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Since this mod builds on the default game, we use the LGPL.
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That's all there is to it!

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# gutenberg
Project Gutenberg books for Minetest
This just lets you create books with actual books in them that you can read in game. Why would you want to do that? No idea. I just thought it was cool.
You should be able to download any Project Gutenberg text, save it to your mods/gutenberg/books/ directory, and it will be available in the game.

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Title: The Tale Of Benjamin Bunny
Author: Beatrix Potter
THE TALE OF
BENJAMIN BUNNY
BY
BEATRIX POTTER
AUTHOR OF "THE TAIL OF PETER RABBIT," &C.
FROM
OLD MR. BUNNY
One morning a little rabbit sat on a bank.
He pricked his ears and listened to the trit-trot, trit-trot of a pony.
A gig was coming along the road; it was driven by Mr. McGregor, and beside
him sat Mrs. McGregor in her best bonnet.
As soon as they had passed, little Benjamin Bunny slid down into the road,
and set off--with a hop, skip, and a jump--to call upon his relations, who
lived in the wood at the back of Mr. McGregor's garden.
That wood was full of rabbit holes; and in the neatest, sandiest hole of
all lived Benjamin's aunt and his cousins--Flopsy, Mopsy, Cotton-tail, and
Peter.
Old Mrs. Rabbit was a widow; she earned her living by knitting rabbit-wool
mittens and muffatees (I once bought a pair at a bazaar). She also sold
herbs, and rosemary tea, and rabbit-tobacco (which is what we call
lavender).
Little Benjamin did not very much want to see his Aunt.
He came round the back of the fir-tree, and nearly tumbled upon the top of
his Cousin Peter.
Peter was sitting by himself. He looked poorly, and was dressed in a red
cotton pocket-handkerchief.
"Peter," said little Benjamin, in a whisper, "who has got your clothes?"
Peter replied, "The scarecrow in Mr. McGregor's garden," and described how
he had been chased about the garden, and had dropped his shoes and coat.
Little Benjamin sat down beside his cousin and assured him that Mr.
McGregor had gone out in a gig, and Mrs. McGregor also; and certainly for
the day, because she was wearing her best bonnet.
Peter said he hoped that it would rain.
At this point old Mrs. Rabbit's voice was heard inside the rabbit hole,
calling: "Cotton-tail! Cotton-tail! fetch some more camomile!"
Peter said he thought he might feel better if he went for a walk.
They went away hand in hand, and got upon the flat top of the wall at the
bottom of the wood. From here they looked down into Mr. McGregor's garden.
Peter's coat and shoes were plainly to be seen upon the scarecrow, topped
with an old tam-o'-shanter of Mr. McGregor's.
Little Benjamin said: "It spoils people's clothes to squeeze under a gate;
the proper way to get in is to climb down a pear-tree."
Peter fell down head first; but it was of no consequence, as the bed below
was newly raked and quite soft.
It had been sown with lettuces.
They left a great many odd little footmarks all over the bed, especially
little Benjamin, who was wearing clogs.
Little Benjamin said that the first thing to be done was to get back
Peter's clothes, in order that they might be able to use the
pocket-handkerchief.
They took them off the scarecrow. There had been rain during the night;
there was water in the shoes, and the coat was somewhat shrunk.
Benjamin tried on the tam-o'-shanter, but it was too big for him.
Then he suggested that they should fill the pocket-handkerchief with
onions, as a little present for his Aunt.
Peter did not seem to be enjoying himself; he kept hearing noises.
Benjamin, on the contrary, was perfectly at home, and ate a lettuce leaf.
He said that he was in the habit of coming to the garden with his father
to get lettuces for their Sunday dinner.
(The name of little Benjamin's papa was old Mr. Benjamin Bunny.)
The lettuces certainly were very fine.
Peter did not eat anything; he said he should like to go home. Presently
he dropped half the onions.
Little Benjamin said that it was not possible to get back up the pear-tree
with a load of vegetables. He led the way boldly towards the other end of
the garden. They went along a little walk on planks, under a sunny, red
brick wall.
The mice sat on their doorsteps cracking cherry-stones; they winked at
Peter Rabbit and little Benjamin Bunny.
Presently Peter let the pocket-handkerchief go again.
They got amongst flower-pots, and frames, and tubs. Peter heard noises
worse than ever; his eyes were as big as lolly-pops!
He was a step or two in front of his cousin when he suddenly stopped.
This is what those little rabbits saw round that corner!
Little Benjamin took one look, and then, in half a minute less than no
time, he hid himself and Peter and the onions underneath a large
basket....
The cat got up and stretched herself, and came and sniffed at the basket.
Perhaps she liked the smell of onions!
Anyway, she sat down upon the top of the basket.
She sat there for _five hours_.
* * * * *
I cannot draw you a picture of Peter and Benjamin underneath the basket,
because it was quite dark, and because the smell of onions was fearful; it
made Peter Rabbit and little Benjamin cry.
The sun got round behind the wood, and it was quite late in the afternoon;
but still the cat sat upon the basket.
At length there was a pitter-patter, pitter-patter, and some bits of
mortar fell from the wall above.
The cat looked up and saw old Mr. Benjamin Bunny prancing along the top of
the wall of the upper terrace.
He was smoking a pipe of rabbit-tobacco, and had a little switch in his
hand.
He was looking for his son.
Old Mr. Bunny had no opinion whatever of cats.
He took a tremendous jump off the top of the wall on to the top of the
cat, and cuffed it off the basket, and kicked it into the greenhouse,
scratching off a handful of fur.
The cat was too much surprised to scratch back.
When old Mr. Bunny had driven the cat into the greenhouse, he locked the
door.
Then he came back to the basket and took out his son Benjamin by the ears,
and whipped him with the little switch.
Then he took out his nephew Peter.
Then he took out the handkerchief of onions, and marched out of the
garden.
When Mr. McGregor returned about half an hour later he observed several
things which perplexed him.
It looked as though some person had been walking all over the garden in a
pair of clogs--only the footmarks were too ridiculously little!
Also he could not understand how the cat could have managed to shut
herself up _inside_ the greenhouse, locking the door upon the _outside_.
When Peter got home his mother forgave him, because she was so glad to see
that he had found his shoes and coat. Cotton-tail and Peter folded up the
pocket-handkerchief, and old Mrs. Rabbit strung up the onions and hung
them from the kitchen ceiling, with the bunches of herbs and the
rabbit-tobacco.
THE END

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Title: The Tale of the Flopsy Bunnies
Author: Beatrix Potter
THE TALE OF
THE FLOPSY BUNNIES BY BEATRIX POTTER
FOR ALL LITTLE FRIENDS OF
MR. MCGREGOR & PETER & BENJAMIN
It is said that the effect of eating too much lettuce is "soporific."
_I_ have never felt sleepy after eating lettuces; but then _I_ am not a
rabbit.
They certainly had a very soporific effect upon the Flopsy Bunnies!
When Benjamin Bunny grew up, he married his Cousin Flopsy. They had a
large family, and they were very improvident and cheerful.
I do not remember the separate names of their children; they were
generally called the "Flopsy Bunnies."
As there was not always quite enough to eat,--Benjamin used to borrow
cabbages from Flopsy's brother, Peter Rabbit, who kept a nursery garden.
Sometimes Peter Rabbit had no cabbages to spare.
When this happened, the Flopsy Bunnies went across the field to a rubbish
heap, in the ditch outside Mr. McGregor's garden.
Mr. McGregor's rubbish heap was a mixture. There were jam pots and paper
bags, and mountains of chopped grass from the mowing machine (which always
tasted oily), and some rotten vegetable marrows and an old boot or two.
One day--oh joy!--there were a quantity of overgrown lettuces, which had
"shot" into flower.
The Flopsy Bunnies simply stuffed lettuces. By degrees, one after another,
they were overcome with slumber, and lay down in the mown grass.
Benjamin was not so much overcome as his children. Before going to sleep
he was sufficiently wide awake to put a paper bag over his head to keep
off the flies.
The little Flopsy Bunnies slept delightfully in the warm sun. From the
lawn beyond the garden came the distant clacketty sound of the mowing
machine. The bluebottles buzzed about the wall, and a little old mouse
picked over the rubbish among the jam pots.
(I can tell you her name, she was called Thomasina Tittlemouse, a
woodmouse with a long tail.)
She rustled across the paper bag, and awakened Benjamin Bunny.
The mouse apologized profusely, and said that she knew Peter Rabbit.
While she and Benjamin were talking, close under the wall, they heard a
heavy tread above their heads; and suddenly Mr. McGregor emptied out a
sackful of lawn mowings right upon the top of the sleeping Flopsy Bunnies!
Benjamin shrank down under his paper bag. The mouse hid in a jam pot.
The little rabbits smiled sweetly in their sleep under the shower of
grass; they did not awake because the lettuces had been so soporific.
They dreamt that their mother Flopsy was tucking them up in a hay bed.
Mr. McGregor looked down after emptying his sack. He saw some funny little
brown tips of ears sticking up through the lawn mowings. He stared at them
for some time.
Presently a fly settled on one of them and it moved.
Mr. McGregor climbed down on to the rubbish heap--
"One, two, three, four! five! six leetle rabbits!" said he as he dropped
them into his sack. The Flopsy Bunnies dreamt that their mother was
turning them over in bed. They stirred a little in their sleep, but still
they did not wake up.
Mr. McGregor tied up the sack and left it on the wall.
He went to put away the mowing machine.
While he was gone, Mrs. Flopsy Bunny (who had remained at home) came
across the field.
She looked suspiciously at the sack and wondered where everybody was?
Then the mouse came out of her jam pot, and Benjamin took the paper bag
off his head, and they told the doleful tale.
Benjamin and Flopsy were in despair, they could not undo the string.
But Mrs. Tittlemouse was a resourceful person. She nibbled a hole in the
bottom corner of the sack.
The little rabbits were pulled out and pinched to wake them.
Their parents stuffed the empty sack with three rotten vegetable marrows,
an old blacking-brush and two decayed turnips.
Then they all hid under a bush and watched for Mr. McGregor.
Mr. McGregor came back and picked up the sack, and carried it off.
He carried it hanging down, as if it were rather heavy.
The Flopsy Bunnies followed at a safe distance.
They watched him go into his house.
And then they crept up to the window to listen.
Mr. McGregor threw down the sack on the stone floor in a way that would
have been extremely painful to the Flopsy Bunnies, if they had happened to
have been inside it.
They could hear him drag his chair on the flags, and chuckle--
"One, two, three, four, five, six leetle rabbits!" said Mr. McGregor.
"Eh? What's that? What have they been spoiling now?" enquired Mrs.
McGregor.
"One, two, three, four, five, six leetle fat rabbits!" repeated Mr.
McGregor, counting on his fingers--"one, two, three--"
"Don't you be silly; what do you mean, you silly old man?"
"In the sack! one, two, three, four, five, six!" replied Mr. McGregor.
(The youngest Flopsy Bunny got upon the window-sill.)
