do not wish for a better life. Thus the slaves praised their lord, and the devil, seeing it, was vexed that the slaves should live in such love and harmony with their master.

So getting one of them, whose name was Aleb, into his power, the devil ordered him to tempt the other slaves. And one day, when they were all sitting together resting and taking of their master's goodness, Aleb raised his voice and said, It is stupid to make so much of our master's goodness. The devil himself would be kind to you if you did what he wanted. We serve our master well, and humor him in all things. As soon as he thinks of anything, we do it. Forseeing all he wishes, what can he do but be kind to us? Just try how it will be if, instead of humoring him, we do some harm instead. He will act like any other. He will repay evil for evil, as the worst of masters do. The other slaves began denying what Elab had said, and at last bet with him.

Elab undertook to make their master angry. If he failed, he was to lose his holiday garment, but if he succeeded, the other slaves were to give him theirs. Moreover, they promised to defend him against the master. and to set him free if he should be put in chains or imprisoned. Having arranged the bet, Elab agreed to make his master angry next day. Elab was a shepherd, and had in his charge a number of valuable purebred sheep, of which his master was very fond. Next morning, when the master brought some visitors into the enclosure to show them the valuable sheep, Elab winked at his companions as if to say, See now how angry I will make him. All the other slaves assembled, looking in at the gates or over the fence, and the devil climbed a tree nearby to see how his servants would do his work.

The master walked about the enclosure, showing his guests the ewes and lambs, and presently he wished to show them his finest lamb. All the rams are valuable, he said. But I have one with closed twisted horns, which is priceless. I prize him as the apple of my eye. Startled by the strangers, the sheep rushed about the enclosure, so that the visitors could not get a good look at the ram. As soon as it stood still, Elid startled the sheep, as if by accident, and they all got mixed up again. The visitors could not make out which was the priceless ram. At last the master got tired of it. "'Eleb, my friend,' he said, "'pray catch our best ram for me, the one with the tightly twisted horns. Catch him very carefully, and hold him still for a moment.' Scarcely had the master said this when Elib rushed in among the sheep like a lion, and clutched the priceless ram.

Holding him fast by the wool, he seized the left hind leg with one hand, and before his master's eyes, lifted it and jerked it so that it snapped like a dry branch. He had broken the ram's leg, and it fell bleating on its knees. Then Elib squeezed the right hind leg, while the left twisted round and hung quite limp. The visitors and slaves exclaimed in dismay, and the devil, sitting up in the tree, rejoiced and did not say a word. The visitors and slaves were silent too, Waiting to see what would follow. After remaining silent for a while, the master shook himself as if to throw off some burden, and then he lifted his head and raised his eyes heavenward, remained for a short time. Presently the wrinkles passed from his face, and he looked down at Aelib with a smile, saying, O Aelib Aelib, your master bade you anger me, but my master is stronger than yours.

I am not angry with you, but I will make your master angry. You are afraid that I shall punish you, and you have been wishing for your freedom. Know then, Elab, that I shall not punish you, but as you wish to be free, here before my guests I set you free. Go where you like, and take your holiday garment with you. And the kind master returned with his guests to the house. But the devil, grinding his teeth, fell down from the tree and sank through the ground. Evil allures, but good endures.

3 A Grain As Big As a Hen's Egg 6:54

A Grain as Big as a Hen's Egg by Leo Tolstoy. Read for LibriVox.org by Alan Davis Drake.

One day some children found in a ravine a thing shaped like a grain of corn, with a groove down the middle. But as large as a hen's egg. A traveler passing by saw the thing, brought it from the children for a penny, and taking it to town, sold it to the king as a curiosity. The king called together his wise men, and told them to find out what the thing was. The wise men pondered and pondered, and could not make head or tail of it, till one day, when the thing was lying on a window-sill, a hen flew in and pecked at it till she made a hole in it. And every one saw that it was a grain of corn. The wise men went to the king and said, It is a grain of corn. At this the king was much surprised, and he ordered the learned men to find out when and where such a corn had grown.

The learned men pondered again and searched in their books, but could find nothing about it. So they returned to the king and said, We can give you no answer. There is nothing about it in our books. You will have to ask the peasants. Perhaps some of them have heard from their fathers when and where grain grew to such a size. So the king gave orders that some very old peasant should be brought before him, and his servants found such a man, and brought him to the king. Old and bent, ashy-pale and toothless, He just managed, with the help of two crutches, to totter into the king's presence. The king showed him the grain, but the old man could hardly see it. He took it, however, and felt it with his hands.

The king questioned him, saying, Can you tell us, old man, where such grain as this grew? Have you ever bought such corn, or sown such in your fields? The old man was so deaf that he could hardly hear what the king said. And only understood with great difficulty. "'No,' he answered at last, "'I never sowed nor reaped any like it in my fields, nor did I ever buy such. When we bought corn, the grains were always as small as they are now. But you might ask my father. He may have heard where such grain grew.' So the king sent for the old man's father, and he was found and brought before the king. He came walking with one crutch. The king showed him the grain, and the old peasant, who was still able to see, took a look at it, and the king asked him, Can you tell us, old man, where corn like this used to grow?

Have you ever bought any like it, or sown any in your fields? Though the old man was rather hard of hearing, he still heard better than his son had done. "'No,' he said, "'I never sowed nor reaped any grain like this in my field. As to buying, I never bought any, for in my time money was not yet in use. Every one grew his own corn, and when there was any need we would share with one another. I do not know where corn like this grew. Ours was larger and yielded more flour than present-day grain, but I never saw any like this. I have, however, heard my father say that, in his time, the grain grew larger and yielded more flour than ours. You had better ask him. So the king sent for this old man's father, and they found him, too, and brought him before the king.

He entered walking easily and without crutches. His eye was clear, his hearing good, and he spoke distinctly. The king showed him the grain, and the old grandfather looked at it and turned it about in his hand. "'It is long since I have seen such a fine grain,' he said, and he bit a piece off and tasted it. "'It is the very same kind,' he added. "'Tell me, grandfather,' said the king, "'when and where was such corn grown?' Have you ever bought any like it, or sown any in your fields?" The old man replied, Corn like this used to grow everywhere in my time. I lived on corn like this in my young days, and fed others on it. It was grain like this that we used to sow and reap and thrash. And the king asked, Tell me, grandfather, did you buy it anywhere, or did you grow it yourself?

The old man smiled. "'In my time,' he answered, "'no one ever thought of such a sin as buying or selling bread, and we knew nothing of money. Each man had corn enough of his own. "'Tell me, grandfather,' asked the king, "'where was your field? Where did you grow corn like this?' And the grandfather answered, "'My field was God's earth. Whenever I ploughed, there was my field.' Land was free. It was a thing no man called his own. Labor was the only thing men called their own. Answer me two more questions, said the king. The first is, Why did the earth bear such grain then, and has ceased to do now? And the second is, Why your grandson walks with two crutches, your son with one, and you yourself with none?

Your eyes are bright. Your teeth sound, and your speech clear and pleasant to the ear. How have these things come about? And the old man answered, These things are so because men have ceased to live by their own labor, and have taken to depending on the labor of others. In the old time men lived according to God's law. They had what was their own, and coveted not what others produced.

4 The Great Bear 2:52

The Great Bear by Leo Tolstoy. Translated by R. S.

Townsend. A long, long time ago, there was a big drought on the earth. All the rivers dried up, and the streams and the wells. And the trees withered, and the bushes and the grass, and men and beasts died of thirst. One night a little girl went out with a pitcher to find some water for her sick mother. She wandered and wandered everywhere, but could find no water, and she grew so tired that she lay down on the grass and fell asleep. When she awoke and took up the pitcher, she nearly upset the water it contained. The pitcher was full of clear, fresh water. The little girl was glad and was about to put it to her lips, but she remembered her mother and ran home with the pitcher as fast as she could.

