FOREWORD Praise Allah SWT, thanks to the blessings we have been able to complete this paper” part of speech”, although did not escape the shortage. Sholawat greeting us unceasingly bestowed upon our lord great prophet, the great prophet Muhammad, who had brought his people from the times of ignorance towards the era of knowledge and education. We thank the colleagues who have spent a little more time to assist us in completing this paper. Also to lecturers who have provided clues to this paper are strung. Although not escape the shortcomings, but we are very grateful to all those who have assisted us in order to complete this paper. And we really expect criticism and suggestions from readers who are building, so that going forward we'll be able to create a better paper. Jambi, October 2011 Author TABLE OF CONTENTS CHAPTER I (SHORT STORIES) 1. THE LOVE BOAT 2. A MOTHER'S LOVE 3. A ROSE FOR EMILY 4. ANNA AND THE FIGTHER 5. THE MOUNTAIN TAVERN 6. LUNCHEON 7. THE LUNCHEON 8. WAS IT A DREAM 9. AN IMAGINATIVE WOMAN 10. GIRL 11. THE FACTS IN THE CASE OF M. VALDEMAR 12. TREES IN CENTRAL SQUARE 13. DENYING THE HEART 14. THE STORY OF AN HOUR 15. THE WOMEN WHO TRIED TOBE GOOD 16. THE GIFT OF THE MAGY 17. THE RED ROOM 18. HARMONICA CHAPTER II (POEMS) 1. SHALL I COMPARE THEE TO A SUMMER'S DAY 2. THE SEASON OF SPRING 3. BLACK MAN 4. WHEN I WAS ONE AND TWENTY 5. A TREE IS PERFECT LOVE 6. MOTHER EARTH 7. GO AFFECTION (THE LAST WORD FOR YOU) 8. TEARS BEHIND MY EYES 9. LIFE LESSONS 10. GIVE ME ROMANCE EVERYTIME 11. THE EFFORT 12. EVA RANAWEERA 13. ALFRED A.YUSON 14. A FIGHTER FOR LOVE WITHOUT LOVE 15. TOMORROW, IF IT COMES 16. THE WORLD WILL END 17. WOULD ANYONE NOTICE 18. AFTERMATH 19. ENTHRALLED 20. DUO DUO 21. CEDARS 22. LOVE AND SLEEP 23. WORK WITHOUT HOPE 24. A GREEN CORNFIELD 25. THE LEAF AND THE TREE 26. FREEDOM ISN'T FREE 27. I AM 28. I LET GO 29. BROKEN SELF 30. A MILLION TIMES 31. FRIENDSHIP IS A GOLDEN CHAIN 32. HAVEN OF ROMANCE 33. THE POSON MOON 34. DREAM OF KNIVES 35. UNTIL I MET YOU 36. BECAUSE YOU ARE MY FRIEND CHAPTER I SHORT STORIES The Love Boat (Andy Cliff) The small boat lurched forward precariously. Its three inhabitants lurched too. “Can’t he keep this thing still?” The disgruntled older woman broke off from her conversation with her daughter.“Keith!” Megan looked accusingly to her husband, as if the jolt had been caused by him alone, “you know Mother gets upset.”“There’s precious little I can do about it – tell ‘your mother’ that.” “Well you might at least try....” He shrugged and looked away. Conversation restarted without his involvement.“Well, as I was saying, when I went to the shops on Tuesday, I met Mary no, wait, I’m lying it was Monday morning, it must have been Monday because she’d been cutting the lawn all morning.” The mother was in full flow. “Anyway she was telling me about poor Mrs James at No 22”. “Isn’t that the woman with the artificial leg?” Megan asked. “No, no, that’s Anne. Mrs James is the one whose husband died last year. He’d been ill for a long time and suffered terribly, although being married to her for all that time, he must have been used to it. They reckoned in the end that he’d had enough and gave up the ghost just to get away from her” Keith knew exactly how he’d felt. With “mother” in tow, he’d often felt the same. The gleeful announcement of his first day off in months had been met with the idea of an outing. The “We could take mother” that followed was less of a suggestion than a decision. No sooner the word, than he was being hectored disconcertedly into the drama. After what had seemed an eternity of bobbing around, listening to the never-ending cawing of the gannets at the other end of the boat, Keith began to feel an icy chill across his back from the change in direction of the wind, as he pulled slowly on the oars of the rowing boat. “Well, her son came back from college; from somewhere up north I think, she did tell me, could have been Manchester or was it Bolton? Anyway, he came back and caused havoc...” Machine gun like, the mother only paused to reload, “Seems he’s bought a new car, it’s an old one – big one, flash thing. Anyway, he left it on their drive and next morning woke up to find it’d been broken into – they’d smashed the car window and half-pulled the door off its hinges. They got away with his radio and a stack of things he’d left in the back”. The endless, monotonous tirade washed over Keith like an annoying background throb, constant and loud enough that it couldn’t be entirely ignored. “You should see the car door” she continued, Megan listening intently to her every word. “Of course, she nearly died of fright, well can you imagine, on your own drive?” “For God’s sake shut up” Keith shouted silently to himself, without benefit of either a gap in the conversation or the courage to use it. “On and on and on, it’s enough to drive you mental – just shut up, why don’t you, give it a bloody rest”. But Keith said nothing. Instead, ideas of “dying” and “car doors” jumbled and jostled around in his mind. In an instant, a flash of inspiration came to him. For one glorious second, he saw it all; the images crystal clear in his mind; her head carefully and deliciously positioned between the car frame and door, while he repeatedly slammed it shut with all his force. The sensation was exhilarating. The immeasurable pleasure of the bang, bang, bang brought tears to his eyes and a glow to his heart. Bang, bang, bang. Ten years of listening to this dross all relieved in a simple action. Bang, bang, bang. But still the voice continued; still the words, the unrelenting spiel. Despite repeating battering the head resiliently continued to talk. As if nothing at all had happened, words spewed forth like a fountain. Keith winced. “Ellen’s got her grandchildren down again this weekend. That Sophie’s such a lovely kid, really kind and polite as anything, but that Darryl he’s a tearaway”. “He’s only eight mum” Megan added. “I daresay but he’s old enough to have some manners. If it was left to me, I’d teach him some. Ellen told me she’s got no idea what she’s going to do with them; she doesn’t like to take them to the cinema, because it’s all blood and guts, so it’s probably going to have to be swimming, but that’s not ideal either, because Darryl just splashes everyone and Sophie doesn’t like to get her head underwater.” Keith, who until then had been sulking about cars, road rage and vindication, caught just a snippet on the breeze. “Yes, yes” he mused, “much better and so much easier to do”. He saw himself in his mind’s eye reach forward, grab the floral scarf around the mother’s scrawny neck and pull her defenceless over the side. Clutching her by her hair, he succeeded in pushing her gabbling head deep under the water, so the words became mere glugs and bubbles. Then suddenly a reprise. The bubbles stopped. For sure this time it was over. He’d won. He’d silenced the Medusa for good. Triumphantly and with a flourish, he pulled her head back out of the water, to look her straight in the eyes. As if reborn the mouth sprang back into its routine grinding. “Its Sophie’s birthday next week too, so she’ll have a lot more to think about with that as well.” Keith sighed, incredulously. “She’s a bit worried because she’s really not sure what she can buy. After all, it’s so difficult at that age.... He’s bringing them down for a couple of days while he goes gallivanting off somewhere. I don’t think it’s very fair. It’s not for me to say, but when all is said and done, she’s not been well and I think it’s a bit of an imposition; he should know better. She’s too old for baby sitting, especially in her condition, he should have more thought.” The mother broke for air.“How is she these days?” “She’s not been well, but then she doesn’t eat well enough. She barely eats anything from dawn to dusk. If you ask me, she’s not getting the nourishment, so it’s no wonder she blacks out. She went to the doctors, but he’s no good either - all ‘ifs’ and ‘buts’ and tests and probes. That’s the problem these days; nobody wants to make a diagnosis, they’re all afraid to put their necks on the block.” Like lightening, Keith’s mind sped there in a flash. Before him he could see the crowds eagerly assembled, in places five or six people deep, the muffled drum beating a slow march as the captive was brought to the stand. The executioner, masked and ready, axe gleaming, stood aside the wooden block, waiting. The prisoner was being led under escort, a hessian sack over her head, slowly up the stairs of the dais. The crowd stilled. Across the crowded square Keith stood dazed; he could still hear the faint mumblings from under the sack. No matter, soon all would be silence. He imagined the bliss, the peace. The drum stopped. The moment was at hand. Removing the sack, the Sergeant-at-Arms, taking a bible in his right hand, turned and solemnly asked “Do you have any last words..?” “It was just the same when I saw her in Asda.” Unconcerned, the outpouring continued, “She darted into an aisle to avoid me. Ellen said she’d come to no good and well its looks like she was right. By the way, they’ve got some new bread in Asda, its got nuts and seeds in, I bought some last week – you should try it” “Cut it off, just cut it off” Keith’s shouts could be heard loudly bellowing across the crowd, as he heard the non-stop vocal assault, the unremitting stream of words fanning out over the gathering, but it was too late. The dream was already broken. The crowd was dispersing and the image dissolving into thin air. A cold breeze slapped across his face and brought him back to the boat. He looked forlornly in front of him at the sight of her, brazen as ever, churning out nonsense like a factory line. The wind was rising again. A gust caught the boat. He pulled against a judder on the oars. The oars, that’s it. The very thing; quick, simple and effective. One massive swing at head height and it would all be over – the opportunity was too good to miss. “Can we get him to go in now” the old woman asked her daughter, whilst pulling her coat firmly around her, “It’ll be the death of me, if we stay here much longer”. Keith smirked and pulled for the shore. A Mother's Love Emma Louise Richards Sara pulled herself up onto her elbows. The room was dark, the place silent. The small rectangular glass panel in the wooden door let in a slither of light. She was frightened. A whole new world lay ahead of her, and she had no idea what it entailed. Turning to face the window, she slowly twisted her legs around and stretched her feet onto the cold tiled floor. She stood up slowly, a little unsteady. She was still sore, but the pain was bearable now. Creeping over to the large window, she pulled open the ice-blue curtains. The town below was lit by the amber glow of streetlights, the occasional window in the surrounding houses still lit up and the flashing blue light of an ambulance below . The red digits on the bedside clock read 3:54am. It had been six hours. She turned to look in the small cot. Kyle was fast asleep. She stared at his tiny face, his perfect features. The white baby-gro swallowed him up. His tiny chest rose up and down as he slept, and his sandy coloured wispy hair stood on end. He was amazing. Just 8 months earlier, naïve and hardly 16, Sara had missed a period. She had been terrified. Her and Jason had been together for 2 years, but had only slept together twice. Surely she couldn’t be? Jason was a year older than her. Kind and loving, he had gone out and bought her a test. Most lads his age would have run a mile, never dreaming to buy their girlfriend a pregnancy test. But Jase was different. He had a level head and loved her deeply. They had been fast friends all their lives and had got together on her 14th birthday. When Sara took the test, Jase had promised to stand by her. And he had. Every step of the way. Only when the nurses jokingly threatened to c\all security did Jase finally lay his new-born son in the cot and leave the hospital, promising to be back first thing in the morning. He was delighted- a proud, doting Dad, and he’d been brilliant during the birth. But Sara was still afraid. She felt so young and irresponsible, and had no idea how to look after a baby. She had wanted to make something of her life, go to university and study medicine. How could she do that with a baby to look after? But looking at his perfect little face now, she could feel herself begin to melt. Labour had been long and hard going, but she had a feeling it may have been worth it. Perhaps things would be okay after all. Yawning, she lent down to kiss him and climbed back into bed, feeling a little buzz of excitement for the first time since he’d been born. As she lay there, staring at him, she felt her eyes get heavy and drifted back to sleep. What felt like only moments later, she was woken by voices. Loud, panicking voices. She adjusted her eyes to the bright sunlight that now shone through the window. Remembering where she was, she turned excitedly to look in the cot she had left just a few hours earlier. It was empty. The nurses must have taken Kyle to bath him.And then she heard the voices again. The shouts were getting louder. “We need a doctor here, straight away!” A nurse yelled down the corridor.Sara jumped out of bed and scrambled towards the door. She felt choked.“Kyle? Where’s Kyle?” she shouted a nurse running past.The nurse kept running, focused on something ahead. Sara turned to see. Four nurses were standing around a bed at the top of the ward. Sara was confused. She couldn’t see anyone in the bed. And then she noticed a small, white bundle. She ran the length of the corridor. A nurse tried to stop her. But it was too late. She had already seen him. It was Kyle. His skin was pale and his tiny lips looked blue. A nurse was ripping off the brilliant-white baby-gro as another attached wires to the chest that had been rising and falling so rhythmically when she woke in the night. “Sara – “ said a kind, calm voice. But Sara wasn’t listening. The door to the ward suddenly flew open, and in rushed a sandy haired young lad. It was Jase. His face was panic stricken, his electric blue eyes almost empty. He swept her into his open arms. “I came as soon as I could get here. There was traffic everywhere.” Sara was confused. “I don’t understand. What’s happening?” Her voice trembled as a waterfall of tears began to fall from her own blue eyes. Her blonde hair was wild from sleep and she looked vulnerable in her Piglet nighty. Another nurse ran past, followed by a man in a crisp mint shirt with a stethoscope draped around his neck. She guessed him to be the doctor, as the same nurse that had spoken to her earlier guided the couple back into her room. “Would somebody tell me what the hell’s going on here? That’s my baby out there!” Sara yelled. Jason was crying now too, silent tears that trickled down his cheeks. “Kyle stopped breathing.” The nurse said in a calm voice. “What do you mean? How could he? I saw him a couple of hours ago. He was fine.” The nurse smiled. A sad smile. “He started crying-“ Sara cut her off. “But he couldn’t have, I was right here. I’d have heard him.” “You were fast asleep Sara.” The nurse spoke gently. “What?” “But I’d have woken up. I’m his Mum, of course I’d have woken up if he’d been crying.” “Look –don’t beat yourself up. This isn’t your fault. You had a difficult birth and you needed rest. I heard him crying and came to see him, to give you a break. When I opened the door I noticed his cry was a little strange. Like he was gasping for breath. His face was slightly blue and his skin a little cold to the touch, so I took him out to warm him up.” “Then what happened?” Sara was besides herself, but Jason remained calm. “We attached him to a SAT’s machine. His oxygen intake was low.” “How low?” Sara spoke this time. “68” “What does that mean?” “It was 30% lower than it should have been. We put him on oxygen and that’s when we called you.” she nodded at Jase, who nodded numbly in return. “We were about to take him to the special care baby unit after they found him an incubator, but then his SAT’s dropped dramatically again. He stopped breathing.” Sara, who had fallen silent, wailed loudly again. “That’s all I can tell you at the moment, but as soon as he can, the doctor will be in to speak to you. Stay here, and try to stay strong. I just have to go out for a moment and then I’ll be back.”The nurse left the room, leaving them alone and frightened. The shouts stopped and all seemed quiet. They could see nothing from the glass pane in the door. It felt like an eternity before the door opened again. The nurse entered, followed by the doctor in the crisp mint shirt. He introduced himself as Doctor Miles. Shaking their hands, he smiled. “That’s a little fighter you have there.” He said. “We’ve stabilised him, and he’s on the special care baby unit. You can visit him just as soon as you’re ready.” Relief overcame the young couple, and they both cried. “What happened? Why did he stop breathing?” asked Jason. “We think he may have had a series of small seizures. We can’t tell why yet, he’ll need some tests. But the important thing is that he’s breathing, and has been for half an hour. Sister Mary will organise a wheelchair and you can see him.“ “But I can walk.” Sara began to protest. “You had a difficult labour, and Kyle’s going to need his Mum to be strong and healthy for him. I’d rather you went in a chair.” She nodded begrudgingly and the Doctor shook their hands again and left. The nurse warned them that Kyle was in an incubator, attached to an array of wires and machines. “Don’t be alarmed.” She said. “They’re all there to help him.” The unit was frightening. 10 small booths, each with an incubator, all of which were occupied by poorly and premature babies. Despite the nurses warnings, Sara had not been prepared for what lay in front of her. Kyle was swamped by machines. He wore nothing but a nappy and a thousand wires and looked so peaceful and helpless lying there. Oblivious to the worry he had caused the doctors, nurses and his young Mummy and Daddy. As he lay there, Sara felt a surge of love. He was hers. And she was his. She spoke to him softly as Jason held an arm firmly around her shoulder. “We love you Kyle. Mummy and Daddy are here for you…” At that moment, Jason watched the monitors. The SATS suddenly surged. 88, 89, 92, 96. They stopped at 98, and remained steady. Jason smiled. A Mother’s love. At any age. ‘No influence is so powerful as that of the Mother.’ Sarah Josepha Hale. A Rose for Emily William Faulkner When Miss Emily Grierson died, our whole town went to her funeral: the men through a sort of respectful affection for a fallen monument, the women mostly out of curiosity to see the inside of her house, which no one save an old man-servant-a combined gardener and cook--had seen in at least ten years. It was a big, squarish frame house that had once been white, decorated with cupolas and spires and scrolled balconies in the heavily light some style of the seventies, set on what had once been our most select street. But garages and cotton gins had encroached and obliterated even the august names of that neighborhood; only Miss Emily's house was left, lifting its stubborn and coquettish decay above the cotton wagons and the gasoline pumps-an eyesore among eyesores. And now Miss Emily had gone to join the representatives of those august names where they lay in the cedar-bemused cemetery among the ranked and anonymous graves of Union and Confederate soldiers who fell at the battle of Jefferson. Alive, Miss Emily had been a tradition, a duty, and a care; a sort of hereditary obligation upon the town, dating from that day in 1894 when Colonel Sartoris, the mayor--he who fathered the edict that no Negro woman should appear on the streets without an apron-remitted her taxes, the dispensation dating from the death of her father on into perpetuity. Not that Miss Emily would have accepted charity. Colonel Sartoris invented an involved tale to the effect that Miss Emily's father had loaned money to the town, which the town, as a matter of business, preferred this way of repaying. Only a man of Colonel Sartoris' generation and thought could have invented it, and only a woman could have believed it. When the next generation, with its more modern ideas, became mayors and aldermen, this arrangement created some little dissatisfaction. On the first of the year they mailed her a tax notice. February came, and there was no reply. They wrote her a formal letter, asking her to call at the sheriff's office at her convenience. A week later the mayor wrote her himself, offering to call or to send his car for her, and received in reply a note on paper of an archaic shape, in a thin, flowing calligraphy in faded ink, to the effect that she no longer went out at all. The tax notice was also enclosed, without comment. They called a special meeting of the Board of Aldermen. A deputation waited upon her, knocked at the door through which no visitor had passed since she ceased giving china-painting lessons eight or ten years earlier. They were admitted by the old Negro into a dim hall from which a stairway mounted into still more shadow. It smelled of dust and disuse a close, dank smell. The Negro led them into the parlor. It was furnished in heavy, leather-covered furniture. When the Negro opened the blinds of one window, they could see that the leather was cracked; and when they sat down, a faint dust rose sluggishly about their thighs, spinning with slow motes in the single sun-ray. On a tarnished gilt easel before the fireplace stood a crayon portrait of Miss Emily's father. They rose when she entered--a small, fat woman in black, with a thin gold chain descending to her waist and vanishing into her belt, leaning on an ebony cane with a tarnished gold head. Her skeleton was small and spare; perhaps that was why what would have been merely plumpness in another was obesity in her. She looked bloated, like a body long submerged in motionless water, and of that pallid hue. Her eyes, lost in the fatty ridges of her face, looked like two small pieces of coal pressed into a lump of dough as they moved from one face to another while the visitors stated their errand. She did not ask them to sit. She just stood in the door and listened quietly until the spokesman came to a stumbling halt. Then they could hear the invisible watch ticking at the end of the gold chain. Her voice was dry and cold. "I have no taxes in Jefferson. Colonel Sartoris explained it to me. Perhaps one of you can gain access to the city records and satisfy yourselves." "But we have. We are the city authorities, Miss Emily. Didn't you get a notice from the sheriff, signed by him? "I received a paper, yes," Miss Emily said. "Perhaps he considers himself the sheriff. I have no taxes in Jefferson." "But there is nothing on the books to show that, you see We must go by the""See Colonel Sartoris. I have no taxes in Jefferson. "But, Miss Emily--"."See Colonel Sartoris." (Colonel Sartoris had been dead almost ten years.). "I have no taxes in Jefferson. Tobe!" The Negro appeared. "Show these gentlemen out." So SHE vanquished them, horse and foot, just as she had vanquished their fathers thirty years before about the smell. That was two years after her father's death and a short time after her sweetheart--the one we believed would marry her -had deserted her. After her father's death she went out very little; after her sweetheart went away, people hardly saw her at all. A few of the ladies had the temerity to call, but were not received, and the only sign of life about the place was the Negro man--a young man then--going in and out with a market basket. "Just as if a man- any man--could keep a kitchen properly, "the ladies said; so they were not surprised when the smell developed. It was another link between the gross, teeming world and the high and mighty Griersons. A neighbor, a woman, complained to the mayor, Judge Stevens, eighty years old. "But what will you have me do about it, madam?" he said. "Why, send her word to stop it," the woman said. "Isn't there a law? "I'm sure that won't be necessary," Judge Stevens said. "It's probably just a snake or a rat that nigger of hers killed in the yard. I'll speak to him about it." The next day he received two more complaints, one from a man who came in diffident deprecation. "We really must do something about it, Judge. I'd be the last one in the world to bother Miss Emily, but we've got to do something." That night the Board of Aldermen met three graybeards and one younger man, a member of the rising generation. "It's simple enough," he said. "Send her word to have her place cleaned up. Give her a certain time to do it in, and if she don't. "Dammit, sir," Judge Stevens said, "will you accuse a lady to her face of smelling bad?" So the next night, after midnight, four men crossed Miss Emily's lawn and slunk about the house like burglars, sniffing along the base of the brickwork and at the cellar openings while one of them performed a regular sowing motion with his hand out of a sack slung from his shoulder. They broke open the cellar door and sprinkled lime there, and in all the outbuildings. As they recrossed the lawn, a window that had been dark was lighted and Miss Emily sat in it, the light behind her, and her upright torso motionless as that of an idol. They crept quietly across the lawn and into the shadow of the locusts that lined the street. After a week or two the smell went away. That was when people had begun to feel really sorry for her. People in our town, remembering how old lady Wyatt, her great-aunt, had gone completely crazy at last, believed that the Griersons held themselves a little too high for what they really were. None of the young men were quite good enough for Miss Emily and such. We had long thought of them as a tableau, Miss Emily a slender figure in white in the background, her father a spraddled silhouette in the foreground, his back to her and clutching a horsewhip, the two of them framed by the back-flung front door. So when she got to be thirty and was still single, we were not pleased exactly, but vindicated; even with insanity in the family she wouldn't have turned down all of her chances if they had really materialized. When her father died, it got about that the house was all that was left to her; and in a way, people were glad. At last they could pity Miss Emily. Being left alone, and a pauper, she had become humanized. Now she too. would know the old thrill and the old despair of a penny more or less. The day after his death all the ladies prepared to call at the house and offer condolence and aid, as is our custom Miss Emily met them at the door, dressed as usual and with no trace of grief on her face. She told them that her father was not dead. She did that for three days, with the ministers calling on her, and the doctors, trying to persuade her to let them dispose of the body. Just as they were about to resort to law and force, she broke down, and they buried her father quickly. We did not say she was crazy then. We believed she had to do that. We remembered all the young men her father had driven away, and we knew that with nothing left, she would have to cling to that which had robbed her, as people will. She was sick for a long time. When we saw her again, her hair was cut short, making her look like a girl, with a vague resemblance to those angels in colored church windows--sort of tragic and serene. The town had just let the contracts for paving the sidewalks, and in the summer after her father's death they began the work. The construction company came with riggers and mules and machinery, and a foreman named Homer Barron, a Yankee--a big, dark, ready man, with a big voice and eyes lighter than his face. The little boys would follow in groups to hear him cuss the riggers, and the riggers singing in time to the rise and fall of picks. Pretty soon he knew everybody in town. Whenever you heard a lot of laughing anywhere about the square, Homer Barron would be in the center of the group. Presently we began to see him and Miss Emily on Sunday afternoons driving in the yellow-wheeled buggy and the matched team of bays from the livery stable. At first we were glad that Miss Emily would have an interest, because the ladies all said, "Of course a Grierson would not think seriously of a Northerner, a day laborer." But there were still others, older people, who said that even grief could not cause a real lady to forget noblesse oblige without calling it noblesse oblige. They just said, "Poor Emily. Her kinsfolk should come to her." She had some kin in Alabama; but years ago her father had fallen out with them over the estate of old lady Wyatt, the crazy woman, and there was no communication between the two families. They had not even been represented at the funeral. And as soon as the old people said, "Poor Emily," the whispering began. "Do you suppose it's really so?" they said to one another. "Of course it is. What else could ." This behind their hands; rustling of craned silk and satin behind jalousies closed upon the sun of Sunday afternoon as the thin, swift clop-clop-clop of the matched team passed: "Poor Emily." She carried her head high enough--even when we believed that she was fallen. It was as if she demanded more than ever the recognition of her dignity as the last Grierson; as if it had wanted that touch of earthiness to reaffirm her imperviousness. Like when she bought the rat poison, the arsenic. That was over a year after they had begun to say "Poor Emily," and while the two female cousins were visiting her. "I want some poison," she said to the druggist. She was over thirty then, still a slight woman, though thinner than usual, with cold, haughty black eyes in a face the flesh of which was strained across the temples and about the eyesockets as you imagine a lighthouse-keeper's face ought to look. "I want some poison," she said. "Yes, Miss Emily. What kind? For rats and such? I'd recom "I want the best you have. I don't care what kind. "The druggist named several. "They'll kill anything up to an elephant. But what you want is-"Arsenic," Miss Emily said. "Is that a good one?" "Is . . arsenic? Yes, ma'am. But what you want-"I want arsenic." The druggist looked down at her. She looked back at him, erect, her face like a strained flag. "Why, of course," the druggist said. "If that's what you want. But the law requires you to tell what you are going to use it for." Miss Emily just stared at him, her head tilted back in order to look him eye for eye, until he looked away and went and got the arsenic and wrapped it up. The Negro delivery boy brought her the package; the druggist didn't come back. When she opened the package at home there was written on the box, under the skull and bones: "For rats." So the next day we all said, "She will kill herself"; and we said it would be the best thing. When she had first begun to be seen with Homer Barron, we had said, "She will marry him." Then we said, "She will persuade him yet," because Homer himself had remarked--he liked men, and it was known that he drank with the younger men in the Elks' Club-- that he was not a marrying man. Later we said, "Poor Emily" behind the jalousies as they passed on Sunday afternoon in the glittering buggy, Miss Emily with her head high and Homer Barron with his hat cocked and a cigar in his teeth, reins and whip in a yellow glove. Then some of the ladies began to say that it was a disgrace to the town and a bad example to the young people. The men did not want to interfere, but at last the ladies forced the Baptist minister--Miss Emily's people were Episcopal-- to call upon her. He would never divulge what happened during that interview, but he refused to go back again. The next Sunday they again drove about the streets, and the following day the minister's wife wrote to Miss Emily's relations in Alabama. So she had blood-kin under her roof again and we sat back to watch developments. At first nothing happened. Then we were sure that they were to be married. We learned that Miss Emily had been to the jeweler's and ordered a man's toilet set in silver, with the letters H. B. on each piece. Two days later we learned that she had bought a complete outfit of men's clothing, including a nightshirt, and we said, "They are married." We were really glad. We were glad because the two female cousins were even more Grierson than Miss Emily had ever been. So we were not surprised when Homer Barron--the streets had been finished some time since--was gone. We were a little disappointed that there was not a public blowing-off, but we believed that he had gone on to prepare for Miss Emily's coming, or to give her a chance to get rid of the cousins. (By that time it was a cabal, and we were all Miss Emily's allies to help circumvent the cousins.) Sure enough, after another week they departed. And, as we had expected all along, within three days Homer Barron was back in town. A neighbor saw the Negro man admit him at the kitchen door at dusk one evening. And that was the last we saw of Homer Barron. And of Miss Emily for some time. The Negro man went in and out with the market basket, but the front door remained closed. Now and then we would see her at a window for a moment, as the men did that night when they sprinkled the lime, but for almost six months she did not appear on the streets. Then we knew that this was to be expected too; as if that quality of her father which had thwarted her woman's life so many times had been too virulent and too furious to die. When we next saw Miss Emily, she had grown fat and her hair was turning gray. During the next few years it grew grayer and grayer until it attained an even pepper-and-salt iron-gray, when it ceased turning. Up to the day of her death at seventy-four it was still that vigorous iron-gray, like the hair of an active man. From that time on her front door remained closed, save for a period of six or seven years, when she was about forty, during which she gave lessons in china-painting. She fitted up a studio in one of the downstairs rooms, where the daughters and granddaughters of Colonel Sartoris' contemporaries were sent to her with the same regularity and in the same spirit that they were sent to church on Sundays with a twenty-five-cent piece for the collection plate. Meanwhile her taxes had been remitted. Then the newer generation became the backbone and the spirit of the town, and the painting pupils grew up and fell away and did not send their children to her with boxes of color and tedious brushes and pictures cut from the ladies' magazines. The front door closed upon the last one and remained closed for good. When the town got free postal delivery, Miss Emily alone refused to let them fasten the metal numbers above her door and attach a mailbox to it. She would not listen to them. Daily, monthly, yearly we watched the Negro grow grayer and more stooped, going in and out with the market basket. Each December we sent her a tax notice, which would be returned by the post office a week later, unclaimed. Now and then we would see her in one of the downstairs windows--she had evidently shut up the top floor of the house--like the carven torso of an idol in a niche, looking or not looking at us, we could never tell which. Thus she passed from generation to generation--dear, inescapable, impervious, tranquil, and perverse. And so she died. Fell ill in the house filled with dust and shadows, with only a doddering Negro man to wait on her. We did not even know she was sick; we had long since given up trying to get any information from the Negro He talked to no one, probably not even to her, for his voice had grown harsh and rusty, as if from disuse. She died in one of the downstairs rooms, in a heavy walnut bed with a curtain, her gray head propped on a pillow yellow and moldy with age and lack of sunlight. The negro met the first of the ladies at the front door and let them in, with their hushed, sibilant voices and their quick, curious glances, and then he disappeared. He walked right through the house and out the back and was not seen again. The two female cousins came at once. They held the funeral on the second day, with the town coming to look at Miss Emily beneath a mass of bought flowers, with the crayon face of her father musing profoundly above the bier and the ladies sibilant and macabre; and the very old men -some in their brushed Confederate uniforms--on the porch and the lawn, talking of Miss Emily as if she had been a contemporary of theirs, believing that they had danced with her and courted her perhaps, confusing time with its mathematical progression, as the old do, to whom all the past is not a diminishing road but, instead, a huge meadow which no winter ever quite touches, divided from them now by the narrow bottle-neck of the most recent decade of years. Already we knew that there was one room in that region above stairs which no one had seen in forty years, and which would have to be forced. They waited until Miss Emily was decently in the ground before they opened it. The violence of breaking down the door seemed to fill this room with pervading dust. A thin, acrid pall as of the tomb seemed to lie everywhere upon this room decked and furnished as for a bridal: upon the valance curtains of faded rose color, upon the rose-shaded lights, upon the dressing table, upon the delicate array of crystal and the man's toilet things backed with tarnished silver, silver so tarnished that the monogram was obscured. Among them lay a collar and tie, as if they had just been removed, which, lifted, left upon the surface a pale crescent in the dust. Upon a chair hung the suit, carefully folded; beneath it the two mute shoes and the discarded socks. The man himself lay in the bed. For a long while we just stood there, looking down at the profound and fleshless grin. The body had apparently once lain in the attitude of an embrace, but now the long sleep that outlasts love, that conquers even the grimace of love, had cuckolded him. What was left of him, rotted beneath what was left of the nightshirt, had become inextricable from the bed in which he lay; and upon him and upon the pillow beside him lay that even coating of the patient and biding dust. Then we noticed that in the second pillow was the indentation of a head. One of us lifted something from it, and leaning forward, that faint and invisible dust dry and acrid in the nostrils, we saw a long strand of irongray hair. Anna and the figther Anna did not sleep all night, she was excited. Early in the morning. Her father called her . ‘ come on, anna ! it’s time to get up. It’s a long way to the station. Anna got dressed and the was soon ready. She did not eat any breakfast.she was nervous. She was going to visit her aunt in naira. She was going alone in a train for the first time. Anna and her father left the village and began to walk to the station. It was a long way. They reached the station at midday. Soon the train came, it was nearly empty. Anna got in, she was frightened. It was her first journey away from home. you aunt will meet you at naira.’ Her father said.’be careful now, anna. Don’t talk to any stangers. The train started suddenly. Soon it was going fast. Anna watched her father. He looked smaller and smaller; then he disappeared. The train journey was very long. Anna looked out of the window. The fields,trees, villages and animals rushed past. after a long time, she began to feel sleepy. She was very tired.slowly,she feel asleep.Tater , Anna woke up. It was dark outside. She felt small and lost. She was a long way from her village and her father. There was a man in the carriage with her now. He had an ugly face, and he was very big and strong. His hair was very short. He looked bad and dangerous. The man smilled at anna . ‘ hallo,’ he said.’ You’re awake now, are you? Where are you going ? Anna remembered her father’s words. She did not say anyhing. ‘ are you going to polona ?’ asked the man. Anna was surprised.’ No, Naira,’ she said. ‘ Naira!’ said the man. ‘But we passed Naira two hours ago! You were asleep. Anna wanted to cry. She sat very still. It was warm in the carriage, but Anna felt cold. “ we’ve passed Naira?” she asked. ‘ yes,’ said man. Anna throught of the journey back to Naira. How much did it cost? She did not have any money. She trought of her aunt at Naira station .’ don’t worry, ’said the man . “ I’II help you. What’s your name? Anna, she said. my name is sam,’ said the man.’ You can trust me, Anna.’ Anna looked at sam again. He was very ugly. He had a long scar on his face and he looked dangerous. But he seemed kind. Was he good or bad? Anna did not know. The train began to slow down. Sam got up and looked out of the window. Anna saw a newspaper on sam’s seat. There was a photograph on the back page. It was sam’s photograph! Above the photograph was a headline : This man is dangerous fighter! Now Anna was sure. Sam was a bad man, and dangerous too. He was a criminal . anna must be cereful. She must get a way from him quickly. Sam left the window. ‘we’re coming into polona now,’ he said. ‘ stay whit me. I’ll help you. The train stopped. Anna jumped up and ran to the door. She wanted to run away. The door was very Heavy. She could not open it. Sam was standing behind her.I’ll open it,’ he said. Anna wanted to run away, but she was frightened of sam. She was tired and lost. Polona was a big town. Anna did not know anybody there. Sam called a taxi. ‘get in , anna,’ he said. Anna got in. ‘ the boxer hotel,’ sam said to the driver. The taxi went a long way. The streets of polona were wide and busy. There were lots of cars, and shops , and people. The taxi turned into a small, dark street and stopped. Sam got out and paid the taxi driver. Anna looked up and down the street. Come on , anna , said sam. Anna could not run away . she was weak and slow. Sam was big and strong. She followed sam into the hotel. There was a cafe inside the hotel. It did not look very clean. Two men were drinking and playing cards. The saw Sam. One of them said, ‘hello, sam ! come and have drink. Who’s th pretty girl? Sam took off his coat and sat down. Hello Tino, hello Bubs, he said. This is Anna . she’s lost. The men looked at Anna, and laughed. Lost, is she ? said Tino. Poor Anna. You’re a lucky man, Sam. Have a drink! Sam gave anna a chair, she sat down. She looked at the men. Tino had a moustache. Bubs did not have any front teeth. They looked tough. The man were drinking. Tino gave anna a glass. Come on, anna he said drink some wine.’ Anna pushed the glass away. She thought , I mustn’t eat or drink anyting. These men will give me a drug. Then I will fall asleep.sam called the waiter . bring some dinner,’ he said. Bring some good, hot food.’ The waiter came with the food. Bubs put some of the food on a plate and gave it to anna. It looked good and smelt delicious. Anna forgot about drugs and began to eat. She ate quickly and finished everyting. She put her spoon down. The men were looking at her. The loughed. Anna was very frightened again. ‘Come on, anna, said sam. You’re tired.you must go to bed now.’ He took her arm. ‘ lock her door, sam, said tino.’there are bad men in polona. You must keep her safe.’ Bubs laughed.’ Goodnight, anna ‘he said. Sam took anna upstairs and into a bedroom. Her heart was beating fast. Goodnight, anna’ said sam. He smiled at her.’ Don’t worry. You are safe here.’ Anna did not say anything. Sam seemed kind. But she remembered the newspaper. Sam was dangerous and his friend looked dangerous too. She must escape. Sam want out of the room and shut the door. He locked it and went donwstairs. Anna sat on the bed and cried. Downstairs, the man drank and played cards. Anna heard their voice. They were loughing. After a long time, she fell asleep. Anna woke late. The sun was shining. She looked out of the window. The waiter was sitting outside in the street. He was smoking a cigarrette and reading a newspaper. Anna looked round the room, it was dirty. There was some old peper on the floor. In one corner,there was a small table with some things on it. Anna had an idea. There was a biro an the table. She took the biro and picked up a piece of paper from the floor. She wrote :“ please, help me ! “ I want to go to Naira, my aunt is waiting for me there. I must escape from here, Ihave no money and no friend.” She threw the note out of the window. The waiter picked it up. He read the note. He looked up and saw her. He smiled at her and went and went into the hotel. Anna heard voices outside her room. Somebody unlocked the door. The waiter came in. There was somebody the stairs behind him. It’s a policeman! Thought Anna. He’s brought a policeman. She ran forward. it was sam. He was holding her note in his hand. ‘good afternoom, anna ,’ said sam.’ You’ve slept very late. You must be hungry, come and have some food. We’ve going soon.’ The waiter smiled at sam. Anna understood. The waiter did not want to help her. He and sam were friends. Anna went downstairs with sam and the waiter. She did not eat or drink anything. Sam went outside into the street. Anna heard voices. Sam was talking to a man. What were they planning? Sam came inside again. “ come on, anna, we must go now,’ he said. A taxi was waiting outside. Anna and sam got in. “where are we going?’ anna asked.Sam looked at her.I’II take you to you aunt later,’ he said, ‘ first, I have importantant job to do. Sam smiled. The smile twisted his face. He looked very ugly.Soon the taxi stopped. Sam and anna got out. They were outside a big building.there was a notice outside the building. Anna understood now. Sam was a boxer. dangersous fither’meant’good boxer’.sam was not criminal. Anna follewed sam into the building. It was a very big hall. There were seats on all sides. In the middle was the boxing ring, Tini and bubs were waiting for them. “ stay here, anna,” said sam. “tino and bubs will look after you. I must go now.Tino and bubs shook sam’s hand, ‘good luck, sam, ‘ said bubs.‘ you’II win all right,’ said tino. Anna smiled at sam for the first time, “ good luck” sam, she said. Tino and buibs took anna to a seat beside the ring. Tino sat on one side of her and bubs on the other, anna sat quietly and waited. The two men talked axcitedly.‘ sam’s going to win, said tino. “of course he’II win, said bubs ,he’s the best fighter in the country. Anna listened,sam was famaous! ‘ everybody wants him to win , said tino, ‘everybody likes him. “ that’s right,” said bubs. Sam’s a great boxer , and he’s a good man, too. ‘ I know a story about sam, ‘said tino. “ one night he was asleep in bed. He heard shouts in the street and he looked outside. A house was on fire, he ran outside. There was a child in the burning house, he went in side and haved the child. But he was badly hurt. His face was burned and he got a bad scar.’ “ poor sam,” said bubs. That’s why he’s so ugly!’ they both loughed. Anna was listening quietly. She now understood everything. She was safe with sam. She selt sorry for him. ‘ It the fight going to start soon ?’ she asked tino. Yes, of course, said tino . it will start very soon. The hall was full of people now. Boys were selling cigagarettes and sweets. Everybody was loughing and joking. The referee was waiting in the ring, the audience was excited now. “sam!sam! we want sam!’they shouted’ Sam climbed into the ring, he was wearing short trousert and big boxing gloves. He raised both hands in the air. The crowd was clapping,”sam! Sam!sam!” they shouted. The other fighter climbed into the ring. He was very big and strong.’ Here comes danny,’ said toni. He’s a very good fighter.’ Anna was worried.“Don’t you worry,” said bubs. ‘sam’s the bast figter in the country.’ The referee called the two boxers to the centre of the ring. He spoke to them quitly for a few moments. Then sam and danny shook hands. The two figters went back to their corners and waited. A bell rang and the fight began. Doony was younger than sam , but he saw a good fighter. He moved fast. He tired to hit sam. But sam jumped away every time. Sam’s arms were long. He moved very quickly. He hit danny hard, many times. Anna was very excited. Her hards held the seat tightly. It was a long fight, some moved quickly. He hit danny often, but danny did not fall down. Sam was getting tired. He was moved more slowly. Anna was worried. The crowd was shouting,’sam!sam!.Anna shouted,’ sam!sam!come on sam! Watch out!’ tino and bubs were shouting too. Danny hit sam’s face hard. Blood come out of sam’s nose and one of his eyes was nearly closed. But sam did not stop. He ran forward and hit danny with all his strength. Danny fell over and lay still. The referee started to count.One...two...three...four....’ danny di not move.‘five... six... seven...’Danny tried to get up. He could not.’ Eight...nine...ten.’Danny lay still.the fight was over . sam was the winner. Anna was loughingand clapping.’ Well done,sam! Well done,sam,’ she shouted. Nobody heard her, everybody was shouting, sam! Tino and bubs took anna to the dressing-room. Sam was resting. Hallo, sam, ‘ said anna .’ you were great’. Sam was surprised . ‘Hello, anna.’ He said. You’re different now. You didn’t talk to me before.’ I’m sorry,sam,’ said anna. ‘ I was frightened...’ I know ,’ said sam.I’m big and ugly, and you were frightened. But I’m not a crriminal,anna.’ I’m sorry,sam’ anna said again. I was wrong . I’m not frightened now. Sam was pleased.’come on, anna,’ he said, we’ll go to Naira now. Your aunt is waiting for you.’Anna said goodbye to tino and bubs. She got into a taxi with sam. It sam a long way to Naira and anna asked sam many questions.they talked , and talked,and talked. They reached Naira at night. it was dark. Sam knew Naira. He quickly found anna’s aunt’s house. They knocked on the door. The door opened. Anna’s aunt was standing in the doorway. She was crying.‘Oh Anna,Anna,’she said. ‘think god! You are here at last.’ Then she saw sam. He looked terrible. His face was cut and bruised after the fight. “Anna ! she said.’ Who is this man?” ‘ Auntie,’ Anna said.don’t be angry.this is sam. I fell asleep on the train.I passed Naira satation. Sam helped me. He took me to a hotel. He brought me to Naira in a taxi.’Anna’s aunt looked at sam again.’ Wait a minute,’ she said. She ran inside. She came back with a newspaper. Sam’s photograph was on the back page.“are you sam the boxer?” she asked.’ Yes, Iam,’ said sam. Anna’s aunt was pleased.sam was famous . he was a great man. Everybody knew him.Come on,sam,’ she said . ‘ please sit down. Will you have some tea?’Anna sat in the room with her aunt and sam. She did not say anything . she selt very happy.Anna’s aunt asked sam many quiestoins. She loughed a lot. She liked him.It was getting very late.” I must go now, anna ,’ said sam.’ Can I come and see you again?’“ yes, sam,’ said anna . she smiled at him. The Mountain Tavern Liam Oflaherty Snow was falling. The bare, flat, fenceless road had long since disappeared. Now the white snow fell continuously on virgin land, all level, all white, all silent, between the surrounding dim peaks of the mountains. Through the falling snow, on every side, squat humps were visible. They were the mountain peaks. And between them, the moorland was as smooth as a ploughed field. And as silent, oh, as silent as an empty church. Here, the very particles of the air entered the lungs seemingly as big as pebbles and with the sweetness of ripe fruit. An outstretched hand could almost feel the air and the silence. There was absolutely nothing, nothing at all, but falling flakes of white snow, undeflected, falling silently on fallen snow. Up above was the sky and God perhaps, though it was hard to believe it; hard to believe that there was anything in the whole universe but a flat white stretch of virgin land between squat mountain peaks and a ceaseless shower of falling snow-flakes. There came the smell of human breathing from the east. Then three figures appeared suddenly, dark, although they were covered with snow. They appeared silently, one by one, stooping forward. The leading man carried his overcoat like a shawl about his head, with a rifle, butt upwards, slung on his right shoulder and two cloth ammunition belts slung across his body. He wore black top boots. His grim young eyes gazed wearily into the falling snow and his boots, scarcely lifted, raked the smooth earth, scattering the fallen snow-flakes. The second man wore a belted leather coat, of which one arm hung loose. With the other hand he gripped his chest and staggered forward, with sagging, doddering head. A pistol, pouched in a loose belt, swung back and forth with his gait. There was blood on his coat, on his hand and congealed on his black leggings, along which the melting snow ran in a muddy stream. There was a forlorn look in his eyes, but his teeth were set. Sometimes he bared them and drew in a deep breath with a hissing sound. The third man walked erect. He wore no overcoat and his head was bare. His hair curled and among the curls the snow lay in little rows like some statue in winter. He had a proud, fearless face, bronzed, showing no emotion nor weariness. Now and again, he shook his great body and the snow fell with a rustling sound oif his clothes and off the heavy pack he carried. He also had two rifles wrapped in a cape under his arm; and in his right hand he carried a small wooden box that hung from a leather strap. They walked in each other's tracks slowly. Rapidly the falling snow filled up the imprints of their feet. And when they passed there was silence again. The man in front halted and raised his eyes to look ahead. The second man staggered against him, groaned with pain and gripped the other about the body with his loose hand to steady himself. The third man put the wooden box on the ground and shifted his pack. "Where are we now?" he said. His voice rang out, hollow, in the stillness and several puffs of hot air, the words, jerked out, like steam from a starting engine. "Can't say," muttered the man in front. "Steady, Commandant. We can't be far now. We're on the road anyway. It should be there in front. Can't see, though. It's in a hollow. That's why." "What's in a hollow, Jack?" muttered the wounded man. "Let me lie down here. It's bleeding again." "Hold on, Commandant," said the man in front. "We'll be at the Mountain Tavern in half a minute. Christ!" "Put him on my back," said the big man. "You carry the stuff." "Never mind. I'll walk," said the wounded man. "I'll get there all right. Any sign of them?" They peered into the falling snow behind them. There was utter silence. The ghostly white shower made no sound. A falling curtain. "Lead on then," said the big man. "Lean on me, Commandant." They moved on. The wounded man was groaning now and his feet began to drag. Shortly he began to rave in a low voice. Then they halted again. Without speaking, the big man hoisted his comrade, crosswise, on his shoulders. The other man carried the kit. They moved on again. The peak in front became larger. It was no longer a formless mass. Gradually, through the curtain of snow, it seemed to move towards them and upwards. The air became still more thin. As from the summit of a towering cliff, the atmosphere in front became hollow; and soon, through the haze of snow, they caught a glimpse of the distant plains, between two mountain peaks. There below it lay, like the bottom of a sea, in silence. The mountain sides sank down into it, becoming darker; for it did not snow down there. There was something, after all, other than the snow. But the snowless, downland earth looked dour and unapproachable. "It must be here," the leading man said again. "Why can't we see it? It's just under the shelter of that mountain. There is a little clump of pine trees and a barn with a red roof. Sure I often had a drink in it. Where the name of God is it, anyway?" "Go on. Stop talking," said the curly-headed man. "Can't you be easy?" muttered the leading man, moving ahead and peering into the snow that made his eyelids blink and blink. "Supposing this is the wrong road, after all. They say people go round and round in the snow. Sure ye could see it from the other end, four miles away in clear weather, two storey high and a slate roof with the sun. shining on it. It's facing this way too, right on the top of the hill, with a black board, 'Licensed to Sell.' Man called Galligan owns it. I'd swear by the Cross of Christ we must be up on it." "Hurry on," snapped the curly man. "There's a gurgle in his throat. Jesus! His blood is going down my neck. Why can't you hurry on, blast it?" "Hey, what place is that?" cried the leading man, in a frightened voice. "D'ye see a ruin?" They halted. A moment ago there had been nothing in front but a curtain of falling snow, beyond which, as in a child's sick dream, the darkening emptiness of the snowless lowland approached, tumbling like a scudding black cloud. Now a crazy blue heap appeared quite close. Suddenly it heaved up out of the snow. It was a ruined house. There was a smell from it too. From its base irregular tufts of smoke curled up spasmodically; dying almost as soon as they appeared and then appearing again. The two men watched it. There was no emotion in their faces. They just looked, as if without interest. It was too strange. The Mountain Tavern was a smoking ruin. "It's gone west," murmured the leading man. "Eh?" shouted the curly man. "Gone did ye say?" "Aye. Burned to the ground. See?" "Well?" "God knows. We're up the pole." Suddenly the curly man uttered a cry of rage and staggered forward under his load. The other man opened his mouth wide, drew in an enormous breath and dropped his head wearily on his chest. Trailing his rifle in the snow behind him, he reeled forward, shaking his head from side to side, with his under lip trembling. Then he began to sing foolishly under his breath. There were people around the ruined house. And as the two men, with their dying comrade, came into view, quite close, these people stopped and gaped at them. There was a woman in front of the house, on the road, sitting on an upturned barrel. She was a thin woman with a long pointed nose and thin black hair that hung in disorder on her thin neck, with hairpins sticking in it. She had a long overcoat buttoned over her dress and a man's overcoat about her shoulders. She held a hat with red feathers on it in her right hand, by the rim. Two children, wrapped in queer clothes, stood beside her, clinging to her, a boy and a girl. They also were thin and they had pointed noses like their mother. One man was pulling something out of a window of the ruined house. Another man, within the window, had his head stuck out. He had been handing out something. Another man was in the act of putting a tin trunk on a cart, to which a horse was harnessed, to the right of the house. All looked, gaping, at the newcomers. "God save all here," said the curly man, halting near the woman. Nobody replied. The other man came up and staggered towards the woman, who was sitting on the upturned barrel. The two children, silent with fear, darted around their mother, away from the man. They clutched at her, muttering something inaudibly. "Is that you, Mrs. Galligan?" "It is then," said the woman in a stupid, cold voice. "And who might you be?" "We're Republican soldiers," said the curly man. "I have a dying man here." He lowered the wounded man gently to the ground. Nobody spoke or moved. The snow fell steadily. " Mummy, mummy," cried one of the children, "there's blood on him. Oh! mummy." The two children began to howl. The dying man began to throw his hands about and mutter something. A great rush of blood flowed from him. "In the name of the Lord God of Heaven," yelled the curly man, "are ye savages not to move a foot? Eh? Can't ye go for a doctor? Is there nothing in the house?" He stooped over the dying man and clutching him in his arms, he cried hoarsely: "Easy now, Commandant. I'm beside ye. Give us a hand with him, Jack. We'll fix the bandage." The two of them, almost in a state of delirium, began to fumble with the dying man. The children wept. The dying man suddenly cried out: "Stand fast. Stand fast boys. Stand. . . ." Then he made a violent effort to sit up. He opened his mouth and did not close it again. The woman looked on dazed, with her forehead wrinkled and her lips set tight. The three men who had been doing something among the ruins began to come up slowly. They also appeared dazed, terrified. "He's gone," murmured the curly man, sitting erect on his knees. "God have mercy on him." He laid the corpse flat on the ground. The blood still flowed out. The other soldier took off his hat and then, just as he was going to cross himself, he burst into tears. The three men came close and looked on. Then they sheepishly took off their hats. "Is he dead?" said one of them. The curly man sat back on his heels. "He's dead," he said. "The curse o' God on this country." "And what did he say happened?" "Ambush back there. Our column got wiped out. Haven't ye got anything in the house?" The woman laughed shrilly. The children stopped crying. "Is there nothing in the house, ye daylight robber?" she cried. "Look at it, curse ye. It's a black ruin. Go in. Take what ye can find, ye robber." "Robbers!" cried the soldier who had been weeping. "Come on, Curly. Stand by me. I'm no robber. God! Give me a drink. Something to eat. Christ! I'm dyin'." He got to his feet and took a pace forward like a drunken man. The curly-headed soldier caught him. "Keep yer hair on, Jack," he said. "Look at what ye've done," cried the woman. "Ye've blown up the house over me head. Ye've left me homeless and penniless with yer war. Oh! God, why don't ye drop down the dome of Heaven on me?" "Sure we didn't blow up yer house," cried the curly soldier. "An' we lookin' for shelter after trampin' the mountains since morning. Woman, ye might respect the dead that died for ye." The woman spat and hissed at him. "Let them die. They didn't die for me," she said. "Amn't I ruined and wrecked for three long years with yer fightin', goin' back and forth, lootin' and turnin' the honest traveller from my door? For three long years have I kept open house for all of ye and now yer turnin' on one another like dogs after a bitch." "None o' that now," cried the hysterical soldier, trying to raise his rifle. "Hold on, man," cried one of the other men. "She has cause. She has cause." He grew excited and waved his hands and addressed his own comrades instead of addressing the soldiers. "The Republicans came to this house this morning," he cried. " So Mr. Galligan told me an' he goin' down the road for McGilligan's motor. The Republicans came, he said. And then . . . then the Free Staters came on top of them and the firing began. Women and children out, they said, under a white flag. So Galligan told me. 'They damn near shot me,' says he to me, 'harbourin' Irregulars under the new act.' Shot at sight, or what's worse, they take ye away on the cars, God knows where. Found in a ditch. None of us, God blast my soul if there is a word of a lie in what I am sayin', none of us here have a hand or part in anything. Three miles I came up in the snow when Mr. Galligan told me. Says he to me, 'I'll take herself and the kids to aunt Julia's in McGilligan's motor.” "Where did they go?" said the curly soldier. "I was comin' to that," said the man, spitting in the snow and turning towards the woman. "It's with a bomb they did it, Galligan said to me. Something must have fallen in the fire. They stuck it out, he said. There were six men inside. Not a man came out without a wound. So he said. There were two dead. On a door they took 'em away. They took 'em all off in the cars. And they were goin' to take Mr. Galligan too. There you are now. May the Blessed Virgin look down on here. An' many's a man '11 go thirsty from this day over the mountain road." "Aye," said the woman. "For twenty years in that house, since my father moved from the village, after buyin' it from Johnny Reilly." "Twenty years," she said again. "Can't ye give us something to eat?" cried the hysterical man, trying to break loose from the curly soldier, who still held him. "There's nothing here/' muttered a man, "until Mr. Galligan comes in the motor. He should be well on the way now." "They were all taken," said the curly soldier. "All taken," said the three men, all together. "Sit down, Jack," said the curly soldier. He pulled his comrade down with him on to the snow. He dropped his head on his chest. The others looked at the oldiers sitting in the snow. The others had a curious, malign look in their eyes. They looked at the dazed, exhausted soldiers and at the corpse with a curious apathy. They looked with hatred. There was no pity in their eyes. They looked steadily without speech or movement, with the serene cruelty of children watching an insect being tortured. They looked patiently, as if calmly watching a monster in its death agony. The curly-headed soldier suddenly seemed to realize that they were watching him. For he raised his head and peered at them shrewdly through the falling snow. There was utter silence everywhere, except the munching sound made by the horse's jaws as he chewed hay. The snow fell, fell now, in the fading light, mournfully, blotting out the sins of the world. The soldier's face, that had until then shown neither fear nor weariness, suddenly filled with despair. His lips bulged out. His eyes almost closed. His forehead gathered together and he opened his nostrils wide. "I'm done," he said. "It's no use. Say, men. Send word that we're here. Let them take us. I'm tired fightin'. It's no use." No one spoke or stirred. A sound approached. Strange to say, no one paid attention to the sound. And even when a military motor lorry appeared at the brow of the road, nobody moved or spoke. There were Free State soldiers on the lorry. They had their rifles pointed. They drew near slowly. Then, with a rush, they dismounted and came running up. The two Republican soldiers put up their hands, but they did not rise to their feet. "Robbers," screamed the woman. "I hate ye all. Robbers." Her husband was there with them. "Mary, we're to go in the lorry," he said to her. They're goin' to look after us they said. Fr. Considine went to the barracks." "The bloody robbers," she muttered, getting off the barrel. "Who's this?" the officer said, roughly handling the corpse. He raised the head of the corpse. "Ha!" he said. "So we got him at last. Eh? Heave him into the lorry, boys. Hurry up. Chuck 'em all in." They took away the corpse and the prisoners. There was a big dark spot where the corpse had lain. Snow began to fall on the dark spot. They took away everybody, including the horse and cart. Everybody went away, down the steep mountain road, into the dark lowland country, where no snow was falling. All was silent again on the flat top of the mountain. There was nothing in the whole universe again but the black ruin and the black spot where the corpse had lain. Night fell and snow fell, fell like soft soothing white flower petals on the black ruin and on the black spot where the corpse had lain. Luncheon W. Somerset Maugham I caught sight of her at the play and in answer to her beckoning I went over during the interval and sat down beside her. It was long since I had last seen her and if someone had not mentioned her name, I hardly think I would have recognized her. She addressed me brightly.“Well, its many years since we first met. How time does fly! We’re none of us getting any younger. Do you remember the first time I saw you? You asked me to luncheon.” Did I remember? It was twenty years ago and I was living in Paris. I had a tiny apartment in the Latin Quarter overlooking a cemetery and I was earning barely enough money to keep body and soul together. She had read a book of mine and had written to me about it. I answered, thanking her, and presently I received from her another letter saying she was passing through Paris and would like to have a chat with me; but her time was limited and the only free moment she had was on the following Thursday; she was spending the morning at the Luxembourg and would I give her a little luncheon at Foyot’s afterwards? Foyot’s is a restaurant at which the French senators eat and it was so far beyond my means that I had never even thought of going there. But I was flattered and I was too young to have learned to say no to a woman. (Few men, I may add, learn this until they are too old to make it of any consequence to a woman what they say.) I had eighty francs (gold francs) to last me the rest of the month and a modest luncheon should not cost more than fifteen. If I cut out coffee for the next two weeks I could manage well enough. I answered that I would meet my friend—by correspon¬dence—at Foyot’s on Thursday at half-past twelve. She was not so young as I expected and in appearance imposing rather than attractive. She was in fact a woman of forty (a charming age, but not one that excites a sudden and devastating passion at first sight), and she gave me the impression of having more teeth, white and large and even, than were necessary for any practical purpose. She was ‘ talkative, but since she seemed inclined to talk about me I was prepared to be an attentive listener. I was startled when the bill of fare was brought, for, the prices were a great deal higher than I had anticipated. But she reassured me. “I never eat anything for luncheon”, she said. “Oh, don’t say that!” I answered generously. “I never eat more than one thing. I think people eat far too much nowadays. A little fish, perhaps. I wonder if they have any salmon.” Well, it was early in the year for salmon and it was not on the bill of fare, but I asked the waiter if there was, any. Yes, a beautiful salmon had just come in, it was the first they had had. I ordered it for my guest.The waiter asked her if she would have something while it was being cooked. “No”, she answered, “I never eat more than one thing, unless you had a little caviare. I never mind caviare.” My heart sank a little. I knew I could not afford caviare, but I could not very well tell her that. I told the waiter by all means to bring caviare. For myself I chose the cheapest dish on the menu and that was a mutton chop. “I think you’re unwise to eat meat,” she said. “I don’t know how you can expect to work after eating heavy things like chops. I don’t believe in overloading my stomach.”Then came the question of drink. “I never drink anything for luncheon,” she said. “Neither do I,” I answered promptly. “Except white wine,” she proceeded as though I had not spoken. “These French white wines are so light. They’re wonderful for the digestion.”“What would you like?” I asked, hospitable still, but not exactly effusive. She gave me a bright and amicable flash of her white teeth.“My doctor won’t let me drink anything but cham¬pagne.”I fancy I turned a trifle pale. I ordered half a bottle. I mentioned casually that my doctor had absolutely forbid¬den me to drink champagne.“What are you going to drink, then?”“Water.” She ate the caviare and she ate the salmon. She talked gaily of art and literature and music. But I wondered what the bill would come to. When my mutton chop arrived she took me quite seriously to task. “I see that you’re in the habit of eating a heavy luncheon. I’m sure it’s a mistake. Why don’t you follow my example and just eat one thing? I’m sure you’d feel ever so much better for it.” “I am only going to eat one thing,” I said as the waiter came again with the bill of fare. She waved him aside with an airy gesture.“No, no, I never eat anything for luncheon. Just a bite, I never want more than that, and I eat that more as an excuse for conversation than anything else. I couldn’t possibly eat anything more—unless they had some of those giant asparagus. I should be sorry to leave Paris without having some of them.” My heart sank. I had seen them in the shops and I knew that they were horribly expensive. My mouth had often watered at the sight of them.“Madame wants to know if you have any of those giant asparagus,” I asked the waiter.I tried with all my might to will him to say no. A happy smile spread over his broad, priest-like face, and he assured me that they had some so large, so splendid, so tender, that it was a marvel. “I’m not in the least hungry,” my guest sighed, “but if you insist I don’t mind having some asparagus.” I ordered them. “Aren’t you going to have any?” “No, I never eat asparagus.” “I know there are people who don’t like them. The fact is, you ruin your palate by all the meat you eat.” We waited for the asparagus to be cooked. Panic seized me. It was not a question now how much money I should have left over for the rest of the month, but whether I had enough to pay the bill. It would be mortifying to find myself ten francs short and be obliged to borrow from my guest. I could not bring myself to do that. I knew exactly how much I had and if the bill came to more I made up my mind that I would put my hand in my pocket and with a dramatic cry start up and say it had been picked. Of course it would be awkward if she had not money enough either to pay the bill. Then the only thing would be to leave my watch and say I would come back and pay later. The asparagus appeared. They were enormous, succu¬lent and appetising. The smell of the melted butter tickled my nostrils as the nostrils of Jehovah were tickled by the burned offerings of the virtuous Semites. I watched the abandoned woman thrust them down her throat in large voluptuous mouthful and in my polite way I discoursed on the condition of the drama in the Balkans. At last she finished.