Mrs. McGregor took hold of the sack and felt it. She said she could feel
six, but they must be _old_ rabbits, because they were so hard and all
different shapes.
"Not fit to eat; but the skins will do fine to line my old cloak."
"Line your old cloak?" shouted Mr. McGregor--"I shall sell them and buy
myself baccy!"
"Rabbit tobacco! I shall skin them and cut off their heads."
Mrs. McGregor untied the sack and put her hand inside.
When she felt the vegetables she became very very angry. She said that Mr.
McGregor had "done it a purpose."
And Mr. McGregor was very angry too. One of the rotten marrows came flying
through the kitchen window, and hit the youngest Flopsy Bunny.
It was rather hurt.
Then Benjamin and Flopsy thought that it was time to go home.
So Mr. McGregor did not get his tobacco, and Mrs. McGregor did not get her
rabbit skins.
But next Christmas Thomasina Tittlemouse got a present of enough
rabbit-wool to make herself a cloak and a hood, and a handsome muff and a
pair of warm mittens.

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Title: The Gift of the Magi
Author: 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 left 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 look-out 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, the letters of "Dillingham" looked blurred, as 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 grey cat walking a grey fence in a grey backyard. To-morrow 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 honour 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 Bat. 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 colour 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 of 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 cluttered out of the door and down the stairs to the street.
Where she stopped the sign read: "Mme Sofronie. Hair Goods of All Kinds." One Eight 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 78 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 of saying little silent prayers 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 with out gloves.
Jim stepped 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 it 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 labour.
"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 a 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 for 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 then 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. Of all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi.

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Title: HOW MUCH LAND DOES A MAN NEED?
Author: Leo Tolstoy
HOW MUCH LAND DOES A MAN NEED?
I
An elder sister came to visit her younger sister in the country. The
elder was married to a tradesman in town, the younger to a peasant in
the village. As the sisters sat over their tea talking, the elder began
to boast of the advantages of town life: saying how comfortably they
lived there, how well they dressed, what fine clothes her children wore,
what good things they ate and drank, and how she went to the theatre,
promenades, and entertainments.
The younger sister was piqued, and in turn disparaged the life of a
tradesman, and stood up for that of a peasant.
"I would not change my way of life for yours," said she. "We may live
roughly, but at least we are free from anxiety. You live in better style
than we do, but though you often earn more than you need, you are very
likely to lose all you have. You know the proverb, 'Loss and gain are
brothers twain.' It often happens that people who are wealthy one day
are begging their bread the next. Our way is safer. Though a peasant's
life is not a fat one, it is a long one. We shall never grow rich, but
we shall always have enough to eat."
The elder sister said sneeringly:
"Enough? Yes, if you like to share with the pigs and the calves! What do
you know of elegance or manners! However much your good man may slave,
you will die as you are living-on a dung heap-and your children the
same."
"Well, what of that?" replied the younger. "Of course our work is rough
and coarse. But, on the other hand, it is sure; and we need not bow to
any one. But you, in your towns, are surrounded by temptations; today
all may be right, but tomorrow the Evil One may tempt your husband with
cards, wine, or women, and all will go to ruin. Don't such things happen
often enough?"
Pahom, the master of the house, was lying on the top of the oven, and he
listened to the women's chatter.
"It is perfectly true," thought he. "Busy as we are from childhood
tilling Mother Earth, we peasants have no time to let any nonsense
settle in our heads. Our only trouble is that we haven't land enough. If
I had plenty of land, I shouldn't fear the Devil himself!"
The women finished their tea, chatted a while about dress, and then
cleared away the tea-things and lay down to sleep.
But the Devil had been sitting behind the oven, and had heard all that
was said. He was pleased that the peasant's wife had led her husband
into boasting, and that he had said that if he had plenty of land he
would not fear the Devil himself.
"All right," thought the Devil. "We will have a tussle. I'll give you
land enough; and by means of that land I will get you into my power."
II
Close to the village there lived a lady, a small landowner, who had an
estate of about three hundred acres. She had always lived on good terms
with the peasants, until she engaged as her steward an old soldier, who
took to burdening the people with fines. However careful Pahom tried to
be, it happened again and again that now a horse of his got among the
lady's oats, now a cow strayed into her garden, now his calves found
their way into her meadows-and he always had to pay a fine.
Pahom paid, but grumbled, and, going home in a temper, was rough with
his family. All through that summer Pahom had much trouble because of
this steward; and he was even glad when winter came and the cattle had
to be stabled. Though he grudged the fodder when they could no longer
graze on the pasture-land, at least he was free from anxiety about them.
In the winter the news got about that the lady was going to sell her
land, and that the keeper of the inn on the high road was bargaining for
it. When the peasants heard this they were very much alarmed.
"Well," thought they, "if the innkeeper gets the land he will worry us
with fines worse than the lady's steward. We all depend on that estate."
So the peasants went on behalf of their Commune, and asked the lady not
to sell the land to the innkeeper; offering her a better price for it
themselves. The lady agreed to let them have it. Then the peasants tried
to arrange for the Commune to buy the whole estate, so that it might
be held by all in common. They met twice to discuss it, but could not
settle the matter; the Evil One sowed discord among them, and they could
not agree. So they decided to buy the land individually, each according
to his means; and the lady agreed to this plan as she had to the other.
Presently Pahom heard that a neighbor of his was buying fifty acres,
and that the lady had consented to accept one half in cash and to wait a
year for the other half. Pahom felt envious.
"Look at that," thought he, "the land is all being sold, and I shall get
none of it." So he spoke to his wife.
"Other people are buying," said he, "and we must also buy twenty acres
or so. Life is becoming impossible. That steward is simply crushing us
with his fines."
So they put their heads together and considered how they could manage to
buy it. They had one hundred roubles laid by. They sold a colt, and one
half of their bees; hired out one of their sons as a laborer, and took
his wages in advance; borrowed the rest from a brother-in-law, and so
scraped together half the purchase money.
Having done this, Pahom chose out a farm of forty acres, some of
it wooded, and went to the lady to bargain for it. They came to an
agreement, and he shook hands with her upon it, and paid her a deposit
in advance. Then they went to town and signed the deeds; he paying half
the price down, and undertaking to pay the remainder within two years.
So now Pahom had land of his own. He borrowed seed, and sowed it on the
land he had bought. The harvest was a good one, and within a year he had
managed to pay off his debts both to the lady and to his brother-in-law.
So he became a landowner, ploughing and sowing his own land, making hay
on his own land, cutting his own trees, and feeding his cattle on his
own pasture. When he went out to plough his fields, or to look at his
growing corn, or at his grass meadows, his heart would fill with joy.
The grass that grew and the flowers that bloomed there, seemed to him
unlike any that grew elsewhere. Formerly, when he had passed by that
land, it had appeared the same as any other land, but now it seemed
quite different.
III
So Pahom was well contented, and everything would have been right if the
neighboring peasants would only not have trespassed on his corn-fields
and meadows. He appealed to them most civilly, but they still went on:
now the Communal herdsmen would let the village cows stray into his
meadows; then horses from the night pasture would get among his corn.
Pahom turned them out again and again, and forgave their owners, and
for a long time he forbore from prosecuting any one. But at last he
lost patience and complained to the District Court. He knew it was the
peasants' want of land, and no evil intent on their part, that caused
the trouble; but he thought:
"I cannot go on overlooking it, or they will destroy all I have. They
must be taught a lesson."
So he had them up, gave them one lesson, and then another, and two or
three of the peasants were fined. After a time Pahom's neighbours began
to bear him a grudge for this, and would now and then let their cattle
on his land on purpose. One peasant even got into Pahom's wood at night
and cut down five young lime trees for their bark. Pahom passing through
the wood one day noticed something white. He came nearer, and saw the
stripped trunks lying on the ground, and close by stood the stumps,
where the tree had been. Pahom was furious.
"If he had only cut one here and there it would have been bad enough,"
thought Pahom, "but the rascal has actually cut down a whole clump. If I
could only find out who did this, I would pay him out."
He racked his brains as to who it could be. Finally he decided: "It
must be Simon-no one else could have done it." Se he went to Simon's
homestead to have a look around, but he found nothing, and only had an
angry scene. However' he now felt more certain than ever that Simon had
done it, and he lodged a complaint. Simon was summoned. The case was
tried, and re-tried, and at the end of it all Simon was acquitted, there
being no evidence against him. Pahom felt still more aggrieved, and let
his anger loose upon the Elder and the Judges.
"You let thieves grease your palms," said he. "If you were honest folk
yourselves, you would not let a thief go free."
So Pahom quarrelled with the Judges and with his neighbors. Threats to
burn his building began to be uttered. So though Pahom had more land,
his place in the Commune was much worse than before.
About this time a rumor got about that many people were moving to new
parts.
"There's no need for me to leave my land," thought Pahom. "But some of
the others might leave our village, and then there would be more room
for us. I would take over their land myself, and make my estate a bit
bigger. I could then live more at ease. As it is, I am still too cramped
to be comfortable."
One day Pahom was sitting at home, when a peasant passing through the
village, happened to call in. He was allowed to stay the night, and
supper was given him. Pahom had a talk with this peasant and asked him
where he came from. The stranger answered that he came from beyond the
Volga, where he had been working. One word led to another, and the man
went on to say that many people were settling in those parts. He told
how some people from his village had settled there. They had joined the
Commune, and had had twenty-five acres per man granted them. The land
was so good, he said, that the rye sown on it grew as high as a horse,
and so thick that five cuts of a sickle made a sheaf. One peasant, he
said, had brought nothing with him but his bare hands, and now he had
six horses and two cows of his own.
Pahom's heart kindled with desire. He thought:
"Why should I suffer in this narrow hole, if one can live so well
elsewhere? I will sell my land and my homestead here, and with the money
I will start afresh over there and get everything new. In this crowded
place one is always having trouble. But I must first go and find out all
about it myself."
Towards summer he got ready and started. He went down the Volga on a
steamer to Samara, then walked another three hundred miles on foot, and
at last reached the place. It was just as the stranger had said. The
peasants had plenty of land: every man had twenty-five acres of Communal
land given him for his use, and any one who had money could buy,
besides, at fifty-cents an acre as much good freehold land as he wanted.
Having found out all he wished to know, Pahom returned home as autumn
came on, and began selling off his belongings. He sold his land at
a profit, sold his homestead and all his cattle, and withdrew from
membership of the Commune. He only waited till the spring, and then
started with his family for the new settlement.
IV
As soon as Pahom and his family arrived at their new abode, he applied
for admission into the Commune of a large village. He stood treat to the
Elders, and obtained the necessary documents. Five shares of Communal
land were given him for his own and his sons' use: that is to say--125
acres (not altogether, but in different fields) besides the use of
the Communal pasture. Pahom put up the buildings he needed, and bought
cattle. Of the Communal land alone he had three times as much as at his
former home, and the land was good corn-land. He was ten times better
off than he had been. He had plenty of arable land and pasturage, and
could keep as many head of cattle as he liked.