She hurried so much that she did not notice a little dog on her path. She stumbled over it and dropped the pitcher. The dog whined pitifully. The little girl seized the pitcher. She thought the water would have been upset. But the pitcher stood upright, and the water was there as before. She poured a little into the palm of her hand, and the dog lapped it and was comforted. When the little girl again touched the pitcher, it turned from common wood to silver. She took the pitcher home and gave it to her mother. The mother said, "'I shall die just the same. You had better drink it,' and she handed the pitcher to the child. At that moment the pitcher turned from silver to gold. The little girl could no longer contain herself, and was about to put the pitcher to her lips when the door opened and a stranger entered, who begged for drink.

The little girl swallowed her saliva, and gave the pitcher to him. And suddenly seven large diamonds sprang out of the pitcher, and a stream of clear, fresh water flowed from it. And the seven diamonds began to rise, and they rose higher and higher till they reached the sky, and became the Great Bear.

End of The Great Bear by Leo Tolstoy.

5 Little Girls Wiser Than Men 5:15

Little Girls Wiser Than Men by Leo Tolstoy. 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.

It was an early Easter. Sledging was just over. Snow still lay in the yards, and water ran in streams down the village street. Two little girls from different houses happened to meet in a lane between two homesteads, where the dirty water, after running through the farmlands, had formed large puddles. One little girl was very small, the other a little bigger. Their mothers had dressed them both in new frocks. The little one wore a blue frock, the other a yellow print. And both had red kerchiefs on their heads. They had just come from church when they met, and first they showed each other their finery, and then they began to play. Soon the fancy took them to splash about in the water, and the smaller one was going to step into the puddle, shoes and all, when the elder checked her.

"'Don't go in so, Malasha,' she said. "'Your mother will scold you.' I will take off my shoes and stockings, and you take off yours. They did so, and then, picking up their skirts, began walking towards each other through the puddle. The water came up to Malasha's ankles, and she said, It is deep, Akulia. I'm afraid. Come on, replied the other. Don't be afraid. It won't get any deeper. When they got near one another, Akulia said, Mind, Malasha. Don't splash. Walk carefully. She had hardly said this when Malasha pumped down her foot so that the water splashed right onto Akulia's frock. The frock was splashed, and so were Akulia's eyes and nose. When she saw the stains on her frock, she was angry and ran after Malasha to strike her.

Molasha was frightened, and seeing that she had got herself into trouble, she scrambled out of the puddle and prepared to run home. Just then, Okulia's mother happened to be passing, and seeing that her daughter's skirt was splashed and her sleeves dirty, she said, "'You naughty, dirty girl! What have you been doing?' Molasha did it on purpose," replied the girl. At this, Okulia's mother seized Molasia and struck her on the back of her neck. Molasia began to howl so that she could be heard all down the street. Her mother came out. "'What are you beating my girl for?' she said, and began scolding her neighbor. One word led to another, and they had an angry quarrel. The men came out, and a crowd collected on the street.

Everyone shouting, and no one listening. They all went on quarreling till one gave another a push, and the affair had very nearly come to blows when Akulia's old grandmother, stepping in among them, tried to calm them. They would not listen to the old woman, and nearly knocked her off her feet. And she would not have been able to quiet the crowd if it had not been for Akulia and Molasia themselves. While the women were abusing each other, Akulia had wiped the mud off her frock, and gone back to the puddle. She took a stone and began scraping away the earth in front of the puddle to make a channel through which the water could run out into the street. Presently, Mellasha joined her, and with a chip of wood, helped her to dig the channel.

Just as the men were beginning to fight, the water from the little girl's channel ran streaming into the street towards the very place where the old woman was trying to pacify the men. The girls followed it. One running each side of the stream. "'Catch it, Mellasha, catch it!' shouted Akulia, while Mellasha could not speak for laughing. Highly delighted in watching the chip float along on their stream, the little girls ran straight into the group of men, and the old woman, seeing this, said to the men, "'Are you not ashamed of yourselves?' To go fighting on account of these lassies, when they themselves have forgotten all about it, and are playing happily together. Dear souls, they are wiser than you.

The men looked at the little girls, and were ashamed, and, laughing at themselves, went back each to his own home. Except ye turn, and become like little children. Ye shall in no wise enter into the kingdom of heaven.

6 Psychology 18:59

Psychology by Catherine Mansfield.

When she opened the door and saw him standing there, she was more pleased than ever before. And he, too, as he followed her into the studio, seemed very, very happy to have come. Not busy? No, just going to have tea. And you're not expecting anybody? Nobody at all. Ah, that's good. He laid aside his coat and hat gently, lingeringly, as though he had time and to spare for everything, or as though he were taking leave of them forever, and came over to the fire, and held out his hands to the quick leaping flame. Just for a moment, both of them stood silent in that leaping light. Still, as it were, they tasted on their smiling lips the sweet shock of their greeting. Their secret selves whispered.

Why should we speak? Is this enough? More than enough. I never realized until this moment. How good it is just to be with you. Like this? It's more than enough. But suddenly he turned and looked at her, and she moved quickly away. Have a cigarette. I'll put the kettle on. Are you longing for tea? No, not longing. Well, I am. Who are you? He thumbed the Armenian cushion and flung on to the sommelier. You're a perfect little Chinese. Yes, I am, she laughed. I long for tea as strong men long for wine. She lighted a lamp under its broad, orange shade, pulled the curtains, and drew up the tea-table. Two birds sang in the kettle. The fire fluttered. He sat up, clasping his knees. It was delightful, this business of having tea, and she always had delicious things to eat—little sharp sandwiches, short sweet almond fingers, and a dark, rich cake tasting of rum.

But it was an interruption. He wanted it over. The tail pushed away, the two chairs drawn up to the light, and the moment came when he took out his pipe, filled it, and said, pressing the tobacco tight into the bowl, I have been thinking over what you said last time, and it seems to me... Yes, that was what he waited for, and so did she. Yes, while she shook the teapot hot and dry over the spirit flame, she saw those other two—him, leaning back, taking his ease among the cushions—and her, curled up on his cargo in the blue shell armchair. The picture was so clear and so minute that it might have been painted on the blue teapot lid, and yet she couldn't hurry. She could almost have cried, Give me time.

She must have time in which to grow calm. She wanted time in which to free herself from all these familiar things with which she lived so vividly. For all these gay things round her were part of her, her offspring, and they knew it, and made the largest, most vehement claims. But now they must go. They must be swept away, shoot away. Like children sent up the shallowy stairs, packed into bed, and commanded to go to sleep, at once, without a murmur. For the special thrilling quality of their friendship was in their complete surrender. Like two open cities in the midst of some vast plain, their two minds lay open to each other. And it wasn't as if he rode into hers like a conqueror, armed to the eyebrows and seeing nothing but a gay silken flutter.

Nor did she enter his like a queen walking soft on petals. No, they were eager, serious travelers, absorbed in understanding what was to be seen and discovering what was hidden, making the most of this extraordinary absolute chance which made it possible for him to be utterly truthful to her, and for her to be utterly sincere with him. And the best of it was, they were both of them old enough to enjoy their adventure to the full, without any stupid emotional complication. Passion would have ruined everything. They quite saw that. Besides, all that sort of thing was over and done with for both of them. He was thirty-one. She was thirty. They had had their experiences, and very rich and very they had been.

But now was the time for harvest. Harvest. Weren't his novels to be very big novels indeed? And her plays? Who else had her exquisite sense of real English comedy? Carefully she cut the cake into thick little watts, and he reached a cross for a piece. Do you realize how good it is? She implored. Eat it imaginatively. Roll your eyes, if you can, and taste it on a breath. It's not a sandwich on the hatter's back. It's the kind of cake that might have been mentioned in the book of Genesis. And God said, Let there be cake, and there was cake, and God saw that it was good. You needn't entreat me, said he. Really, you needn't. It's a queer thing, but I always do notice what I eat here, and never anywhere else.

I suppose it comes of living alone so long, and always reading while I feed. My habit of looking upon food is just food. Something that's there at certain times. To be devoured, to be... not there. He laughed. It shocks you, doesn't it? To the bone, said she. But look here. He pushed away his cup, and began to speak very fast. I simply haven't got any external app at all. I don't know the names of things, bit, trees, and so on, and I never noticed places, or furniture, or... What people look like. One room is just like another to me, a place to sit and meet or talk in. Except— And here he paused, smiled in a strange, naive way, and said, Except this studio. He looked round him, and then at her.