“Coffee?” I said.“Yes, just an ice-cream and coffee,” she answered. I was past caring now, so I ordered coffee for myself and an ice-cream and coffee for her.“You know, there’s one thing I thoroughly believe in”, she said, as she ate the ice-cream. “One should always get up from a meal feeling one could eat a little more.”“Are you still hungry?” I asked faintly.“Oh, no, I’m not hungry, you see, I don’t eat luncheon. I have a cup of coffee in the morning and then dinner, but I never eat more than one thing for luncheon. I was speaking for you.”“Oh, I see” Then a terrible thing happened. While we were waiting for the coffee, the head waiter, with an ingratiating smile on his false face, came up to us bearing a large basket full of huge peaches. They had the blush of an innocent girl; they had the rich tone of an Italian landscape. But surely peaches were not in season then? Lord knew what they cost. I knew too—a little later, for my guest, going on with her conversation, absentmindedly took one.“You see, you’ve filled your stomach with a lot of meat”—my one miserable little chop—”and you can’t eat 30 any more. But I’ve just had a snack and I shall enjoy a peach.” The bill came and when I paid it I found that I had only enough for a quite inadequate tip. Her eyes rested for an instant on the three francs I left for the waiter and I knew that she thought me mean. But when I walked out of the restaurant I had the whole month before me and not a penny in my pocket.“Follow my example,” she said as we shook hands, “and never eat more than one thing for luncheon.” “I’ll do better than that,” I retorted, “I’ll eat nothing for dinner to-night.“Humorist!” she cried gaily, jumping into a cab. “You’re quite a humorist!” But I have had my revenge at last. I do not believe that I am a vindictive man, but when the immortal gods take a hand in the matter it is pardonable to observe the result with complacency. Today she weighs twenty-one stone. The Luncheon Kate chopin As the day was pleasant, Madame Valmonde drove over to L'Abri to see Desiree and the baby. It made her laugh to think of Desiree with a baby. Why, it seemed but yesterday that Desiree was little more than a baby herself; when Monsieur in riding through the gateway of Valmonde had found her lying asleep in the shadow of the big stone pillar. The little one awoke in his arms and began to cry for "Dada." That was as much as she could do or say. Some people thought she might have strayed there of her own accord, for she was of the toddling age. The prevailing belief was that she had been purposely left by a party of Texans, whose canvas-covered wagon, late in the day, had crossed the ferry that Coton Mais kept, just below the plantation. In time Madame Valmonde abandoned every speculation but the one that Desiree had been sent to her by a beneficent Providence to be the child of her affection, seeing that she was without child of the flesh. For the girl grew to be beautiful and gentle, affectionate and sincere,the idol of Valmonde. It was no wonder, when she stood one day against the stone pillar in whose shadow she had lain asleep, eighteen years before, that Armand Aubigny riding by and seeing her there, had fallen in love with her. That was the way all the Aubignys fell in love, as if struck by a pistol shot. The wonder was that he had not loved her before; for he had known her since his father brought him home from Paris, a boy of eight, after his mother died there. The passion that awoke in him that day, when he saw her at the gate, swept along like an avalanche, or like a prairie fire, or like anything that drives headlong over all obstacles. Monsieur Valmonde grew practical and wanted things well considered: that is, the girl's obscure origin. Armand looked into her eyes and did not care. He was reminded that she was nameless. What did it matter about a name when he could give her one of the oldest and proudest in Louisiana? He ordered the corbeille from Paris, and contained himself with what patience he could until it arrived; then they were married. Madame Valmonde had not seen Desiree and the baby for four weeks. When she reached L'Abri she shuddered at the first sight of it, as she always did. It was a sad looking place, which for many years had not known the gentle presence of a mistress, old Monsieur Aubigny having married and buried his wife in France, and she having loved her own land too well ever to leave it. The roof came down steep and black like a cowl, reaching out beyond the wide galleries that encircled the yellow stuccoed house. Big, solemn oaks grew close to it, and their thick-leaved, far-reaching branches shadowed it like a pall. Young Aubigny's rule was a strict one, too, and under it his negroes had forgotten how to be gay, as they had been during the old master's easy-going and indulgent lifetime. The young mother was recovering slowly, and lay full length, in her soft white muslins and laces, upon a couch. The baby was beside her, upon her arm, where he had fallen asleep, at her breast. The yellow nurse woman sat beside a window fanning herself. Madame Valmonde bent her portly figure over Desiree and kissed her, holding her an instant tenderly in her arms. Then she turned to the child. "This is not the baby!" she exclaimed, in startled tones. French was the language spoken at Valmonde in those days. "I knew you would be astonished," laughed Desiree, "at the way he has grown. The little cochon de lait! Look at his legs, mamma, and his hands and fingernails,--real finger-nails. Zandrine had to cut them this morning. Isn't it true, Zandrine?" The woman bowed her turbaned head majestically, "Mais si, Madame." "And the way he cries," went on Desiree, "is deafening. Armand heard him the other day as far away as La Blanche's cabin." Madame Valmonde had never removed her eyes from the child. She lifted it and walked with it over to the window that was lightest. She scanned the baby narrowly, then looked as searchingly at Zandrine, whose face was turned to gaze across the fields. "Yes, the child has grown, has changed," said Madame Valmonde, slowly, as she replaced it beside its mother. "What does Armand say?" Desiree's face became suffused with a glow that was happiness itself. "Oh, Armand is the proudest father in the parish, I believe, chiefly because it is a boy, to bear his name; though he says not,--that he would have loved a girl as well. But I know it isn't true. I know he says that to please me. And mamma," she added, drawing Madame Valmonde's head down to her, and speaking in a whisper, "he hasn't punished one of them--not one of them--since baby is born. Even Negrillon, who pretended to have burnt his leg that he might rest from work--he only laughed, and said Negrillon was a great scamp. oh, mamma, I'm so happy; it frightens me." What Desiree said was true. Marriage, and later the birth of his son had softened Armand Aubigny's imperious and exacting nature greatly. This was what made the gentle Desiree so happy, for she loved him desperately. When he frowned she trembled, but loved him. When he smiled, she asked no greater blessing of God. But Armand's dark, handsome face had not often been disfigured by frowns since the day he fell in love with her. When the baby was about three months old, Desiree awoke one day to the conviction that there was something in the air menacing her peace. It was at first too subtle to grasp. It had only been a disquieting suggestion; an air of mystery among the blacks; unexpected visits from far-off neighbors who could hardly account for their coming. Then a strange, an awful change in her husband's manner, which she dared not ask him to explain. When he spoke to her, it was with averted eyes, from which the old love-light seemed to have gone out. He absented himself from home; and when there, avoided her presence and that of her child, without excuse. And the very spirit of Satan seemed suddenly to take hold of him in his dealings with the slaves. Desiree was miserable enough to die. She sat in her room, one hot afternoon, in her peignoir, listlessly drawing through her fingers the strands of her long, silky brown hair that hung about her shoulders. The baby, half naked, lay asleep upon her own great mahogany bed, that was like a sumptuous throne, with its satin-lined half-canopy. One of La Blanche's little quadroon boys--half naked too--stood fanning the child slowly with a fan of peacock feathers. Desiree's eyes had been fixed absently and sadly upon the baby, while she was striving to penetrate the threatening mist that she felt closing about her. She looked from her child to the boy who stood beside him, and back again; over and over. "Ah!" It was a cry that she could not help; which she was not conscious of having uttered. The blood turned like ice in her veins, and a clammy moisture gathered upon her face. She tried to speak to the little quadroon boy; but no sound would come, at first. When he heard his name uttered, he looked up, and his mistress was pointing to the door. He laid aside the great, soft fan, and obediently stole away, over the polished floor, on his bare tiptoes. She stayed motionless, with gaze riveted upon her child, and her face the picture of fright. Presently her husband entered the room, and without noticing her, went to a table and began to search among some papers which covered it. "Armand," she called to him, in a voice which must have stabbed him, if he was human. But he did not notice. "Armand," she said again. Then she rose and tottered towards him. "Armand," she panted once more, clutching his arm, "look at our child. What does it mean? tell me." He coldly but gently loosened her fingers from about his arm and thrust the hand away from him. "Tell me what it means!" she cried despairingly. "It means," he answered lightly, "that the child is not white; it means that you are not white." A quick conception of all that this accusation meant for her nerved her with unwonted courage to deny it. "It is a lie; it is not true, I am white! Look at my hair, it is brown; and my eyes are gray, Armand, you know they are gray. And my skin is fair," seizing his wrist. "Look at my hand; whiter than yours, Armand," she laughed hysterically. "As white as La Blanche's," he returned cruelly; and went away leaving her alone with their child. When she could hold a pen in her hand, she sent a despairing letter to Madame Valmonde. "My mother, they tell me I am not white. Armand has told me I am not white. For God's sake tell them it is not true. You must know it is not true. I shall die. I must die. I cannot be so unhappy, and live." The answer that came was brief: "My own Desiree: Come home to Valmonde; back to your mother who loves you. Come with your child." When the letter reached Desiree she went with it to her husband's study, and laid it open upon the desk before which he sat. She was like a stone image: silent, white, motionless after she placed it there. In silence he ran his cold eyes over the written words. He said nothing. "Shall I go, Armand?" she asked in tones sharp with agonized suspense. "Yes, go." "Do you want me to go?" "Yes, I want you to go." He thought Almighty God had dealt cruelly and unjustly with him; and felt, somehow, that he was paying Him back in kind when he stabbed thus into his wife's soul. Moreover he no longer loved her, because of the unconscious injury she had brought upon his home and his name. She turned away like one stunned by a blow, and walked slowly towards the door, hoping he would call her back. "Good-by, Armand," she moaned. He did not answer her. That was his last blow at fate. Desiree went in search of her child. Zandrine was pacing the sombre gallery with it. She took the little one from the nurse's arms with no word of explanation, and descending the steps, walked away, under the live-oak branches. It was an October afternoon; the sun was just sinking. Out in the still fields the negroes were picking cotton. Desiree had not changed the thin white garment nor the slippers which she wore. Her hair was uncovered and the sun's rays brought a golden gleam from its brown meshes. She did not take the broad, beaten road which led to the far-off plantation of Valmonde. She walked across a deserted field, where the stubble bruised her tender feet, so delicately shod, and tore her thin gown to shreds. She disappeared among the reeds and willows that grew thick along the banks of the deep, sluggish bayou; and she did not come back again. Some weeks later there was a curious scene enacted at L'Abri. In the centre of the smoothly swept back yard was a great bonfire. Armand Aubigny sat in the wide hallway that commanded a view of the spectacle; and it was he who dealt out to a half dozen negroes the material which kept this fire ablaze. A graceful cradle of willow, with all its dainty furbishings, was laid upon the pyre, which had already been fed with the richness of a priceless layette. Then there were silk gowns, and velvet and satin ones added to these; laces, too, and embroideries; bonnets and gloves; for the corbeille had been of rare quality. The last thing to go was a tiny bundle of letters; innocent little scribblings that Desiree had sent to him during the days of their espousal. There was the remnant of one back in the drawer from which he took them. But it was not Desiree's; it was part of an old letter from his mother to his father. He read it. She was thanking God for the blessing of her husband's love:"But above all," she wrote, "night and day, I thank the good God for having so arranged our lives that our dear Armand will never know that his mother, who adores him, belongs to the race that is cursed with the brand of slavery." Was it a dream Guy de Maupassant The following short story is reprinted from A Selection from the Writings of Guy de Maupassant. Guy de Maupassant. New York: The Review of Reviews Co., 1903. "I had loved her madly! "Why does one love? Why does one love? How queer it is to see only one being in the world, to have only one thought in one's mind, only one desire in the heart, and only one name on the lips--a name which comes up continually, rising, like the water in a spring, from the depths of the soul to the lips, a name which one repeats over and over again, which one whispers ceaselessly, everywhere, like a prayer. "I am going to tell you our story, for love only has one, which is always the same. I met her and loved her; that is all. And for a whole year I have lived on her tenderness, on her caresses, in her arms, in her dresses, on her words, so completely wrapped up, bound, and absorbed in everything which came from her, that I no longer cared whether it was day or night, or whether I was dead or alive, on this old earth of ours. "And then she died. How? I do not know; I no longer know anything. But one evening she came home wet, for it was raining heavily, and the next day she coughed, and she coughed for about a week, and took to her bed. What happened I do not remember now, but doctors came, wrote, and went away. Medicines were brought, and some women made her drink them. Her hands were hot, her forehead was burning, and her eyes bright and sad. When I spoke to her, she answered me, but I do not remember what we said. I have forgotten everything, everything, everything! She died, and I very well remember her slight, feeble sigh. The nurse said: 'Ah!' and I understood, I understood! "I knew nothing more, nothing. I saw a priest, who said: 'Your mistress?' and it seemed to me as if he were insulting her. As she was dead, nobody had the right to say that any longer, and I turned him out. Another came who was very kind and tender, and I shed tears when he spoke to me about her. "They consulted me about the funeral, but I do not remember anything that they said, though I recollected the coffin, and the sound of the hammer when they nailed her down in it. Oh! God, God! "She was buried! Buried! She! In that hole! Some people came--female friends. I made my escape and ran away. I ran, and then walked through the streets, went home, and the next day started on a journey. "Yesterday I returned to Paris, and when I saw my room again--our room, our bed, our furniture, everything that remains of the life of a human being after death--I was seized by such a violent attack of fresh grief, that I felt like opening the window and throwing myself out into the street. I could not remain any longer among these things, between these walls which had inclosed and sheltered her, which retained a thousand atoms of her, of her skin and of her breath, in their imperceptible crevices. I took up my hat to make my escape, and just as I reached the door, I passed the large glass in the hall, which she had put there so that she might look at herself every day from head to foot as she went out, to see if her toilette looked well, and was correct and pretty, from her little boots to her bonnet. "I stopped short in front of that looking-glass in which she had so often been reflected--so often, so often, that it must have retained her reflection. I was standing there. trembling, with my eyes fixed on the glass--on that flat, profound, empty glass--which had contained her entirely, and had possessed her as much as I, as my passionate looks had. I felt as if I loved that glass. I touched it; it was cold. Oh! the recollection! sorrowful mirror, burning mirror, horrible mirror, to make men suffer such torments! Happy is the man whose heart forgets everything that it has contained, everything that has passed before it, everything that has looked at itself in it, or has been reflected in its affection, in its love! How I suffer! "I went out without knowing it, without wishing it, and toward the cemetery. I found her simple grave, a white marble cross, with these few words: " 'She loved, was loved, and died.' "She is there, below, decayed! How horrible! I sobbed with my forehead on the ground, and I stopped there for a long time, a long time. Then I saw that it was getting dark, and a strange, mad wish, the wish of a despairing lover, seized me. I wished to pass the night, the last night, in weeping on her grave. But I should be seen and driven out. How was I to manage? I was cunning, and got up and began to roam about in that city of the dead. I walked and walked. How small this city is, in comparison with the other, the city in which we live. And yet, how much more numerous the dead are than the living. We want high houses, wide streets, and much room for the four generations who see the daylight at the same time, drink water from the spring, and wine from the vines, and eat bread from the plains. "And for all the generations of the dead, for all that ladder of humanity that has descended down to us, there is scarcely anything, scarcely anything! The earth takes them back, and oblivion effaces them. Adieu! "At the end of the cemetery, I suddenly perceived that I was in its oldest part, where those who had been dead a long time are mingling with the soil, where the crosses themselves are decayed, where possibly newcomers will be put to-morrow. It is full of untended roses, of strong and dark cypress-trees, a sad and beautiful garden, nourished on human flesh. "I was alone, perfectly alone. So I crouched in a green tree and hid myself there completely amid the thick and somber branches. I waited, clinging to the stem, like a shipwrecked man does to a plank. "When it was quite dark, I left my refuge and began to walk softly, slowly, inaudibly, through that ground full of dead people. I wandered about for a long time, but could not find her tomb again. I went on with extended arms, knocking against the tombs with my hands, my feet, my knees, my chest, even with my head, without being able to find her. I groped about like a blind man finding his way, I felt the stones, the crosses, the iron railings, the metal wreaths, and the wreaths of faded flowers! I read the names with my fingers, by passing them over the letters. What a night! What a night! I could not find her again! "There was no moon. What a night! I was frightened, horribly frightened in these narrow paths, between two rows of graves. Graves! graves! graves! nothing but graves! On my right, on my left, in front of me, around me, everywhere there were graves! I sat down on one of them, for I could not walk any longer, my knees were so weak. I could hear my heart beat! And I heard something else as well. What? A confused, nameless noise. Was the noise in my head, in the impenetrable night, or beneath the mysterious earth, the earth sown with human corpses? I looked all around me, but I cannot say how long I remained there; I was paralyzed with terror, cold with fright, ready to shout out, ready to die. "Suddenly, it seemed to me that the slab of marble on which I was sitting, was moving. Certainly it was moving, as if it were being raised. With a bound, I sprang on to the neighboring tomb, and I saw, yes, I distinctly saw the stone which I had just quitted rise upright. Then the dead person appeared, a naked skeleton, pushing the stone back with its bent back. I saw it quite clearly, although the night was so dark. On the cross I could read: " 'Here lies Jacques Olivant, who died at the age of fifty-one. He loved his family, was kind and honorable, and died in the grace of the Lord.' "The dead man also read what was inscribed on his tombstone; then he picked up a stone off the path, a little, pointed stone and began to scrape the letters carefully. He slowly effaced them, and with the hollows of his eyes he looked at the places where they had been engraved. Then with the tip of the bone that had been his forefinger, he wrote in luminous letters, like those lines which boys trace on walls with the tip of a lucifer match: " 'Here reposes Jacques Olivant, who died at the age of fifty-one. He hastened his father's death by his unkindness, as he wished to inherit his fortune, he tortured his wife, tormented his children, deceived his neighbors, robbed everyone he could, and died wretched.' "When he had finished writing, the dead man stood motionless, looking at his work. On turning round I saw that all the graves were open, that all the dead bodies had emerged from them, and that all had effaced the lies inscribed on the gravestones by their relations, substituting the truth instead. And I saw that all had been the tormentors of their neighbors--malicious, dishonest, hypocrites, liars, rogues, calumniators, envious; that they had stolen, deceived, performed every disgraceful, every abominable action, these good fathers, these faithful wives, these devoted sons, these chaste daughters, these honest tradesmen, these men and women who were called irreproachable. They were all writing at the same time, on the threshold of their eternal abode, the truth, the terrible and the holy truth of which everybody was ignorant, or pretended to be ignorant, while they were alive. "I thought that SHE also must have written something on her tombstone, and now running without any fear among the half-open coffins, among the corpses and skeletons, I went toward her, sure that I should find her immediately. I recognized her at once, without seeing her face, which was covered by the winding-sheet, and on the marble cross, where shortly before I had read: " 'She loved, was loved, and died.' I now saw: " 'Having gone out in the rain one day, in order to deceive her lover, she caught cold and died.' "It appears that they found me at daybreak, lying on the grave unconscious. AN IMAGINATIVE WOMAN Thomas Hardy When William Marchmill had finished his inquiries for lodgings at the well-known watering-place of Solentsea in Upper Wessex, he returned to the hotel to find his wife. She, with the children, had rambled along the shore, and Marchmill followed in the direction indicated by the military-looking hall-porter. "By Jove, how far you've gone! I am quite out of breath," Marchmill said, rather impatiently, when he came up with his wife, who was reading as she walked, the three children being considerably further ahead with the nurse. Mrs. Marchmill started out of the reverie into which the book had thrown her. "Yes," she said, "you've been such a long time. I was tired of staying in that dreary hotel. But I am sorry if you have wanted me, Will?" "Well I have had trouble to suit myself. When you see the airy and comfortable rooms heard of, you find they are stuffy and uncomfortable. Will you come and see if what I've fixed on will do? There is not much room, I am afraid; but I can light on nothing better. The town is rather full." The pair left the children and nurse to continue their ramble, and went back together. In age well-balanced, in personal appearance fairly matched, and in domestic requirements conformable, in temper this couple differed, though even here they did not often clash, he being equable, if not lymphatic, and she decidedly nervous and sanguine. It was to their tastes and fancies, those smallest, greatest particulars, that no common denominator could be applied. Marchmill considered his wife's likes and inclinations somewhat silly; she considered his sordid and material. The husband's business was that of a gunmaker in a thriving city northwards, and his soul was in that business always; the lady was best characterised by that superannuated phrase of elegance "a votary of the muse." An impressionable, palpitating creature was Ella, shrinking humanely from detailed knowledge of her husband's trade whenever she reflected that everything he manufactured had for its purpose the destruction of life. She could only recover her equanimity by assuring herself that some, at least, of his weapons were sooner or later used for the extermination of horrid vermin and animals almost as cruel to their inferiors in species as human beings were to theirs. She had never antecedently regarded this occupation of his as any objection to having him for a husband. Indeed, the necessity of getting life-leased at all cost, a cardinal virtue which all good mothers teach, kept her from thinking of it at all till she had closed with William, had passed the honeymoon, and reached the reflecting stage. Then, like a person who has stumbled upon some object in the dark, she wondered what she had got; mentally walked round it, estimated it; whether it were rare or common; contained gold, silver, or lead; were a clog or a pedestal, everything to her or nothing. She came to some vague conclusions, and since then had kept her heart alive by pitying her proprietor's obtuseness and want of refinement, pitying herself, and letting off her delicate and ethereal emotions in imaginative occupations, daydreams, and night-sighs, which perhaps would not much have disturbed William if he had known of them. Her figure was small, elegant, and slight in build, tripping, or rather bounding, in movement. She was dark-eyed, and had that marvellously bright and liquid sparkle in each pupil which characterises persons of Ella's cast of soul, and is too often a cause of heartache to the possessor's male friends, ultimately sometimes to herself. Her husband was a tall, long-featured man, with a brown beard; he had a pondering regard; and was, it must be added, usually kind and tolerant to her. He spoke in squarely shaped sentences, and was supremely satisfied with a condition of sublunary things which made weapons a necessity. Husband and wife walked till they had reached the house they were in search of, which stood in a terrace facing the sea, and was fronted by a small garden of windproof and salt-proof evergreens, stone steps leading up to the porch. It had its number in the row, but, being rather larger than the rest, was in addition sedulously distinguished as Coburg House by its landlady, though everybody else called it "Thirteen, New Parade." The spot was bright and lively now; but in winter it became necessary to place sandbags against the door, and to stuff up the keyhole against the wind and rain, which had worn the paint so thin that the priming and knotting showed through. The householder, who had been watching for the gentleman's return, met them in the passage, and showed the rooms. She informed them that she was a professional man's widow, left in needy circumstances by the rather sudden death of her husband, and she spoke anxiously of the conveniences of the establishment. Mrs. Marchmill said that she liked the situation and the house; but, it being small, there would not be accommodation enough, unless she could have all the rooms. The landlady mused with an air of disappointment. She wanted the visitors to be her tenants very badly, she said, with obvious honesty. But unfortunately two of the rooms were occupied permanently by a bachelor gentleman. He did not pay season prices, it was true; but as he kept on his apartments all the year round, and was an extremely nice and interesting young man, who gave no trouble, she did not like to turn him out for a month's "let," even at a high figure. "Perhaps, however," she added, "he might offer to go for a time." They would not hear of this, and went back to the hotel, intending to proceed to the agent's to inquire further. Hardly had they sat down to tea when the landlady called. Her gentleman, she said, had been so obliging as to offer to give up his rooms three or four weeks rather than drive the newcomers away. "It is very kind, but we won't inconvenience him in that way," said the Marchmills. "O, it won't inconvenience him, I assure you!" said the landlady eloquently. "You see, he's a different sort of young man from most - dreamy, solitary, rather melancholy - and he cares more to be here when the south-westerly gales are beating against the door, and the sea washes over the Parade, and there's not a soul in the place, than he does now in the season. He'd just as soon be where, in fact, he's going temporarily to a little cottage on the Island opposite, for a change." She hoped therefore that they would come. The Marchmill family accordingly took possession of the house next day, and it seemed to suit them very well. After luncheon Mr. Marchmill strolled out toward the pier, and Mrs. Marchmill, having despatched the children to their outdoor amusements on the sands, settled herself in more completely, examining this and that article, and testing the reflecting powers of the mirror in the wardrobe door. In the small back sitting room, which had been the young bachelor's, she found furniture of a more personal nature than in the rest. Shabby books, of correct rather than rare editions, were piled up in a queerly reserved manner in corners, as if the previous occupant had not conceived the possibility that any incoming person of the season's bringing could care to look inside them. The landlady hovered on the threshold to rectify anything that Mrs. Marchmill might not find to her satisfaction. "I'll make this my own little room," said the latter, "because the books are here. By the way, the person who has left seems to have a good many. He won't mind my reading some of them, Mrs. Hooper, I hope?" "O, dear no, ma'am. Yes, he has a good many. You see, he is in the literary line himself somewhat. He is a poet - yes, really a poet - and he has a little income of his own, which is enough to write verses on, but not enough for cutting a figure, even if he cared to." "A Poet! O, I did not know that." Mrs. Marchmill opened one of the books, and saw the owner's name written on the title-page. "Dear me!" she continued; "I know his name very well - Robert Trewe - of course I do; and his writings! And it is his rooms we have taken, and him we have turned out of his home?" Ella Marchmill, sitting down alone a few minutes later, thought with interested surprise of Robert Trewe. Her own latter history will best explain that interest. Herself the only daughter of a struggling man of letters, she had during the last year or two taken to writing poems, in an endeavour to find a congenial channel in which let flow her painfully embayed emotions, whose former limpidity and sparkle seemed departing in the stagnation caused by the routine of a practical household and the gloom of bearing children to a commonplace father. These poems, subscribed with masculine pseudonym, had appeared in various obscure magazines, and in two cases in rather prominent ones. In the second of the latter the page which bore her effusion at the bottom, in smallish print, bore at the top, in large print, a few verses on the same subject by this very man, Robert Trewe. Both of them, had, in fact, been struck by a tragic incident reported in the daily papers, and had used it simultaneously as an inspiration, the editor remarking in a note upon the coincidence, and that the excellence of both poems prompted him to give them together. After that event Ella, otherwise "John Ivy," had watched with much attention the appearance anywhere in print of verse bearing the signature of Robert Trewe, who, with a man's unsusceptibility on the question of sex, had never once thought of passing himself off as a woman. To be sure, Mrs. Marchmill had satisfied herself with a sort of reason for doing the contrary in her case; since nobody might believe in her inspiration if they found that the sentiments came from a pushing tradesman's wife, from the mother of three children by a matter-of-fact small-arms manufacturer. Trewe's verse contrasted with that of the rank and file of recent minor poets in being impassioned rather than ingenious, luxuriant rather than finished. Neither symbolist nor decadent, he was a pessimist in so far as that character applies to a man who looks at the worst contingencies as well as the best in the human condition. Being little attracted by excellences of form and rhythm apart from content, he sometimes, when feeling outran his artistic speed, perpetrated sonnets in the loosely rhymed Elizabethan fashion, which every right-minded reviewer said he ought not to have done. With sad and hopeless envy Ella Marchmill had often and often scanned the rival poet's work, so much stronger as it always was than her own feeble lines. She had imitated him, and her inability to touch his level would send her into fits of despondency. Months passed away thus, till she observed from the publishers' list that Trewe had collected his fugitive pieces into a volume, which was duly issued, and was much or little praised according to chance, and had a sale quite sufficient to pay for the printing. This step onward had suggested to John Ivy the idea of collecting her pieces also, or at any rate of making up a book of her rhymes by adding many in manuscript to the few that had seen the light, for she had been able to get no great number into print. A ruinous charge was made for costs of publication; a few reviews noticed her poor little volume; but nobody talked of it, nobody bought it, and it fell dead in a fortnight - if it had ever been alive. The author's thoughts were diverted to another groove just then by the discovery that she was going to have a third child, and the collapse of her poetical venture had perhaps less effect upon her mind than it might have done if she had been domestically unoccupied. Her husband had paid the publisher's bill with the doctor's, and there it all had ended for the time. But, though less than a poet of her century, Ella was more than a mere multiplier of her kind, and latterly she had begun to feel the old afflatus once more. And now by an odd conjunction she found herself in the rooms of Robert Trewe. She thoughtfully rose from her chair and searched the apartment with the interest of a fellow-tradesman. Yes, the volume of his own verse was among the rest. Though quite familiar with its contents, she read it here as if it spoke aloud to her, then called up Mrs. Hooper, the landlady, for some trivial service, and inquired again about the young man. "Well, I'm sure you'd be interested in him, ma'am, if you could see him, only he's so shy that I don't suppose you will." Mrs. Hooper seemed nothing loth to minister to her tenant's curiosity about her predecessor. "Lived here long? Yes, nearly two years. He keeps on his rooms even when he's not here: the soft air of this place suits his chest, and he likes to be able to come back at any time. He is mostly writing or reading, and doesn't see many people, though, for the matter of that, he is such a good, kind young fellow that folks would only be too glad to be friendly with him if they knew him. You don't meet kind-hearted people everyday." "Ah, he's kind-hearted . . . and good." "Yes; he'll oblige me in anything if I ask him. 