At first, in the bustle of building and settling down, Pahom was pleased
with it all, but when he got used to it he began to think that even here
he had not enough land. The first year, he sowed wheat on his share of
the Communal land, and had a good crop. He wanted to go on sowing
wheat, but had not enough Communal land for the purpose, and what he had
already used was not available; for in those parts wheat is only sown on
virgin soil or on fallow land. It is sown for one or two years, and
then the land lies fallow till it is again overgrown with prairie grass.
There were many who wanted such land, and there was not enough for all;
so that people quarrelled about it. Those who were better off, wanted it
for growing wheat, and those who were poor, wanted it to let to dealers,
so that they might raise money to pay their taxes. Pahom wanted to sow
more wheat; so he rented land from a dealer for a year. He sowed
much wheat and had a fine crop, but the land was too far from the
village--the wheat had to be carted more than ten miles. After a time
Pahom noticed that some peasant-dealers were living on separate farms,
and were growing wealthy; and he thought:
"If I were to buy some freehold land, and have a homestead on it, it
would be a different thing, altogether. Then it would all be nice and
compact."
The question of buying freehold land recurred to him again and again.
He went on in the same way for three years; renting land and sowing
wheat. The seasons turned out well and the crops were good, so that he
began to lay money by. He might have gone on living contentedly, but he
grew tired of having to rent other people's land every year, and having
to scramble for it. Wherever there was good land to be had, the peasants
would rush for it and it was taken up at once, so that unless you were
sharp about it you got none. It happened in the third year that he and
a dealer together rented a piece of pasture land from some peasants; and
they had already ploughed it up, when there was some dispute, and the
peasants went to law about it, and things fell out so that the labor
was all lost. "If it were my own land," thought Pahom, "I should be
independent, and there would not be all this unpleasantness."
So Pahom began looking out for land which he could buy; and he came
across a peasant who had bought thirteen hundred acres, but having got
into difficulties was willing to sell again cheap. Pahom bargained and
haggled with him, and at last they settled the price at 1,500 roubles,
part in cash and part to be paid later. They had all but clinched the
matter, when a passing dealer happened to stop at Pahom's one day to get
a feed for his horse. He drank tea with Pahom, and they had a talk. The
dealer said that he was just returning from the land of the Bashkirs,
far away, where he had bought thirteen thousand acres of land all for
1,000 roubles. Pahom questioned him further, and the tradesman said:
"All one need do is to make friends with the chiefs. I gave away about
one hundred roubles' worth of dressing-gowns and carpets, besides a case
of tea, and I gave wine to those who would drink it; and I got the land
for less than two cents an acre. And he showed Pahom the title-deeds,
saying:
"The land lies near a river, and the whole prairie is virgin soil."
Pahom plied him with questions, and the tradesman said:
"There is more land there than you could cover if you walked a year, and
it all belongs to the Bashkirs. They are as simple as sheep, and land
can be got almost for nothing."
"There now," thought Pahom, "with my one thousand roubles, why should I
get only thirteen hundred acres, and saddle myself with a debt besides.
If I take it out there, I can get more than ten times as much for the
money."
V
Pahom inquired how to get to the place, and as soon as the tradesman
had left him, he prepared to go there himself. He left his wife to look
after the homestead, and started on his journey taking his man with
him. They stopped at a town on their way, and bought a case of tea, some
wine, and other presents, as the tradesman had advised. On and on they
went until they had gone more than three hundred miles, and on the
seventh day they came to a place where the Bashkirs had pitched their
tents. It was all just as the tradesman had said. The people lived on
the steppes, by a river, in felt-covered tents. They neither tilled the
ground, nor ate bread. Their cattle and horses grazed in herds on the
steppe. The colts were tethered behind the tents, and the mares were
driven to them twice a day. The mares were milked, and from the milk
kumiss was made. It was the women who prepared kumiss, and they also
made cheese. As far as the men were concerned, drinking kumiss and tea,
eating mutton, and playing on their pipes, was all they cared about.
They were all stout and merry, and all the summer long they never
thought of doing any work. They were quite ignorant, and knew no
Russian, but were good-natured enough.
As soon as they saw Pahom, they came out of their tents and gathered
round their visitor. An interpreter was found, and Pahom told them he
had come about some land. The Bashkirs seemed very glad; they took Pahom
and led him into one of the best tents, where they made him sit on some
down cushions placed on a carpet, while they sat round him. They gave
him tea and kumiss, and had a sheep killed, and gave him mutton to
eat. Pahom took presents out of his cart and distributed them among the
Bashkirs, and divided amongst them the tea. The Bashkirs were delighted.
They talked a great deal among themselves, and then told the interpreter
to translate.
"They wish to tell you," said the interpreter, "that they like you, and
that it is our custom to do all we can to please a guest and to repay
him for his gifts. You have given us presents, now tell us which of the
things we possess please you best, that we may present them to you."
"What pleases me best here," answered Pahom, "is your land. Our land is
crowded, and the soil is exhausted; but you have plenty of land and it
is good land. I never saw the like of it."
The interpreter translated. The Bashkirs talked among themselves for a
while. Pahom could not understand what they were saying, but saw that
they were much amused, and that they shouted and laughed. Then they were
silent and looked at Pahom while the interpreter said:
"They wish me to tell you that in return for your presents they will
gladly give you as much land as you want. You have only to point it out
with your hand and it is yours."
The Bashkirs talked again for a while and began to dispute. Pahom asked
what they were disputing about, and the interpreter told him that some
of them thought they ought to ask their Chief about the land and not act
in his absence, while others thought there was no need to wait for his
return.
VI
While the Bashkirs were disputing, a man in a large fox-fur cap appeared
on the scene. They all became silent and rose to their feet. The
interpreter said, "This is our Chief himself."
Pahom immediately fetched the best dressing-gown and five pounds of
tea, and offered these to the Chief. The Chief accepted them, and seated
himself in the place of honour. The Bashkirs at once began telling him
something. The Chief listened for a while, then made a sign with his
head for them to be silent, and addressing himself to Pahom, said in
Russian:
"Well, let it be so. Choose whatever piece of land you like; we have
plenty of it."
"How can I take as much as I like?" thought Pahom. "I must get a deed to
make it secure, or else they may say, 'It is yours,' and afterwards may
take it away again."
"Thank you for your kind words," he said aloud. "You have much land, and
I only want a little. But I should like to be sure which bit is mine.
Could it not be measured and made over to me? Life and death are in
God's hands. You good people give it to me, but your children might wish
to take it away again."
"You are quite right," said the Chief. "We will make it over to you."
"I heard that a dealer had been here," continued Pahom, "and that you
gave him a little land, too, and signed title-deeds to that effect. I
should like to have it done in the same way."
The Chief understood.
"Yes," replied he, "that can be done quite easily. We have a scribe, and
we will go to town with you and have the deed properly sealed."
"And what will be the price?" asked Pahom.
"Our price is always the same: one thousand roubles a day."
Pahom did not understand.
"A day? What measure is that? How many acres would that be?"
"We do not know how to reckon it out," said the Chief. "We sell it by
the day. As much as you can go round on your feet in a day is yours, and
the price is one thousand roubles a day."
Pahom was surprised.
"But in a day you can get round a large tract of land," he said.
The Chief laughed.
"It will all be yours!" said he. "But there is one condition: If you
don't return on the same day to the spot whence you started, your money
is lost."
"But how am I to mark the way that I have gone?"
"Why, we shall go to any spot you like, and stay there. You must start
from that spot and make your round, taking a spade with you. Wherever
you think necessary, make a mark. At every turning, dig a hole and pile
up the turf; then afterwards we will go round with a plough from hole to
hole. You may make as large a circuit as you please, but before the sun
sets you must return to the place you started from. All the land you
cover will be yours."
Pahom was delighted. It-was decided to start early next morning. They
talked a while, and after drinking some more kumiss and eating some more
mutton, they had tea again, and then the night came on. They gave Pahom
a feather-bed to sleep on, and the Bashkirs dispersed for the night,
promising to assemble the next morning at daybreak and ride out before
sunrise to the appointed spot.
VII
Pahom lay on the feather-bed, but could not sleep. He kept thinking
about the land.
"What a large tract I will mark off!" thought he. "I can easily go
thirty-five miles in a day. The days are long now, and within a circuit
of thirty-five miles what a lot of land there will be! I will sell the
poorer land, or let it to peasants, but I'll pick out the best and farm
it. I will buy two ox-teams, and hire two more laborers. About a hundred
and fifty acres shall be plough-land, and I will pasture cattle on the
rest."
Pahom lay awake all night, and dozed off only just before dawn. Hardly
were his eyes closed when he had a dream. He thought he was lying in
that same tent, and heard somebody chuckling outside. He wondered who it
could be, and rose and went out, and he saw the Bashkir Chief sitting
in front of the tent holding his side and rolling about with laughter.
Going nearer to the Chief, Pahom asked: "What are you laughing at?" But
he saw that it was no longer the Chief, but the dealer who had recently
stopped at his house and had told him about the land. Just as Pahom
was going to ask, "Have you been here long?" he saw that it was not the
dealer, but the peasant who had come up from the Volga, long ago, to
Pahom's old home. Then he saw that it was not the peasant either, but
the Devil himself with hoofs and horns, sitting there and chuckling,
and before him lay a man barefoot, prostrate on the ground, with
only trousers and a shirt on. And Pahom dreamt that he looked more
attentively to see what sort of a man it was lying there, and he saw
that the man was dead, and that it was himself! He awoke horror-struck.
"What things one does dream," thought he.
Looking round he saw through the open door that the dawn was breaking.
"It's time to wake them up," thought he. "We ought to be starting."
He got up, roused his man (who was sleeping in his cart), bade him
harness; and went to call the Bashkirs.
"It's time to go to the steppe to measure the land," he said.
The Bashkirs rose and assembled, and the Chief came, too. Then they
began drinking kumiss again, and offered Pahom some tea, but he would
not wait.
"If we are to go, let us go. It is high time," said he.
VIII
The Bashkirs got ready and they all started: some mounted on horses, and
some in carts. Pahom drove in his own small cart with his servant, and
took a spade with him. When they reached the steppe, the morning red was
beginning to kindle. They ascended a hillock (called by the Bashkirs a
shikhan) and dismounting from their carts and their horses, gathered in
one spot. The Chief came up to Pahom and stretched out his arm towards
the plain:
"See," said he, "all this, as far as your eye can reach, is ours. You
may have any part of it you like."
Pahom's eyes glistened: it was all virgin soil, as flat as the palm of
your hand, as black as the seed of a poppy, and in the hollows different
kinds of grasses grew breast high.
The Chief took off his fox-fur cap, placed it on the ground and said:
"This will be the mark. Start from here, and return here again. All the
land you go round shall be yours."