He laughed in his astonishment and pleasure. He was like a man who wakes up in a train to find that he has arrived already at the journey's end. Here's another queer thing. If I shut my eyes, I can see this place down to every detail. Every detail. Now I come to think of it, I've never realized this consciously before. Often, when I'm away from here, I revisit it in spirit, wander about among your red chairs, stare at a bowl of fruit on the black table, and just touch very lightly that marvel. Of a sleeping boy's head. He looked at it as he spoke. It stood on the corner of the mantelpiece, the head to one side down drooping, the lips parted. As Joe in his sleep, the little boy listened to some sweet sound.

I love that little boy, he murmured. And then they both were silent. A new silence came between them. Nothing in the least like the satisfactory pause that had followed the greetings, the, Well, here we are together again, and there's no reason why we shouldn't go on from just where we left off last time. That silence could be contained in the circle of warm, delightful fire and lamplight. How many times hadn't they flung something into it, just for the fun of watching the ripples break on the easy shores? But into this unfamiliar pool, the head of the little boy, sleeping his timeless sleep, dropped, and a ripple's throat away, away, boundlessly far, into deep, glittering darkness. And then both of them broke it.

She said, "'I must make up the fire,' and he said, "'I have been trying anew.' Both of them escaped. She made up the fire, and put a table back. De Brucer was wheeled forward, she curled up, and he lay back among the cushions. Quickly, quickly, they must stop it from happening again. Well, I read the book you left last time. Oh, what do you think of it? They were off, and all was as usual. But was it? Weren't they just a little too quick to prompt with their replies, too ready to take each other up? Was this really anything more than a wonderfully good imitation of other occasions? His heart beat, her cheek burned, and the stupid thing was, she could not discover where exactly they were, or what exactly was happening.

She hadn't time to glance back, and just as she had got so far, it happened again. They faltered, wavered, broke down, were silent. Again they were conscious of the boundless, questioning dark. Again there they were, two hunters, bending over their fire, but hearing suddenly from the jungle beyond a shake of wind and a loud, questioning cry. She lifted her head. "'It's raining,' she murmured, and her voice was like his when he had said, "'I love that little boy.' "'Well,' Why didn't they just give way to it, yield, and see what will happen then? But no. Vague and troubled though they were, they knew enough to realize their precious friendship was in danger. She was the one who would be destroyed, not they, and they'd be no party to that.

He got up, knocked out his pipe, ran his hand through his hair and said, I have been wondering very much lately. Whether the novel of the future will be a psychological novel or not. How sure are you that psychology, Qua? Psychology has got anything to do with literature at all. Do you mean you feel there's quite a chance that the mysterious, non-existent creatures, the young writers of today, are trying simply to jump the psychoanalyst's claim? Yes, I do. And I think it's because this generation is just wise enough to know that it is sick. and to realize that its only chance of recovery is by going into its symptoms, making an exhaustive study of them, tracking them down, trying to get at the root of the trouble.

"'Oh,' she wailed, "'what a dreadfully dismal outlook!' "'Not at all,' said he. "'Look here.' On the talk went, and now it seemed it really had succeeded. She turned in a chair to look at him while she answered. Her smile said, We have won, and he smiled back, confident. Absolutely. But a smile undid them. It lasted too long. It became a grin. They saw themselves as two little grinning puppets, jigging away in nothingness. What have we been talking about? thought he. He was so utterly bored, he almost groaned. What a spectacle we have made of ourselves, thought she, and she saw him laboriously Oh, laboriously, laying out the grounds, and herself running after, putting here a tree, and there a flowery shrub, and here a handful of glittering fish in a pool.

They were silent this time, from sheer dismay. The clock struck six merry little pings, and the fire made a soft flutter. What fools they were, heavy, stodgy, elderly, with positively upholstered minds. And now the silence put a spell upon them, like solemn music. It was anguish. Anguish for her to bear it, and he would die. He'd die if it were broken. And yet he longed to break it, not by speech, at any rate not by their ordinary maddening chatter. There was another way for them to speak to each other, and in a new way he wanted to murmur. Do you feel this, too? Do you understand it at all? Instead, to his horror, he heard himself say, "'I must be off. I'm meeting Brandt at six.' What devil made him say that instead of the other?

She jumped, simply jumped out of a chair, and he heard her crying, "'You must rush, then. He's so punctual. Why didn't you say so before?' "'You've hurt me. You've hurt me. We've failed,' said his secret self, while she handed him his hat and stick. smiling gaily. She wouldn't give him a moment for another word, but ran along the passage and opened the big outer door. Could they leave each other like this? How could they? He stood on the step, and she just inside, holding the door. It was not raining now. You've hurt me, hurt me, said her heart. Why don't you go? No, don't go. Stay. No, go. And she looked out upon the night. She saw the beautiful fall of the steps, the dark garden, rinked with glittering ivy, on the other side of the road the huge bare willows, and above them the sky, big and bright, with stars.

But of course he would see nothing of all this. He was superior to it all, he with his wonderful spiritual vision. She was right. He did see nothing at all. Misery. He'd missed it. It was too late to do anything now. Was it too late? Yes, it was. A cold snatch of hateful wind blew into the garden. Curse life! He heard a cry, Au revoir, and the door slammed.

Running back into the studio, she behaved so strangely. She ran up and down, lifting her arms and crying. Oh, oh, how stupid! How imbecile! How st... Stupid. And then she flung herself down on the sommier, thinking of nothing, just lying there in her rage. All was over. What was over? Oh, something was. And she'd never see him again. Never. After a long time, or perhaps ten minutes had passed in that black gulf, her bell rang, a sharp, quick jingle. It was he, of course. Inequally, of course, she oughtn't to have paid the slightest attention to it, but just let it go on ringing and ringing. She flew to answer. On the doorstep there stood an elderly virgin, a pathetic creature, who simply idolized her, heaven knows why, and had this habit of turning up and ringing the bell, and then saying, when she opened the door, My dear, send me away.

She never did. As a rule, she asked her in, and let her admire everything, and accepted the bunch of slightly soiled-looking flowers, more than graciously. But today—'Oh, I'm so sorry,' she cried, "'but I've got someone with me. We are working on some woodcuts. I'm hopelessly busy all evening.' "'It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter at all, darling,' said a good friend. "'I was just passing, and I thought I'd leave you some violets.' She fumbled down among the ribs of a large old umbrella. I put them down here, such a good place to keep flowers out of the wind. Here they are, she said, shaking out a little dead bunch. For a moment she did not take the violets, but while she stood just inside, holding the door, a strange thing happened.

Again she saw the beautiful fall of the steps, the dark garden ringed with glittering ivy, the willows, To big, bright sky. Again she felt the silence that was like a question. But this time she did not hesitate. She moved forward. Very softly and gently, as though fearful of making a ripple in that boundless pool of quiet, she put her arms round her friend. My dear, murmured her happy friend, quite overcome by this gratitude. Dear, really nothing. Just the simplest little threepenny bunch. But as she spoke, she was enfolded, more tenderly, more beautifully embraced, held by such a sweet pressure, and for so long that the poor dear's mind positively reeled, as it just had the strength to quaver, and then you really don't mind me too much.

"'Good-night, my friend,' whispered the other. "'Come again soon.' "'Oh, I will, I will.' This time she walked back to the studio slowly, and standing in the middle of the room, with half-shut eyes, she felt so light, so rested, as if she had woken up out of a childish sleep. Even the act of breathing was a joy. Le sommelier was very untidy, all the cushions like furious mountains, as she said. She put them in order before going over to the writing-table. I have been thinking over our talk about the psychological novel," she dashed off. It really is intensely interesting," and so on, and so on. At the end, she wrote, "'Good-night, my friend. Come again soon.'" End of Psychology by Catherine Mansfield.