'Mr. Trewe,' I say to him sometimes, you are rather out of spirits.' 'Well, I am, Mrs. Hooper,' he'll say, 'though I don't know how you should find it out.' 'Why not take a little change?' I ask. Then in a day or two he'll say that he will take a trip to Paris, or Norway, or somewhere; and I assure you he comes back all the better for it." "Ah, indeed! His is a sensitive nature, no doubt." "Yes. Still he's odd in some things. Once when he had finished a poem of his composition late at night he walked up and down the room rehearsing it; and the floors being so thin - jerry-built houses, you know, though I say it myself - he kept me awake up above him till I wished him further . . . . But we get on very well." This was but the beginning of a series of conversations about the rising poet as the days went on. On one of these occasions Mrs. Hooper drew Ella's attention to what she had not noticed before: minute scribblings in pencil on the wallpaper behind the curtains at the head of the bed. "O! let me look," said Mrs. Marchmill, unable to conceal a rush of tender curiosity as she bent her pretty face close to the wall. "These," said Mrs. Hooper, with the manner of a woman who knew things, "are the very beginnings and first thoughts of his verses. He has tried to rub most of them out, but you can read them still. My belief is that he wakes up in the night, you know, with some rhyme in his head, and jots it down there on the wall lest he should forget it by the morning. Some of these very lines you see here I have seen afterwards in print in the magazines. Some are newer; indeed, I have not seen that one before. It must have been done only a few days ago." "O, yes! . . . " Ella Marchmill flushed without knowing why, and suddenly wished her companion would go away, now that the information was imparted. An indescribable consciousness of personal interest rather than literary made her anxious to read the inscription alone; and she accordingly waited till she could do so, with a sense that a great store of emotion would be enjoyed in the act. Perhaps because the sea was choppy outside the Island, Ella's husband found it much pleasanter to go sailing and steaming about without his wife, who was a bad sailor, than with her. He did not disdain to go thus alone on board the steamboats of the cheap-trippers, where there was dancing by moonlight, and where the couples would come suddenly down with a lurch into each other's arms; for, as he blandly told her, the company was too mixed for him to take her amid such scenes. Thus, while this thriving manufacturer got a great deal of change and sea-air out of his sojourn here, the life, external at least, of Ella was monotonous enough, and mainly consisted in passing a certain number of hours each day in bathing and walking up and down a stretch of shore. But the poetic impulse having again waxed strong, she was possessed by an inner flame which left her hardly conscious of what was proceeding around her. She had read till she knew by heart Trewe's last little volume of verses, and spent a great deal of time in vainly attempting to rival some of them, till, in her failure, she burst into tears. The personal element in the magnetic attraction exercised by this circumambient, unapproachable master of hers was so much stronger than the intellectual and abstract that she could not understand it. To be sure, she was surrounded noon and night by his customary environment, which literally whispered of him to her at every moment; but he was a man she had never seen, and that all that moved her was the instinct to specialise a waiting emotion on the first fit thing that came to hand did not, of course, suggest itself to Ella. In the natural way of passion under the too practical conditions which civilisation has devised for its fruition, her husband's love for her had not survived, except in the form of fitful friendship, anymore than, or even so much as, her own for him; and, being a woman of very living ardours, that required sustenance of some sort, they were beginning to feed on this chancing material, which was, indeed, of a quality far better than chance usually offers. One day the children had been playing hide-and-seek in a closet, whence, in their excitement they pulled out some clothing. Mrs. Hooper explained that it belonged to Mr. Trewe, and hung it up in the closet again. Possessed of her fantasy, Ella went later in the afternoon, when nobody was in that part of the house, opened the closet, unhitched one of the articles, a mackintosh, and put it on, with the waterproof cap belonging to it. "The mantle of Elijah!" she said. "Would it might inspire me to rival him, glorious genius that he is!" Her eyes always grew wet when she thought like that, and she turned to look at herself in the glass. His heart had beat inside that coat, and his brain had worked under that hat at levels of thought she would never reach. The consciousness of her weakness beside him made her feel quite sick. Before she had got the things off her the door opened, and her husband entered the room. "What the devil - " She blushed, and removed them. "I found them in the closet here," she said, "and put them on in a freak. What have I else to do? You are always away!" "Always away? Well . . ." That evening she had a further talk with the landlady, who might herself have nourished a half-tender regard for the poet, so ready was she to discourse ardently about him. "You are interested in Mr. Trewe, I know, ma'am," she said; "and he has just sent to say that he is going to call tomorrow afternoon to look up some books of his that he wants, if I'll be in, and he may select them from your room?" "O, yes!" "You could very well meet Mr. Trewe then, if you'd like to be in the way!" She promised with secret delight, and went to bed musing of him. Next morning her husband observed: "I've been thinking of what you said, Ell: that I have gone about a good deal and left you without much to amuse you. Perhaps it's true. Today, as there's not much sea, I'll take you with me on board the yacht." For the first time in her experience of such an offer Ella was not glad. But she accepted it for the moment. The time for setting out drew near, and she went to get ready. She stood reflecting. The longing to see the poet she was now distinctly in love with overpowered all other considerations. "I don't want to go," she said to herself. "I can't bear to be away! And I won't go." She told her husband that she had changed her mind about wishing to sail. He was indifferent, and went his way. For the rest of the day the house was quiet, the children having gone out upon the sands. The blinds waved in the sunshine to the soft, steady stroke of the sea beyond the wall; and the notes of the Green Silesian band, a troop of foreign gentlemen hired for the season, had drawn almost all the residents and promenaders away from the vicinity of Coburg House. A knock was audible at the door. Mrs. Marchmill did not hear any servant go to answer it, and she became impatient. The books were in the room where she sat; but nobody came up. She rang the bell. "There is some person waiting at the door," she said. "O, no, ma'am. He's gone long ago. I answered it," the servant replied, and Mrs. Hooper came in herself. "So disappointing!" she said. "Mr. Trewe not coming after all!" "But I heard him knock, I fancy!" "No; that was somebody inquiring for lodgings who came to the wrong house. I tell you that Mr. Trewe sent a note just before lunch to say I needn't get any tea for him, as he should not require the books, and wouldn't come to select them." Ella was miserable, and for a long time could not even reread his mournful ballad on "Severed Lives," so aching was her erratic little heart, and so tearful her eyes. When the children came in with wet stockings, and ran up to her to tell her of their adventures, she could not feel that she cared about them half as much as usual. "Mrs. Hooper, have you a photograph of - the gentleman who lived here?" She was getting to be curiously shy in mentioning his name. "Why, yes. It's in the ornamental frame on the mantelpiece in your own bedroom, ma'am." "No; the Royal Duke and Duchess are in that." "Yes, so they are; but he's behind them. He belongs rightly to that frame, which I bought on purpose; but as he went away he said: "Cover me up from those strangers that are coming, for God's sake. I don't want them staring at me, and I am sure they won't want me staring at them." So I slipped in the Duke and Duchess temporarily in front of him, as they had no frame, and Royalties are more suitable for letting furnished than a private young man. If you take 'em out you'll see him under. Lord, ma'am, he wouldn't mind if he knew it! He didn't think the next tenant would be such an attractive lady as you, or he wouldn't have thought of hiding himself, perhaps." "Is he handsome?" she asked timidly. "I call him so. Some, perhaps, wouldn't." "Should I?" she asked, with eagerness. "I think you would, though some would say he's more striking than handsome; a large-eyed thoughtful fellow, you know, with a very electric flash in his eye when he looks round quickly, such as you'd expect a poet to be who doesn't get his living by it." "How old is he?" "Several years older than yourself, ma'am; about thirty -one or two, I think." Ella was a matter of fact, a few months over thirty herself; but she did not look nearly so much. Though so immature in nature, she was entering on that tract of life in which emotional women begin to suspect that last love may be stronger than first love; and she would soon, alas, enter on the still more melancholy tract when at least the vainer ones of her sex shrink from receiving a male visitor otherwise than with their backs to the window or the blinds half down. She reflected on Mrs. Hooper's remark, and said no more about age. Just then a telegram was brought up. It came from her husband, who had gone down the Channel as far as Budmouth with his friends in the yacht, and would not be able to get back till next day. After her light dinner Ella idled about the shore with the children till dusk, thinking of the yet uncovered photograph in her room, with a serene sense of in which this something ecstatic to come. For, with the subtle luxuriousness of fancy in which this young woman was an adept, on learning that her husband was to be absent that night she had refrained from incontinently rushing upstairs and opening the picture-frame, preferring to reserve the inspection till she could be alone, and a more romantic tinge be imparted to the occasion by silence, candles, solemn sea and stars outside, than was afforded by the garish afternoon sunlight. The children had been sent to bed, and Ella soon followed, though it was not yet ten o'clock. To gratify her passionate curiosity she now made her preparations, first getting rid of superfluous garments and putting on her dressing-gown, then arranging a chair in front of the table and reading several pages of Trewe's tenderest utterances. Next she fetched the portrait-frame to the light, opened the back, took out the likeness, and set it up before her. was a striking countenance to look upon. The poet wore a luxuriant black moustache and imperial, and a slouched hat which shaded the forehead. The large dark eyes described by the landlady showed an unlimited capacity for misery, they looked out from beneath well-shaped brows as if they were reading the universe in the microcosm of the confronter's face, and were not altogether overjoyed at what the spectacle portended. Ella murmured in her lowest, richest, tenderest tone: "And it's you who've so cruelly eclipsed me these many times!" As she gazed long at the portrait she fell into thought, till her eyes filled with tears, and she touched the cardboard with her lips. Then she laughed with a nervous lightness, and wiped her eyes. She thought how wicked she was, a woman having a husband and three children, to let her mind stray to a stranger in this unconscionable manner. No, he was not a stranger! She knew his thoughts and feelings as well as she knew her own; they were, in fact, the self-same thoughts and feelings as hers, which her husband distinctly lacked; perhaps luckily for himself, considering that he had to provide for family expenses. "He's nearer my real self, he's more intimate with the real me than Will is, after all, even though I've never seen him," she said. She laid his book and picture on the table at the bedside, and when she was reclining on the pillow she re-read those of Robert Trewe's verses which she had marked from time to time as most touching and true. Putting these aside she set up the photograph on its edge upon the coverlet, and contemplated it as she lay. Then she scanned again by the light of the candle the half-obliterated pencillings on the wallpaper beside her head. There they were - phrases, couplets, bouts-rimes, beginnings and middles of lines, ideas in the rough, like Shelley's scraps, and the least of them so intense, so sweet, so palpitating, that it seemed as if his very breath, warm and loving, fanned her cheeks from those walls, walls that had surrounded his head times and times as they surrounded her own now. He must often have put up his hand so - with the pencil in it. Yes, the writing was sideways, as it would be if executed by one who extended his arm thus. These inscribed shapes of the poet's world, "Forms more real than living man, Nurslings of immortality," were, no doubt, the thoughts and spirit-strivings which had come to him in the dead of night, when he could let himself go and have no fear of the frost of criticism. No doubt they had often been written up hastily by the light of the moon, the rays of the lamp, in the blue-grey dawn, in full daylight perhaps never. And now her hair was dragging where his arm had lain when he secured the fugitive fancies; she was sleeping on a poet's lips, immersed in the very essence of him, permeated by his spirit as by an ether. While she was dreaming the minutes away thus, a footstep came upon the stairs, and in a moment she heard her husband's heavy step on the landing immediately without. "Ell, where are you?" What possessed her she could not have described, but, with an instinctive objection to let her husband know what she had been doing, she slipped the photograph under the pillow just as he flung open the door with the air of a man who had dined not badly. "O, I beg pardon," said William Marchmill. "Have you a headache? I am afraid I have disturbed you." "No, I've not got a headache," said she. "How is it you've come?" "Well, we found we could get back in very good time after all, and I didn't want to make another day of it, because of going somewhere else tomorrow." "Shall I come down again?" "O, no. I'm as tired as a dog. I've had a good feed, and I shall turn in straight off. I want to get out at six o'clock tomorrow if I can . . . . I shan't disturb you by my getting up; it will be long before you are awake." And he came forward into the room. While her eyes followed his movements, Ella softly pushed the photograph further out of sight. "Sure you're not ill?" he asked, bending over her. "No, only wicked!" "Never mind that." And he stooped and kissed her. "I wanted to be with you tonight." Next morning Marchmill was called at six o'clock; and in waking and yawning he heard him muttering to himself. "What the deuce is this that's been crackling under me so?" Imagining her asleep he searched round him and withdrew something. Through her half-opened eyes she perceived it to be Mr. Trewe. "Well, I'm damned!" her husband exclaimed. "What, dear?" said she. "O, you are awake? Ha! ha!" "What do you mean?" "Some bloke's photograph - a friend of our landlady's, I suppose. I wonder how it came here; whisked off the mantelpiece by accident perhaps when they were making the bed." "I was looking at it yesterday, and it must have dropped in then." "O, he's a friend of yours? Bless his picturesque heart!" Ella's loyalty to the object of her admiration could not endure to hear him ridiculed. "He's a clever man!" she said, with a tremor in her gentle voice which she herself felt to be absurdly uncalled for. "He is a rising poet - the gentleman who occupied two of these rooms before we came, though I've never seen him." "How do you know, if you've never seen him?" "Mrs. Hooper told me when she showed me the photograph." "O, well, I must up and be off. I shall be home rather early. Sorry I can't take you today dear. Mind the children don't go getting drowned." That day Mrs. Marchmill inquired if Mr. Trewe were likely to call at any other time. "Yes," said Mrs. Hooper. "He's coming this day week to stay with a friend near here till you leave. He'll be sure to call." Marchmill did return quite early in the afternoon; and, opening some letters which had arrived in his absence, declared suddenly that he and his family would have to leave a week earlier than they had expected to do - in short, in three days. "Surely we can stay a week longer?" she pleaded. "I like it here." "I don't. It is getting rather slow." "Then you might leave me and the children!" "How perverse you are, Ell! What's the use? And have to come to fetch you! No: we'll all return together; and we'll make out our time in North Wales or Brighton a little later on. Besides, you've three days longer yet." It seemed to be her doom not to meet the man for whose rival talent she had a despairing admiration, and to whose person she was now absolutely attached. Yet she determined to make a last effort; and having gathered from her landlady that Trewe was living in a lonely spot not far from the fashionable town on the Island opposite, she crossed over in the packet from the neighbouring pier the following afternoon. What a useless journey it was! Ella knew but vaguely where the house stood, and when she fancied she had found it, and ventured to inquire of a pedestrian if he lived there, the answer returned by the man was that he did not know. And if he did live there, how could she call upon him? Some women might have the assurance to do it, but she had not. How crazy he would think her. She might have asked him to call upon her, perhaps; but she had not the courage for that, either. She lingered mournfully about the picturesque seaside eminence till it was time to return to the town and enter the steamer for recrossing, reaching home for dinner without having been greatly missed. At the last moment, unexpectedly enough, her husband said that he should have no objection to letting her and the children stay on till the end of the week, since she wished to do so, if she felt herself able to get home without him. She concealed the pleasure this extension of time gave her; and Marchmill went off the next morning alone. But the week passed, and Trewe did not call. On Saturday morning the remaining members of the Marchmill family departed from the place which had been productive of so much fervour in her. The dreary, dreary train; the sun shining in moted beams upon the hot cushions; the dusty permanent way; the mean rows of wire - these things were her accompaniment: while out of the window the deep blue sea-levels disappeared from her gaze, and with them her poet's home. Heavy-hearted, she tried to read, and wept instead. Mr. Marchmill was in a thriving way of business, and he and his family lived in a large new house, which stood in rather extensive grounds a few miles outside the midland city wherein he carried on his trade. Ella's life was lonely here, as the suburban life is apt to be, particularly at certain seasons; and she had ample time to indulge her taste for lyric and elegiac composition. She had hardly got back when she encountered a piece by Robert Trewe in the new number of her favourite magazine, which must have been written almost immediately before her visit to Solentsea, for it contained the very couplet she had seen pencilled on the wallpaper by the bed, and Mrs. Hooper had declared to be recent. Ella could resist no longer, but seizing a pen impulsively, wrote to him as a brother-poet, using the name of John Ivy, congratulating him in her letter on his triumphant executions in meter and rhythm of thoughts that moved his soul, as compared with her own brow-beaten efforts in the same pathetic trade. To this address there came a response in a few days, little as she had dared to hope for it - a civil and brief note, in which the young poet stated that, though he was not well acquainted with Mr. Ivy's verse, he recalled the name as being one he had seen attached to some very promising pieces; that he was glad to gain Mr. Ivy's acquaintance by letter, and should certainly look with much interest for his productions in the future. There must have been something juvenile or timid in her own epistle, as one ostensibly coming from a man, she declared to herself; for Trewe quite adopted the tone of an elder and superior in this reply. But what did it matter? He had replied; he had written to her with his own hand from that very room she knew so well, for he was now back again in his quarters. The correspondence thus begun was continued for two months or more, Ella Marchmill sending him from time to time some that she considered to be the best her pieces, which he very kindly accepted, though he did not say he sedulously read them, nor did he send her any of his own in return. Ella would have been more hurt at this than she was if she had not known that Trewe laboured under the impression that she was one of his own sex. Yet the situation was unsatisfactory. A flattering little voice told her that, were he only to see her, matters would be otherwise. No doubt she would have helped on this by making a frank confession of womanhood, to begin with, if something had not appeared, to her delight, to render it unnecessary. A friend of her husband's, the editor of the most important newspaper in their city and county, who was dining with them one day, observed during their conversation about the poet that his (the editor's) brother the landscape-painter was a friend of Mr. Trewe's, and that the two men were at that very moment in Wales together. Ella was slightly acquainted with the editor's brother. The next morning down she sat and wrote, inviting him to stay at her house for a short time on his way back, and to bring with him, if practicable, his companion Mr. Trewe, whose acquaintance she was anxious to make. The answer arrived after some few days. Her correspondent and his friend Trewe would have much satisfaction in accepting her invitation on their way southward, which would be on such and such a day in the following week. Ella was blithe and buoyant. Her scheme had succeeded; her beloved though as yet unseen was coming. "Behold, he standeth behind our wall; he looked forth at the windows, showing himself through the lattice," she thought ecstatically. "And, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone, the flowers appear on the earth, the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land." But it was necessary to consider the details of lodging and feeding him. This she did most solicitously, and awaited the pregnant day and hour. It was about five in the afternoon when she heard a ring at the door and the editor's brother's voice in the hall. Poetess as she was, or as she thought herself, she had not been too sublime that day to dress with infinite trouble in a fashionable robe of rich material, having a faint resemblance to the chiton of the Greeks, a style just then in vogue among ladies of an artistic and romantic turn, which had been obtained by Ella of her Bond Street dressmaker when she was last in London. Her visitor entered the drawing room. She looked toward his rear; nobody else came through the door. Where, in the name of the God of Love, was Robert Trewe? "O, I'm sorry," said the painter, after their introductory words had been spoken. "Trewe is a curious fellow, you know, Mrs. Marchmill. He said he'd come; then he said he couldn't. He's rather dusty. We've been doing a few miles with knapsacks, you know; and he wanted to get on home." "He - he's not coming?" "He's not; and he asked me to make his apologies." "When did you p-p-part from him?" she asked, her nether lip starting off quivering so much that it was like a tremolo-stop opened in her speech. She longed to run away from this dreadful bore and cry her eyes out. "Just now, in the turnpike road yonder there." "What! he has actually gone past my gates?" "Yes. When we got to them - handsome gates they are, too, the finest bit of modern wrought-iron work I have seen - when we came to them we stopped, talking there a little while, and then he wished me goodbye and went on. The truth is, he's a little bit depressed just now, and doesn't want to see anybody. He's a very good fellow, and a warm friend, but a little uncertain and gloomy sometimes; he thinks too much of things. His poetry is rather too erotic and passionate, you know, for some tastes; and he has just come in for a terrible slating from the ---- Review that was published yesterday; he saw a copy of it at the station by accident. Perhaps you've read it?" "No." "So much the better. O, it is not worth thinking of; just one of those articles written to order, to please the narrow-minded set of subscribers upon whom the circulation depends. But he's upset by it. He says it is the misrepresentation that hurts him so; that, though he can stand a fair attack, he can't stand lies that he's powerless to refute and stop from spreading. That's just Trewe's weak point. He lives so much by himself that these things affect him much more than they would if he were in the bustle of fashionable or commercial life. So he wouldn't come here, making the excuse that it all looked so new and monied - if you'll pardon -- " "But - he must have known - there was sympathy here! Has he never said anything about getting letters from this address?" "Yes, yes, he has, from John Ivy - perhaps a relative of yours, he thought, visiting here at the time?" "Did he - like Ivy, did he say?" "Well, I don't know that he took any great interest in Ivy." "Or in his poems?" "Or in his poems - so far as I know, that is." Robert Trewe took no interest in her house, in her poems, or in their writer. As soon as she could get away she went into the nursery and tried to let off her emotion by unnecessarily kissing the children, till she had a sudden sense of disgust at being reminded how plain-looking they were, like their father. The obtuse and single-minded landscape-painter never once perceived from her conversation that it was only Trewe she wanted, and not himself. He made the best of his visit, seeming to enjoy the society of Ella's husband, who also took a great fancy to him, and showed him everywhere about the neighbourhood, neither of them noticing Ella's mood. The painter had been gone only a day or two when, while sitting upstairs alone one morning, she glanced over the London paper just arrived, and read the following paragraph:-- "SUICIDE OF A POET - Mr. Robert Trewe, who has been favourably known for some years as one of our rising lyrists, committed suicide at his lodgings at Solentsea on Saturday evening last by shooting himself in the right temple with a revolver. Readers hardly need to be reminded that Mr. Trewe recently attracted the attention of a much wider public than had hitherto known him, by his new volume of verse, mostly of an impassioned kind, entitled 'Lyrics to a Woman Unknown,' which has been already favourably noticed in these pages for the extraordinary gamut of feeling it traverses, and which has been made the subject of a severe, if not ferocious, criticism in the ---- Review. It is supposed, though not certainly known, that the article may have partially conduced to the sad act, as a copy of the review in question was found on his writing-table; and he has been observed to be in a somewhat depressed state of mind since the critique appeared." Then came the report of the inquest, at which the following letter was read, it having been addressed to a friend at a distance: -- "Dear ---- , Before these lines reach your hands I shall be delivered from the inconveniences of seeing, hearing, and knowing more of the things around me. I will not trouble you by giving my reasons for the step I have taken, though I can assure you they were sound and logical. Perhaps had I been blessed with a mother, or a sister, or a female friend of another sort tenderly devoted to me, I might have thought it worthwhile to continue my present existence. I have long dreamt of such an unattainable creature, as you know; and she, this undiscoverable, elusive one, inspired my last volume; the imaginary woman alone, for, in spite of what has been said in some quarters, there is no real woman behind the title. She has continued to the last unrevealed, unmet, unwon. I think it desirable to mention this in order that no blame may attach to any real woman as having been the cause of my decease by cruel or cavalier treatment of me. Tell my landlady that I am sorry to have caused her this unpleasantness; but my occupancy of the rooms will soon be forgotten. There are ample funds in my name at the bank to pay all expenses. R. TREWE." Ella sat for a while as if stunned, then rushed into the adjoining chamber and flung herself upon her face on the bed. Her grief and distraction shook her to pieces; and she lay in this frenzy of sorrow for more than an hour. Broken words came every now and then from her quivering lips: "O, if he had only known of me - known of me - me! . . . O, if I had only once met him - only once; and put my hand upon his hot forehead - kissed him - let him know how I loved him - that I would have suffered shame and scorn, would have lived and died, for him! Perhaps it would have saved his dear life! . . . But no - it was not allowed! God is a jealous God; and that happiness was not for him and me!" All possibilities were over; the meeting was stultified. Yet it was almost visible to her in her fantasy even now, though it could never be substantiated - "The hour which might have been, yet might not be, Which man's and woman's heart conceived and bore, Yet whereof life was barren." She wrote to the landlady at Solentsea in the third person, in as subdued a style as she could command, enclosing a postal order for a sovereign, and informing Mrs. Hooper that Mrs. Marchmill had seen in the papers the sad account of the poet's death, and having been, as Mrs. Hooper was aware, much interested in Mr. Trewe during her stay at Coburg House, she would be obliged if Mrs. Hooper could obtain a small portion of his hair before his coffin was closed down, and send it her as a memorial of him, as also the photograph that was in the frame. By the return-post a letter arrived containing what had been requested. Ella wept over the portrait and secured it in her private drawer; the lock of hair she tied with white ribbon and put in her bosom, whence she drew it and kissed it every now and then in some unobserved nook. "What's the matter?" said her husband, looking up from his newspaper on one of these occasions. "Crying over something? A lock of hair? Whose is it?" "He's dead!" she murmured. "Who?" "I don't want to tell you, Will, just now, unless you insist!" she said, a sob hanging heavy in her voice. "O, all right." "Do you mind my refusing? I will tell you someday." "It doesn't matter in the least, of course." He walked away whistling a few bars of no tune in particular; and when he had got down to his factory in the city the subject came into Marchmill's head again. He, too, was aware that a suicide had taken place recently at the house they had occupied at Solentsea. Having seen the volume of poems in his wife's hand of late, and heard fragments of the landlady's conversation about Trewe when they were her tenants, he all at once said to himself, "Why of course it's he! How the devil did she get to know him? What sly animals women are!" Then he placidly dismissed the matter, and went on with his daily affairs. By this time Ella at home had come to a determination. Mrs. Hooper, in sending the hair and photograph, had informed her of the day of the funeral; and as the morning and noon wore on an overpowering wish to know where they were laying him took possession of the sympathetic woman. Caring very little now what her husband or any one else might think of her eccentricities, she wrote Marchmill a brief note, stating that she was called away for the afternoon and evening, but would return on the following morning. This she left on his desk, and having given the same information to the servants, went out of the house on foot. When Mr. Marchmill reached home early in the afternoon the servants looked anxious. The nurse took him privately aside, and hinted that her mistress's sadness during the past few days had been such that she feared she had gone out to drown herself. Marchmill reflected. Upon the whole he thought that she had not done that. Without saying whither he was bound he also started off, telling them not to sit up for him. He drove to the railway-station, and took a ticket for Solentsea. It was dark when he reached the place, though he had come by a fast train, and he knew that if his wife had preceded him thither it could only have been by a slower train, arriving not a great while before his own. The season at Solentsea was now past: the parade was gloomy, and the flys were few and cheap. He asked the way to the Cemetery, and soon reached it. The gate was locked, but the keeper let him in, declaring, however, that there was nobody within the precincts. Although it was not late, the autumnal darkness had now become intense; and he found some difficulty in keeping to the serpentine path which led to the quarter where, as the man had told him, the one or two interments for the day had taken place. He stepped upon the grass, and, stumbling over some pegs, stooped now and then to discern if possible a figure against the sky. He could see none; but lighting on a spot where the soil was trodden, beheld a crouching object beside a newly made grave. She heard him, and sprang up. "Ell, how silly this is!" he said indignantly. "Running away from home - I never heard such a thing! Of course I am not jealous of this unfortunate man; but it is too ridiculous that you, a married woman with three children and a fourth coming, should go losing your head like this over a dead lover! . . . Do you know you were locked in? You might not have been able to get out all night." She did not answer. "I hope it didn't go far between you and him, for your own sake." "Don't insult me, Will." "Mind, I won't have anymore of this sort of thing; do you hear?" "Very well," she said. He drew her arm within his own, and conducted her out of the Cemetery. It was impossible to get back that night; and not wishing to be recognised in their present sorry condition he took her to a miserable little coffee-house close to the station, whence they departed early in the morning, travelling almost without speaking, under the sense that it was one of those dreary situations occurring in married life which words could not mend, and reaching their own door at noon. The months passed, and neither of the twain ever ventured to start a conversation upon this episode. Ella seemed to be only too frequently in a sad and listless mood, which might almost have been called pining. The time was approaching when she would have to undergo the stress of childbirth for a fourth time, and that apparently did not tend to raise