Pahom took out his money and put it on the cap. Then he took off his
outer coat, remaining in his sleeveless under coat. He unfastened his
girdle and tied it tight below his stomach, put a little bag of bread
into the breast of his coat, and tying a flask of water to his girdle,
he drew up the tops of his boots, took the spade from his man, and stood
ready to start. He considered for some moments which way he had better
go--it was tempting everywhere.
"No matter," he concluded, "I will go towards the rising sun."
He turned his face to the east, stretched himself, and waited for the
sun to appear above the rim.
"I must lose no time," he thought, "and it is easier walking while it is
still cool."
The sun's rays had hardly flashed above the horizon, before Pahom,
carrying the spade over his shoulder, went down into the steppe.
Pahom started walking neither slowly nor quickly. After having gone a
thousand yards he stopped, dug a hole and placed pieces of turf one on
another to make it more visible. Then he went on; and now that he had
walked off his stiffness he quickened his pace. After a while he dug
another hole.
Pahom looked back. The hillock could be distinctly seen in the sunlight,
with the people on it, and the glittering tires of the cartwheels. At
a rough guess Pahom concluded that he had walked three miles. It
was growing warmer; he took off his under-coat, flung it across his
shoulder, and went on again. It had grown quite warm now; he looked at
the sun, it was time to think of breakfast.
"The first shift is done, but there are four in a day, and it is
too soon yet to turn. But I will just take off my boots," said he to
himself.
He sat down, took off his boots, stuck them into his girdle, and went
on. It was easy walking now.
"I will go on for another three miles," thought he, "and then turn to
the left. The spot is so fine, that it would be a pity to lose it. The
further one goes, the better the land seems."
He went straight on a for a while, and when he looked round, the hillock
was scarcely visible and the people on it looked like black ants, and he
could just see something glistening there in the sun.
"Ah," thought Pahom, "I have gone far enough in this direction, it is
time to turn. Besides I am in a regular sweat, and very thirsty."
He stopped, dug a large hole, and heaped up pieces of turf. Next he
untied his flask, had a drink, and then turned sharply to the left. He
went on and on; the grass was high, and it was very hot.
Pahom began to grow tired: he looked at the sun and saw that it was
noon.
"Well," he thought, "I must have a rest."
He sat down, and ate some bread and drank some water; but he did not
lie down, thinking that if he did he might fall asleep. After sitting a
little while, he went on again. At first he walked easily: the food had
strengthened him; but it had become terribly hot, and he felt sleepy;
still he went on, thinking: "An hour to suffer, a life-time to live."
He went a long way in this direction also, and was about to turn to
the left again, when he perceived a damp hollow: "It would be a pity to
leave that out," he thought. "Flax would do well there." So he went on
past the hollow, and dug a hole on the other side of it before he turned
the corner. Pahom looked towards the hillock. The heat made the air
hazy: it seemed to be quivering, and through the haze the people on the
hillock could scarcely be seen.
"Ah!" thought Pahom, "I have made the sides too long; I must make this
one shorter." And he went along the third side, stepping faster. He
looked at the sun: it was nearly half way to the horizon, and he had
not yet done two miles of the third side of the square. He was still ten
miles from the goal.
"No," he thought, "though it will make my land lopsided, I must hurry
back in a straight line now. I might go too far, and as it is I have a
great deal of land."
So Pahom hurriedly dug a hole, and turned straight towards the hillock.
IX
Pahom went straight towards the hillock, but he now walked with
difficulty. He was done up with the heat, his bare feet were cut and
bruised, and his legs began to fail. He longed to rest, but it was
impossible if he meant to get back before sunset. The sun waits for no
man, and it was sinking lower and lower.
"Oh dear," he thought, "if only I have not blundered trying for too
much! What if I am too late?"
He looked towards the hillock and at the sun. He was still far from his
goal, and the sun was already near the rim. Pahom walked on and on; it
was very hard walking, but he went quicker and quicker. He pressed on,
but was still far from the place. He began running, threw away his coat,
his boots, his flask, and his cap, and kept only the spade which he used
as a support.
"What shall I do," he thought again, "I have grasped too much, and
ruined the whole affair. I can't get there before the sun sets."
And this fear made him still more breathless. Pahom went on running, his
soaking shirt and trousers stuck to him, and his mouth was parched. His
breast was working like a blacksmith's bellows, his heart was beating
like a hammer, and his legs were giving way as if they did not belong to
him. Pahom was seized with terror lest he should die of the strain.
Though afraid of death, he could not stop. "After having run all that
way they will call me a fool if I stop now," thought he. And he ran on
and on, and drew near and heard the Bashkirs yelling and shouting to
him, and their cries inflamed his heart still more. He gathered his last
strength and ran on.
The sun was close to the rim, and cloaked in mist looked large, and red
as blood. Now, yes now, it was about to set! The sun was quite low, but
he was also quite near his aim. Pahom could already see the people on
the hillock waving their arms to hurry him up. He could see the fox-fur
cap on the ground, and the money on it, and the Chief sitting on the
ground holding his sides. And Pahom remembered his dream.
"There is plenty of land," thought he, "but will God let me live on
it? I have lost my life, I have lost my life! I shall never reach that
spot!"
Pahom looked at the sun, which had reached the earth: one side of it
had already disappeared. With all his remaining strength he rushed
on, bending his body forward so that his legs could hardly follow fast
enough to keep him from falling. Just as he reached the hillock it
suddenly grew dark. He looked up--the sun had already set. He gave a
cry: "All my labor has been in vain," thought he, and was about to stop,
but he heard the Bashkirs still shouting, and remembered that though to
him, from below, the sun seemed to have set, they on the hillock could
still see it. He took a long breath and ran up the hillock. It was still
light there. He reached the top and saw the cap. Before it sat the Chief
laughing and holding his sides. Again Pahom remembered his dream, and
he uttered a cry: his legs gave way beneath him, he fell forward and
reached the cap with his hands.
"Ah, what a fine fellow!" exclaimed the Chief. "He has gained much
land!"
Pahom's servant came running up and tried to raise him, but he saw that
blood was flowing from his mouth. Pahom was dead!
The Bashkirs clicked their tongues to show their pity.
His servant picked up the spade and dug a grave long enough for Pahom
to lie in, and buried him in it. Six feet from his head to his heels was
all he needed.
Notes:
1. One hundred kopeks make a rouble. The kopek is worth about half a
cent.
2. A non-intoxicating drink usually made from rye-malt and rye-flour.
3. The brick oven in a Russian peasant's hut is usually built so as to
leave a flat top, large enough to lie on, for those who want to sleep in
a warm place.
4. 120 "desyatins." The "desyatina" is properly 2.7 acres; but in this
story round numbers are used.
5. Three roubles per "desyatina."
6. Five "kopeks" for a "desyatina."

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Title: HOW THE ALPHABET WAS MADE
Author: Rudyard Kipling
HOW THE ALPHABET WAS MADE
THE week after Taffimai Metallumai (we will still call her Taffy,
Best Beloved) made that little mistake about her Daddy’s spear and the
Stranger-man and the picture-letter and all, she went carp-fishing again
with her Daddy. Her Mummy wanted her to stay at home and help hang up
hides to dry on the big drying-poles outside their Neolithic Cave,
but Taffy slipped away down to her Daddy quite early, and they fished.
Presently she began to giggle, and her Daddy said, ‘Don’t be silly,
child.’
‘But wasn’t it inciting!’ said Taffy. ‘Don’t you remember how the Head
Chief puffed out his cheeks, and how funny the nice Stranger-man looked
with the mud in his hair?’
‘Well do I,’ said Tegumai. ‘I had to pay two deerskins--soft ones with
fringes--to the Stranger-man for the things we did to him.’
‘We didn’t do anything,’ said Taffy. ‘It was Mummy and the other
Neolithic ladies--and the mud.’
‘We won’t talk about that,’ said her Daddy, ‘Let’s have lunch.’
Taffy took a marrow-bone and sat mousy-quiet for ten whole minutes,
while her Daddy scratched on pieces of birch-bark with a shark’s tooth.
Then she said, ‘Daddy, I’ve thinked of a secret surprise. You make a
noise--any sort of noise.’
‘Ah!’ said Tegumai. ‘Will that do to begin with?’
‘Yes,’ said Taffy. ‘You look just like a carp-fish with its mouth open.
Say it again, please.’
‘Ah! ah! ah!’ said her Daddy. ‘Don’t be rude, my daughter.’
‘I’m not meaning rude, really and truly,’ said Taffy. ‘It’s part of my
secret-surprise-think. Do say ah, Daddy, and keep your mouth open at
the end, and lend me that tooth. I’m going to draw a carp-fish’s mouth
wide-open.’
‘What for?’ said her Daddy.
‘Don’t you see?’ said Taffy, scratching away on the bark. ‘That will be
our little secret s’prise. When I draw a carp-fish with his mouth open
in the smoke at the back of our Cave--if Mummy doesn’t mind--it will
remind you of that ah-noise. Then we can play that it was me jumped
out of the dark and s’prised you with that noise--same as I did in the
beaver-swamp last winter.’
‘Really?’ said her Daddy, in the voice that grown-ups use when they are
truly attending. ‘Go on, Taffy.’
‘Oh bother!’ she said. ‘I can’t draw all of a carp-fish, but I can draw
something that means a carp-fish’s mouth. Don’t you know how they stand
on their heads rooting in the mud? Well, here’s a pretence carp-fish (we
can play that the rest of him is drawn). Here’s just his mouth, and that
means ah.’ And she drew this. (1.)
‘That’s not bad,’ said Tegumai, and scratched on his own piece of bark
for himself; but you’ve forgotten the feeler that hangs across his
mouth.’
‘But I can’t draw, Daddy.’
‘You needn’t draw anything of him except just the opening of his mouth
and the feeler across. Then we’ll know he’s a carp-fish, ‘cause the
perches and trouts haven’t got feelers. Look here, Taffy.’ And he drew
this. (2.)
‘Now I’ll copy it.’ said Taffy. ‘Will you understand this when you see
it?’
‘Perfectly,’ said her Daddy.
And she drew this. (3.) ‘And I’ll be quite as s’prised when I see it
anywhere, as if you had jumped out from behind a tree and said ‘“Ah!”’
‘Now, make another noise,’ said Taffy, very proud.
‘Yah!’ said her Daddy, very loud.
‘H’m,’ said Taffy. ‘That’s a mixy noise. The end part is
ah-carp-fish-mouth; but what can we do about the front part? Yer-yer-yer
and ah! Ya!’
‘It’s very like the carp-fish-mouth noise. Let’s draw another bit of the
carp-fish and join ‘em,’ said her Daddy. He was quite incited too.
‘No. If they’re joined, I’ll forget. Draw it separate. Draw his tail.
If he’s standing on his head the tail will come first. ‘Sides, I think I
can draw tails easiest,’ said Taffy.
‘A good notion,’ said Tegumai. ‘Here’s a carp-fish tail for the
yer-noise.’ And he drew this. (4.)
‘I’ll try now,’ said Taffy. ‘’Member I can’t draw like you, Daddy. Will
it do if I just draw the split part of the tail, and the sticky-down
line for where it joins?’ And she drew this. (5.)