7 The Purple Dress 11:31

The Purple Dress by O.

Henry. The Purple Dress by O'Henry. We are to consider the shade known as purple. It is a color justly in repute among the sons and daughters of man. Emperors claim it for their special dye. Good fellows everywhere seek to bring their noses to the genial hue that follows the commingling of the red and blue. We say of princes that they are born to the purple, and no doubt they are, for the colic tinges their faces with the royal tint equally with the snub-nosed countenance of a woodchopper's brat. All women love it, when it is the fashion. And now purple is being worn. You notice it on the streets. Of course, other colors are quite stylish as well. In fact, I saw a lovely thing the other day, an olive-green albatross, with a triple-lapped faunce skirt trimmed with insert squares of silk and a draped fichu of lace opening over a shirred vest, and double puff sleeves, and a lace bin holding two gathered frills.

But you see lots of purple, too. Oh, yes, you do. Just take a walk down twenty-third street any afternoon. Therefore Maida, the girl with the big brown eyes and cinnamon-colored hair in the beehive store, said to Grace, the girl with the rhinestone brooch and peppermint-peps and flavor, to her speech, "'I am going to have a purple dress, a tailor-made purple dress, for Thanksgiving.'" "'Oh, are you?' said Grace, putting away some seven-and-a-half gloves into the six-and-three-fourths box. "'Well, it's me for red. You see more red on Fifth Avenue, and the men all seem to like it.'" "'I like purple best,' said Maida. And old Schlegel has promised to make it for eight dollars. It's going to be lovely.

I'm going to have a plaited skirt and a blouse coat, trunched with a band of galoon under a white cloth collar with two rows of sly boots, said Grace with an educated wink, sotosh braid over a surplaced white vest and a plaited basque and sly boots. Sly boots, repeated Grace. Plaited jigget sleeves with a drawn velvet ribbon over an inside cuff. What do you mean by saying that? You think Mr. Ramsey likes purple. I heard him say yesterday he thought some of the dark shades of red were stunning. I don't care, said Maida. I prefer purple, and them that don't like it can just take the other side of the street. Which suggests the thought that, after all, the followers of purple may be subject to slight delusions.

Danger is near when a maiden thinks she can wear purple regardless of complexions and opinions, and when emperors think their purple robes will wear forever. Maida had saved $18 after eight months of economy, and this had bought the goods for the purple dress, and paid Schlegel $4 on the making of it. On the day before Thanksgiving she would have just enough to pay the remaining $4, and then for a holiday in a new dress. Can Earth offer anything more enchanting? Old Bachmann, the proprietor of the Beehive Store, always gave a Thanksgiving dinner to his employees. On every one of the subsequent three hundred and sixty-four days, excusing Sundays, he would remind them of the joys of the past banquet, and the hopes of the coming ones, thus inciting them to increased enthusiasm in work.

The dinner was given in the store on one of the long tables in the middle of the room. They tacked wrapping paper over the front windows, and the turkeys and other good things were brought in the back way from the restaurant on the corner. You will perceive that the Beehive was not a fashionable department store, with escalators and pompadours. It was almost small enough to be called an emporium, and you could actually go in there and get waited on and walk out again. And always at the Thanksgiving dinner's Mr. Ramsey, oh, bother, I should have mentioned Mr. Ramsey first of all. He is more important than purple or green or even the red cranberry sauce. Mr. Ramsey was the head clerk, and as far as I am concerned, I am for him.

He never pinched the girls' arms when he passed them in dark corners of the store, and when he told them stories when business was dull and the girls giggled and said, "'Oaf, pshaw!' It wasn't G. Bernard they meant at all. Besides being a gentleman, Mr. Ramsey was queer and original in other ways. He was a health crank, and believed that people should never eat anything that was good for them. He was violently opposed to anything being comfortable, and coming in out of snowstorms, or wearing overshoes, or taking medicine, or coddling themselves in any way. Every one of the ten girls in the store had little pork-chop and fried-onion dreams every night of becoming Mrs. Ramsey. For next year old Bachman was going to take him in for a partner, And each one of them knew that if she could catch him, she would knock those cranky health notions of his sky-high before the wedding-cake indigestion was over.

Mr. Ramsey was master of ceremonies at the dinners. Always they had two Italians in to play a violin and harp and had a little dance in the store. And here were two dresses being conceived to charm Ramsey, one purple and the other red. Of course, the other eight girls were going to have dresses, too, but they didn't count. Very likely they'd wear some shirt-waist and black-skirt affairs. Nothing as resplendent as purple or red. Grace had saved her money, too. She was going to buy her dress ready-made. Oh, what's the use of bothering with a tailor? When you've got a figure, it's easy to get a fit. The ready-made are intended for a perfect figure, except I have to have them all taken in at the waist.

The average figure is so large-waisted. The night before Thanksgiving came, Maida hurried home, keen and bright with the thoughts of the blessed morrow. Her thoughts were of purple, but they were white themselves, the joyous enthusiasm of the young for the pleasures that youth must have or wither. She knew purple would become her, and, for the thousandth time, she tried to assure herself that it was purple Mr. Ramsey said he liked, and not red. She was going home first to get the four dollars wrapped in a piece of tissue paper in the bottom drawer of her dresser, and then she was going to pay Schlegel and take the dress home herself. Grace lived in the same house. She occupied the hall room above Maida's.

At home Maida found clamor and confusion, the landlady's tongue clattering sourly in the halls like a churn-dasher dabbing in buttermilk, and then Grace come down to her room crying with eyes as red as any dress. She says I've got to get out," said Grace. The old beast! Because I owe her four dollars. She's put my trunk in the hall and locked the door. I can't go anywhere else. I haven't got a cent of money. You had some yesterday, said Maida. I paid it on my dress, said Grace. I thought she'd wait till next week for the rent. Sniffle, sniffle, sob, sniffle. Out came. Out it had to come. Maida's four dollars. "'You blessed darling,' cried Grace, now a rainbow instead of sunset. "'I'll pay the mean old thing, and then I'm going to try on my dress.

I think it's heavenly. Come up and look at it. I'll pay the money back—a dollar a week. Honest, I will.'" Thanksgiving. The dinner was to be at noon. At a quarter to twelve, Grace switched into Maida's room. Yes, she looked charming. Red was her color. Maida sat by the window in her old cheviot skirt and blue waist darting a st—oh, Doing fancy work. "'Why, goodness me, ain't you dressed yet?' shrilled the red one. "'How does it fit in the back? Don't you think these velvet tabs look awful swell?' "'Why ain't you dressed, Maida?' "'My dress didn't get finished in time,' said Maida. "'I'm not going to the dinner.' "'That's too bad. Why, I'm awfully sorry, Maida. Why don't you put on anything and come along?

It's just the store folks, you know, and they won't mind.' "'I was set on my purple,' said Maida. If I can't have it, I won't go at all. Don't bother about me. Run along, or you'll be late. You look awful nice and red. At her window, Maida sat through the long morning, and past the time of the dinner at the store. In her mind, she could hear the girl shrieking over a pool-bone, could hear old Bachman's roar over his own deeply concealed jokes, could see the diamonds of fat Mrs. Bachman, who came to the store only on Thanksgiving days, could see Mr. Ramsey moving about, alert, kindly, looking to the comfort of all. At four in the afternoon, with an expressionless face and a lifeless air, she slowly made her way to Schlegel's shop and told him she could not pay the four dollars due on the dress.

Gott! cried Schlegel angrily. For what do you look so glum? Take him away. He is ready. Pay me some time. Have I not seen you pass my shop every day in two years? If I may close— Is it that I do not know how to read people's, because—you will pay me some time when you can. Take him away. He is made good, and if you look pretty in him, all right. So pay me when you can. Maida breathed a millionth part of the thanks in her heart, and hurried away with her dress. As she left the shop, a smart dash of rain struck upon her face. She smiled, and did not feel it. Ladies who shop in carriages, you do not understand. Girls whose wardrobes are charged to the old man's account. You cannot begin to comprehend.