her spirits. "I don't think I shall get over it this time!" she said one day. "Pooh! what childish foreboding! Why shouldn't it be as well now as ever?" She shook her head. "I feel almost sure I am going to die; and I should be glad, if it were not for Nelly, and Frank, and Tiny." "And me!" "You'll soon find somebody to fill my place," she murmured, with a sad smile. "And you'll have a perfect right to; I assure you of that." "Ell, you are not thinking still about that - poetical friend of yours?" She neither admitted nor denied the charge. "I am not going to get over my illness this time," she reiterated. "Something tells me I shan't." This view of things was rather a bad beginning, as it usually is; and, in fact, six weeks later, in the month of May, she was lying in her room, pulseless and bloodless, with hardly strength enough left to follow up one feeble breath with another, the infant for whose unnecessary life she was slowly parting with her own being fat and well. Just before her death she spoke to Marchmill softly: -- "Will, I want to confess to you the entire circumstances of that - about you know what - that time we visited Solentsea. I can't tell what possessed me - how I could forget you so, my husband! But I had got into a morbid state: I thought you had been unkind; that you had neglected me; that you weren't up to my intellectual level, while he was, and far above it. I wanted a fuller appreciator, perhaps, rather than another lover--" She could get no further then for very exhaustion; and she went off in sudden collapse a few hours later, without having said anything more to her husband on the subject of her love for the poet. William Marchmill, in truth, like most husbands of several years' standing, was little disturbed by retrospective jealousies, and had not shown the least anxiety to press her for confessions concerning a man dead and gone beyond any power of inconveniencing him more. But when she had been buried a couple of years it chanced one day that, in turning over some forgotten papers that he wished to destroy before his second wife entered the house, he lighted on a lock of hair in an envelope, with the photograph of the deceased poet, a date being written on the back in his late wife's hand. It was that of the time they spent at Solentsea. Marchmill looked long and musingly at the hair and portrait, for something struck him. Fetching the little boy who had been the death of his mother, now a noisy toddler, he took him on his knee, held the lock of hair against the child's head, and set up the photograph on the table behind, so that he could closely compare the features each countenance presented. By a known but inexplicable trick of Nature there were undoubtedly strong traces of resemblance to the man Ella had never seen; the dreamy and peculiar expression of the poet's face sat, as the transmitted idea, upon the child's, and the hair was of the same hue. "I'm damned if I didn't think so!" murmured Marchmill. "Then she did play me false with that fellow at the lodgings! Let me see: the dates - the second week in August . . . the third week in May. . . . Yes . . . yes. . . . Get away, you poor little brat! You are. Girl By O. Henry In gilt letters on the ground glass of the door of room No. 962 were the words: "Robbins & Hartley, Brokers." The clerks had gone. It was past five, and with the solid tramp of a drove of prize Percherons, scrub-women were invading the cloud-capped twenty-story office building. A puff of red-hot air flavoured with lemon peelings,soft-coal smoke and train oil came in through the half-open windows. Robbins, fifty, something of an overweight beau, and addicted to first nights and hotel palm-rooms, pretended to be envious of his partner's commuter's joys. "Going to be something doing in the humidity line to-night," he said. "You out-of-town chaps will be the people, with your katydids and moonlight and long drinks and things out on the front porch." Hartley, twenty-nine, serious, thin, good-looking, nervous, sighed and frowned a little. "Yes," said he, "we always have cool nights in Floralhurst, especially in the winter." A man with an air of mystery came in the door and went up to Hartley. "I've found where she lives," he announced in the portentous half-whisper that makes the detective at work a marked being to his fellow men. Hartley scowled him into a state of dramatic silence and quietude. But by that time Robbins had got his cane and set his tie pin to his liking, and with a debonair nod went out to his metropolitan amusements. "Here is the address," said the detective in a natural tone, being deprived of an audience to foil. Hartley took the leaf torn out of the sleuth's dingy memorandum book.On it were pencilled the words "Vivienne Arlington, No. 341 East th Street, care of Mrs. McComus.""Moved there a week ago," said the detective. "Now, if you want any shadowing done, Mr. Hartley, I can do you as fine a job in that line as anybody in the city. It will be only $7 a day and expenses. Can send in a daily typewritten report, covering" "You needn't go on," interrupted the broker. "It isn't a case of that kind. I merely wanted the address. How much shall I pay you?" "One day's work," said the sleuth. "A tenner will cover it." Hartley paid the man and dismissed him. Then he left the office and boarded a Broadway car. At the first large crosstown artery of travel he took an eastbound car that deposited him in a decaying avenue, whose ancient structures once sheltered the pride and glory of the town. Walking a few squares, he came to the building that he sought. It was a new flathouse, bearing carved upon its cheap stone portal its sonorous name, "The Vallambrosa." Fire-escapes zigzagged down its front--these laden with household goods, drying clothes, and squalling children evicted by the midsummer heat. Here and there a pale rubber plant peeped from the miscellaneous mass, as if wondering to what kingdom it belonged--vegetable, animal or artificial. Hartley pressed the "McComus" button. The door latch clicked spasmodically--now hospitably, now doubtfully, as though in anxiety whether it might be admitting friends or duns. Hartley entered and began to climb the stairs after the manner of those who seek their friends in city flat-houses--which is the manner of a boy who climbs an apple-tree, stopping when he comes upon what he wants. On the fourth floor he saw Vivienne standing in an open door. She invited him inside, with a nod and a bright, genuine smile. She placed a chair for him near a window, and poised herself gracefully upon the edge of one of those Jekyll-and-Hyde pieces of furniture that are masked and mysteriously hooded, unguessable bulks by day and inquisitorial racks of torture by night. Hartley cast a quick, critical, appreciative glance at her before speaking, and told himself that his taste in choosing had been flawless. Vivienne was about twenty-one. She was of the purest Saxon type. Her hair was a ruddy golden, each filament of the neatly gathered mass shining with its own lustre and delicate graduation of colour. In perfect harmony were her ivory-clear complexion and deep sea-blue eyes that looked upon the world with the ingenuous calmness of a mermaid or the pixie of an undiscovered mountain stream. Her frame was strong and yet possessed the grace of absolute naturalness. And yet with all her Northern clearness and frankness of line and colouring, there seemed to be something of the tropics in her--something of languor in the droop of her pose, of love of ease in her ingenious complacency of satisfaction and comfort in the mere act of breathing something that seemed to claim for her a right as a perfect work of nature to exist and be admired equally with a rare flower or some beautiful, milk-white dove among its sober-hued companions. She was dressed in a white waist and dark skirt--that discreet masquerade of goose-girl and duchess. "Vivienne," said Hartley, looking at her pleadingly, "you did not answer my last letter. It was only by nearly a week's search that I found where you had moved to. Why have you kept me in suspense when you knew how anxiously I was waiting to see you and hear from you?" The girl looked out the window dreamily. "Mr. Hartley," she said hesitatingly, "I hardly know what to say to you. I realize all the advantages of your offer, and sometimes I feel sure that I could be contented with you. But, again, I am doubtful. I was born a city girl, and I am afraid to bind myself to a quiet suburban life." "My dear girl," said Hartley, ardently, "have I not told you that you shall have everything that your heart can desire that is in my power to give you? You shall come to the city for the theatres, for shopping and to visit your friends as often as you care to. You can trust me, can you not?" "To the fullest," she said, turning her frank eyes upon him with a smile. "I know you are the kindest of men, and that the girl you get will be a lucky one. I learned all about you when I was at the Montgomerys'." "Ah!" exclaimed Hartley, with a tender, reminiscent light in his eye; "I remember well the evening I first saw you at the Montgomerys'. Mrs. Montgomery was sounding your praises to me all the evening. And she hardly did you justice. I shall never forget that supper. Come, Vivienne, promise me. I want you. You'll never regret coming with me. No one else will ever give you as pleasant a home." The girl sighed and looked down at her folded hands. A sudden jealous suspicion seized Hartley. "Tell me, Vivienne," he asked, regarding her keenly, "is there another is there some one else ?" A rosy flush crept slowly over her fair cheeks and neck. "You shouldn't ask that, Mr. Hartley," she said, in some confusion. "But I will tell you. There is one other--but he has no right--I have promised him nothing." "His name?" demanded Hartley, sternly."Townsend.""Rafford Townsend!" exclaimed Hartley, with a grim tightening of his jaw. "How did that man come to know you? After all I've done for him" "His auto has just stopped below," said Vivienne, bending over the window-sill. "He's coming for his answer. Oh I don't know what to do!" The bell in the flat kitchen whirred. Vivienne hurried to press the latch button. "Stay here," said Hartley. "I will meet him in the hall." Townsend, looking like a Spanish grandee in his light tweeds, Panama hat and curling black mustache, came up the stairs three at a time. He stopped at sight of Hartley and looked foolish. "Go back," said Hartley, firmly, pointing downstairs with his forefinger. "Hullo!" said Townsend, feigning surprise. "What's up? What are you doing here, old man?" "Go back," repeated Hartley, inflexibly. "The Law of the Jungle. Do you want the Pack to tear you in pieces? The kill is mine." "I came here to see a plumber about the bathroom connections," said Townsend, bravely. "All right," said Hartley. "You shall have that lying plaster to stick upon your traitorous soul. But, go back." Townsend went downstairs, leaving a bitter word to be wafted up the draught of the staircase. Hartley went back to his wooing. "Vivienne," said he, masterfully. "I have got to have you. I will take no more refusals or dilly-dallying." "When do you want me?" she asked. "Now. As soon as you can get ready." She stood calmly before him and looked him in the eye. "Do you think for one moment," she said, "that I would enter your home while Heloise is there?" Hartley cringed as if from an unexpected blow. He folded his arms and paced the carpet once or twice. "She shall go," he declared grimly. Drops stood upon his brow. "Why should I let that woman make my life miserable? Never have I seen one day of freedom from trouble since I have known her. You are right, Vivienne. Heloise must be sent away before I can take you home. But she shall go. I have decided. I will turn her from my doors." "When will you do this?" asked the girl. Hartley clinched his teeth and bent his brows together."To-night," he said, resolutely. "I will send her away to-night." "Then," said Vivienne, "my answer is 'yes.' Come for me when you will." She looked into his eyes with a sweet, sincere light in her own. Hartley could scarcely believe that her surrender was true, it was so swift and complete. "Promise me," he said feelingly, "on your word and honour." "On my word and honour," repeated Vivienne, softly. At the door he turned and gazed at her happily, but yet as one who scarcely trusts the foundations of his joy. "To-morrow," he said, with a forefinger of reminder uplifted. "To-morrow," she repeated with a smile of truth and candour. In an hour and forty minutes Hartley stepped off the train at Floralhurst. A brisk walk of ten minutes brought him to the gate of a handsome two-story cottage set upon a wide and well-tended lawn. Halfway to the house he was met by a woman with jet-black braided hair and flowing white summer gown, who half strangled him without apparent cause. When they stepped into the hall she said: "Mamma's here. The auto is coming for her in half an hour. She came to dinner, but there's no dinner." "I've something to tell you," said Hartley. "I thought to break it to you gently, but since your mother is here we may as well out with it." He stooped and whispered something at her ear. His wife screamed. Her mother came running into the hall. The dark-haired woman screamed again--the joyful scream of a well-beloved and petted woman. "Oh, mamma!" she cried ecstatically, "what do you think? Vivienne is coming to cook for us! She is the one that stayed with the Montgomerys a whole year. And now, Billy, dear," she concluded, "you must go right down into the kitchen and discharge Heloise. She has been drunk again the whole day long." The facts in the case of M. Valdemar Edgar Allan Poe OF course I shall not pretend to consider it any matter for wonder, that the extraordinary case of M. Valdemar has excited discussion. It would have been a miracle had it not-especially under the circumstances. Through the desire of all parties concerned, to keep the affair from the public, at least for the present, or until we had farther opportunities for investigation --through our endeavors to effect this --a garbled or exaggerated account made its way into society, and became the source of many unpleasant misrepresentations, and, very naturally, of a great deal of disbelief.It is now rendered necessary that I give the facts --as far as I comprehend them myself. They are, succinctly, these: My attention, for the last three years, had been repeatedly drawn to the subject of Mesmerism; and, about nine months ago it occurred to me, quite suddenly, that in the series of experiments made hitherto, there had been a very remarkable and most unaccountable omission: --no person had as yet been mesmerized in articulo mortis. It remained to be seen, first, whether, in such condition, there existed in the patient any susceptibility to the magnetic influence; secondly, whether, if any existed, it was impaired or increased by the condition; thirdly, to what extent, or for how long a period, the encroachments of Death might be arrested by the process. There were other points to be ascertained, but these most excited my curiosity --the last in especial, from the immensely important character of its consequences. In looking around me for some subject by whose means I might test these particulars, I was brought to think of my friend, M. Ernest Valdemar, the well-known compiler of the "Bibliotheca Forensica," and author (under the nom de plume of Issachar Marx) of the Polish versions of "WAllanstein" and "Gargantua." M. Valdemar, who has resided principally at Harlaem, N.Y., since the year 1839, is (or was) particularly noticeable for the extreme spareness of his person --his lower limbs much resembling those of John Randolph; and, also, for the whiteness of his whiskers, in violent contrast to the blackness of his hair --the latter, in consequence, being very generally mistaken for a wig. His temperament was markedly nervous, and rendered him a good subject for mesmeric experiment. On two or three occasions I had put him to sleep with little difficulty, but was disappointed in other results which his peculiar constitution had naturally led me to anticipate. His will was at no period positively, or thoroughly, under my control, and in regard to clairvoyance, I could accomplish with him nothing to be relied upon. I always attributed my failure at these points to the disordered state of his health. For some months previous to my becoming acquainted with him, his physicians had declared him in a confirmed phthisis. It was his custom, indeed, to speak calmly of his approaching dissolution, as of a matter neither to be avoided nor regretted. When the ideas to which I have alluded first occurred to me, it was of course very natural that I should think of M. Valdemar. I knew the steady philosophy of the man too well to apprehend any scruples from him; and he had no relatives in America who would be likely to interfere. I spoke to him frankly upon the subject; and, to my surprise, his interest seemed vividly excited. I say to my surprise, for, although he had always yielded his person freely to my experiments, he had never before given me any tokens of sympathy with what I did. His disease was if that character which would admit of exact calculation in respect to the epoch of its termination in death; and it was finally arranged between us that he would send for me about twenty-four hours before the period announced by his physicians as that of his decease. It is now rather more than seven months since I received, from M. Valdemar himself, the subjoined note: My DEAR P--, You may as well come now. D-–and F-–are agreed that I cannot hold out beyond to-morrow midnight; and I think they have hit the time very nearly. VALDEMAR I received this note within half an hour after it was written, and in fifteen minutes more I was in the dying man's chamber. I had not seen him for ten days, and was appalled by the fearful alteration which the brief interval had wrought in him. His face wore a leaden hue; the eyes were utterly lustreless; and the emaciation was so extreme that the skin had been broken through by the cheek-bones. His expectoration was excessive. The pulse was barely perceptible. He retained, nevertheless, in a very remarkable manner, both his mental power and a certain degree of physical strength. He spoke with distinctness --took some palliative medicines without aid --and, when I entered the room, was occupied in penciling memoranda in a pocket-book. He was propped up in the bed by pillows. Doctors D-- and F-–were in attendance. After pressing Valdemar's hand, I took these gentlemen aside, and obtained from them a minute account of the patient's condition. The left lung had been for eighteen months in a semi-osseous or cartilaginous state, and was, of course, entirely useless for all purposes of vitality. The right, in its upper portion, was also partially, if not thoroughly, ossified, while the lower region was merely a mass of purulent tubercles, running one into another. Several extensive perforations existed; and, at one point, permanent adhesion to the ribs had taken place. These appearances in the right lobe were of comparatively recent date. The ossification had proceeded with very unusual rapidity; no sign of it had discovered a month before, and the adhesion had only been observed during the three previous days. Independently of the phthisis, the patient was suspected of aneurism of the aorta; but on this point the osseous symptoms rendered an exact diagnosis impossible. It was the opinion of both physicians that M. Valdemar would die about midnight on the morrow (Sunday). It was then seven o'clock on Saturday evening. On quitting the invalid's bed-side to hold conversation with myself, Doctors D-–and F-–had bidden him a final farewell. It had not been their intention to return; but, at my request, they agreed to look in upon the patient about ten the next night. When they had gone, I spoke freely with M. Valdemar on the subject of his approaching dissolution, as well as, more particularly, of the experiment proposed. He still professed himself quite willing and even anxious to have it made, and urged me to commence it at once. A male and a female nurse were in attendance; but I did not feel myself altogether at liberty to engage in a task of this character with no more reliable witnesses than these people, in case of sudden accident, might prove. I therefore postponed operations until about eight the next night, when the arrival of a medical student with whom I had some acquaintance, (Mr. Theodore L--l,) relieved me from farther embarrassment. It had been my design, originally, to wait for the physicians; but I was induced to proceed, first, by the urgent entreaties of M. Valdemar, and secondly, by my conviction that I had not a moment to lose, as he was evidently sinking fast. Mr. L--l was so kind as to accede to my desire that he would take notes of all that occurred, and it is from his memoranda that what I now have to relate is, for the most part, either condensed or copied verbatim. It wanted about five minutes of eight when, taking the patient's hand, I begged him to state, as distinctly as he could, to Mr. L--l, whether he (M. Valdemar) was entirely willing that I should make the experiment of mesmerizing him in his then condition. He replied feebly, yet quite audibly, "Yes, I wish to be "I fear you have mesmerized" --adding immediately afterwards, deferred it too long." While he spoke thus, I commenced the passes which I had already found most effectual in subduing him. He was evidently influenced with the first lateral stroke of my hand across his forehead; but although I exerted all my powers, no farther perceptible effect was induced until some minutes after ten o'clock, when Doctors D-–and F-- called, according to appointment. I explained to them, in a few words, what I designed, and as they opposed no objection, saying that the patient was already in the death agony, I proceeded without hesitation --exchanging, however, the lateral passes for downward ones, and directing my gaze entirely into the right eye of the sufferer. By this time his pulse was imperceptible and his breathing was stertorous, and at intervals of half a minute. This condition was nearly unaltered for a quarter of an hour. At the expiration of this period, however, a natural although a very deep sigh escaped the bosom of the dying man, and the stertorous breathing ceased --that is to say, its stertorousness was no longer apparent; the intervals were undiminished. The patient's extremities were of an icy coldness. At five minutes before eleven I perceived unequivocal signs of the mesmeric influence. The glassy roll of the eye was changed for that expression of uneasy inward examination which is never seen except in cases of sleep-waking, and which it is quite impossible to mistake. With a few rapid lateral passes I made the lids quiver, as in incipient sleep, and with a few more I closed them altogether. I was not satisfied, however, with this, but continued the manipulations vigorously, and with the fullest exertion of the will, until I had completely stiffened the limbs of the slumberer, after placing them in a seemingly easy position. The legs were at full length; the arms were nearly so, and reposed on the bed at a moderate distance from the loin. The head was very slightly elevated. When I had accomplished this, it was fully midnight, and I requested the gentlemen present to examine M. Valdemar's condition. After a few experiments, they admitted him to be an unusually perfect state of mesmeric trance. The curiosity of both the physicians was greatly excited. Dr. D-–resolved at once to remain with the patient all night, while Dr. F-–took leave with a promise to return at daybreak. Mr. L--l and the nurses remained. We left M. Valdemar entirely undisturbed until about three o'clock in the morning, when I approached him and found him in precisely the same condition as when Dr. F-–went away --that is to say, he lay in the same position; the pulse was imperceptible; the breathing was gentle (scarcely noticeable, unless through the application of a mirror to the lips); the eyes were closed naturally; and the limbs were as rigid and as cold as marble. Still, the general appearance was certainly not that of death. As I approached M. Valdemar I made a kind of half effort to influence his right arm into pursuit of my own, as I passed the latter gently to and fro above his person. In such experiments with this patient had never perfectly succeeded before, and assuredly I had little thought of succeeding now; but to my astonishment, his arm very readily, although feebly, followed every direction I assigned it with mine. I determined to hazard a few words of conversation. "M. Valdemar," I said, "are you asleep?" He made no answer, but I perceived a tremor about the lips, and was thus induced to repeat the question, again and again. At its third repetition, his whole frame was agitated by a very slight shivering; the eyelids unclosed themselves so far as to display a white line of the ball; the lips moved sluggishly, and from between them, in a barely audible whisper, issued the words: "Yes; --asleep now. Do not wake me! --let me die so!" I here felt the limbs and found them as rigid as ever. The right arm, as before, obeyed the direction of my hand. I questioned the sleep-waker again: "Do you still feel pain in the breast, M. Valdemar?" The answer now was immediate, but even less audible than before: "No pain --I am dying." I did not think it advisable to disturb him farther just then, and nothing more was said or done until the arrival of Dr. F--, who came a little before sunrise, and expressed unbounded astonishment at finding the patient still alive. After feeling the pulse and applying a mirror to the lips, he requested me to speak to the sleep-waker again. I did so, saying: "M. Valdemar, do you still sleep?" As before, some minutes elapsed ere a reply was made; and during the interval the dying man seemed to be collecting his energies to speak. At my fourth repetition of the question, he said very faintly, almost inaudibly: "Yes; still asleep --dying." It was now the opinion, or rather the wish, of the physicians, that M. Valdemar should be suffered to remain undisturbed in his present apparently tranquil condition, until death should supervene --and this, it was generally agreed, must now take place within a few minutes. I concluded, however, to speak to him once more, and merely repeated my previous question. While I spoke, there came a marked change over the countenance of the sleep-waker. The eyes rolled themselves slowly open, the pupils disappearing upwardly; the skin generally assumed a cadaverous hue, resembling not so much parchment as white paper; and the circular hectic spots which, hitherto, had been strongly defined in the centre of each cheek, went out at once. I use this expression, because the suddenness of their departure put me in mind of nothing so much as the extinguishment of a candle by a puff of the breath. The upper lip, at the same time, writhed itself away from the teeth, which it had previously covered completely; while the lower jaw fell with an audible jerk, leaving the mouth widely extended, and disclosing in full view the swollen and blackened tongue. I presume that no member of the party then present had been unaccustomed to death-bed horrors; but so hideous beyond conception was the appearance of M. Valdemar at this moment, that there was a general shrinking back from the region of the bed. I now feel that I have reached a point of this narrative at which every reader will be startled into positive disbelief. It is my business, however, simply to proceed. There was no longer the faintest sign of vitality in M. Valdemar; and concluding him to be dead, we were consigning him to the charge of the nurses, when a strong vibratory motion was observable in the tongue. This continued for perhaps a minute. At the expiration of this period, there issued from the distended and motionless jaws a voice --such as it would be madness in me to attempt describing. There are, indeed, two or three epithets which might be considered as applicable to it in part; I might say, for example, that the sound was harsh, and broken and hollow; but the hideous whole is indescribable, for the simple reason that no similar sounds have ever jarred upon the ear of humanity. There were two particulars, nevertheless, which I thought then, and still think, might fairly be stated as characteristic of the intonation --as well adapted to convey some idea of its unearthly peculiarity. In the first place, the voice seemed to reach our ears --at least mine --from a vast distance, or from some deep cavern within the earth. In the second place, it impressed me (I fear, indeed, that it will be impossible to make myself comprehended) as gelatinous or glutinous matters impress the sense of touch. I have spoken both of "sound" and of "voice." I mean to say that the sound was one of distinct --of even wonderfully, thrillingly distinct --syllabification. M. Valdemar spoke --obviously in reply to the question I had propounded to him a few minutes before. I had asked him, it will be remembered, if he still slept. He now said: "Yes; --no; --I have been sleeping --and now --now --I am dead. No person present even affected to deny, or attempted to repress, the unutterable, shuddering horror which these few words, thus uttered, were so well calculated to convey. Mr. L--l (the student) swooned. The nurses immediately left the chamber, and could not be induced to return. My own impressions I would not pretend to render intelligible to the reader. For nearly an hour, we busied ourselves, silently --without the utterance of a word --in endeavors to revive Mr. L--l. When he came to himself, we addressed ourselves again to an investigation of M. Valdemar's condition. It remained in all respects as I have last described it, with the exception that the mirror no longer afforded evidence of respiration. An attempt to draw blood from the arm failed. I should mention, too, that this limb was no farther subject to my will. I endeavored in vain to make it follow the direction of my hand. The only real indication, indeed, of the mesmeric influence, was now found in the vibratory movement of the tongue, whenever I addressed M. Valdemar a question. He seemed to be making an effort to reply, but had no longer sufficient volition. To queries put to him by any other person than myself he seemed utterly insensible --although I endeavored to place each member of the company in mesmeric rapport with him. I believe that I have now related all that is necessary to an understanding of the sleep-waker's state at this epoch. Other nurses were procured; and at ten o'clock I left the house in company with the two physicians and Mr. L--l. In the afternoon we all called again to see the patient. His condition remained precisely the same. We had now some discussion as to the propriety and feasibility of awakening him; but we had little difficulty in agreeing that no good purpose would be served by so doing. It was evident that, so far, death (or what is usually termed death) had been arrested by the mesmeric process. It seemed clear to us all that to awaken M. Valdemar would be merely to insure his instant, or at least his speedy dissolution. From this period until the close of last week --an interval of nearly seven months --we continued to make daily calls at M. Valdemar's house, accompanied, now and then, by medical and other friends. All this time the sleeper-waker remained exactly as I have last described him. The nurses' attentions were continual. It was on Friday last that we finally resolved to make the experiment of awakening or attempting to awaken him; and it is the (perhaps) unfortunate result of this latter experiment which has given rise to so much discussion in private circles --to so much of what I cannot help thinking unwarranted popular feeling. For the purpose of relieving M. Valdemar from the mesmeric trance, I made use of the customary passes. These, for a time, were unsuccessful. The first indication of revival was afforded by a partial descent of the iris. It was observed, as especially remarkable, that this lowering of the pupil was accompanied by the profuse out-flowing of a yellowish ichor (from beneath the lids) of a pungent and highly offensive odor. It was now suggested that I should attempt to influence the patient's arm, as heretofore. I made the attempt and failed. Dr. F-- then intimated a desire to have me put a question. I did so, as follows: "M. Valdemar, can you explain to us what are your feelings or wishes now?" There was an instant return of the hectic circles on the cheeks; the tongue quivered, or rather rolled violently in the mouth (although the jaws and lips remained rigid as before;) and at length the same hideous voice which I have already described, broke forth:"For God's sake! quick! quick! put me to sleep -or, quick! waken me! quick! I say to you that I am dead!" I was thoroughly unnerved, and for an instant remained undecided what to do. At first I made an endeavor to re-compose the patient; but, failing in this through total abeyance of the will, I retraced my steps and as earnestly struggled to awaken him. In this attempt I soon saw that I should be successful --or at least I soon fancied that my success would be complete --and I am sure that all in the room were prepared to see the patient awaken. For what really occurred, however, it is quite impossible that any human being could have been prepared. As I rapidly made the mesmeric passes, amid ejaculations of "dead! dead!" absolutely bursting from the tongue and not from the lips of the sufferer, his whole frame at once --within the space of a single minute, or even less, shrunk --crumbled --absolutely rotted away beneath my hands. Upon the bed, before that whole company, there lay a nearly liquid mass of loathsome --of detestable putridity. Trees in Central Square Dedy tri riyadi He could only read the first time invited to cycling exactly in the ride on a bicycle, his mother to know that there are oddities of what he saw in the town square. There is an old tamarind tree , not banyan, grows in the middle of the plaza. Yet according to the stories is often asked his mother's lips, the banyan tree, which is usually planted as a symbol aegis of regional heads to its people. Leafy branches that form a canopy that is very shady. Between branches and the branches are lush, dozens of birds and turtledoves make nests. He tried to spell the Latin name of the tamarind tree. A name that feels very odd for a familiar tongue with a thick accent homeland. "Tam mar .... rindus in di ca," spelling. Her mother could only smile. Proud as a four year old child could read quite fluently.He looked at his mother with little twinkling eyes. Her mother knew her child in a minute it is bound to ask something. And sure enough, shortly afterwards from his mouth a little give a question that his own mother did not know the answer. "What does that mean, Mom?" He found out many years later that the Latin name Tamarindus indica come from a variety of languages. Tamarindus derived from the Arabic: Tamr Hindi, which means the dates of India. But he did not understand why it is called as the dates, because the fruit of the tree so that the sour taste in his homeland called the tree and fruit acids, rather than dates. He also does not understand why the town square was not a banyan tree planted in the middle but it gelugur tamarind tree. Though it is not too shady trees, and branches and branches easily broken. But he knew his mother very often make a drink with ingredients that sour fruit is very ripe. The fresh drink called sherbet. Good to drink when the weather is very hot. Young leaves can also be made a drink by mixing it with other ingredients such as turmeric, can also be a cough and fever. Because of that, several times his mother took to the square it just took the fruit that falls, picking young leaves and peeling bark. Occasionally, he looks at his mother's eyes the tears erupted. And a moment later, sometimes, sad-looking countenance it could turn into a face full of anger. He never wanted to ask, because if he could ask, could add pressure on the mother's feelings. He did not want that to happen. To convert the mother's