Her Daddy nodded, and his eyes were shiny bright with ‘citement.
‘That’s beautiful,’ she said. ‘Now make another noise, Daddy.’
‘Oh!’ said her Daddy, very loud.
‘That’s quite easy,’ said Taffy. ‘You make your mouth all around like an
egg or a stone. So an egg or a stone will do for that.’
‘You can’t always find eggs or stones. We’ll have to scratch a round
something like one.’ And he drew this. (6.)
‘My gracious!’ said Taffy, ‘what a lot of noise-pictures we’ve
made,--carp-mouth, carp-tail, and egg! Now, make another noise, Daddy.’
‘Ssh!’ said her Daddy, and frowned to himself, but Taffy was too incited
to notice.
‘That’s quite easy,’ she said, scratching on the bark.
‘Eh, what?’ said her Daddy. ‘I meant I was thinking, and didn’t want to
be disturbed.’
‘It’s a noise just the same. It’s the noise a snake makes, Daddy,
when it is thinking and doesn’t want to be disturbed. Let’s make the
ssh-noise a snake. Will this do?’ And she drew this. (7.)
‘There,’ she said. ‘That’s another s’prise-secret. When you draw a
hissy-snake by the door of your little back-cave where you mend
the spears, I’ll know you’re thinking hard; and I’ll come in most
mousy-quiet. And if you draw it on a tree by the river when you are
fishing, I’ll know you want me to walk most most mousy-quiet, so as not
to shake the banks.’
‘Perfectly true,’ said Tegumai. And there’s more in this game than you
think. Taffy, dear, I’ve a notion that your Daddy’s daughter has hit
upon the finest thing that there ever was since the Tribe of Tegumai
took to using shark’s teeth instead of flints for their spear-heads. I
believe we’ve found out the big secret of the world.’
‘Why?’ said Taffy, and her eyes shone too with incitement.
‘I’ll show,’ said her Daddy. ‘What’s water in the Tegumai language?’
‘Ya, of course, and it means river too--like Wagai-ya--the Wagai river.’
‘What is bad water that gives you fever if you drink it--black
water--swamp-water?’
‘Yo, of course.’
‘Now look,’ said her Daddy. ‘S’pose you saw this scratched by the side
of a pool in the beaver-swamp?’ And he drew this. (8.)
‘Carp-tail and round egg. Two noises mixed! Yo, bad water,’ said Taffy.
‘’Course I wouldn’t drink that water because I’d know you said it was
bad.’
‘But I needn’t be near the water at all. I might be miles away, hunting,
and still--’
‘And still it would be just the same as if you stood there and said,
“G’way, Taffy, or you’ll get fever.” All that in a carp-fish-tail and
a round egg! O Daddy, we must tell Mummy, quick!’ and Taffy danced all
round him.
‘Not yet,’ said Tegumai; ‘not till we’ve gone a little further. Let’s
see. Yo is bad water, but So is food cooked on the fire, isn’t it?’ And
he drew this. (9.)
‘Yes. Snake and egg,’ said Taffy ‘So that means dinner’s ready. If you
saw that scratched on a tree you’d know it was time to come to the Cave.
So’d I.’
‘My Winkie!’ said Tegumai. ‘That’s true too. But wait a minute. I see
a difficulty. SO means “come and have dinner,” but sho means the
drying-poles where we hang our hides.’
‘Horrid old drying-poles!’ said Taffy. ‘I hate helping to hang heavy,
hot, hairy hides on them. If you drew the snake and egg, and I thought
it meant dinner, and I came in from the wood and found that it meant I
was to help Mummy hang the two hides on the drying-poles, what would I
do?’
‘You’d be cross. So’d Mummy. We must make a new picture for sho. We must
draw a spotty snake that hisses sh-sh, and we’ll play that the plain
snake only hisses ssss.’
‘I couldn’t be sure how to put in the spots,’ said Taffy. ‘And p’raps
if you were in a hurry you might leave them out, and I’d think it was
so when it was sho, and then Mummy would catch me just the same. No! I
think we’d better draw a picture of the horrid high drying-poles their
very selves, and make quite sure. I’ll put them in just after the
hissy-snake. Look!’ And she drew this. (10.)
‘P’raps that’s safest. It’s very like our drying-poles, anyhow,’
said her Daddy, laughing. ‘Now I’ll make a new noise with a snake and
drying-pole sound in it. I’ll say shi. That’s Tegumai for spear, Taffy.’
And he laughed.
‘Don’t make fun of me,’ said Taffy, as she thought of her picture-letter
and the mud in the Stranger-man’s hair. ‘You draw it, Daddy.’
‘We won’t have beavers or hills this time, eh?’ said her Daddy, ‘I’ll
just draw a straight line for my spear.’ and he drew this. (11.)
‘Even Mummy couldn’t mistake that for me being killed.’
‘Please don’t, Daddy. It makes me uncomfy. Do some more noises. We’re
getting on beautifully.’
‘Er-hm!’ said Tegumai, looking up. ‘We’ll say shu. That means sky.’
Taffy drew the snake and the drying-pole. Then she stopped. ‘We must
make a new picture for that end sound, mustn’t we?’
‘Shu-shu-u-u-u!’ said her Daddy. ‘Why, it’s just like the
round-egg-sound made thin.’
‘Then s’pose we draw a thin round egg, and pretend it’s a frog that
hasn’t eaten anything for years.’
‘N-no,’ said her Daddy. ‘If we drew that in a hurry we might mistake it
for the round egg itself. Shu-shu-shu! ‘I tell you what we’ll do. We’ll
open a little hole at the end of the round egg to show how the O-noise
runs out all thin, ooo-oo-oo. Like this.’ And he drew this. (12.)
‘Oh, that’s lovely! Much better than a thin frog. Go on,’ said Taffy,
using her shark’s tooth. Her Daddy went on drawing, and his hand shook
with incitement. He went on till he had drawn this. (13.)
‘Don’t look up, Taffy,’ he said. ‘Try if you can make out what that
means in the Tegumai language. If you can, we’ve found the Secret.’
‘Snake--pole--broken--egg--carp--tail and carp-mouth,’ said Taffy.
‘Shu-ya. Sky-water (rain).’ Just then a drop fell on her hand, for the
day had clouded over. ‘Why, Daddy, it’s raining. Was that what you meant
to tell me?’
‘Of course,’ said her Daddy. ‘And I told it you without saying a word,
didn’t I?’
‘Well, I think I would have known it in a minute, but that raindrop made
me quite sure. I’ll always remember now. Shu-ya means rain, or “it is
going to rain.” Why, Daddy!’ She got up and danced round him. ‘S’pose
you went out before I was awake, and drawed shu-ya in the smoke on the
wall, I’d know it was going to rain and I’d take my beaver-skin hood.
Wouldn’t Mummy be surprised?’
Tegumai got up and danced. (Daddies didn’t mind doing those things in
those days.) ‘More than that! More than that!’ he said. ‘S’pose I wanted
to tell you it wasn’t going to rain much and you must come down to the
river, what would we draw? Say the words in Tegumai-talk first.’
‘Shu-ya-las, ya maru. (Sky-water ending. River come to.) what a lot of
new sounds! I don’t see how we can draw them.’
‘But I do--but I do!’ said Tegumai. ‘Just attend a minute, Taffy, and
we won’t do any more to-day. We’ve got shu-ya all right, haven’t we? But
this las is a teaser. La-la-la’ and he waved his shark-tooth.
‘There’s the hissy-snake at the end and the carp-mouth before the
snake--as-as-as. We only want la-la,’ said Taffy.
‘I know it, but we have to make la-la. And we’re the first people in all
the world who’ve ever tried to do it, Taffimai!’
‘Well,’ said Taffy, yawning, for she was rather tired. ‘Las means
breaking or finishing as well as ending, doesn’t it?’
‘So it does,’ said Tegumai. ‘To-las means that there’s no water in the
tank for Mummy to cook with--just when I’m going hunting, too.’
‘And shi-las means that your spear is broken. If I’d only thought of
that instead of drawing silly beaver pictures for the Stranger!’
‘La! La! La!’ said Tegumai, waiving his stick and frowning. ‘Oh bother!’
‘I could have drawn shi quite easily,’ Taffy went on. ‘Then I’d have
drawn your spear all broken--this way!’ And she drew. (14.)
‘The very thing,’ said Tegumai. ‘That’s la all over. It isn’t like any
of the other marks either.’ And he drew this. (15.)
‘Now for ya. Oh, we’ve done that before. Now for maru. Mum-mum-mum. Mum
shuts one’s mouth up, doesn’t it? We’ll draw a shut mouth like this.’
And he drew. (16.)
‘Then the carp-mouth open. That makes Ma-ma-ma! But what about this
rrrrr-thing, Taffy?’
‘It sounds all rough and edgy, like your shark-tooth saw when you’re
cutting out a plank for the canoe,’ said Taffy.
‘You mean all sharp at the edges, like this?’ said Tegumai. And he drew.
(17.)
‘’Xactly,’ said Taffy. ‘But we don’t want all those teeth: only put
two.’
‘I’ll only put in one,’ said Tegumai. ‘If this game of ours is going
to be what I think it will, the easier we make our sound-pictures the
better for everybody.’ And he drew. (18.)
‘Now, we’ve got it,’ said Tegumai, standing on one leg. ‘I’ll draw ‘em
all in a string like fish.’
‘Hadn’t we better put a little bit of stick or something between each
word, so’s they won’t rub up against each other and jostle, same as if
they were carps?’
‘Oh, I’ll leave a space for that,’ said her Daddy. And very incitedly he
drew them all without stopping, on a big new bit of birch-bark. (19.)
‘Shu-ya-las ya-maru,’ said Taffy, reading it out sound by sound.
‘That’s enough for to-day,’ said Tegumai. ‘Besides, you’re getting
tired, Taffy. Never mind, dear. We’ll finish it all to-morrow, and then
we’ll be remembered for years and years after the biggest trees you can
see are all chopped up for firewood.’
So they went home, and all that evening Tegumai sat on one side of the
fire and Taffy on the other, drawing ya’s and yo’s and shu’s and shi’s
in the smoke on the wall and giggling together till her Mummy said,
‘Really, Tegumai, you’re worse than my Taffy.’
‘Please don’t mind,’ said Taffy. ‘It’s only our secret-s’prise, Mummy
dear, and we’ll tell you all about it the very minute it’s done; but
please don’t ask me what it is now, or else I’ll have to tell.’
So her Mummy most carefully didn’t; and bright and early next morning
Tegumai went down to the river to think about new sound pictures,
and when Taffy got up she saw Ya-las (water is ending or running out)
chalked on the side of the big stone water-tank, outside the Cave.
‘Um,’ said Taffy. ‘These picture-sounds are rather a bother! Daddy’s
just as good as come here himself and told me to get more water for
Mummy to cook with.’ She went to the spring at the back of the house and
filled the tank from a bark bucket, and then she ran down to the river
and pulled her Daddy’s left ear--the one that belonged to her to pull
when she was good.