You could not understand why Maida did not feel the cold dash of the Thanksgiving rain. At five o'clock she went out upon the street wearing her purple dress. The rain had increased, and it beat down upon her in a steady, wind-blown pour. People were scurrying home into cars with close-held umbrellas and tight-buttoned raincoats. Many of them turned their heads to marvel at this beautiful, serene, happy-eyed girl in the purple dress, Walking through the storm as though she were strolling in a garden under summer skies. I say you do not understand it, ladies of the full purse and varied wardrobe. You do not know what it is to live with a perpetual longing for pretty things. To starve eight months in order to bring a purple dress and a holiday together.

What difference if it rained, hailed, blue, snowed, cycloned? Maida had no umbrella nor overshoes. She had her purple dress, and she walked abroad. Let the elements do their worst. A starved heart must have one crumb during a year. The rain ran down and dripped from her fingers. Someone turned a corner and blocked her way. She looked up into Mr. Ramsey's eyes, sparkling with admiration and interest. "'Why, Miss Maida,' said he, "'you look simply magnificent in your new dress. I was greatly disappointed not to see you at our dinner. And of all the girls I ever knew, you showed the greatest sense in intelligence.' There is nothing more healthful and invigorating than braving the weather as you are doing.

May I walk with you?" And Maida blushed and sneezed.

End of the Purple Dress

8 Rural Life in England 17:23

Rural Life in England. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Matt Bonehoff. Rural Life in England by Washington Irving. O friendly to the best pursuits of men, friendly to thought, to virtue, and to peace, domestic life, In rural pleasures past. Cowper.

The stranger, who would form a correct opinion of the English character, must not confine his observations to the metropolis. He must go forth into the country. He must sojourn in villages and hamlets. He must visit castles, villas, farmhouses, cottages. He must wander through parks and gardens, along hedges and green lanes. He must loiter about country churches. attend wakes and fairs and other rural festivals, and cope with the people in all their conditions and all their habits and humors.

In some countries, the large cities absorb the wealth and fashion of the nation. They are the only fixed abodes of elegant and intelligent society, and the country is inhabited almost entirely by boorish peasantry. In England, on the contrary, The metropolis is a mere gathering-place, or general rendezvous, of the polite classes, where they devote a small portion of the year to a hurry of gaiety and dissipation, and, having indulged this kind of carnival, return again to the apparently more congenial habits of rural life. The various orders of society are therefore diffused over the whole surface of the kingdom, and the more retired neighborhoods afford specimens of the different ranks. The English, in fact, are strongly gifted with the rural feeling.

They possess a quick sensibility to the beauties of nature, and a keen relish for the pleasures and employments of the country. This passion seems inherent in them. Even the inhabitants of cities, born and brought up among brick walls and bustling streets, enter with facility into rural habits, and evince a tact for rural occupation. The merchant has his snug retreat in the vicinity of the metropolis, where he often displays as much pride and zeal in the cultivation of his flower-garden and the maturing of his fruits, as he does in the conduct of his business and the success of a commercial enterprise. Even those less fortunate individuals who are doomed to pass their lives in the midst of din and traffic contrive to have something that shall remind them of the green aspect of nature.

In the most dark and dingy quarters of the city, the drawing-room window resembles frequently a bank of flowers, Every spot capable of vegetation has its grass-plot and flower-bed, and every square its mimic park, laid out with picturesque taste and gleaming with refreshing verdure. Those who see the Englishman only in town are apt to form an unfavorable opinion of his social character. He is either absorbed in business, or distracted by the thousand engagements that dissipate time, thought, and feeling in this huge metropolis. He has, therefore, too commonly, a look of hurry and abstraction. Wherever he happens to be, he is on the point of going somewhere else. At the moment he is talking on one subject, his mind is wandering to another, and while paying a friendly visit, he is calculating how he shall economize time so as to pay the other visits allotted to the morning.

An immense metropolis like London is calculated to make men selfish and uninteresting. In their casual and transient meetings, they can but deal briefly in commonplaces. They present but the cold superficies of character. Its rich and genial qualities have no time to be warmed into a flow. It is in the country that the Englishman gives scope to his natural feelings. He breaks loose gladly from the cold formalities and negative civilities of town, throws off his habits of shy reserve, and becomes joyous and free-hearted. He manages to collect round him all the conveniences and elegances of polite life, and to banish its restraints. His country seat abounds with every requisite, either for studious retirement, tasteful gratification, or rural exercise.

Books, paintings, music, horses, dogs, and sporting implements of all kinds are at hand. He puts no constraint either upon his guests or himself, but in the true spirit of hospitality provides the means of enjoyment, and leaves everyone to partake according to his inclination.

The taste of the English in the cultivation of land, and in what is called landscape-gardening, is unrivalled. They have studied nature intently, and discovered an exquisite sense of her beautiful forms and harmonious combinations. Those charms, which in other countries she lavishes in wild solitudes, are here assembled round the haunts of domestic life. They seem to have caught her coy and furtive graces, spread them, like witchery, round their rural abodes. Nothing can be more imposing than the magnificence of English Park scenery. Vast lawns that extend like streets of vivid green, where here and there clumps of gigantic trees heaping up rich piles of foliage, the solemn pomp of groves and woodland glades, with the deer trooping in silent herds across them, the hare bounding away to the covert, or the pheasant suddenly bursting upon the wing, the brook, Taught to wind in natural meanderings, or expanded into a glassy lake, the subquestered pool reflecting the quivering trees with the yellow leaf sleeping on its bosom, and the trout roaming fearlessly about its limpid waters, while some rustic temple or sylvan statue, grown green and dank with age, gives an air of classic sanctity to the seclusion.

These are but a few features of park scenery, but what most delights me is the creative talent with which the English decorate the unaustaceous abodes of middle life. The rudest habitation, the most unpromising and scanty portion of land, in the hands of an Englishman of taste, becomes a little paradise. With a nicely discriminating eye, he seizes at once upon its capabilities and pictures in his mind the future landscape, The sterile spot grows in loveliness under his hand, and yet the operations of art which produce the effect are scarcely to be perceived. The cherishing and training of some trees, the cautious pruning of others, the nice distribution of flowers and plants of tender and graceful foliage, the introduction of a green slope of velvet turf, the partial opening of a peep of blue distance, or silver gleam of water, All these are managed with a delicate tact, a pervading yet quiet assiduity, like the magic touchings with which a painter finishes up a favorite picture.

The residence of people of fortune and refinement in the country has diffused a degree of taste and elegance in rural economy that descends to the lowest class. The very laborer, with his thatched cottage and narrow slip of ground, attends to their embellishment. The trim hedge, the grass blot before the door, the little flower-bed bordered with snug box, the woodbine trained up against the wall and hanging its blossoms about the lattice, the pot of flowers in the window, the holly providently planted about the house, to cheat winter of its dreariness, and to throw in a semblance of green summer to cheer the fireside. All these bespeak the influence of taste, Flowing down from high sources, and pervading the lowest levels of the public mind.

If ever love, as poets sing, delights to visit a cottage, it must be the cottage of an English peasant. The fondness for rural life among the higher classes of the English has had a great and salutary effect upon the national character. I do not know of a finer race of men than the English gentlemen. Instead of the softness and effeminacy which characterize the men of rank in most countries, they exhibit a union of elegance and strength, a robustness of frame and freshness of complexion, which I am inclined to attribute to their living so much in the open air, and pursuing so eagerly the invigorating recreations of the country. The hardy exercises produce also a healthful tone of mind and spirits, and a manliness and simplicity of manners, which even the follies and dissipations of the town cannot easily pervert, and can never entirely destroy.

In the country, too, the different orders of society seem to approach more freely, to be more disposed to blend and operate favorably upon each other. The distinctions between them do not appear to be so marked and impassable as in the cities. The manner in which property has been distributed into small estates and farms has established a regular gradation from the noblemen through the classes of gentry, small-landed proprietors, and substantial farmers, down to the laboring peasantry. And while it has thus banded the extremes of society together, it has infused into each intermediate rank a spirit of independence. This, it must be confessed, is not so universally the case at present as it was formerly, the larger estates having, in late years of distress, absorbed the smaller, and in some parts of the country almost annihilated the sturdy race of small farmers.