mood, he sometimes immediately busied themselves looking for crickets in the grass around the foot of the great tree. Then with exhilaration ,thrust that caught the crickets while chattering will be collected as many crickets to feed pet birds grandfather. Besides him, the man who was at home was her grandfather. Grandpa was a quiet and always busy with his pet birds. Several days a week, my grandfather went with birds singing contest. Actually he also wanted to catch the birds that nest in the tree, but none of these birds in the trees like birds in cages owned by his grandfather. Grandfather rarely spoke with her mother and herself. Mother once told me that grandfather never approved the presence of a man who never again be around him and his mother. His father. Maybe that's what makes his mother is often sad or angry every time I was near the tamarind tree in the middle of the plaza. Until one day, before the wedding day, she ventured to ask his mother. "Mom, when I was little my mother often took me away to the square to pick leaves sour, collect fruit, and occasionally gnaw the bark. Do you remember that? " Her mother smiled and stroked his head close to his lap. "Of course you remember. What would you ask anyway? " With a long and heavy sigh, he asked that for years kept. "Why are you always crying and upset every time we go there? Memories of what she actually save? " Since the mother had never explained what really happened between her mother with gelugur tamarind tree in the middle of the square, he never again asked. Only at a reunion with school friends, she met Karman who is currently the Regional Secretary. He is surprised by the arrangement of his city square briefed that gelugur tamarind tree had been felled and replaced it with a pointy shaped monument depicting the determination and the struggle to achieve my goals better. "Oh. Tamarind tree was too much a story bitter, "Obviously Karman when he asked why the tree felling. "Indeed, what kind of story that the townspeople did not want the tree is no longer there in the middle of the square?" He looks like that's curiosity was so long entrenched. "You've heard picis law, is not it? A person found guilty slashed his skin and the wound was dripped liquid from fruit acids. First, the tree became famous because of a big meet day robber unfortunately. He was arrested and sentenced noisy residents. Each person cut his skin and douse with sour juice. He met his fate with the body almost entirely peeled off his skin. " "Great robber? What's his name? " "People call man Jaha." Hearing that name, he became very understand why his grandfather would never speak to her mother and herself. Moreover, he could now feel the same sadness and anger with her mother if she remembers the tamarind tree in the middle of the plaza. Fortunately, now that the tamarind tree is not there anymore. Denying the heart By:Jessica Chandra There was no place more desolate than the school library on a Friday afternoon at three o’clock. This the place arya and I had chosen to spend our time in, surrounded by books we believed could help us with our science homework. “you like her, don’t you?” arya whispered in my left ear. “huh?” I looked at arya, confused. “It is true that you like her. Isn’t it?” arya repeated, pointing his chin toward a girl. I looked at her, and for one second I felt as if I had stopped breathing. “I can see and feel it from your body language, you know. When she’s around, you act a little bit differently from usual. But don’t worry, my friend, I support you,” arya when on, then smiled at me. Not knowing what kind of answer I should give, I remained silent and forced myself to continue my reading. Although, I sould admit, I could not understand a word of what I read. Okey. That girl had a name. a beautiful name: Rani. I’d know her for a year. And during that one year, I found out that she spent most of her time reading books. She wore thin square glasses, and her long hair was always in a ponytail. Nobody would notice her twice when she walked past. She looked a little friar. And she was also a really shy girl. But to me she was cute, a really cute girl. I had never discussed anything serious with her. Once or twice, perhaps, we smiled at each other while saying ”good morning” such simple and meaningless words, I thought. But I didn’t know what else to say, how to start an enjoyable conversation with her. I knew she loved books a lot. However, I was always too afraid to start conversation with her, about books or even about other, simple things. Silly me, I knew. But I thought that was quite normal. I didn’t know why, but sometimes a terrifying scenario would cross my mind. For example, I imagined asking her if we could talk. Then she would ask my opinion about a psychology book or science book, but I didn’t have any answer to give. How embarrassing that would be! “you must try to get close to her. Yoga. Just talk to her. Then after you get close to her, just tell her you love her. I’m sure it will work, my friend,” arya said in encouragement. The more I listened to arya, the more uncomfortable I felt. “what? Me, love rani? Stop kidding around! Can you imagine anyone falling for a girl like her?” I said, annoyed. “what?” arya said, looking confused. “I’ve noticed that you’re always stealing glances at her. I thought you have special feelings for her. And I thought it was love, my friend. Perhaps you just haven’t realized your awn feelings.hmm?” “No, I’m just wondering. How come there’s a girl like her, how does nothing but read books? Nothing else but that! Talking with her must be really boring. I’m sure she’s no fun at all.” Before I knew it, I was lying and saying bad things about her, even though I didn’t mean to. “There’s no need for you to talk about her like that! If you seriously like her, I will give you my help and support. If I’m wrong, just tell me. Tell me that my opinion about you and Rani is wrong. That I’m just imagining things and it’s no true that you like her. And that’s it! Don’t talk about her like that again in front of me. And with her here, in the same room with us, too!” Arya suddenly stoop up from his chair, picked up his belongings as fast as he could, and than went away without saying anything else. His reaction astonished me. Was it necessary for him to behave like that just because of what I’d said? I thought he was overreacting. Luckily, there were only a few students in the library and all of them were occupied. No one had seen what happened between Arya and me. “No one saw what happened between us?” I repeated to myself. For a second I had a really strange feeling. I looked around the library in panic, searching for rani. But she was nowhere to be seen. Eventually I concluded that no one had seen what happened, and I was relieved. Lucky me. “yoga, I heard you had a quarrel with arya. Is it true?” Albert asked, clapping me on the shoulder. The sun was shining very brightly, and the heat turned the basketball court into a mini-hell. It made me too lazy to play basketball, and it was the same with Albart. So we just sat on the bench, staring at the basketball court and bouncing the balls off the ground. “I just don’t understand him lately,” I answered. “what was the quarrel about?” “Nothing serious. It’s all right, bert. I’m going to apologize to arya.” I didn’t tell him the real reason on purpose. I didn’t what to say any more bad words about rani. “well, if that’s so, you’re lucky. Arya is standing over there, you see? Right in front of the computer classroom.” I turned my hear to look at the computer classroom. It was true that arya was standing there. Alone, without wasting any more time, I stoop up from the bench and started to walk toward the classroom. The distance between us was quite large. I was already halfway to where he was standing , when someone else appeared and went to him. I knew very well who that person was. I had been thinking about her ever since i first met her. She was the girl I dreamed about every night. The girl I cared for the most. The girl who was always on my mind. Rani! I immediately stopped walking and hid as fast as I could behind a big tree, not too far from which to eavesdrop on their conversation. I didn’t care that albert was watching me suspiciously from the bench. I could take care of albert later. He was my second priority right now. “what is it?” I heard Rani ask Arya. “ehmmmmmmmm…. Well….. errr… i… i…,” Arya stammered, scratching at his head. I stared at Arya’s face sharply. It was unusual for him to behave like this. Rani was waiting patiently for arya’s answer. She was carrying two or three thick volumes in her hands. Perhaps she borrowed those to read in her spare time. “actually….,” Arya tried once more to explain. “actually, I want to tell you that i… I like you. Would you….want to be my girlfriend?” My heart was beating very fast. Almost as fast as a train. to be honest, I was really surprised. I had never thought something like this would happen. That arya actually like rani. She was an ordinary-looking girl. Too ordinary. If she was around, most people wouldn’t be aware of her presence. And I thought I was the only one who had a crush on her. The only one who could fall in love with her. “okay,” rani answered briefly. For a moment I could see her smiling at arya, before turned around and left him. He had a wide smile on his face. I sat down silently, thinking there was nothing I could do. I’d never guess something like this would happen. I was too proud. I’d always believed that I was too good for her, that I deserved to have girl who were better that she was. Now I nearly cried for having been to stupid. Regrets always come too late. Regrets always come after you have already lost something. Deep inside my heart, I wished I could turn back the clock. And I no longer wanted to apologize to arya. The Story of an Hour By Kate chopin Knowing that Mrs. Mallard was afflicted with a heart trouble, great care was taken to break to her as gently as possible the news of her husband's death. It was her sister Josephine who told her, in broken sentences; veiled hints that revealed in half concealing. Her husband's friend Richards was theSre, too, near her. It was he who had been in the newspaper office when intelligence of the railroad disaster was received, with Brently Mallard's name leading the list of "killed." He had only taken the time to assure himself of its truth by a second telegram, and had hastened to forestall any less careful, less tender friend in bearing the sad message. She did not hear the story as many women have heard the same, with a paralyzed inability to accept its significance. She wept at once, with sudden, wild abandonment, in her sister's arms. When the storm of grief had spent itself she went away to her room alone. She would have no one follow her. There stood, facing the open window, a comfortable, roomy armchair. Into this she sank, pressed down by a physical exhaustion that haunted her body and seemed to reach into her soul. She could see in the open square before her house the tops of trees that were all aquiver with the new spring life. The delicious breath of rain was in the air. In the street below a peddler was crying his wares. The notes of a distant song which some one was singing reached her faintly, and countless sparrows were twittering in the eaves. There were patches of blue sky showing here and there through the clouds that had met and piled one above the other in the west facing her window. She sat with her head thrown back upon the cushion of the chair, quite motionless, except when a sob came up into her throat and shook her, as a child who has cried itself to sleep continues to sob in its dreams. She was young, with a fair, calm face, whose lines bespoke repression and even a certain strength. But now there was a dull stare in her eyes, whose gaze was fixed away off yonder on one of those patches of blue sky. It was not a glance of reflection, but rather indicated a suspension of intelligent thought. There was something coming to her and she was waiting for it, fearfully. What was it? She did not know; it was too subtle and elusive to name. But she felt it, creeping out of the sky, reaching toward her through the sounds, the scents, the color that filled the air. Now her bosom rose and fell tumultuously. She was beginning to recognize this thing that was approaching to possess her, and she was striving to beat it back with her will - as powerless as her two white slender hands would have been. When she abandoned herself a little whispered word escaped her slightly parted lips. She said it over and over under her breath: "free, free, free!" The vacant stare and the look of terror that had followed it went from her eyes. They stayed keen and bright. Her pulses beat fast, and the coursing blood warmed and relaxed every inch of her body. She did not stop to ask if it were or were not a monstrous joy that held her. A clear and exalted perception enabled her to dismiss the suggestion as trivial. She knew that she would weep again when she saw the kind, tender hands folded in death; the face that had never looked save with love upon her, fixed and gray and dead. But she saw beyond that bitter moment a long procession of years to come that would belong to her absolutely. And she opened and spread her arms out to them in welcome. There would be no one to live for during those coming years; she would live for herself. There would be no powerful will bending hers in that blind persistence with which men and women believe they have a right to impose a private will upon a fellow-creature. A kind intention or a cruel intention made the act seem no less a crime as she looked upon it in that brief moment of illumination. And yet she had loved him - sometimes. Often she had not. What did it matter! What could love, the unsolved mystery, count for in face of this possession of self-assertion which she suddenly recognized as the strongest impulse of her being! "Free! Body and soul free!" she kept whispering. Josephine was kneeling before the closed door with her lips to the keyhole, imploring for admission. "Louise, open the door! I beg, open the door - you will make yourself ill. What are you doing Louise? For heaven's sake open the door." "Go away. I am not making myself ill." No; she was drinking in a very elixir of life through that open window. Her fancy was running riot along those days ahead of her. Spring days, and summer days, and all sorts of days that would be her own. She breathed a quick prayer that life might be long. It was only yesterday she had thought with a shudder that life might be long. She arose at length and opened the door to her sister's importunities. There was a feverish triumph in her eyes, and she carried herself unwittingly like a goddess of Victory. She clasped her sister's waist, and together they descended the stairs. Richards stood waiting for them at the bottom. Some one was opening the front door with a latchkey. It was Brently Mallard who entered, a little travel-stained, composedly carrying his grip-sack and umbrella. He had been far from the scene of accident, and did not even know there had been one. He stood amazed at Josephine's piercing cry; at Richards' quick motion to screen him from the view of his wife. But Richards was too late. When the doctors came they said she had died of heart disease - of joy that kills. The women who tried tobe good by: Edna Ferber Before she tried to be a good woman she had been a very bad woman—so bad that she could trail her wonderful apparel up and down Main Street, from the Elm Tree Bakery to the railroad tracks, without once having a man doff his hat to her or a woman bow. You passed her on the street with a surreptitious glance, though she was well worth looking at—in her furs and laces and plumes. She had the only full-length sealskin coat in our town, and Ganz' shoe store sent to Chicago for her shoes. Hers were the miraculously small feet you frequently see in stout women. Usually she walked alone; but on rare occasions, especially round Christmas time, she might have been seen accompanied by some silent, dull-eyed, stupid-looking girl, who would follow her dumbly in and out of stores, stopping now and then to admire a cheap comb or a chain set with flashy imitation stones—or, queerly enough, a doll with yellow hair and blue eyes and very pink cheeks. But, alone or in company, her appearance in the stores of our town was the signal for a sudden jump in the cost of living. The storekeepers mulcted her; and she knew it and paid in silence, for she was of the class that has no redress. She owned the House With the Closed Shutters, near the freight depot—did Blanche Devine. And beneath her silks and laces and furs there was a scarlet letter on her breast. In a larger town than ours she would have passed unnoticed. She did not look like a bad woman. Of course she used too much perfumed white powder, and as she passed you caught the oversweet breath of a certain heavy scent. Then, too, her diamond eardrops would have made any woman's features look hard; but her plump face, in spite of its heaviness, wore an expression of good-humoured intelligence, and her eyeglasses gave her somehow a look of respectability. We do not associate vice with eyeglasses. So in a large city she would have passed for a well-dressed prosperous, comfortable wife and mother, who was in danger of losing her figure from an overabundance of good living; but with us she was a town character, like Old Man Givins, the drunkard, or the weak-minded Binns girl. When she passed the drug-store corner there would be a sniggering among the vacant-eyed loafers idling there, and they would leer at each other and jest in undertones. So, knowing Blanche Devine as we did, there was something resembling a riot in one of our most respectable neighbourhoods when it was learned that she had given up her interest in the house near the freight depot and was going to settle down in the white cottage on the corner and be good. All the husbands in the block, urged on by righteously indignant wives, dropped in on Alderman Mooney after supper to see if the thing could not be stopped. The fourth of the protesting husbands to arrive was the Very Young Husband, who lived next door to the corner cottage that Blanche Devine had bought. The Very Young Husband had a Very Young Wife, and they were the joint owners of Snooky. Snooky was three-going-on-four, and looked something like an angel—only healthier and with grimier hands. The whole neighbourhood borrowed her and tried to spoil her; but Snooky would not spoil. Alderman Mooney was down in the cellar fooling with the furnace. He was in his furnace overalls—a short black pipe in his mouth. Three protesting husbands had just left. As the Very Young Husband, following Mrs. Mooney's directions, cautiously descended the cellar stairs, Alderman Mooney looked up from his tinkering. He peered through a haze of pipe-smoke. "Hello!" he called, and waved the haze away with his open palm. "Come on down! Been tinkering with this blamed furnace since supper. She don't draw like she ought. 'Long toward spring a furnace always gets balky. How many tons you used this winter?" "Oh—ten," said the Very Young Husband shortly. Alderman Mooney considered it thoughtfully. The Young Husband leaned up against the side of the cistern, his hands in his pockets. "Say, Mooney, is that right about Blanche Devine's having bought the house on the corner?" "You're the fourth man that's been in to ask me that this evening. I'm expecting the rest of the block before bedtime. She's bought it all right." The Young Husband flushed and kicked at a piece of coal with the toe of his boot. "Well, it's a darned shame!" he began hotly. "Jen was ready to cry at supper. This'll be a fine neighbourhood for Snooky to grow up in! What's a woman like that want to come into a respectable street for anyway? I own my home and pay my taxes—" Alderman Mooney looked up. "So does she," he interrupted. "She's going to improve the place—paint it, and put in a cellar and a furnace, and build a porch, and lay a cement walk all round." The Young Husband took his hands out of his pockets in order to emphasize his remarks with gestures. "What's that got to do with it? I don't care if she puts in diamonds for windows and sets out Italian gardens and a terrace with peacocks on it. You're the alderman of this ward, aren't you? Well, it was up to you to keep her out of this block! You could have fixed it with an injunction or something. I'm going to get up a petition—that's what I'm going—" Alderman Mooney closed the furnace door with a bang that drowned the rest of the threat. He turned the draft in a pipe overhead and brushed his sooty palms briskly together like one who would put an end to a profitless conversation. "She's bought the house," he said mildly, "and paid for it. And it's hers. She's got a right to live in this neighbourhood as long as she acts respectable." The Very Young Husband laughed. "She won't last! They never do." Alderman Mooney had taken his pipe out of his mouth and was rubbing his thumb over the smooth bowl, looking down at it with unseeing eyes. On his face was a queer look—the look of one who is embarrassed because he is about to say something honest. "Look here! I want to tell you something: I happened to be up in the mayor's office the day Blanche signed for the place. She had to go through a lot of red tape before she got it—had quite a time of it, she did! And say, kid, that woman ain't so—bad." The Very Young Husband exclaimed impatiently: "Oh, don't give me any of that, Mooney! Blanche Devine's a town character. Even the kids know what she is. If she's got religion or something, and wants to quit and be decent, why doesn't she go to another town—Chicago or some place—where nobody knows her?" That motion of Alderman Mooney's thumb against the smooth pipebowl stopped. He looked up slowly. "That's what I said—the mayor too. But Blanche Devine said she wanted to try it here. She said this was home to her. Funny—ain't it? Said she wouldn't be fooling anybody here. They know her. And if she moved away, she said, it'd leak out some way sooner or later. It does, she said. Always! Seems she wants to live like—well, like other women. She put it like this: She says she hasn't got religion, or any of that. She says she's no different than she was when she was twenty. She says that for the last ten years the ambition of her life has been to be able to go into a grocery store and ask the price of, say, celery; and, if the clerk charged her ten when it ought to be seven, to be able to sass him with a regular piece of her mind—and then sail out and trade somewhere else until he saw that she didn't have to stand anything from storekeepers, any more than any other woman that did her own marketing. She's a smart woman, Blanche is! She's saved her money. God knows I ain't taking her part—exactly; but she talked a little, and the mayor and me got a little of her history." A sneer appeared on the face of the Very Young Husband. He had been known before he met Jen as a rather industrious sower of that seed known as wild oats. He knew a thing or two, did the Very Young Husband, in spite of his youth! He always fussed when Jen wore even a V-necked summer gown on the street. "Oh, she wasn't playing for sympathy," west on Alderman Mooney in answer to the sneer. "She said she'd always paid her way and always expected to. Seems her husband left her without a cent when she was eighteen—with a baby. She worked for four dollars a week in a cheap eating house. The two of 'em couldn't live on that. Then the baby—" "Good night!" said the Very Young Husband. "I suppose Mrs. Mooney's going to call?" "Minnie! It was her scolding all through supper that drove me down to monkey with the furnace. She's wild—Minnie is." He peeled off his overalls and hung them on a nail. The Young Husband started to ascend the cellar stairs. Alderman Mooney laid a detaining finger on his sleeve. "Don't say anything in front of Minnie! She's boiling! Minnie and the kids are going to visit her folks out West this summer; so I wouldn't so much as dare to say 'Good morning!' to the Devine woman. Anyway a person wouldn't talk to her, I suppose. But I kind of thought I'd tell you about her." "Thanks!" said the Very Young Husband dryly. In the early spring, before Blanche Devine moved in, there came stonemasons, who began to build something. It was a great stone fireplace that rose in massive incongruity at the side of the little white cottage. Blanche Devine was trying to make a home for herself. We no longer build fireplaces for physical warmth—we build them for the warmth of the soul; we build them to dream by, to hope by, to home by. Blanche Devine used to come and watch them now and then as the work progressed. She had a way of walking round and round the house, looking up at it pridefully and poking at plaster and paint with her umbrella or fingertip. One day she brought with her a man with a spade. He spaded up a neat square of ground at the side of the cottage and a long ridge near the fence that separated her yard from that of the very young couple next door. The ridge spelled sweet peas and nasturtiums to our small-town eyes. On the day that Blanche Devine moved in there was wild agitation among the white-ruffled bedroom curtains of the neighbourhood. Later on certain odours, as of burning dinners, pervaded the atmosphere. Blanche Devine, flushed and excited, her hair slightly askew, her diamond eardrops flashing, directed the moving, wrapped in her great fur coat; but on the third morning we gasped when she appeared out-of-doors, carrying a little household ladder, a pail of steaming water and sundry voluminous white cloths. She reared the little ladder against the side of the house mounted it cautiously, and began to wash windows: with housewifely thoroughness. Her stout figure was swathed in a grey sweater and on her head was a battered felt hat—the sort of window-washing costume that has been worn by women from time immemorial. We noticed that she used plenty of hot water and clean rags, and that she rubbed the glass until it sparkled, leaning perilously sideways on the ladder to detect elusive streaks. Our keenest housekeeping eye could find no fault with the way Blanche Devine washed windows. By May, Blanche Devine had left off her diamond eardrops—perhaps it was their absence that gave her face a new expression. When she went down town we noticed that her hats were more like the hats the other women in our town wore; but she still affected extravagant footgear, as is right and proper for a stout woman who has cause to be vain of her feet. We noticed that her trips down town were rare that spring and summer. She used to come home laden with little bundles; and before supper she would change her street clothes for a neat, washable housedress, as is our thrifty custom. Through her bright windows we could see her moving briskly about from kitchen to sitting room; and from the smells that floated out from her kitchen door, she seemed to be preparing for her solitary supper the same homely viands that were frying or stewing or baking in our kitchens. Sometimes you could detect the delectable scent of browning hot tea biscuit. It takes a brave, courageous, determined woman to make tea biscuit for no one but herself. Blanche Devine joined the church. On the first Sunday morning she came to the service there was a little flurry among the ushers at the vestibule door. They seated her well in the rear. The second Sunday morning a dreadful thing happened. The woman next to whom they seated her turned, regarded her stonily for a moment, then rose agitatedly and moved to a pew across the aisle. Blanche Devine's face went a dull red beneath her white powder. She never came again—though we saw the minister visit her once or twice. She always accompanied him to the door pleasantly, holding it well open until he was down the little flight of steps and on the sidewalk. The minister's wife did not call—but, then, there are limits to the duties of a minister's wife. She rose early, like the rest of us; and as summer came on we used to see her moving about in her little garden patch in the dewy, golden morning. She wore absurd pale-blue kimonos that made her stout figure loom immense against the greenery of garden and apple tree. The neighbourhood women viewed these negligées with Puritan disapproval as they smoothed down their own prim, starched gingham skirts. They said it was disgusting—and perhaps it was; but the habit of years is not easily overcome. Blanche Devine—snipping her sweet peas; peering anxiously at the Virginia creeper that clung with such fragile fingers to the trellis; watering the flower baskets that hung from her porch—was blissfully unconscious of the disapproving eyes. I wish one of us had just stopped to call good morning to her over the fence, and to say in our neighbourly, small town way: "My, ain't this a scorcher! So early too! It'll be fierce by noon!" But we did not. I think perhaps the evenings must have been the loneliest for her. The summer evenings in our little town are filled with intimate, human, neighbourly sounds. After the heat of the day it is infinitely pleasant to relax in the cool comfort of the front porch, with the life of the town eddying about us. We sew and read out there until it grows dusk. We call across-lots to our next-door neighbour. The men water the lawns and the flower boxes and get together in little quiet groups to discuss the new street paving. I have even known Mrs. Hines to bring her cherries out there when she had canning to do, and pit them there on the front porch partially shielded by her porch vine, but not so effectually that she was deprived of the sights and sounds about her. The kettle in her lap and the dishpan full of great ripe cherries on the porch floor by her chair, she would pit and chat and peer out through the vines, the red juice staining her plump bare arms. I have wondered since what Blanche Devine thought of us those lonesome evenings—those evenings filled with little friendly sights and sounds. It is lonely, uphill business at best—this being good. It must have been difficult for her, who had dwelt behind closed shutters so long, to seat herself on the new front porch for all the world to stare at; but she did sit there—resolutely—watching us in silence. She seized hungrily upon the stray crumbs of conversation that fell to her. The milkman and the iceman and the butcher boy used to hold daily conversation with her. They—sociable gentlemen—would stand on her doorstep, one grimy hand resting against the white of her doorpost, exchanging the time of day with Blanche in the doorway—a tea towel in one hand, perhaps, and a plate in the other. Her little house was a miracle of cleanliness. It was no uncommon sight to see her down on her knees on the kitchen floor, wielding her brush and rag like the rest of us. In canning and preserving time there floated out from her kitchen the pungent scent of pickled crab apples; the mouth-watering, nostril-pricking smell that meant sweet pickles; or the cloying, tantalising, divinely sticky odour that meant raspberry jam. Snooky, from her side of the fence, often used to peer through the pickets, gazing in the direction of the enticing smells next door. Early one September morning there floated out from Blanche Devine's kitchen that clean, fragrant, sweet scent of fresh-baked cookies—cookies with butter in them, and spice, and with nuts on top. Just by the smell of them your mind's eye pictured them coming from the oven—crisp brown circlets, crumbly, toothsome, delectable. Snooky, in her scarlet sweater and cap, sniffed them from afar and straightway deserted her sandpile to take her stand at the fence. She peered through the restraining bars, standing on tiptoe. Blanche Devine, glancing up from her board and rolling-pin, saw the eager golden head. And Snooky, with guile in her heart, raised one fat, dimpled hand above the fence and waved it friendlily. Blanche Devine waved back. Thus encouraged, Snooky's two hands wigwagged frantically above the pickets. Blanche Devine hesitated a moment, her floury hand on her hip. Then she went to the pantry shelf and took out a clean white saucer. She selected from the brown jar on the table three of the brownest, crumbliest, most perfect cookies, with a walnut meat perched atop of each, placed them temptingly on the saucer and, descending the steps, came swiftly across the grass to the triumphant Snooky. Blanche Devine held out the saucer, her lips smiling, her eyes tender. Snooky reached up with one plump white arm. "Snooky!" shrilled a high voice. "Snooky!" A voice of horror and of wrath. "Come here to me this minute! And don't you dare to touch those!" Snooky hesitated rebelliously, one pink finger in her pouting mouth. "Snooky! Do you hear me?" And the Very Young Wife began to descend the steps of her back porch. Snooky, regretful eyes on the toothsome dainties, turned away aggrieved. The Very Young Wife, her lips set, her eyes flashing, advanced and seized the shrieking Snooky by one writhing arm and dragged her away toward home and safety. Blanche Devine stood there at the fence, holding the saucer in her hand. The saucer tipped slowly, and the three cookies slipped off and fell to the grass. Blanche Devine followed them with her eyes and stood staring at them a moment. Then she turned quickly, went into the house and shut the door. It was about this time we noticed that Blanche Devine was away much of the time. The little white cottage would be empty for a week. We knew she was out of town because the expressman would come for her trunk. We used to lift our eyebrows significantly. The newspapers and handbills would accumulate in a dusty little heap on the porch; but when she returned there was always a grand cleaning, with the windows open, and Blanche—her head bound turbanwise in a towel—appearing at a window every few minutes to shake out a dustcloth. She seemed to put an enormous amount of energy into those cleanings—as if they were a sort of safety valve. As winter came on she used to sit up before her grate fire long, long after we were asleep in our beds. When she neglected to pull down the shades we could see the flames of her cosy fire dancing gnomelike on the wall. There came a night of sleet and snow, and wind and rattling hail—one of those blustering, wild nights that are followed by morning-paper reports of trains stalled in drifts, mail delayed, telephone and telegraph wires down. It must have been midnight or past when there came a hammering at Blanche Devine's door—a persistent, clamorous rapping. Blanche Devine, sitting before her dying fire half asleep, started and cringed when she heard it; then jumped to her feet, her hand at her breast—her eyes darting this way and that, as though seeking escape. She had heard a rapping like that before. It had meant bluecoats swarming up the stairway, and frightened cries and pleadings, and wild confusion. So she started forward now, quivering. And then she remembered, being wholly awake now—she remembered, and threw up her head and smiled a little bitterly and walked toward the door. The hammering continued, louder than ever. Blanche Devine flicked on the porch light and opened the door. The half-clad figure of the Very Young Wife next door staggered into the room. She seized Blanche Devine's arm with both her frenzied hands and shook her, the wind and snow beating in upon both of them. "The baby!" she screamed in a high, hysterical voice. "The baby! The baby—" Blanche Devine shut the door and shook the Young Wife smartly by the shoulders. "Stop screaming," she said quietly. "Is she sick?" The Young Wife told her, her teeth chattering: "Come quick! She's dying! Will's out of town. I tried to get the doctor. The telephone wouldn't—I saw your light! For God's sake—" Blanche Devine grasped the Young Wife's arm, opened the door, and together they sped across the little space that separated the two houses. Blanche Devine was a big woman, but she took the stairs like a girl and found the right bedroom by some miraculous woman instinct. A dreadful choking, rattling sound was coming from Snooky's bed. "Croup," said Blanche Devine, and began her fight. It was a good fight. She marshalled her little inadequate forces, made up of the half-fainting Young Wife and