‘Now come along and we’ll draw all the left-over sound-pictures,’ said
her Daddy, and they had a most inciting day of it, and a beautiful lunch
in the middle, and two games of romps. When they came to T, Taffy said
that as her name, and her Daddy’s, and her Mummy’s all began with that
sound, they should draw a sort of family group of themselves holding
hands. That was all very well to draw once or twice; but when it came to
drawing it six or seven times, Taffy and Tegumai drew it scratchier and
scratchier, till at last the T-sound was only a thin long Tegumai with
his arms out to hold Taffy and Teshumai. You can see from these three
pictures partly how it happened. (20, 21, 22.)
Many of the other pictures were much too beautiful to begin with,
especially before lunch, but as they were drawn over and over again on
birch-bark, they became plainer and easier, till at last even Tegumai
said he could find no fault with them. They turned the hissy-snake the
other way round for the Z-sound, to show it was hissing backwards in a
soft and gentle way (23); and they just made a twiddle for E, because
it came into the pictures so often (24); and they drew pictures of the
sacred Beaver of the Tegumais for the B-sound (25, 26, 27, 28); and
because it was a nasty, nosy noise, they just drew noses for the
N-sound, till they were tired (29); and they drew a picture of the big
lake-pike’s mouth for the greedy Ga-sound (30); and they drew the pike’s
mouth again with a spear behind it for the scratchy, hurty Ka-sound
(31); and they drew pictures of a little bit of the winding Wagai river
for the nice windy-windy Wa-sound (32, 33); and so on and so forth and
so following till they had done and drawn all the sound-pictures that
they wanted, and there was the Alphabet, all complete.
And after thousands and thousands and thousands of years, and after
Hieroglyphics and Demotics, and Nilotics, and Cryptics, and Cufics, and
Runics, and Dorics, and Ionics, and all sorts of other ricks and
tricks (because the Woons, and the Neguses, and the Akhoonds, and the
Repositories of Tradition would never leave a good thing alone when they
saw it), the fine old easy, understandable Alphabet--A, B, C, D, E,
and the rest of ‘em--got back into its proper shape again for all Best
Beloveds to learn when they are old enough.
But I remember Tegumai Bopsulai, and Taffimai Metallumai and Teshumai
Tewindrow, her dear Mummy, and all the days gone by. And it was so--just
so--a little time ago--on the banks of the big Wagai!
OF all the Tribe of Tegumai
Who cut that figure, none remain,--
On Merrow Down the cuckoos cry
The silence and the sun remain.
But as the faithful years return
And hearts unwounded sing again,
Comes Taffy dancing through the fern
To lead the Surrey spring again.
Her brows are bound with bracken-fronds,
And golden elf-locks fly above;
Her eyes are bright as diamonds
And bluer than the skies above.
In mocassins and deer-skin cloak,
Unfearing, free and fair she flits,
And lights her little damp-wood smoke
To show her Daddy where she flits.
For far--oh, very far behind,
So far she cannot call to him,
Comes Tegumai alone to find
The daughter that was all to him.

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Title: HOW THE CAMEL GOT HIS HUMP
Author: Rudyard Kipling
HOW THE CAMEL GOT HIS HUMP
NOW this is the next tale, and it tells how the Camel got his big hump.
In the beginning of years, when the world was so new and all, and the
Animals were just beginning to work for Man, there was a Camel, and he
lived in the middle of a Howling Desert because he did not want to work;
and besides, he was a Howler himself. So he ate sticks and thorns and
tamarisks and milkweed and prickles, most ‘scruciating idle; and when
anybody spoke to him he said ‘Humph!’ Just ‘Humph!’ and no more.
Presently the Horse came to him on Monday morning, with a saddle on his
back and a bit in his mouth, and said, ‘Camel, O Camel, come out and
trot like the rest of us.’
‘Humph!’ said the Camel; and the Horse went away and told the Man.
Presently the Dog came to him, with a stick in his mouth, and said,
‘Camel, O Camel, come and fetch and carry like the rest of us.’
‘Humph!’ said the Camel; and the Dog went away and told the Man.
Presently the Ox came to him, with the yoke on his neck and said,
‘Camel, O Camel, come and plough like the rest of us.’
‘Humph!’ said the Camel; and the Ox went away and told the Man.
At the end of the day the Man called the Horse and the Dog and the Ox
together, and said, ‘Three, O Three, I’m very sorry for you (with the
world so new-and-all); but that Humph-thing in the Desert can’t work,
or he would have been here by now, so I am going to leave him alone, and
you must work double-time to make up for it.’
That made the Three very angry (with the world so new-and-all), and they
held a palaver, and an _indaba_, and a _punchayet_, and a pow-wow on
the edge of the Desert; and the Camel came chewing on milkweed _most_
‘scruciating idle, and laughed at them. Then he said ‘Humph!’ and went
away again.
Presently there came along the Djinn in charge of All Deserts, rolling
in a cloud of dust (Djinns always travel that way because it is Magic),
and he stopped to palaver and pow-pow with the Three.
‘Djinn of All Deserts,’ said the Horse, ‘is it right for any one to be
idle, with the world so new-and-all?’
‘Certainly not,’ said the Djinn.
‘Well,’ said the Horse, ‘there’s a thing in the middle of your Howling
Desert (and he’s a Howler himself) with a long neck and long legs, and
he hasn’t done a stroke of work since Monday morning. He won’t trot.’
‘Whew!’ said the Djinn, whistling, ‘that’s my Camel, for all the gold in
Arabia! What does he say about it?’
‘He says “Humph!”’ said the Dog; ‘and he won’t fetch and carry.’
‘Does he say anything else?’
‘Only “Humph!”; and he won’t plough,’ said the Ox.
‘Very good,’ said the Djinn. ‘I’ll humph him if you will kindly wait a
minute.’
The Djinn rolled himself up in his dust-cloak, and took a bearing across
the desert, and found the Camel most ‘scruciatingly idle, looking at his
own reflection in a pool of water.
‘My long and bubbling friend,’ said the Djinn, ‘what’s this I hear of
your doing no work, with the world so new-and-all?’
‘Humph!’ said the Camel.
The Djinn sat down, with his chin in his hand, and began to think a
Great Magic, while the Camel looked at his own reflection in the pool of
water.
‘You’ve given the Three extra work ever since Monday morning, all on
account of your ‘scruciating idleness,’ said the Djinn; and he went on
thinking Magics, with his chin in his hand.
‘Humph!’ said the Camel.
‘I shouldn’t say that again if I were you,’ said the Djinn; you might
say it once too often. Bubbles, I want you to work.’
And the Camel said ‘Humph!’ again; but no sooner had he said it than he
saw his back, that he was so proud of, puffing up and puffing up into a
great big lolloping humph.
‘Do you see that?’ said the Djinn. ‘That’s your very own humph that
you’ve brought upon your very own self by not working. To-day is
Thursday, and you’ve done no work since Monday, when the work began. Now
you are going to work.’
‘How can I,’ said the Camel, ‘with this humph on my back?’
‘That’s made a-purpose,’ said the Djinn, ‘all because you missed those
three days. You will be able to work now for three days without eating,
because you can live on your humph; and don’t you ever say I never
did anything for you. Come out of the Desert and go to the Three, and
behave. Humph yourself!’
And the Camel humphed himself, humph and all, and went away to join the
Three. And from that day to this the Camel always wears a humph (we call
it ‘hump’ now, not to hurt his feelings); but he has never yet caught up
with the three days that he missed at the beginning of the world, and he
has never yet learned how to behave.
THE Camel’s hump is an ugly lump
Which well you may see at the Zoo;
But uglier yet is the hump we get
From having too little to do.
Kiddies and grown-ups too-oo-oo,
If we haven’t enough to do-oo-oo,
We get the hump--
Cameelious hump--
The hump that is black and blue!
We climb out of bed with a frouzly head
And a snarly-yarly voice.
We shiver and scowl and we grunt and we growl
At our bath and our boots and our toys;
And there ought to be a corner for me
(And I know there is one for you)
When we get the hump--
Cameelious hump--
The hump that is black and blue!
The cure for this ill is not to sit still,
Or frowst with a book by the fire;
But to take a large hoe and a shovel also,
And dig till you gently perspire;
And then you will find that the sun and the wind.
And the Djinn of the Garden too,
Have lifted the hump--
The horrible hump--
The hump that is black and blue!
I get it as well as you-oo-oo--
If I haven’t enough to do-oo-oo--
We all get hump--
Cameelious hump--
Kiddies and grown-ups too!

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Title: HOW THE FIRST LETTER WAS WRITTEN
Author: Rudyard Kipling
HOW THE FIRST LETTER WAS WRITTEN
ONCE upon a most early time was a Neolithic man. He was not a Jute or an
Angle, or even a Dravidian, which he might well have been, Best Beloved,
but never mind why. He was a Primitive, and he lived cavily in a Cave,
and he wore very few clothes, and he couldn’t read and he couldn’t write
and he didn’t want to, and except when he was hungry he was
quite happy. His name was Tegumai Bopsulai, and that means,
‘Man-who-does-not-put-his-foot-forward-in-a-hurry’; but we, O Best
Beloved, will call him Tegumai, for short. And his wife’s name
was Teshumai Tewindrow, and that means,
‘Lady-who-asks-a-very-many-questions’; but we, O Best Beloved, will
call her Teshumai, for short. And his little girl-daughter’s name
was Taffimai Metallumai, and that means,
‘Small-person-without-any-manners-who-ought-to-be-spanked’; but I’m
going to call her Taffy. And she was Tegumai Bopsulai’s Best Beloved and
her own Mummy’s Best Beloved, and she was not spanked half as much as
was good for her; and they were all three very happy. As soon as
Taffy could run about she went everywhere with her Daddy Tegumai, and
sometimes they would not come home to the Cave till they were hungry,
and then Teshumai Tewindrow would say, ‘Where in the world have you two
been to, to get so shocking dirty? Really, my Tegumai, you’re no better
than my Taffy.’
Now attend and listen!
One day Tegumai Bopsulai went down through the beaver-swamp to the Wagai
river to spear carp-fish for dinner, and Taffy went too. Tegumai’s spear
was made of wood with shark’s teeth at the end, and before he had caught
any fish at all he accidentally broke it clean across by jabbing it down
too hard on the bottom of the river. They were miles and miles from home
(of course they had their lunch with them in a little bag), and Tegumai
had forgotten to bring any extra spears.
‘Here’s a pretty kettle of fish!’ said Tegumai. ‘It will take me half
the day to mend this.’
‘There’s your big black spear at home,’ said Taffy. ‘Let me run back to
the Cave and ask Mummy to give it me.’
‘It’s too far for your little fat legs,’ said Tegumai. ‘Besides, you
might fall into the beaver-swamp and be drowned. We must make the best
of a bad job.’ He sat down and took out a little leather mendy-bag, full
of reindeer-sinews and strips of leather, and lumps of bee’s-wax and
resin, and began to mend the spear.