These, however, I believe, are but casual breaks in the general system I have mentioned. In rural occupation there is nothing mean and debasing. It leads a man forth among scenes of natural grandeur and beauty. It leads him to the workings of his own mind, operated upon by the purest and most elevating of external influences. Such a man may be simple and rough, but he cannot be vulgar. The man of refinement, therefore, finds nothing revolting in an intercourse with the lower orders in rural life, as he does when he casually mingles with the lower orders of cities. He lays aside his distance and reserve, and is glad to waive the distinctions of rank, and to enter into the honest, heartfelt enjoyments of common life.

Indeed, the very amusements of the country bring men more and more together, and the sound hound and horn blend all feelings into harmony. I believe this is one great reason why the nobility and gentry are more popular among the inferior orders in England than they are in any other country, and why the latter have endured so many excessive pressures and extremities without repining, more generally, at the unequal distribution of fortune and privilege. To this mingling of cultivated and rustic society may also be attributed the rural feeling that runs through British literature. The frequent use of illustrations from rural life, those incomparable descriptions of nature, that abound in the British poets, that have continued down from the flower and the leaf of Chaucer, and have brought into our closets all the freshness and fragrance of the dewy landscape.

The pastoral writers of other countries appear as if they have paid nature an occasional visit, and become acquainted with her general charms. But the British poets have lived and reveled with her. They have wooed her in her most secret haunts. They have watched her minutest caprices. A spray could not tremble in the breeze. A leaf could not rustle to the ground. A diamond drop could not patter in the stream. A fragrance could not exhale from the humble violet, nor a daisy unfold its crimson tints to the morning. But it has been noticed by these impassioned and delicate observers, and wrought up into some beautiful morality. The effect of this devotion of elegant minds to rural occupations has been wonderful on the face of the country.

A great part of the island is rather level, and would be monotonous, were it not for the charms of culture. But it is studded and gemmed, as it were, with castles and palaces, and embroidered with parks and gardens, It does not abound in grand and sublime prospects, but rather in little home scenes of rural repose and sheltered quiet. Every antique farmhouse and moss-grown cottage is a picture, and as the roads are continually winding, and the view is shut in by groves and hedges, the eye is delighted by a continual succession of small landscapes of captivating loveliness. The great charm, however, of English scenery is the moral feeling that seems to pervade it. It is associated in the mind with ideas of order, of quiet, of sober, well-established principles, of hoary usage and reverend custom.

Everything seems to be the growth of ages of regular and peaceful existence. The old church of remote architecture, with its low, massive portal, its Gothic tower, its windows rich with tracery and painted glass, in scrupulous preservation, its stately monuments of warriors and worthies of the olden time, ancestors of the present lords of the soil, its tombstones, recording successive generations of sturdy yeomanry, Whose progenies still plough the same fields and kneel at the same altar. The parsonage, a quaint, irregular pile, partially antiquated, but repaired and altered in the tastes of various ages and occupants. The stile and footpath leading from the churchyard across pleasant fields, and along shady hedgerows, according to an immemorial right-of-way.

The neighboring village, with its venerable cottages, its public green sheltered by trees, Under which the forefathers of the present race have sported, the antique family mansion, standing apart in some little rural domain, but looking down with a protecting air on the surrounding scene. All these common features of English landscape evince a calm and sheltered security, a hereditary transmission of homebred virtues and local attachments that speak deeply and touchingly for the moral character of the nation. It is a pleasing sight of a Sunday morning, when the bell is sending its sober melody across the quiet fields, to behold the peasantry, in their best finery, with ruddy faces and modest cheerfulness, thronging tranquilly along the green lanes to church.

But it is still more pleasing to see them in the evenings, gathering about their cottage doors, and appearing to exult in the humble comforts and embellishments which their own hands have spread around them. It is this sweet home-feeling, this settled repose of affection in the domestic scene, that is, after all, the parent of the steadiest virtues and purest enjoyments. I cannot close these desultory remarks better than by quoting the words of a modern English poet, who has depicted it with remarkable felicity. Through each gradation, from the castled hall, the city-dome, the villa crowned with shade, But chief from modest mansions numberless, in town or hamlet sheltering middle life, down to the cottage val the straw-roofed shed.

This western isle has long been famed for scenes where bliss domestic finds a dwelling-place, domestic bliss that, like a harmless dove, honor and sweet endearment keeping guard, can center in a little quiet nest. All that desire would fly For through the earth, that can the world eluding be itself, a world enjoyed that wants no witness, but its own sharers and approving heaven, that, like a flower deep hidden, rock cleft, smiles, though tis only looking at the sky. End footnote. End of Rural Life in England.

9 Nine Selections from The Madman: His Parables and Poems 18:21

The Madman, His Parables and Poems.

How I became a madman.

You asked me how I became a madman. It happened thus. One day, long before many gods were born, I woke from a very deep sleep and found all my masks were stolen, the seven masks I had fashioned and worn in seven lives. I ran maskless through the crowded streets, shouting, Thieves! Thieves! The cursed thieves! Men and women laughed at me, and some ran to their houses in fear of me. And when I reached the marketplace, a youth standing on a housetop cried, "'He's a madman!' I looked up to behold him. The sun kissed my own naked face for the first time. For the first time, the sun kissed my own naked face, and my soul was inflamed with a love for the sun, and I wanted my masks no more. And as if in a trance, I cried, "'I'm Blessed are the thieves who stole my masks.

Thus I became a madman, and I have found both freedom of loneliness and the safety from being understood. For those who understand us enslave something in us. But let me not be too proud of my safety. Even a thief in a jail is safe from another thief.

The Seven Selves In the stillest hour of the night, as I lay half asleep, my seven selves sat together and thus conversed in whisper. First Self Here, in this madman I have dwelt all these years, with naught to do but renew his pain by day, and create his sorrow by night. I can bear my fate no longer, and now I rebel. Second Self. Yours is a better lot than mine, brother, for it is given to me to be this madman's joyous self. I laughed his laughter and sing his happy hours, and with thrice-winged feet I dance his brighter thoughts. It is I that would rebel against my weary existence. Third Self. And what of me, the love-ridden self, the flaming brand of wild passion and fantastic desires? It is I, the love-sick self, that would rebel against this madman.

Fourth self. I, amongst you all, am the most miserable, for naught was given me but odious hatred and destructive loathing. It is I, The Tempest-like Self, the One born in the black caves of Hell, who would protest against serving this madman. Fifth Self. Nay, it is I, the Thinking Self, the fanciful Self, the Self of hunger and thirst, the One doomed to wander without rest in search of unknown things, and things not yet created. It is I, not you. Who would rebel? Sixth Self.

And I, the working self, the pitiful laborer, who, with patient hands and longing eyes, fashion the day into images, and give the formless elements new and external forms. It is I, the solitary one, who would rebel against this restless madman. Seventh Self.

How strange that you all would rebel against this man, because each and every one of you has a preordained fate to fulfill. Ah, could I be but like one of you, a self with a determined lot? But I have none. I am the do-nothing self, the one who sits in the dumb empty nowheres and no when, while you are busy recreating life. Is it you or I, neighbors, who should rebel? When the seventh self thus spake, the other six selves looked with pity upon him, but said nothing more. And as the night grew deeper, one after the other went to sleep, enfolded with a new and happy submission. But the seventh self remained watching, and gazing at nothingness, which is behind all things.

THE WISE KING Once there ruled, in the distant city of Wairani, a king who was both mighty and wise, and he was feared for his might, and loved for his wisdom. Now, in the heart of that city was a well, Whose water was cool and crystalline, from which all the inhabitants drank, even the king and his courtiers, for there was no other well. One night, when all were asleep, a witch entered the city, and poured seven drops of strange liquid into the well, and said, From this hour he who drinks this well shall become mad. Next morning, All the inhabitants, save the king and his lord Chamberlain, drank from the well, and became mad, even as the witch had foretold. And during that day, the people in the narrow streets and in the market-places did naught but whisper to one another, The king is mad.