the terrified and awkward hired girl. "Get the hot water on—lots of it!" Blanche Devine pinned up her sleeves. "Hot cloths! Tear up a sheet—or anything! Got an oilstove? I want a teakettle boiling in the room. She's got to have the steam. If that don't do it we'll raise an umbrella over her and throw a sheet over, and hold the kettle under till the steam gets to her that way. Got any ipecac?" The Young Wife obeyed orders, whitefaced and shaking. Once Blanche Devine glanced up at her sharply. "Don't you dare faint!" she commanded. And the fight went on. Gradually the breathing that had been so frightful became softer, easier. Blanche Devine did not relax. It was not until the little figure breathed gently in sleep that Blanche Devine sat back satisfied. Then she tucked a cover ever so gently at the side of the bed, took a last satisfied look at the face on the pillow, and turned to look at the wan, dishevelled Young Wife. "She's all right now. We can get the doctor when morning comes—though I don't know's you'll need him." The Young Wife came round to Blanche Devine's side of the bed and stood looking up at her. "My baby died," said Blanche Devine simply. The Young Wife gave a little inarticulate cry, put her two hands on Blanche Devine's broad shoulders and laid her tired head on her breast. "I guess I'd better be going," said Blanche Devine. The Young Wife raised her head. Her eyes were round with fright. "Going! Oh, please stay! I'm so afraid. Suppose she should take sick again! That awful—awful breathing—" "I'll stay if you want me to." "Oh, please! I'll make up your bed and you can rest—" "I'm not sleepy. I'm not much of a hand to sleep anyway. I'll sit up here in the hall, where there's a light. You get to bed. I'll watch and see that every-thing's all right. Have you got something I can read out here—something kind of lively—with a love story in it?" So the night went by. Snooky slept in her little white bed. The Very Young Wife half dozed in her bed, so near the little one. In the hall, her stout figure looming grotesque in wall-shadows, sat Blanche Devine pretending to read. Now and then she rose and tiptoed into the bedroom with miraculous quiet, and stooped over the little bed and listened and looked—and tiptoed away again, satisfied. The Young Husband came home from his business trip next day with tales of snowdrifts and stalled engines. Blanche Devine breathed a sigh of relief when she saw him from her kitchen window. She watched the house now with a sort of proprietary eye. She wondered about Snooky; but she knew better than to ask. So she waited. The Young Wife next door had told her husband all about that awful night—had told him with tears and sobs. The Very Young Husband had been very, very angry with her—angry and hurt, he said, and astonished! Snooky could not have been so sick! Look at her now! As well as ever. And to have called such a woman! Well, really he did not want to be harsh; but she must understand that she must never speak to the woman again. Never! So the next day the Very Young Wife happened to go by with the Young Husband. Blanche Devine spied them from her sitting-room window, and she made the excuse of looking in her mailbox in order to go to the door. She stood in the doorway and the Very Young Wife went by on the arm of her husband. She went by—rather white-faced—without a look or a word or a sign! And then this happened! There came into Blanche Devine's face a look that made slits of her eyes, and drew her mouth down into an ugly, narrow line, and that made the muscles of her jaw tense and hard. It was the ugliest look you can imagine. Then she smiled—if having one's lips curl away from one's teeth can be called smiling. Two days later there was great news of the white cottage on the corner. The curtains were down; the furniture was packed; the rugs were rolled. The wagons came and backed up to the house and took those things that had made a home for Blanche Devine. And when we heard that she had bought back her interest in the House With the Closed Shutters, near the freight depot, we sniffed. "I knew she wouldn't last!" we said. "They never do!" said we. The gift of the Magy O. Henry One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher until one's cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty- seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas. There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and howl. So Della did it. Which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating. While the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding from the first stage to the second, take a look at the home. A furnished flat at $8 per week. It did not exactly beggar description, but it certainly had that word on the lookout for the mendicancy squad. In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no letter would go, and an electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring. Also appertaining thereunto was a card bearing the name "Mr. James Dillingham Young." The "Dillingham" had been flung to the breeze during a former period of prosperity when its possessor was being paid $30 per week. Now, when the income was shrunk to $20, though, they were thinking seriously of contracting to a modest and unassuming D. But whenever Mr. James Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat above he was called "Jim" and greatly hugged by Mrs. James Dillingham Young, already introduced to you as Della. Which is all very good. Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the powder rag. She stood by the window and looked out dully at a gray cat walking a gray fence in a gray backyard. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and she had only $1.87 with which to buy Jim a present. She had been saving every penny she could for months, with this result. Twenty dollars a week doesn't go far. Expenses had been greater than she had calculated. They always are. Only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim. Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him. Something fine and rare and sterling--something just a little bit near to being worthy of the honor of being owned by Jim. There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you have seen a pier-glass in an $8 flat. A very thin and very agile person may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks. Della, being slender, had mastered the art. Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. her eyes were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its color within twenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to its full length. Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in which they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim's gold watch that had been his father's and his grandfather's. The other was Della's hair. Had the queen of Sheba lived in the flat across the airshaft, Della would have let her hair hang out the window some day to dry just to depreciate Her Majesty's jewels and gifts. Had King Solomon been the janitor, with all his treasures piled up in the basement, Jim would have pulled out his watch every time he passed, just to see him pluck at his beard from envy. So now Della's beautiful hair fell about her rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters. It reached below her knee and made itself almost a garment for her. And then she did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet. On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a whirl of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street. Where she stopped the sign read: "Mne. Sofronie. Hair Goods of All Kinds." One flight up Della ran, and collected herself, panting. Madame, large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the "Sofronie." "Will you buy my hair?" asked Della. "I buy hair," said Madame. "Take yer hat off and let's have a sight at the looks of it." Down rippled the brown cascade. "Twenty dollars," said Madame, lifting the mass with a practised hand. "Give it to me quick," said Della. Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forget the hashed metaphor. She was ransacking the stores for Jim's present. She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else. There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a platinum fob chain simple and chaste in design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not by meretricious ornamentation--as all good things should do. It was even worthy of The Watch. As soon as she saw it she knew that it must be Jim's. It was like him. Quietness and value--the description applied to both. Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she hurried home with the 87 cents. With that chain on his watch Jim might be properly anxious about the time in any company. Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly on account of the old leather strap that he used in place of a chain. When Della reached home her intoxication gave way a little to prudence and reason. She got out her curling irons and lighted the gas and went to work repairing the ravages made by generosity added to love. Which is always a tremendous task, dear friends--a mammoth task. Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, close-lying curls that made her look wonderfully like a truant schoolboy. She looked at her reflection in the mirror long, carefully, and critically. "If Jim doesn't kill me," she said to herself, "before he takes a second look at me, he'll say I look like a Coney Island chorus girl. But what could I do--oh! what could I do with a dollar and eighty- seven cents?" At 7 o'clock the coffee was made and the frying-pan was on the back of the stove hot and ready to cook the chops. Jim was never late. Della doubled the fob chain in her hand and sat on the corner of the table near the door that he always entered. Then she heard his step on the stair away down on the first flight, and she turned white for just a moment. She had a habit for saying little silent prayer about the simplest everyday things, and now she whispered: "Please God, make him think I am still pretty." The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and very serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two--and to be burdened with a family! He needed a new overcoat and he was without gloves. Jim stopped inside the door, as immovable as a setter at the scent of quail. His eyes were fixed upon Della, and there was an expression in them that she could not read, and it terrified her. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments that she had been prepared for. He simply stared at her fixedly with that peculiar expression on his face. Della wriggled off the table and went for him. "Jim, darling," she cried, "don't look at me that way. I had my hair cut off and sold because I couldn't have lived through Christmas without giving you a present. It'll grow out again--you won't mind, will you? I just had to do it. My hair grows awfully fast. Say `Merry Christmas!' Jim, and let's be happy. You don't know what a nice-- what a beautiful, nice gift I've got for you." "You've cut off your hair?" asked Jim, laboriously, as if he had not arrived at that patent fact yet even after the hardest mental labor. "Cut it off and sold it," said Della. "Don't you like me just as well, anyhow? I'm me without my hair, ain't I?" Jim looked about the room curiously. "You say your hair is gone?" he said, with an air almost of idiocy. "You needn't look for it," said Della. "It's sold, I tell you--sold and gone, too. It's Christmas Eve, boy. Be good to me, for it went for you. Maybe the hairs of my head were numbered," she went on with sudden serious sweetness, "but nobody could ever count my love for you. Shall I put the chops on, Jim?" Out of his trance Jim seemed quickly to wake. He enfolded his Della. For ten seconds let us regard with discreet scrutiny some inconsequential object in the other direction. Eight dollars a week or a million a year--what is the difference? A mathematician or a wit would give you the wrong answer. The magi brought valuable gifts, but that was not among them. This dark assertion will be illuminated later on. Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon the table. "Don't make any mistake, Dell," he said, "about me. I don't think there's anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that could make me like my girl any less. But if you'll unwrap that package you may see why you had me going a while at first." White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And then an ecstatic scream of joy; and then, alas! a quick feminine change to hysterical tears and wails, necessitating the immediate employment of all the comforting powers of the lord of the flat. For there lay The Combs--the set of combs, side and back, that Della had worshipped long in a Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell, with jewelled rims--just the shade to wear in the beautiful vanished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew, and her heart had simply craved and yearned over them without the least hope of possession. And now, they were hers, but the tresses that should have adorned the coveted adornments were gone. But she hugged them to her bosom, and at length she was able to look up with dim eyes and a smile and say: "My hair grows so fast, Jim!" And them Della leaped up like a little singed cat and cried, "Oh, oh!" Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him eagerly upon her open palm. The dull precious metal seemed to flash with a reflection of her bright and ardent spirit. "Isn't it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You'll have to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I want to see how it looks on it." Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands under the back of his head and smiled. "Dell," said he, "let's put our Christmas presents away and keep 'em a while. They're too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to get the money to buy your combs. And now suppose you put the chops on." The magi, as you know, were wise men--wonderfully wise men--who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. O all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi. The red room H. G. Wells "I can assure you," said I, "that it will take a very tangible ghost to frighten me." And I stood up before the fire with my glass in my hand. "It is your own choosing," said the man with the withered arm, and glanced at me askance. "Eight-and-twenty years," said I, "I have lived, and never a ghost have I seen as yet." The old woman sat staring hard into the fire, her pale ayes wide open. "Ay," she broke in; "and eight-and-twenty years you have lived and never seen the likes of this house, I reckon. Theres a many things to see, when ones still but eight-and-twenty." She swayed her head slowly from side to side. "A many things to see and sorrow for." I half suspected the old people were trying to enhanve the spiritual terrors of their house by their droning insistence. I put down my empty glass on the table and looked about the room, and caught a glimpse of myself, abbreviated and broadened to an impossible sturdiness, in the queer old mirror at the end of the room. "Well," I said, "if I see anything tonight, I shall be so much the wiser. For I come to the business with an open mind. "It's your own choosing," said the man with the withered arm once more. I heard the faint sound of a stick and a shambling step on the flags in the passage outside. The door creaked on its hinges as a second old man entered, more bent, more wrinkled, more aged even than the first. He supported himself by the help of a crutch, his eyes were covered by a shade, and his lower lip, half averted, hung pale and pink from his decaying yellow teeth. He made straight for an armchair on the opposite side of the table, sat down clumsily, and began to cough. The man with the withered hand gave the newcomer a short glance of positive dislike; the old woman took no notice of his arrival, but remained with her eyes fixed steadily on the fire. "I said—it's your own choosing," said the man with the withered hand, when the coughing had ceased for a while. "It's my own choosing," I answered. The man with the shade became aware of my presence for the first time, and threw his head back for a moment, and sidewise, to see me. I caught a momentary glimpse of his eyes, small and bright and inflamed. Then he began to cough and splutter again. "Why don't you drink?" said the man with the withered arm, pushing the beer toward him. The man with the shade poured out a glassful with a shaking hand, that splashed half as much again on the deal table. A monstrous shadow of him crouched upon the wall, and mocked his action as he poured and drank. I must confess I had scarcely expected these grotesque custodians. There is, to my mind, something inhuman in senility, something crouching and atavistic; the human qualities seem to drop from old people insensibly day by day. The three of them made me feel uncomfortable with their gaunt silences, their bent carriage, their evident unfriendliness to me and to one another. And that night, perhaps, I was in the mood for uncomfortable impressions. I resolved to get away from their vague fore-shadowings of the evil things upstairs. "If," said I, "you will show me to this haunted room of yours, I will make myself comfortable there." The old man with the cough jerked his head back so suddenly that it startled me, and shot another glance of his red eyes at me from out of the darkness under the shade, but no one answered me. I waited a minute, glancing from one to the other. The old woman stared like a dead body, glaring into the fire with lack-lustre eyes. "If," I said, a little louder, "if you will show me to this haunted room of yours, I will relieve v you from the task of entertaining me." "There's a candle on the slab outside the door," said the man with the withered hand, looking at my feet as he addressed me. "But if you go to the Red Room to-night—" "This night of all nights!" said the old woman, softly. "—You go alone." "Very well," I answered, shortly, "and which way do I go?" "You go along the passage for a bit," said he, nodding his head on his shoulder at the door, "until you come to a spiral staircase; and on the second landing is a door covered with green baize. Go through that, and down the long corridor to the end, and the Red Room is on your left up the steps." "Have I got that right?" I said, and repeated his directions. He corrected me in one particular. "And you are really going?" said the man with the shade, looking at me again for the third time with that queer, unnatural tilting of the face. "This night of all nights!" whispered the old woman. "It is what I came for," I said, and moved toward the door. As I did so, the old man with the shade rose and staggered round the table, so as to be closer to the others and to the fire. At the door I turned and looked at them, and saw they were all close together, dark against the firelight, staring at me over their shoulders, with an intent expression on their ancient faces. "Good-night," I said, setting the door open.. "It's your own choosing," said the man with the withered arm. I left the door wide open until the candle was well alight, and then I shut them in, and walked down the chilly, echoing passage. I must confess that the oddness of these three old pensioners in whose charge her ladyship had left the castle, and the deep-toned, old-fashioned furniture of the housekeeper's room, in which they foregathered, had affected me curiously in spite of my effort to keep myself at a matter-of-fact phase. They seemed to belong to another age, an older age, an age when things spiritual were indeed to be feared, when common sense was uncommon, an age when omens and witches were credible, and ghosts beyond denying. Their very existence, thought I, is spectral; the cut of their clothing, fashions born in dead brains; the ornaments and conveniences in the room about them even are ghostly—the thoughts of vanished men, which still haunt rather than participate in the world of to-day. And the passage I was in, long and shadowy, with a film of moisture glistening on the wall, was as gaunt and cold as a thing that is dead and rigid. But with an effort I sent such thoughts to the right-about. The long, drafty subterranean passage was chilly and dusty, and my candle flared and made the shadows cower and quiver. The echoes rang up and down the spiral staircase, and a shadow came sweeping up after me, and another fled before me into the darkness overhead. I came to the wide landing and stopped there for a moment listening to a rustling that I fancied I heard creeping behind me, and then, satisfied of the absolute silence, pushed open the unwilling baize-covered door and stood in the silent corridor. The effect was scarcely what I expected, for the moonlight, coming in by the great window on the grand staircase, picked out everything in vivid black shadow or reticulated silvery illumination. Everything seemed in its proper position; the house might have been deserted on the yesterday instead of twelve months ago. There were candles in the sockets of the sconces, and whatever dust had gathered on the carpets or upon the polished flooring was distributed so evenly as to be invisible in my candlelight. A waiting stillness was over everything. I was about to advance, and stopped abruptly. A bronze group stood upon the landing hidden from me by a corner of the wall; but its shadow fell with marvelous distinctness upon the white paneling, and gave me the impression of some one crouching to waylay me. The thing jumped upon my attention suddenly. I stood rigid for half a moment, perhaps. Then, with my hand in the pocket that held the revolver, I advanced, only to discover a Ganymede and Eagle, glistening in the moonlight. That incident for a time restored my nerve, and a dim porcelain Chinaman on a buhl table, whose head rocked as I passed, scarcely startled me. The door of the Red Room and the steps up to it were in a shadowy corner. I moved my candle from side to side in order to see clearly the nature of the recess in which I stood, before opening the door. Here it was, thought I, that my predecessor was found, and the memory of that story gave me a sudden twinge of apprehension. I glanced over my shoulder at the black Ganymede in the moonlight, and opened the door of the Red Room rather hastily, with my face half turned to the pallid silence of the corridor. I entered, closed the door behind me at once, turned the key I found in the lock within, and stood with the candle held aloft surveying the scene of my vigil, the great Red Room of Lorraine Castle, in which the young Duke had died; or rather in which he had begun his dying, for he had opened the door and fallen headlong down the steps I had just ascended. That had been the end of his vigil, of his gallant attempt to conquer the ghostly tradition of the place, and never, I thought, had apoplexy better served the ends of superstition. There were other and older stories that clung to the room, back to the half-incredible beginning of it all, the tale of a timid wife and the tragic end that came to her husband's jest of frightening her. And looking round that huge shadowy room with its black window bays, its recesses and alcoves, its dusty brown-red hangings and dark gigantic furniture, one could well understand the legends that had sprouted in its black corners, its germinating darknesses. My candle was a little tongue of light in the vastness of the chamber; its rays failed to pierce to the opposite end of the room, and left an ocean of dull red mystery and suggestion, sentinel shadows and watching darknesses beyond its island of light. And the stillness of desolation brooded over it all. I must confess some impalpable quality of that ancient room disturbed me. I tried to fight the feeling down. I resolved to make a systematic examination of the place, and so, by leaving nothing to the imagination, dispel the fanciful suggestions of the obscurity before they obtained a hold upon me. After satisfying myself of the fastening of the door, I began to walk round the room, peering round each article of furniture, tucking up the valances of the bed and opening its curtains wide. In one place there was a distinct echo to my footsteps, the noises I made seemed so little that they enhanced rather than broke the silence of the place. I pulled up the blinds and examined the fastenings of the several windows. Attracted by the fall of a particle of dust, I leaned forward and looked up the blackness of the wide chimney. Then, trying to preserve my scientific attitude of mind, I walked round and began tapping the oak paneling for any secret opening, but I desisted before reaching the alcove. I saw my face in a mirror—white. There were two big mirrors in the room, each with a pair of sconces bearing candles, and on the mantelshelf, too, were candles in china candle-sticks. All these I lit one after the other. The fire was laid—an unexpected consideration from the old housekeeper—and I lit it, to keep down any disposition to shiver, and when it was burning well I stood round with my back to it and regarded the room again. I had pulled up a chintz-covered armchair and a table to form a kind of barricade before me. On this lay my revolver, ready to hand. My precise examination had done me a little good, but J still found the remoter darkness of the place and its perfect stillness too stimulating for the imagination. The echoing of the stir and crackling of the fire was * no sort of comfort to me. The shadow in the alcove at the end of the room began to display that undefinable quality of a presence, that odd suggestion of a lurking living thing that comes so easily in silence and solitude. And to reassure myself, I walked with a candle into it and satisfied myself that there was nothing tangible there. I stood that candle upon the floor of the alcove and left it in that position. By this time I was in a state of considerable nervous tension, although to my reason there was no adequate cause for my condition. My mind, however, was perfectly clear. I postulated quite unreservedly that nothing supernatural could happen, and to pass the time I began stringing some rhymes together, Ingoldsby fashion, concerning the original legend of the place. A few I spoke aloud, but the echoes were not pleasant* For the same reason I also abandoned, after a time, a conversation with myself upon the impossibility of ghosts and haunting. My mind reverted to the three old and distorted people downstairs, and I tried to keep it upon that topic. The sombre reds and grays of the room troubled me; even with its seven candles the place was merely dim. The light in the alcove flaring in a draft, and the fire flickering, kept the shadows and penumbra perpetually shifting and stirring in a noiseless flighty dance. Casting # about for a remedy, I recalled the wax candles I had seen in the corridor, and, with a slight effort, carrying a candle and leaving the door open, I walked out into the moonlight, and presently returned with as many as ten. These I put in the various knick-knacks of china with which the room was sparsely adorned, and lit and placed them where the shadows had lain deepest, some on the floor, some in the window recesses, arranging and rearranging them until at last my seventeen candles were so placed that not an inch of the room but had the direct light of at least one of them. It occurred to me that when the ghost came I could warn him not to trip over them. The room was now quite brightly illuminated. There was something very cheering and reassuring in these little silent streaming flames, and to notice their steady diminution of length offered me an occupation and gave me a reassuring sense of the passage of time. Even with that, however, the brooding expectation of the vigil weighed heavily enough upon me. I stood watching the minute hand of my watch creep towards midnight. Then something happened in the alcove. I did not see the candle go out, I simply turned and saw that the darkness was there, as one might start #and see the unexpected presence of a stranger. The black shadow had sprung back to its place. "By Jove," said I aloud, recovering from my surprise, "that draft's a strong one;" and taking the matchbox from^he table, I walked across the room in a leisurely manner to relight the corner again. My first match would not strike, and as I succeeded with the second, something seemed to blink on the wall before me. I turned my head involuntarily and saw that the two candles on the little table by the fireplace were extinguished. I rose at once to my feet. "Odd," I said. "Did I do that myself in a flash of absent-mindedness?" I walked back, relit one, and as I did so I saw the candle in the right sconce of one of the mirrors wink and go right out, and almost immediately its companion followed it. The flames vanished as if the wick had been suddenly nipped between a finger and thumb, leaving the wick neither glowing nor smoking, but black. While I stood gaping the candle at the foot of the bed went out, and the shadows seemed to take another step toward me. "This won't do!" said I, and first one and then another candle on the mantelshelf followed. "What's up?" I cried, with a queer high note getting into my voice somehow. At that the candle on the corner of the wardrobe went out, and the one I had relit in the alcove followed. "Steady on!" I said, "those candles are wanted," speaking with a half-hysterical facetiousness, and scratching away at a match the while, "for the mantel candlesticks." My hands trembled so much that twice I missed the rough paper of the matchbox. As the mantel emerged from darkness again, two candles in the remoter end of the room were eclipsed. But with the same match I also relit the larger mirror candles, and those on the floor near the doorway, so that for the moment I seemed to gain on the extinctions. But then in a noiseless volley there vanished four lights at once in different corners of the room, and I struck another match in quivering haste, and stood hesitating whither to take it. As I stood undecided, an invisible hand seemed to sweep out the two candles on the table. With a cry of terror I dashed at the alcove, then into the corner and then into the window, relighting three as two more vanished by the fireplace, and then, perceiving a better way, I dropped matches on the iron-bound deedbox in the corner, and caught up the bedroom candlestick. With this I avoided the delay of striking matches, but for all that the steady process of extinction went on, and the shadows I feared and fought against returned, and crept in upon me, first a step gained on this side of me, then on that. I was now almost frantic with the horror of the coming darkness, and my self-possession deserted me. I leaped panting from candle to candle in a vain struggle against that remorseless advance. I bruised myself in the thigh against the table, I sent a chair headlong, I stumbled and fell and whisked the cloth from the table in my fall. My candle rolled away from me and I snatched another as I rose. Abruptly this was blown out as I swung it off the table by the wind of my sudden movement, and immediately the two remaining candles followed. But there was light still in the room, a red light, that streamed across the ceiling and staved off the shadows from me. The fire! Of course I could still thrust my candle between the bars and relight it. I turned to where the flames were still dancing between the glowing coals and splashing red reflections upon the furniture; made two steps toward the grate, and incontinently the flames dwindled and vanished, the glow vanished, the reflections rushed together and disappeared, and as I thrust the candle between the bars darkness closed upon me like the shutting of an eye, wrapped about me in a stifling embrace, sealed my vision, and crushed the last vestiges of self-possession from my brain. And it was not only palpable darkness, but intolerable terror. The candle fell from my hands. I flung out my arms in a vain effort to thrust that ponderous blackness away from me, and lifting up my voice, screamed with all my might, once, twice, thrice. Then I think I must have staggered to my feet. I know I thought suddenly of the moonlit corridor, and with my head bowed and my arms over my face, made a stumbling run for the door. But I had forgotten the exact position of the door, and I struck myself heavily against the corner of the bed. I staggered back, turned, and was either struck or struck myself against some other bulky furnishing. I have a vague memory of battering myself thus to and fro in the darkness, of a heavy blow at last upon my forehead, of a horrible sensation of falling that lasted an age, of my last frantic effort to keep my footing, and then I remember no more. I opened my eyes in daylight. My head was roughly bandaged, and the man with the withered hand was watching my face. I looked about me trying to remember what had happened, and for a space I could not recollect. I rolled my eyes into the corner and saw the old woman, no longer abstracted, no longer terrible, pouring out some drops of medicine from a little blue phial into a glass. "Where am I?" I said. "I seem to remember you, and yet I can not remember who you are." They told me then, and I heard of the haunted Red Room as one who bears a tale. "We found you at dawn," said he, "and there was blood on your forehead and lips." I wondered that I had ever disliked him. The three of them in the daylight seemed commonplace old folk enough. The man with the green shade had his head bent as one who sleeps. It was very slowly I recovered the memory of my experience. "You believe now," said the old man with the withered hand, "that the room is haunted?" He spoke no longer as one who greets an intruder, but as one who condoles with a friend. "Yes," said I, "the room is haunted." "And you have seen it. And we who have been here all our lives have never set eyes upon it. Because we have never dared. Tell us, is it truly the old earl who—" "No," said I, "it is not." "I told you so," said the old lady, with the glass in her hand. "It is his poor young countess who was frightened—" "It is not," I said. "There is neither ghost of earl nor ghost of countess in that room; there is no ghost there at all, but worse, far worse, something impalpable—" "Well?" they said. "The worst of all the things that haunt poor mortal men," said I; "and that is, in all its nakedness—'Fear!' Fear that will not have light nor sound, that will not bear with reason, that deafens and darkens and overwhelms. It followed me through the corridor, it fought against me in the room—" I stopped abruptly. There was an interval of silence. My hand went up to my bandages. "The candles went out one after another, and I fled—" Then the man with the shade lifted his face sideways to see me and spoke. "That is it," said he. "I knew that was it. A Power of Darkness. To put such a curse upon a home! It lurks there always. You can feel it even in the daytime, even of a bright summer's day, in the hangings, in the curtains, keeping behind you however you face about. In the dusk it creeps in the corridor and follows you, so that you dare not turn. It is even as you say. Fear itself is in that room. Black Fear.... And there it will be... so long as this house of sin endures." Harmonica Glenn Carver His father retrieved the box from the loft. It had an alpine scene on the front and inside was a long double sided metal harmonica. The boy looked at an old black and white photograph, creased then flattened with little tears at the edges. It showed a man in a collar and tie with a waistcoat and he wore a cloth cap. He stared straight into the camera as he smiled and his hands displayed a harmonica in front of him on a velvet cushioned base. It was not the same harmonica and the boy felt a tinge of disappointment. “Your granda won that harmonica in a music competition” His father pointed at the photograph. “That’s an engraved gold plate on the top, it says Wor Gor, short for Goddard. He took that harmonica everywhere and he used to take his teeth out to play the Highland March. When he died my uncles all wanted it, especially uncle Alf. I put that harmonica in his coffin to stop all their arguments”. The boy wished he had heard him play. He wanted that harmonica. It was a cold winter afternoon. The bus crossed the river and stopped under the shadow of disused cranes by an isolated church. The boy got off and entered the graveyard. The ground undulated and the organisation and symmetry of the tombstones was broken. Headstones had been pushed flat, some smashed, large ones were burned up one side and graffiti was blazed across others. The ground dipped and there was a yew tree and a holly bush. He looked more carefully now and in the late afternoon sunlight caught part of a weathered inscription “dearly beloved…God…..”