Taffy sat down too, with her toes in the water and her chin in her
hand, and thought very hard. Then she said--‘I say, Daddy, it’s an awful
nuisance that you and I don’t know how to write, isn’t it? If we did we
could send a message for the new spear.’
‘Taffy,’ said Tegumai, ‘how often have I told you not to use slang?
“Awful” isn’t a pretty word, but it could be a convenience, now you
mention it, if we could write home.’
Just then a Stranger-man came along the river, but he belonged to a
far tribe, the Tewaras, and he did not understand one word of Tegumai’s
language. He stood on the bank and smiled at Taffy, because he had
a little girl-daughter Of his own at home. Tegumai drew a hank of
deer-sinews from his mendy-bag and began to mend his spear.
‘Come here, said Taffy. ‘Do you know where my Mummy lives?’ And the
Stranger-man said ‘Um!’ being, as you know, a Tewara.
‘Silly!’ said Taffy, and she stamped her foot, because she saw a shoal
of very big carp going up the river just when her Daddy couldn’t use his
spear.
‘Don’t bother grown-ups,’ said Tegumai, so busy with his spear-mending
that he did not turn round.
‘I aren’t, said Taffy. ‘I only want him to do what I want him to do, and
he won’t understand.’
‘Then don’t bother me, said Tegumai, and he went on pulling and
straining at the deer-sinews with his mouth full of loose ends. The
Stranger-man--a genuine Tewara he was--sat down on the grass, and Taffy
showed him what her Daddy was doing. The Stranger-man thought, this is a
very wonderful child. She stamps her foot at me and she makes faces. She
must be the daughter of that noble Chief who is so great that he won’t
take any notice of me.’ So he smiled more politely than ever.
‘Now,’ said Taffy, ‘I want you to go to my Mummy, because your legs are
longer than mine, and you won’t fall into the beaver-swamp, and ask for
Daddy’s other spear--the one with the black handle that hangs over our
fireplace.’
The Stranger-man (and he was a Tewara) thought, ‘This is a very, very
wonderful child. She waves her arms and she shouts at me, but I don’t
understand a word of what she says. But if I don’t do what she wants, I
greatly fear that that haughty Chief, Man-who-turns-his-back-on-callers,
will be angry.’ He got up and twisted a big flat piece of bark off a
birch-tree and gave it to Taffy. He did this, Best Beloved, to show that
his heart was as white as the birch-bark and that he meant no harm; but
Taffy didn’t quite understand.
‘Oh!’ said she. ‘Now I see! You want my Mummy’s living-address? Of
course I can’t write, but I can draw pictures if I’ve anything sharp to
scratch with. Please lend me the shark’s tooth off your necklace.’
The Stranger-man (and he was a Tewara) didn’t say anything, So Taffy
put up her little hand and pulled at the beautiful bead and seed and
shark-tooth necklace round his neck.
The Stranger-man (and he was a Tewara) thought, ‘This is a very, very,
very wonderful child. The shark’s tooth on my necklace is a magic
shark’s tooth, and I was always told that if anybody touched it without
my leave they would immediately swell up or burst, but this
child doesn’t swell up or burst, and that important Chief,
Man-who-attends-strictly-to-his-business, who has not yet taken any
notice of me at all, doesn’t seem to be afraid that she will swell up or
burst. I had better be more polite.’
So he gave Taffy the shark’s tooth, and she lay down flat on her tummy
with her legs in the air, like some people on the drawing-room floor
when they want to draw pictures, and she said, ‘Now I’ll draw you some
beautiful pictures! You can look over my shoulder, but you mustn’t
joggle. First I’ll draw Daddy fishing. It isn’t very like him; but Mummy
will know, because I’ve drawn his spear all broken. Well, now I’ll draw
the other spear that he wants, the black-handled spear. It looks as if
it was sticking in Daddy’s back, but that’s because the shark’s tooth
slipped and this piece of bark isn’t big enough. That’s the spear I want
you to fetch; so I’ll draw a picture of me myself ‘splaining to you. My
hair doesn’t stand up like I’ve drawn, but it’s easier to draw that way.
Now I’ll draw you. I think you’re very nice really, but I can’t make you
pretty in the picture, so you mustn’t be ‘fended. Are you ‘fended?’
The Stranger-man (and he was a Tewara) smiled. He thought, ‘There must
be a big battle going to be fought somewhere, and this extraordinary
child, who takes my magic shark’s tooth but who does not swell up or
burst, is telling me to call all the great Chief’s tribe to help him. He
is a great Chief, or he would have noticed me.
‘Look,’ said Taffy, drawing very hard and rather scratchily, ‘now I’ve
drawn you, and I’ve put the spear that Daddy wants into your hand, just
to remind you that you’re to bring it. Now I’ll show you how to find my
Mummy’s living-address. You go along till you come to two trees (those
are trees), and then you go over a hill (that’s a hill), and then you
come into a beaver-swamp all full of beavers. I haven’t put in all the
beavers, because I can’t draw beavers, but I’ve drawn their heads, and
that’s all you’ll see of them when you cross the swamp. Mind you don’t
fall in! Then our Cave is just beyond the beaver-swamp. It isn’t as high
as the hills really, but I can’t draw things very small. That’s my Mummy
outside. She is beautiful. She is the most beautifullest Mummy there
ever was, but she won’t be ‘fended when she sees I’ve drawn her so
plain. She’ll be pleased of me because I can draw. Now, in case you
forget, I’ve drawn the spear that Daddy wants outside our Cave. It’s
inside really, but you show the picture to my Mummy and she’ll give it
you. I’ve made her holding up her hands, because I know she’ll be so
pleased to see you. Isn’t it a beautiful picture? And do you quite
understand, or shall I ‘splain again?’
The Stranger-man (and he was a Tewara) looked at the picture and nodded
very hard. He said to himself,’ If I do not fetch this great Chief’s
tribe to help him, he will be slain by his enemies who are coming up on
all sides with spears. Now I see why the great Chief pretended not to
notice me! He feared that his enemies were hiding in the bushes and
would see him. Therefore he turned to me his back, and let the wise and
wonderful child draw the terrible picture showing me his difficulties.
I will away and get help for him from his tribe.’ He did not even ask
Taffy the road, but raced off into the bushes like the wind, with the
birch-bark in his hand, and Taffy sat down most pleased.
Now this is the picture that Taffy had drawn for him!
‘What have you been doing, Taffy?’ said Tegumai. He had mended his spear
and was carefully waving it to and fro.
‘It’s a little berangement of my own, Daddy dear,’ said Taffy. ‘If you
won’t ask me questions, you’ll know all about it in a little time, and
you’ll be surprised. You don’t know how surprised you’ll be, Daddy!
Promise you’ll be surprised.’
‘Very well,’ said Tegumai, and went on fishing.
The Stranger-man--did you know he was a Tewara?--hurried away with the
picture and ran for some miles, till quite by accident he found Teshumai
Tewindrow at the door of her Cave, talking to some other Neolithic
ladies who had come in to a Primitive lunch. Taffy was very like
Teshumai, especially about the upper part of the face and the eyes,
so the Stranger-man--always a pure Tewara--smiled politely and handed
Teshumai the birch-bark. He had run hard, so that he panted, and his
legs were scratched with brambles, but he still tried to be polite.
As soon as Teshumai saw the picture she screamed like anything and flew
at the Stranger-man. The other Neolithic ladies at once knocked him down
and sat on him in a long line of six, while Teshumai pulled his hair.
‘It’s as plain as the nose on this Stranger-man’s face,’ she said. ‘He
has stuck my Tegumai all full of spears, and frightened poor Taffy so
that her hair stands all on end; and not content with that, he brings
me a horrid picture of how it was done. Look!’ She showed the picture to
all the Neolithic ladies sitting patiently on the Stranger-man. ‘Here is
my Tegumai with his arm broken; here is a spear sticking into his back;
here is a man with a spear ready to throw; here is another man throwing
a spear from a Cave, and here are a whole pack of people’ (they were
Taffy’s beavers really, but they did look rather like people) ‘coming up
behind Tegumai. Isn’t it shocking!’
‘Most shocking!’ said the Neolithic ladies, and they filled the
Stranger-man’s hair with mud (at which he was surprised), and they beat
upon the Reverberating Tribal Drums, and called together all the chiefs
of the Tribe of Tegumai, with their Hetmans and Dolmans, all Neguses,
Woons, and Akhoonds of the organisation, in addition to the Warlocks,
Angekoks, Juju-men, Bonzes, and the rest, who decided that before they
chopped the Stranger-man’s head off he should instantly lead them down
to the river and show them where he had hidden poor Taffy.
By this time the Stranger-man (in spite of being a Tewara) was really
annoyed. They had filled his hair quite solid with mud; they had rolled
him up and down on knobby pebbles; they had sat upon him in a long
line of six; they had thumped him and bumped him till he could hardly
breathe; and though he did not understand their language, he was almost
sure that the names the Neolithic ladies called him were not ladylike.
However, he said nothing till all the Tribe of Tegumai were assembled,
and then he led them back to the bank of the Wagai river, and there they
found Taffy making daisy-chains, and Tegumai carefully spearing small
carp with his mended spear.
‘Well, you have been quick!’ said Taffy. ‘But why did you bring so many
people? Daddy dear, this is my surprise. Are you surprised, Daddy?’
‘Very,’ said Tegumai; ‘but it has ruined all my fishing for the day.
Why, the whole dear, kind, nice, clean, quiet Tribe is here, Taffy.’
And so they were. First of all walked Teshumai Tewindrow and the
Neolithic ladies, tightly holding on to the Stranger-man, whose hair was
full of mud (although he was a Tewara). Behind them came the Head Chief,
the Vice-Chief, the Deputy and Assistant Chiefs (all armed to the upper
teeth), the Hetmans and Heads of Hundreds, Platoffs with their Platoons,
and Dolmans with their Detachments; Woons, Neguses, and Akhoonds ranking
in the rear (still armed to the teeth). Behind them was the Tribe in
hierarchical order, from owners of four caves (one for each season), a
private reindeer-run, and two salmon-leaps, to feudal and prognathous
Villeins, semi-entitled to half a bearskin of winter nights, seven yards
from the fire, and adscript serfs, holding the reversion of a scraped
marrow-bone under heriot (Aren’t those beautiful words, Best Beloved?).
They were all there, prancing and shouting, and they frightened every
fish for twenty miles, and Tegumai thanked them in a fluid Neolithic
oration.
Then Teshumai Tewindrow ran down and kissed and hugged Taffy very much
indeed; but the Head Chief of the Tribe of Tegumai took Tegumai by the
top-knot feathers and shook him severely.
‘Explain! Explain! Explain!’ cried all the Tribe of Tegumai.
‘Goodness’ sakes alive!’ said Tegumai. ‘Let go of my top-knot. Can’t
a man break his carp-spear without the whole countryside descending on
him? You’re a very interfering people.’