Our king and his lord Chamberlains have lost their reason. Surely we cannot be rolled by a mad king. We must dethrone him. That evening the king ordered a golden goblet to be filled from the well, and when it was brought to him he drank deeply, and gave it to his lord Chamberlain to drink. And there was great rejoicing in the distant city of Wirani, because its king and its lord Chamberlain had regained their reason.

Ambition Three men met at a tavern-table. One was a weaver, another a carpenter, and the third a ploughman. Said the weaver, "'I sold a fine linen shroud to-day for two pieces of gold. Let us all have the wine we want.' "'And I,' said the carpenter, "'I sold my best coffin. We will have a great roast with the wine.' "'I only dug a grave,' said the ploughman. "'But my patron paid me double.' Let us have honey-cakes, too. And all that evening the tavern was busy, for they called often for wine and meat and cakes, and they were merry. And the host rubbed his hands and smiled at his wife, for his guests were spending freely. When they left, the moon was high, and they walked along the road, singing and shouting together.

The host and his wife stood in the tavern door and looked after them. "'Ah,' said the wife, "'these gentlemen, so free-handed and so gay, if only they could bring us such luck every day! Then our son need not be a tavern-keeper and work so hard. We could educate him, and he could become a priest.'" The Three Ants Three ants met at the nose of a man who was sleeping in the sun, and after they had saluted one another, each according to the custom of his tribe, they stood there conversing. The first ant said, These hills and plains are the most barren I have known. I have searched all day for a grain of some sort, and there is none to be found. Said the second ant, I, too, have found nothing, though I have visited every nook and glade.

This is, I believe, what my people call the soft-moving land where nothing grows. Then the third ant raised his head and said, My friends, we are standing now on the nose of the supreme ant, the mighty and infinite ant, whose body is so great that we cannot see it. Whose shadow is so vast that we cannot trace it, whose voice is so loud that we cannot hear it. And he is omnipresent. When the third ant spoke thus, the other ants looked at each other and laughed. At that moment the man moved, and in his sleep raised his hand and scratched his nose, and the three ants were crushed.

Night and the Madman I am like thee, O night, dark and naked. I walk on the flaming path which is above my day-dreams, and whenever my foot touches earth, a giant oak-tree comes forth.

Nay, thou art not like me, O madman, for thou still lookest backward to see how large a footprint thou leavest in the sand.

I am like thee, O night, silent and deep. And in the heart of my loneliness lies a goddess in child-bed, and in him who is being born heaven touches hell.

Nay, thou art not like me, O madman, for thou shudderest yet before pain, and the song of the abyss terrifies thee.

I am like thee, O knight, wild and terrible, For my ears are crowded with cries of conquered nations, and sighs for forgotten lands.

Nay, thou art not like me, O madman, for thou still takest thy little self for a comrade, and with thy monster self thou canst not befriend.

I am like thee, O knight, cruel and awful. For my bosom is lit by burning ships at sea, and my lips are wet with blood of slain warriors.

Nay, thou art not like me, O madman, for the desire for a sister spirit is yet upon thee, and thou hast not become a low unto thyself.

I am like thee, O knight, joyous and glad. For he who dwells in my shadow is now drunk with virgin wine, and she who follows me is sinning mirthfully. Nay, thou art not like me, O madman, for thy soul is wrapped in the veil of seven folds, and thou holdest not thy heart in thy hand. I am like thee, O knight. Patient and passionate, for in my breast a thousand dead lovers are buried in shrouds of withered kisses. Yea, madman, art thou like me? Art thou like me? And canst thou ride the tempest as a steed, and grasp the lightning as a sword? Like thee, O knight, like thee, mighty and high, and my throne is built upon heaps of fallen gods. And before me, too, pass the days to kiss the hem of my garment, but never to gaze at my face.

Art thou like me, child of my darkest heart? And dost thou think my untamed thoughts, and speak my vast language?

Yea, we are twin brothers, O night, for thou revealest space, and I, Reveal my soul.

The Great Longing Here I sit between my brother, the mountain, and my sister, the sea. We three are one in loneliness, and the love that binds us together is deep and strong and strange. Nay, it is deeper than my sister's depth and stronger than my brother's strength. And stranger than the strangeness of my madness. Aeons and aeons have passed since the first gray dawn made us visible to one another. And though we have seen the birth and the fullness and the death of many worlds, we are still eager and young. We are young and eager, and yet we are mateless and unvisited. And though we lie in unbroken half-embrace, We are uncomforted. And what comfort is there for controlled desire and unspent passion?

Whence shall come the flaming god to warm my sister's bed? And what she-torrents shall quench my brother's fire? And who is the woman that shall command my heart? In the stillness of the night my sister murmurs in her sleep the fire-god's unknown name. And my brother calls afar upon the cool and distant goddess, but upon whom I call in my sleep I know not. Here I sit between my brother, the mountain, and my sister, the sea. We three are one in loneliness, and the love that binds us together is deep and strong and strange.

When my sorrow was born, I nursed it with care, and watched over it with loving tenderness. And my sorrow grew like all living things, strong and beautiful, and full of wondrous delights. And we loved one another, my sorrow and I, and we loved the world about us. For sorrow had a kindly heart. And mind was kindly with sorrow. And when we conversed, my sorrow and I, our days were winged, and our nights were girded with dreams. For sorrow had an eloquent tongue, and mine was eloquent with sorrow. And when we sang together, my sorrow and I, our neighbors sat at their windows and listened. For our songs were deep as the sea, and our melodies were full of strange memories. And when we walked together, my sorrow and I, people gazed at us with gentle eyes, and whispered in words of exceeding sweetness.

And there were those who looked with envy upon us. For sorrow was a noble thing, and I was proud with sorrow. But my sorrow died, like all living things. And alone I am left to muse and ponder. And now, when I speak, my words fall heavy upon my ears, and when I sing my songs my neighbors come not to listen. And when I walk the streets, no one looks at me. Only in my sleep I hear voices saying in pity, See, there lies the man whose sorrow is dead.

And when my joy was born, I held it in my arms and stood on the housetop, shouting, Come, ye, my neighbors, come and see, for joy this day is born unto me. Come, and behold this gladsome thing that laughed at the sun. But none of my neighbors came to look upon my joy, and great was my astonishment. And every day for seven moons I proclaimed my joy from the housetop, and yet no one heeded me, and my joy and I were alone, unsought and unvisited. Then my joy grew pale and weary, because no other heart but mine held its loveliness, and no other lips kissed its lips. Then my joy died of isolation, and now I only remember my dead joy in remembering my dead sorrow. But memory is an autumn leaf that murmurs a while in the wind, and then is heard no more.

10 The Tabby Terror 10:55

The Tabby Terror by P.G. Woodhouse. 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 Hattie Lennox.

The Tappy Terror by P.G. Woodhouse.

The struggle between Praetor's Cat and Praetor's Cat's conscience was short. And ended in the hollowest of victories for the former. The conscience really had no sort of chance from the beginning. It was weak by nature and flabby from long want of exercise, while the cat was in excellent training, and was, moreover, backed up by a strong temptation. It pocketed the stakes, which consisted of most of the contents of a tin of sardines. When Smith came in after football and found the remains, he was surprised, and even pained. When Montgomery entered soon afterwards, he questioned him on a subject. "'I say, have you been having a sort of preliminary canter with the banquet?' "'No,' said Montgomery.

"'Why?' "'Somebody has,' said Smith, exhibiting the empty tin. "'Doesn't seem to have had such a bad appetite, either.' "'This reminds me of the story of the great bear, the medium bear, and the little ditto,' observed Montgomery, who was apt of an analogy. "'You may remember that when the great bear found his porridge tampered with, he—' At this point, Scheuer entered. He had been bidden to the feast, and was feeling ready for it. Hello, tea ready? he asked. Smith displayed the sardine tin in much the same manner as the conjurer shows a pack of cards when he entreats you to choose one, and remember the number. You haven't finished already? Surely. Why, it's only just five. We haven't even begun, said Smith.