. He went over to the grave, tore a tuft of grass to scrub the moss off the headstone and a word emerged: Goddard. He stood in contemplation then reached for the harmonica in his pocket. He cradled it and sucked tentatively. The sound was forlorn in the cold still air. He looked around, felt a sudden anxiety that hidden eyes watched him. The sun disappeared and it felt colder now. He blew again, tried to find a tune while the harmonica protested. He stared hard, focussed on the headstone and his eyes widened as a watery image appeared and floated within the granite. It was a man in a cloth gap who looked him hard in the eye then reached in his top pocket for a harmonica. The man laughed showing bare gums and began to play with cupped hands. He paused, then held the harmonica up and pointed it as an invitation to a duel. Then he played on, faded and disappeared. The boy felt his heart thump fast. He walked out of the dip and looked towards the gate. A mist had risen. It started at ground level, only the tops of the headstones visible as it spread from the fence towards him. His feet scrunched on the gravel path to the road. The mist thickened and when he reached the gate he could only see a few feet ahead of him. It was eerily quiet the way mist clamped down on sound and movement and held everything taut and still. A clip clop came closer and out of the mist loomed a high wagon pulled by two horses. Two figures sat side by side at the front on a bench: a teenage boy and an older man with a cap and a thick moustache smoking a pipe. The wagon was loaded with full sacks in front and empty sacks folded flat at the back. He could smell wet black coal. Dust and small fragments bounced, dropped off the back of the cart and left a trail of black grit down the road. The man nodded to him and the wagon trundled past and disappeared, clip clops faded, absorbed in the fog. He turned onto Walker Road towards the County pub. He stepped across the road and found cobbles where he expected tarmac. Out of the murk yellow light reflected from the amber tiles and engraved plate windows of the County. He pushed open the door and entered. The bar was busy. The room was full of men in cloth caps, smoky with a closer smell of wet wool and sweat. Faces turned and looked at him, direct eye contact, then they turned away and the bar noise resumed: a clatter of dominoes on wooden tables and thud of steel into cork at the dartboard. The boy could hear music from a group clustered in the corner where a slight figure played a tune on a mouth organ. As he eased through the crowd a drinker with a satin backed waistcoat stood up from his stool, lifted a mouth organ and played over the top of the first player. He took the tune up, swirled it away into a chorus while his boot stamped the beat. A third man with pinched cheeks faced him, jumped up on a bench and cupped his hands and bent to his own harmonica. He took the tune from the chorus, crouched then stood upright, pushed the harmonica across his mouth, cheeks sallow, concave then filled. The group banged on the tables with their pint glasses and he played on possessed, faster into a whirl of a jig then he stopped and lowered his harmonica. He looked straight at the boy, gave a toothless grin and wiped his sleeve across his mouth. He reached for his glass, took a long drink and laid his harmonica on the table. The harmonica was steel with a gold plate on the top. The boy looked and Gor’s eyes broke into mischief. He stood, put his hands on the shoulders of the men who sat on either side and laughed. They looked and laughed with him. The boy saw the same chiselled features, hard and angular. They shared a lean sinewy strength and he realised they were brothers. The bar door crashed open and the place turned as one. The man’s face was scarred, his donkey jacket hung open to show blue gabardine overalls from the yard. He stared to see if anyone caught his eye. “Alreet Alf” The men at the bar greeted him quietly, nodded and then turned away. He ignored them and looked over at the corner where the musicians sat. He pushed people aside to get to the table. He looked at the harmonica on the table and glared. “Aye, ye couldn’t wait two minutes to bring that here could ye?” Gor shrugged a small acknowledgement Alf set his head forward and rolled his shoulders “The whole yard’s nivvor stopped yammerin’ aboot that bloody gold harmonica. And heor ye are agin, showin’ it off. A’ve had it up to heor wi’ ye” He jerked a calloused hand to his forehead “Ye’re like a spoilt bairn and it’s time ye had it knocked out of ye” Alf shook out of the donkey jacket. “Ootside now”. He turned and pushed through the back door to the alley. The men at the bar looked at each other, put their drinks down and followed. The brothers muttered, shook their heads, filed out. Gor looked at the boy. “It’s a canny job ye come in son. Aa’ve summick for ye - a gift” He pressed the harmonica into the boy’s hands. “Tek it, gan hyem and divn’t fret. Alf’s in nae fit state”* Gor pushed him towards the front door then stepped out the back into the alley. The boy stumbled out of the bar. He passed the top of the alley and stopped. He wanted to go down but he was fearful. He heard the scrape of boots on cobbles and could see a throng widen in the darkness to make a rough circle. He walked away down the street, looked ahead and could see streetlights. He realised the fog had lifted and he saw cars parked on tarmac at the kerb. He looked over his shoulder at the pub and then walked back. A shaven headed smoker stood outside and glanced at him without interest. He pushed open the door. The bar was almost empty. A single drinker in a tracksuit, unshaven with greasy hair sat with a pint of lager and watched Sky Sports on TV. The barman leaned on his elbow on the counter. He backed out dazed and patted his coat to check the harmonica in his top pocket. He went round the corner and in a minute or two his bus came. It was almost empty and he sat upstairs at the front. He pulled the mouth organ out of his pocket and examined it. There was no gold plate on either side. He tapped it and pondered then he put it to his lips and began to play. He breathed slowly, gently seeking the sound. Gradually his tongue found the notes and his cupped hands moved. He sat and swayed with the bus, sucked the air from his cheeks then filled them and blew. He took the chorus from the old man and he played the melody of the Highland March faster and faster and his spirit soared. Author’s note “gan hyem” go home . CHAPTER II SHALL I COMPARE THEE TO A SUMMER'S DAY Sonnet 18 (William Shakespeare) Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate. Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer's lease hath all too short a date. Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimmed; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance, or nature's changing course untrimmed. But thy eternal summer shall not fade Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st; Nor shall death brag thou wand'rest in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st. So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. THE SEASON OF SPRING (Morhardt Carmen Mencita Monoi angel) the season of spring weather seems to sing lovely lovely days are coming our ways the season of spring blooming blossoming of nature of all kind let roots unbind the season of spring birds unfold their wings diving high into sky wish one could fly the season of spring careful hearts love sting reaching out towards others some persons might bother the season of spring nice sound bells ring new wave new style faces have on a smile the season of spring an new awakening busy humanity on earth as if it’s a new birth listen listen to my words the season of spring is near now a look into your lovely eyes and one can see spring is already here BLACK MAN (By : Blackman) When I bron, I black When I grow up, I black When I go in sun, I black When I cold, I black When I scared, I black When I sick, I black And When I die, I still black When yuo bron, you pink When you grow up, you white, When you go in sun, you red When you cold, you blue when you scared, you yellow when you sick, you green when you grursed, you purple and when you, you grey WHEN I WAS ONE AND TWENTY (By : A.E. Housman) When I was one and twenty I heard a wise man say “ give crawns and pcounds and quiness ” But not your heart away Given pearl away and rubie But keep your fancy free But I was one and twenty No use to talk to me When I was one and twenty I heard him say again “ the heart out of the bosom “ Was never given in vain It is paidwith sighs a dienty And sold for endless rue And I am two and twenty And oh, it’s true, it’s true A TREE IS PERFECT LOVE ( By Aaron Bryant) Love is patient. A tree stands waiting its entire life without complaint. Love is kind. A tree doesn't charge rent to its many animals and insects who call it home. Love isn't jealous. A tree won't change its natural growth to look like other trees. Love doesn't brag. A tree shows its beautiful colors in Fall, without speaking a word about them. Love isn't rude. A tree never rejects anyone. Love isn't selfish. A tree gives away its fruit free of charge. Love doesn't get mad. A tree never yells at a woodcutter for using its branches for firewood. Love doesn't keep a list of wrongs. A tree won't keep track of every time a woodpecker destroys its bark. Love is happy with truth. A tree accepts all things for what they are. Love always protects. A tree offers its shade from the sun to all who need it. Love always trusts. A tree never worries if the sun will rise or not. Love always hopes. A tree never gives up, enduring the worst weather without fear. Love always keeps going. A tree keeps growing, everyday reaching closer to the stars. Love never fails. A tree gives us oxygen, our breath of life, even in death, it gives us shelter and warmth. Love is perfect. A tree is perfect. MOTHER EARTH (By:Amelia Cruise) Mother earth our mother earth she is the one who gave us birth the tree, soils, mountains and hills All are one by one getting killed Mother earth our mother earth she was once full of happiness and mirth rivers, seas, lakes and wells In this place many creatures dwell Mother earth our mother earth Is now completely beleaguered People know only how to blare things are some times really bizzare Mother earth our mother earth We get to hear so many canards in this world full of terrorism there are very few with humanism Mother earth our mother earth no one understands its worth people work with a lot of zeal only to make money for their meal Mother earth our mother earth there are so many who experienced a blizzard the earth is turning apocalyptic but no one still is apologetic Mother earth our mother earth in the forests, we hear sweet birds chirp trees are being cut one by one but people on earth are planting none mother earth our mother earth Oh please stop filling it with dirt! ! ! we are destroying it no one other Save our mother save mother earth GO AFFECTION (THE LAST WORD FOR YOU) (By: Adella pleased Pratiwi) You come with your new story, Breathes a kind of poetry that I can always guess the good, Love is indeed cruel, But you must know, how sick I was when you give me up to scratch glass is infected, You do not come back bargain gold have you get after you lived me, But it’s not love,. Heart ever hurt you makes me faint in the cruel world of you,,,,,, The world is wide, but this city is just as small as your guts to love me,,, The chance that you recite through this wood not’ll might make me ready remedy lift you back. To become be my prince. God has always given the opportunity, But you must know, that opportunity came for the second time say it,, So is the chance that I give to you, please Go dear, I had fun playing with my little sore-smarting you’ve made it, And I’m also busy preparing neat memories you’ve entrusted it,, I’m happy, you’ve made a rainbow with less, even though I know you never gave him the color, However, this is where I,, always your patience and riding in my seriousness, But you have to shred things I Leave,, Go affection, Never to make a second time again for me, don’t once again carve your name one letter on my heart,, Because I’ve finished cleaning all have you created to me, Do not come dear, Because I already know a new love, Because I’ve got my new story. And stop to look forward to hear the words of a chance in my mind, You are never to be the leader, However, it used to,, Good-bye dear, Excuse me never expect you to be number one, … .. TEARS BEHIND MY EYES (By :Althapol) When you look into my eyes they may seem to be empty, My eyes are full of tears, although you don't see any. So many times my heart has been filled with pain, And deep behind my eyes are pockets of tears that are ready to fall like rain. I know at times I may appear to be tough, but sometimes to bear the pain and heartache can be too much. Sometimes I try and hide the tears that I cried just last night, Tears that soaked my pillow wet long past mornings first light. I know how it feels to be pushed away by someone you love, I'm not afraid to admit my tears because I know that there's a far greater love, one that comes from above. Happiness too will be mine, so until then I'll keep my my head up and eyes towards the skies, And never allowing anyone to see the tears hidden behind my eyes. LIFE LESSONS (By: Joanna Fuchs) You may have thought I didn't see, Or that I hadn't heard, Life lessons that you taught to me, But I got every word. Perhaps you thought I missed it all, And that we'd grow apart, But Dad, I picked up everything, It's written on my heart. Without you, Dad, I wouldn't be The (woman)(man) I am today; You built a strong foundation No one can take away. I've grown up with your values, And I'm very glad I did; So here's to you, dear father, From your forever grateful kid. GIVE ME ROMANCE EVERYTIME (By: Fiona Davidson) Maybe a little romance is needed Lightening our days in all this grey To place a smile on our faces You can't have too much romance In a life that's filled with sadness Making us laugh with pleasure Give me romance to dazzle me To make my heart sing out loud And make me feel I'm alive Bring on the romance to me It's welcome in a soul of tears Appreciated from this coldness Give me romantic words and deeds So pleasing to my eyes and ears Make me happy for a little while Give me romance everytime To make me blush and smile Instead of all these teasing words THE EFFORT (By: John Newton) Approach, my soul, the mercy-seat Where Jesus answers prayer; There humbly fall before His feet, For none can perish there. Thy promise is my only plea, With this I venture nigh; Thou callest burdened souls to Thee, And such, O Lord, am I. Bowed down beneath a load of sin, By Satan sorely pressed, By wars without, and fears within, I come to Thee for rest. Be Thou my shield and hiding-place, That, sheltered near Thy side, I may my fierce Accuser face And tell him Thou hast died. O wondrous Love! to bleed and die, To bear the cross and shame, That guilty sinners such as I Might plead Thy gracious name! Poor tempest-tossed soul, be still, My promised grace receive; 'Tis Jesus speaks I must, I will, I can, I do, believe. EVA RANAWEERA (By: The Poson Moon) In the lemon grove Clear cool air Brightened a Poson Moon The lemon trees opened Scented petals spilt into the night Secretly silently Who would wait waiting When formless shadow appears to break A dried leaf in the silence When I take my eyes off the Poson Moon My wish suffocates in a cough Wheres is the face to look upon It keeps coming up As I hide myself in the shadow Looking at her sailing with the clouds Once in my earlier birth The lemon grove blossomed in the moon Light as I walked with a shadow Thoward the wooden fence Casting long length of beings in rows Silently, Pleasantest of air surrounding And a longed for face to look upon As I take my eyes off the first sighting ALFRED A.YUSON (By: Dream of Knives) Last night I dream of a knife I had bought for my son.Of rare dagger With Fancily rounded pommel,and a wodden sheath Which miraculously revealed other,miniature blades. Oh how pleased he would be upon my return From this journey,I thought.What rapture Will surely adorn his ten-year princeling’s face When he draws the gift the first time.What quivering Pleasure will most certanly be unleashed. When I woke,there was no return,no journey, No gift,and no son beside me.Where do I search For this knife then,and when do I begin to draw Happiness from reality.And why do I beed so From such sharp points of dreams? A FIGHTER FOR LOVE WITHOUT LOVE (By: Jeremiah Ray) I'm a lover not a fighter but doesn't a lover fight for love? should I resign thoughts that aren't sane Then what should I shall then become? I'm a man of decency, I love the thought of love and everything in between that leads to love and more or less the fact it can exist try not to give up on me, 'cause God knows I'm so lost in space I can change, I can be better I will change, I will be better I have confidence now that I used to lack Give me a doubt and I'll turn it right around on it's back I was so oblivious to everything It surrounded me I used to think life was all about me I hate my old selfish ways but now I can see I deserve love, I can be loved. I will be loved. I am Loved. ..But do I want to be? .... yet? I'm so young, and so naive, I admit I'm not the smartest, but I'm one of the more wiser I'm lonely but I'm not alone I'm tired but I won't retire I'm all that is that I want to be But not entirely satisfied Until I have a partner I'm just a piece inside of the puzzle Just a baby blue Robbin waiting on it's mother Just a space without a corner a car without a driver This can not be untrue I am true, don't believe in defeat 'cause love's all there is left in me. TOMORROW, IF IT COMES (By: Holly G Neely) Tomorrow ,if I die, what did I have that showed my life had meaning? daddy's drunk, mom's crying, sister's dying and I'm too weak to start screaming, so many people affected my life that I'm no longer the one who lives it, I have no point in life, cause I think there is no point in life, why is god making me live this? tomorrow, if I cry, who do I have to wipe my tears? broken apart by all the "I don't want to ever remember" years so many people broke my heart, not so many came to mend it, only use for people's hand were to hit me, but never just to lend it, and you wonder why I sometimes tend to keep my head straight down, wonder why I sometimes tend to feel so lost even when I'm found, and you wonder why I sometimes feel like I should just live life high, wonder why I sometimes feel like throwing two middle fingers to the sky, so tomorrow, if I die, my life didn't really have a meaning, and tomorrow, if I cry, down my face the tears will keep streaming even though I have a painful life, I'll stay strong, is what I say and tomorrow, if it comes, might take this pain away, no matter what, I still have control to how my future goes, it's my life, my way, that's the one thing that I know, and tomorrow, if it comes, might take this pain away, because tomorrow, as we know, IS a brand new day. THE WORLD WILL END (By: Anonymous) Doors slam, chains rattle You win the war, you lose the battle Ice cracks, dogs bark Tires screech, the fire sparks Lights blink, the wind blows You fake a grin, the sadness shows The knife cuts, trees fall One last tear completes the call Twigs break, rain drops Heart's bleed they'll never stop Needles scratch, grass gets long Drops of blood echo the beat of the song The clocks ticks, the hour strikes Kids whine, Parents fight The moon hides, the blood drips Now that he's gone, the broken heart rips Nails on a chalkboard, teeth grind You're all alone, with no one left to find You grab the gun, give the world one last kiss Thunder crashes, with no one left to miss Cookies crumble, rules bend A lightning flash, the world will end Tears fall, you hate good byes You can't hold on, so you just die "WOULD ANYONE NOTICE" (By: Pamela Loftis) If tomorrow comes and the coffee isn't made, would anyone notice that I wasn't here. If you go to get a shirt and find it isn't clean, would you just think that I was being mean? Would you check out the window to see if my car was here, or would you just think that I was somewhere near? And when dinner was not on time, would you look for me to tell me, you just committed a crime! And when you had to cook for yourself, would you wonder why she's not on time. And when the phone rings to talk to momma, would you wonder why she didn't answer, or would you just blame her for yet another crime? When night comes, would you say a prayer, or would you just lie there and stare. Then the next day comes and you find I'm still not here, would you shed a tear? Would you ask yourself, maybe I should have called her more. Or would you just say, she's probably at the store. And when you finally see that I'm gone for good, would you miss me or wonder why I left? Nobody ever notices, until it's too late then it's the tears that make you hurt so bad. For you knew this day would come, yet you never prepared. You say that she knew I loved her, but did she really? Did you pick up the phone when she needed you, or were you just too busy to listen to her pain? Were you ever proud of her, did you tell her? Or did you say, she knew I loved her. Did you ever call to say how's your day mom? Do you question now, what could I have done to make her feel better? Took her out somewhere nice or brought her a flower just to show her that you love her. And be a better husband and listen to her more. Now it's too late, but you have one more chance.... now you can send her flowers and they can sit on her grave, she won't get to smell them or find a pretty vase yet it may make you feel better. You see she was always there, to listen, to care and to love with her whole Heart. And she will leave you all with that, she left here with footsteps on her Heart. AFTERMATH (By: Ed. T.R. Smith) LAST night, we fled, close locked, in sweet embrace, Across the empty kingdom men call "Space." So deep the solitude, I could but feel Your fear within. It made my senses reel. I clasped you closer, with encircling arm, As though to shield you from impending harm And like a zephyr, from the sun-kissed South, I felt the pressure of your trembling mouth. A flame shot through my soul, in that first kiss. I was on fire. I knew no thought but this; I loved you--mind, heart, body, brain and soul. And had--since centuries first began to roll. And when your melting mouth had answered mine, Within your eyes, a new-born light divine Proclaimed the wondrous miracle was done, And our two souls had melted into one. Oh! idiot Earth, to waste the dew of youth, Along the borderlands of perfect truth! Oh! dolts and dullards, with your feet of clay! To shun the glorious light of perfect day! In that first kiss, the past was all laid bare. The future years, transparent as the air In swift procession, swept across our path And left me drunk, with love's sweet aftermath. ENTHRALLED (By: Alfred Bryan) TEACH me to sin In love's forbidden ways, For you can make all passion pure; The magic lure of your sweet eyes Each shape of sin makes virtue praise. Teach me to sin Enslave me to your wanton charms, Crush me in your velvet arms And make me, make me love you. Make me fire your blood with new desire, And make me kiss you--lip and limb, Till sense reel and pusles swim. Aye! even if you hate me, Teach me to sin. DUO DUO (By: Nadia Teuni) When people rise from cheese Songs, but the bloody revolution goes unnoticed August is a ruthless bow The vicious son walks out of the farmhouse Bringing with him tobacco and a dry throat The beasts must bear cruel blinders Corpses encrusted in hair hang From the swollen drums of their buttocks Till the sacrifices behind the fence Become blurry From far a way there comes marching a troop Of smoking people CEDARS (By: Nadia Teuni) I salute you You who draws life From a single root With the night as your watchdog Your rustlings have the splendor of words And the supremacy of cataclysms I know you You who are Hospitable of memory You wear grief of the living Because this side of time is time as well I spell your name You who are Unique as the song of songs A great cold enfolds you And heaven itself is in reach of your branches I defy you You who while in our mountains So that we hear the sounds in our blood Today, which is yesterday’s tomorrow Crosses your forms like a setting star I love you You who depart with the wind as your banner I love you as man love breath You are the fish poam LOVE AND SLEEP (By: Algernon Charles Swinburne) Lying asleep between the strokes of night I saw my love lean over my sad bed, Pale as the duskiest lily's leaf or head, Smooth-skinned and dark, with bare throat made to bite, Too wan for blushing and too warm for white, But perfect-coloured without white or red. And her lips opened amorously, and said-- I wist not what, saving one word--Delight. And all her face was honey to my mouth, And all her body pasture to mine eyes; The long lithe arms and hotter hands than fire, The quivering flanks, hair smelling of the south, The bright light feet, the splendid supple thighs And glittering eyelids of my soul's desire. WORK WITHOUT HOPE (By: Samuel Taylor Coleridge) All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair The bees are stirring birds are on the wing And Winter slumbering in the open air, Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring! And I the while, the sole unbusy thing, Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing. Yet well I ken the banks where amaranths blow, Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar flow. Bloom, O ye amaranths! bloom for whom ye may, For me ye bloom not! Glide, rich streams, away! With lips unbrightened, wreathless brow, I stroll: And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul? Work without Hope draws nectar in a sieve, And Hope without an object cannot live. A GREEN CORNFIELD Christina Rossetti (1830-1894) The earth was green, the sky was blue: I saw and heard one sunny morn A skylark hang betweent he two, A singing speck above the corn; A stage below, in gay accord, White butterflies danced on the wing, And still the singing skylark soared, And silent sank and soared to sing. The cornfield stretched a tender green To right and left beside my walks; I knew he had a nest unseen Somewhere among the million stalks. And as I paused to hear his song While swift the sunny moments slid, Perhaps his mate sat listening long, And listened longer than I did. THE LEAF AND THE TREE (By: Edna St Vincent Millay) When will you learn, myself, to be a dying leaf on a living tree? Budding, swelling, growing strong, Wearing green, but not for long, Drawing sustenance from air, That other leaves, and you not there, May bud, and at the autumn's call Wearing russet, ready to fall? Has not this trunk a deed to do Unguessed by small and tremulous you? Shall not these branches in the end To wisdom and the truth ascend? And the great lightning plunging by Look sidewise with a golden eye To glimpse a tree so tall and proud It sheds its leaves upon a cloud? Here, I think, is the heart's grief: The tree, no mightier than the leaf, Makes firm its root and spreads it crown And stands; but in the end comes down. That airy top no boy could climb Is trodden in a little time By cattle on their way to drink. The fluttering thoughts a leaf can think, That hears the wind and waits its turn, Have taught it all a tree can learn. Time can make soft that iron wood. The tallest trunk that ever stood, In time, without a dream to keep, Crawls in beside the root to sleep. FREEDOM ISN'T FREE (By: Anonymous) I watched the flag pass by one day it fluttered in the breeze. A young marine saluted it, And then he stood at ease.. I looked at him in uniform So young, So tall, So proud, With hair cut square and eyes alert He'd stand out in any crowd. I thought how many men like him Had fallen through the years. How many mothers' tears? How many pilots' planes shot down? How many died at sea How many foxholes were soldiers' graves? No, freedom isn't free. I heard the sound of Taps one night, When everything was still, I listened to the bugler play And felt a sudden chill. I wondered just how many times That Taps had meant Amen. When a flag had draped a coffin. Of a brother or a friend. I thought of all the children Of mothers and the wives, Of fathers, sons and husbands With interrupted lives. I thought about a graveyard at the bottom of the sea Of unmarked graves in Arlington. no, freedom is’nt free I AM (By: Vanriper) I am a person who loves to be with their family I wonder how the world is going to end I hear screaming voices around me, but I have no idea who it is I see my life happening really fast around me I want to know who my dad really is and how much I really look like him I am a person who loves to be with their family I pretend to have a fabulous life that is worth living I feel that my family is growing apart more everyday I touch my little nephews hand and wonder is he going to have a bad life I worry that my brother and sister is going to end up in a bad situation I cry because my parents have problems I am a person who loves their family I understand that highland is a good school for college I say that I will go to college I dream to know my real dad I try to very well in school I hope that my mom's boyfriend would STOP! Drinking I am a person who loves their family I LET GO (By : Shiny Star) Butterfly, butterfly, don’t leave me, The world is very cruel, so stay with me, I’ll give all that you need, will be a sister and a friend, Just stay with me and let our friendship extend. The Sun you’re in love can burn you into dust, For the pretty Birds of Prey, you are just a yummy snack. The beauty of the sky that you see from this ground, Won’t be what you find once you leave this compound. You left me once, no, no, twice or thrice, But flew back to me with your torn wings; your price, The lessons you learnt, I thought would have taught you something If you leave me again I know you’ll be reduced to nothing. Butterfly, butterfly go away… I never meant to force you to stay… If leaving me is what you really want, Here you go… you’re free, you’ll get what you want. BROKEN SELF (By : Joseph Narusiewicz) Hidden in the wilderness Beneath a broken self Chosen by the light Only there do I grow and move on Love has a mercy of forgiveness She is just another diversion I am on my own All the illusions shatter All the romance becomes winter All renewal is in the light Outside of man out side of time Another naked day where I am stripped A fortress of stone tumbles into night Humility takes away the red cloak Twisted nature amidst the thorns I seek healing outside of myself The ground shakes Shattered idols and masks Pride in a hurricane All that’s left is the soul made quieter Looking at the eternal stars Traveling into the naked light Leaving behind the broken self , A MILLION TIMES (By: Ronnie Catron) A Million Times A million times I have told you I love you A million times I will tell you again. I take you in my arms and hold you tight Because I know this is right I love you more than there are stars in the sky I love you so much I hate to say goodbye You are the one, the one for me I will always be there like I said I would be There are bridges that we have to conquer I know you worry, but we will not falter Please be mine now and forever I will be yours for ever and ever I wrote this poem just for you Because I know our love is true. I have told you a million times again I will love you till the end. FRIENDSHIP IS A GOLDEN CHAIN (By: Helen Steiner Rice) Friendship is a golden chain-- The links are friends so dear, And like a rare and precious jewel It's treasured more each year. It’s clasped together firmly With a love that’s deep and true, And it’s rich with happy memories and fond recollections, too… Time can't destroy its beauty For as long as memory lives, Years can't erase the pleasure That the joy of friendship gives. For friendship is a priceless gift That can't be bought or sold, But to have an understanding friend Is worth far more than gold! And the Golden Chain of Friendship Is a strong and blessed tie Binding kindred hearts together As the years go passing by. HAVEN OF ROMANCE (By: Drania Haplern) Romance came at morning love story without end we stole a kiss by the river the haven of love way down in the glen soprano voices came hither ecstasy lingered then with the bliss of romance. Only a shy young maiden was I how could my heart ever know that love was steadily seeping into the innocence of my soul? Romance came with glory love's fable now I pen we fell in love one September at a haven of love way down in the glen your kind caress I remember I was eager to dance on wings of true Romance. THE POSON MOON Eva Ranaweera In the lemon grove Clear cool air Brightened a Poson Moon The lemon trees opened Scented petals spilt into the night Secretly silently Who would wait waiting When formless shadow appears to break A dried leaf in the silence When I take my eyes off the Poson Moon My wish suffocates in a cough Wheres is the face to look upon It keeps coming up As I hide myself in the shadow Looking at her sailing with the clouds Once in my earlier birth The lemon grove blossomed in the moon Light as I walked with a shadow Thoward the wooden fence Casting long length of beings in rows Silently, Pleasantest of air surrounding And a longed for face to look upon As I take my eyes off the first sighting DREAM OF KNIVES Alfred A.Yuson Last night I dream of a knife I had bought for my son.Of rare dagger With Fancily rounded pommel,and a wodden sheath Which miraculously revealed other,miniature blades. Oh how pleased he would be upon my return From this journey,I thought.What rapture Will surely adorn his ten-year princeling’s face When he draws the gift the first time.What quivering Pleasure will most certanly be unleashed. When I woke,there was no return,no journey, No gift,and no son beside me.Where do I search For this knife then,and when do I begin to draw Happiness from reality.And why do I beed so From such sharp points of dreams? UNTIL I MET YOU By Joanna Fuchs Before I met you, I thought I was happy, and I was, but I had never knownthe rich contentment, deep satisfaction, and total fulfillmentyou brought to mewhen you came into my life. Before I met you, I felt a lot of things, good things, but I had never experiencedthe indescribably intensefeelings I have for you. Before I met you, I thought I knew myself, and I did, but you looked deep inside meand found fresh new thingsfor us to share. Before I met you, I thought I knew about love, but I didn’t, until I met you. BECAUSE YOU ARE MY FRIEND by Joanna Fuchs Because you are my friend, my life is enriched in a myriad of ways. Like a cool breeze on a sweltering day, like a ray of sunshine parting glowering clouds, you lift me up. In good times, we soar, like weightless balloonsover neon rainbows. In bad times, you are soothing balmfor my pummeled soul. I learn so much from you; you help me see old things in new ways. I wonder if you are awareof the bright seeds you are sowing in me. I'm a better person for knowing you, so that everyone I interact withis touched by your good effect on me. You relax me, refresh me, renew me. Your bounteous heart envelops mein joy and love and peace. May your life be filledwith dazzling blessings, just as I am blessedby being your friend. HAMLAN HARIS NURIL UMAM HIDAYAT MEGA PUSPITA MIFTAHUL JANNAH NURJANNAH NURLELA JULISA RIADOH ROSIDAH HASANAH NST SARTINI SITI AFSAH SITI FATIMAH SITI NURWIJAYANTI SUNARIO VITA RISKIANA YUNI WIGATI NINGSIH NOVIANA ELVIANA