That's just the difficulty. The question is, who has been on the raid in here? No human being has done this horrid thing," said Montgomery. He always liked to introduce a Holmes-Watsonian touch into the conversation. In the first place the door was locked, wasn't it, Smith? By Jove, so it was. Then how on earth? Through the window, of course. The cat, equally, of course. I should like a private word with that cat. I suppose it must have been. Of course it was. Apart from the merely circumstantial evidence, which is strong enough to hang it off its own bat, we have absolute proof of the guilt. Just cast your eye over that butter. You follow me, Watson?" The butter was submitted to inspection. In the very center of it there was a footprint.

"'I traced his little footprints in the butter,' said Montgomery. "'Now, is that the mark of a human foot?' The jury brought in an unanimous verdict of guilty against the missing animal. The cat had not been an inmate of Prater's house for a very long time, and up till now what depredation it admitted had been confined to the official larder. Now, however, it had evidently got its hand in, and was about to commence operations upon a more extensive scale. The tabby terror had begun. The general opinion was that something would have to be done about it. No one seemed to know exactly what to do. Montgomery spoke darkly of bricks, bits of string and horseponds. Smith rolled the word rat poison luxuriously round his tongue.

Schoyer, who was something of an expert on the range, babbled of air guns. At tea on the following evening, the first really serious engagement of the campaign took place. The cat strolled into the tea-room in a patronizing way characteristic of its kind, but was heavily shelled with lump sugar and beat a rapid retreat. That was the signal for the outbreak of serious hostilities. From that moment its paw was against every man, and the tale of the things it stole is too terrible to relate in detail. It scored all along the line. Like death in the poem, it knocked at the doors of the highest and the lowest alike. Or rather, it did not exactly knock. It came in without knocking. The palace of the prefect and the hovel of the fags suffered equally.

Trentum, the head of the house, lost sausages to an incredible amount one evening, and the next day Ripton, of the lower third, was robbed of his one ewe lamb in the shape of half a tin of anchovy paste. Panic reigned. It was after this matter of the sausages that a luminous idea occurred to Trentum. He had been laid up with a slight football accident, and his family, reading between the lines of his written statement that he had, "'Got crocked it footer,' nothing much, only rather a nuisance, "'Svidest to him out of the house matches,' a notification of mortal injuries, and, soon to hear a death-rattle through the words, "'Felt rather chippy yesterday,' had come down en masse to investigate.

En masse, that is to say, with the exception of his father, who said he was too busy, but felt sure it was nothing serious. Why, when I was a boy, my dear, I used to think nothing of an occasional tumble. There's nothing the matter with Dick. Why, etc., etc. Trentum's sister was his first visitor. "'I say,' said he, when he had satisfied her on the subject of his health, "'would you like to do me a good turn?' She intimated that she would be delighted, and asked for details. "'By the beaks, cat,' hissed Trentum in a hoarse whisper. "'Dick, it was your leg that you hurt, wasn't it? Not—not your head?' she replied. I mean... No, I really mean it. Why can't you? It's a perfectly simple thing to do.

But what is a beak? And why should I buy its cat? A beak's a master. Surely you know that. You see, Prater's got a cat lately, and the Beast strolls in and raids the studies. Got round over half a pound of prime sausages in here the other night, and he's always bagging things everywhere. You'd be doing everyone a kindness if you would take him on. He'll get lynched someday if you don't. Besides, you want a cat for your new house, surely? Keep down the mice and that sort of thing, you know? This animal's a demon for mice. This was a telling argument. Trentum's sister had lately been married, and she certainly had had some idea of investing in a cat to adorn her home. As for beetles, continued the invalid, pushing home his advantage, they simply daren't come out of their lairs for fear of him.

If he eats beetles, objected the sister, he can't have a very good coat. He doesn't eat them, just squashes them, you know, like a policeman. He's a decent enough beast as far as looks go. But if he steals things... No, don't you see, he only does that here, because the Praetors don't interfere with him and don't let us do anything to him. He won't try that sort of thing with you. If he does, could somebody hit him over the head with a bootjack or something? He'll soon drop it then. You might as well, you know, the house will simply black your boots if you do. But would Mr. Praetor let me have the cat? Try him anyhow. Pitch it fairly warm, you know. Only cat you ever loved, and that sort of thing.

Very well. I'll try. Thanks, awfully. And I say, you might just look in here on your way out and report. Mrs. James Williamson, nay, Miss Trentum, made her way dutifully to the Merivale's part of the house. Mrs. Prater had expressed a hope that she would have some tea before catching her train. With tea, it is usual to have milk, and with milk it is usual, if there is a cat in the house, to have feline society. Captain Kettle, which was the name thought suitable to this cat by his godfathers and godmothers, was on hand early. As he stood there pawing the mat impatiently and mewing in a minor key, Mrs. Williamson felt that here was the cat for her. He certainly was good to look upon. His black heart was hidden by a sleek coat of tabby fur, which rendered stroking a luxury.

His scheming brain was out of sight in a shapely head. Oh, what a lovely cat, said Mrs. Williamson. Yes, isn't he, agreed Mrs. Prater. We are very proud of him. Such a beautiful coat, and such a sweet purr. He looks so intelligent. Has he any tricks? Had he any tricks? Why, Mrs. Williamson, he could do anything except speak. Captain Kettle, you bad boy, come here and die for your country. Puss-puss. Captain Kettle came at last reluctantly, died for his country in record time, and flashed back again to the saucer. He had an important appointment. Sorry to appear rude and all that sort of thing, don't you know, but he had to see a cat about a mouse. Well, said Trentham, when his sister looked in upon him an hour later, oh, Dick, it's the nicest cat I ever saw.

I shall never be happy if I don't get it. Have you bought it? asked the practical Trentham. My dear Dick, I couldn't. We couldn't bargain about a cat during tea. Why, I never met Mrs. Prater before this afternoon. No, I suppose not, admitted Trenton gloomily. Anyhow, look here. If anything turns up to make the beak want to get rid of it, I'll tell him you're dead nuts on it, see? For a fortnight after this episode, matters went on as before. Mrs. Williamson departed, thinking regretfully of the cat she had left behind her. Captain Kettle died for his country with moderate regularity, and on one occasion, when he attempted to extract some milk from the very center of a fag's tea-party, almost died for another reason.

Then the end came suddenly. Trentum had been invited to supper one Sunday by Mr. Prater. When he arrived, it became apparent to him that the atmosphere was one of subdued gloom. At first he could not understand this, but soon the reason was made clear. Captain Kettle had, in the expressive language of a man on the street, Been and gone and done it. He had been left alone that evening in the drawing-room, while the house was at church, and his eye, roaming restlessly about in search of evil to perform, had lighted upon a cage. In that cage was a special sort of canary, and its own line is accomplished an artiste as Captain Kettle himself. It sang with taste and feeling, and made itself generally agreeable in a number of little ways.

But to Captain Kettle it was merely a bird. One of the poets sings of an acquaintance of his who was so constituted that, A primrose by the river's brim, A simple primrose was to him, And it was nothing more. Just so with Captain Kettle. He was not the cat to make nice distinctions between birds. Like the cat in another poem, he only knew they made him light and salutary meals. So, with the exercise of considerable ingenuity, he extracted the canary from its cage and ate it. He was now in disgrace. "'We shall have to get rid of him,' said Mr. Prater. "'I'm afraid so,' said Mrs. Prater. "'If you weren't thinking of giving him to any one in particular, sir,' said Trentum, "'my sister would be awfully glad to take him, I know.

She was very keen on him when she came to see me.' "'That's excellent,' said Prater. "'I was afraid we should have to send him to a home somewhere.' "'I suppose we can't keep him after all?' suggested Mrs. Prater. Trentum waited in suspense. "'No,' said Prater decidedly. I think not. So Captain Kettle went, and the house knew him no more, and the tabby terror was at an end.

End of the Tabby Terror. Recorded by Hattie Lennox.

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