‘I don’t believe you’ve brought my Daddy’s black-handled spear after
all,’ said Taffy. ‘And what are you doing to my nice Stranger-man?’
They were thumping him by twos and threes and tens till his eyes turned
round and round. He could only gasp and point at Taffy.
‘Where are the bad people who speared you, my darling?’ said Teshumai
Tewindrow.
‘There weren’t any,’ said Tegumai. ‘My only visitor this morning was the
poor fellow that you are trying to choke. Aren’t you well, or are you
ill, O Tribe of Tegumai?’
‘He came with a horrible picture,’ said the Head Chief,--‘a picture that
showed you were full of spears.’
‘Er-um-Pr’aps I’d better ‘splain that I gave him that picture,’ said
Taffy, but she did not feel quite comfy.
‘You!’ said the Tribe of Tegumai all together.
‘Small-person-with-no-manners-who-ought-to-be-spanked! You?’
‘Taffy dear, I’m afraid we’re in for a little trouble,’ said her Daddy,
and put his arm round her, so she didn’t care.
‘Explain! Explain! Explain!’ said the Head Chief of the Tribe of
Tegumai, and he hopped on one foot.
‘I wanted the Stranger-man to fetch Daddy’s spear, so I drawded it,’
said Taffy. ‘There wasn’t lots of spears. There was only one spear. I
drawded it three times to make sure. I couldn’t help it looking as if it
stuck into Daddy’s head--there wasn’t room on the birch-bark; and those
things that Mummy called bad people are my beavers. I drawded them to
show him the way through the swamp; and I drawded Mummy at the mouth of
the Cave looking pleased because he is a nice Stranger-man, and I think
you are just the stupidest people in the world,’ said Taffy. ‘He is a
very nice man. Why have you filled his hair with mud? Wash him!’
Nobody said anything at all for a longtime, till the Head Chief laughed;
then the Stranger-man (who was at least a Tewara) laughed; then Tegumai
laughed till he fell down flat on the bank; then all the Tribe laughed
more and worse and louder. The only people who did not laugh were
Teshumai Tewindrow and all the Neolithic ladies. They were very polite
to all their husbands, and said ‘Idiot!’ ever so often.
Then the Head Chief of the Tribe of Tegumai cried and said and sang, ‘O
Small-person-with-out-any-manners-who-ought-to-be-spanked, you’ve hit
upon a great invention!’
‘I didn’t intend to; I only wanted Daddy’s black-handled spear,’ said
Taffy.
‘Never mind. It is a great invention, and some day men will call it
writing. At present it is only pictures, and, as we have seen to-day,
pictures are not always properly understood. But a time will come, O
Babe of Tegumai, when we shall make letters--all twenty-six of ‘em,--and
when we shall be able to read as well as to write, and then we shall
always say exactly what we mean without any mistakes. Let the Neolithic
ladies wash the mud out of the stranger’s hair.’
‘I shall be glad of that,’ said Taffy, ‘because, after all, though
you’ve brought every single other spear in the Tribe of Tegumai, you’ve
forgotten my Daddy’s black-handled spear.’
Then the Head Chief cried and said and sang, ‘Taffy dear, the next time
you write a picture-letter, you’d better send a man who can talk our
language with it, to explain what it means. I don’t mind it myself,
because I am a Head Chief, but it’s very bad for the rest of the Tribe
of Tegumai, and, as you can see, it surprises the stranger.’
Then they adopted the Stranger-man (a genuine Tewara of Tewar) into the
Tribe of Tegumai, because he was a gentleman and did not make a fuss
about the mud that the Neolithic ladies had put into his hair. But
from that day to this (and I suppose it is all Taffy’s fault), very few
little girls have ever liked learning to read or write. Most of them
prefer to draw pictures and play about with their Daddies--just like
Taffy.
THERE runs a road by Merrow Down--
A grassy track to-day it is
An hour out of Guildford town,
Above the river Wey it is.
Here, when they heard the horse-bells ring,
The ancient Britons dressed and rode
To watch the dark Phoenicians bring
Their goods along the Western Road.
And here, or hereabouts, they met
To hold their racial talks and such--
To barter beads for Whitby jet,
And tin for gay shell torques and such.
But long and long before that time
(When bison used to roam on it)
Did Taffy and her Daddy climb
That down, and had their home on it.
Then beavers built in Broadstone brook
And made a swamp where Bramley stands:
And bears from Shere would come and look
For Taffimai where Shamley stands.
The Wey, that Taffy called Wagai,
Was more than six times bigger then;
And all the Tribe of Tegumai
They cut a noble figure then!

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Title: HOW THE LEOPARD GOT HIS SPOTS
Author: Rudyard Kipling
HOW THE LEOPARD GOT HIS SPOTS
IN the days when everybody started fair, Best Beloved, the Leopard lived
in a place called the High Veldt. ‘Member it wasn’t the Low Veldt, or
the Bush Veldt, or the Sour Veldt, but the ‘sclusively bare, hot, shiny
High Veldt, where there was sand and sandy-coloured rock and ‘sclusively
tufts of sandy-yellowish grass. The Giraffe and the Zebra and the Eland
and the Koodoo and the Hartebeest lived there; and they were ‘sclusively
sandy-yellow-brownish all over; but the Leopard, he was the ‘sclusivest
sandiest-yellowish-brownest of them all--a greyish-yellowish
catty-shaped kind of beast, and he matched the ‘sclusively
yellowish-greyish-brownish colour of the High Veldt to one hair. This
was very bad for the Giraffe and the Zebra and the rest of them; for
he would lie down by a ‘sclusively yellowish-greyish-brownish stone or
clump of grass, and when the Giraffe or the Zebra or the Eland or the
Koodoo or the Bush-Buck or the Bonte-Buck came by he would surprise them
out of their jumpsome lives. He would indeed! And, also, there was an
Ethiopian with bows and arrows (a ‘sclusively greyish-brownish-yellowish
man he was then), who lived on the High Veldt with the Leopard; and the
two used to hunt together--the Ethiopian with his bows and arrows, and
the Leopard ‘sclusively with his teeth and claws--till the Giraffe and
the Eland and the Koodoo and the Quagga and all the rest of them didn’t
know which way to jump, Best Beloved. They didn’t indeed!
After a long time--things lived for ever so long in those days--they
learned to avoid anything that looked like a Leopard or an Ethiopian;
and bit by bit--the Giraffe began it, because his legs were the
longest--they went away from the High Veldt. They scuttled for days
and days and days till they came to a great forest, ‘sclusively full of
trees and bushes and stripy, speckly, patchy-blatchy shadows, and there
they hid: and after another long time, what with standing half in the
shade and half out of it, and what with the slippery-slidy shadows of
the trees falling on them, the Giraffe grew blotchy, and the Zebra grew
stripy, and the Eland and the Koodoo grew darker, with little wavy grey
lines on their backs like bark on a tree trunk; and so, though you could
hear them and smell them, you could very seldom see them, and then only
when you knew precisely where to look. They had a beautiful time in the
‘sclusively speckly-spickly shadows of the forest, while the Leopard and
the Ethiopian ran about over the ‘sclusively greyish-yellowish-reddish
High Veldt outside, wondering where all their breakfasts and their
dinners and their teas had gone. At last they were so hungry that they
ate rats and beetles and rock-rabbits, the Leopard and the Ethiopian,
and then they had the Big Tummy-ache, both together; and then they met
Baviaan--the dog-headed, barking Baboon, who is Quite the Wisest Animal
in All South Africa.
Said Leopard to Baviaan (and it was a very hot day), ‘Where has all the
game gone?’
And Baviaan winked. He knew.
Said the Ethiopian to Baviaan, ‘Can you tell me the present habitat
of the aboriginal Fauna?’ (That meant just the same thing, but the
Ethiopian always used long words. He was a grown-up.)
And Baviaan winked. He knew.
Then said Baviaan, ‘The game has gone into other spots; and my advice to
you, Leopard, is to go into other spots as soon as you can.’
And the Ethiopian said, ‘That is all very fine, but I wish to know
whither the aboriginal Fauna has migrated.’
Then said Baviaan, ‘The aboriginal Fauna has joined the aboriginal Flora
because it was high time for a change; and my advice to you, Ethiopian,
is to change as soon as you can.’
That puzzled the Leopard and the Ethiopian, but they set off to look for
the aboriginal Flora, and presently, after ever so many days, they saw
a great, high, tall forest full of tree trunks all ‘sclusively speckled
and sprottled and spottled, dotted and splashed and slashed and hatched
and cross-hatched with shadows. (Say that quickly aloud, and you will
see how very shadowy the forest must have been.)
‘What is this,’ said the Leopard, ‘that is so ‘sclusively dark, and yet
so full of little pieces of light?’
‘I don’t know, said the Ethiopian, ‘but it ought to be the aboriginal
Flora. I can smell Giraffe, and I can hear Giraffe, but I can’t see
Giraffe.’
‘That’s curious,’ said the Leopard. ‘I suppose it is because we have
just come in out of the sunshine. I can smell Zebra, and I can hear
Zebra, but I can’t see Zebra.’
‘Wait a bit, said the Ethiopian. ‘It’s a long time since we’ve hunted
‘em. Perhaps we’ve forgotten what they were like.’
‘Fiddle!’ said the Leopard. ‘I remember them perfectly on the High
Veldt, especially their marrow-bones. Giraffe is about seventeen feet
high, of a ‘sclusively fulvous golden-yellow from head to heel; and
Zebra is about four and a half feet high, of a’sclusively grey-fawn
colour from head to heel.’
‘Umm, said the Ethiopian, looking into the speckly-spickly shadows of
the aboriginal Flora-forest. ‘Then they ought to show up in this dark
place like ripe bananas in a smokehouse.’
But they didn’t. The Leopard and the Ethiopian hunted all day; and
though they could smell them and hear them, they never saw one of them.
‘For goodness’ sake,’ said the Leopard at tea-time, ‘let us wait till it
gets dark. This daylight hunting is a perfect scandal.’
So they waited till dark, and then the Leopard heard something breathing
sniffily in the starlight that fell all stripy through the branches, and
he jumped at the noise, and it smelt like Zebra, and it felt like Zebra,
and when he knocked it down it kicked like Zebra, but he couldn’t see
it. So he said, ‘Be quiet, O you person without any form. I am going to
sit on your head till morning, because there is something about you that
I don’t understand.’
Presently he heard a grunt and a crash and a scramble, and the Ethiopian
called out, ‘I’ve caught a thing that I can’t see. It smells like
Giraffe, and it kicks like Giraffe, but it hasn’t any form.’
‘Don’t you trust it,’ said the Leopard. ‘Sit on its head till the
morning--same as me. They haven’t any form--any of ‘em.’
So they sat down on them hard till bright morning-time, and then Leopard
said, ‘What have you at your end of the table, Brother?’
The Ethiopian scratched his head and said, ‘It ought to be ‘sclusively a
rich fulvous orange-tawny from head to heel, and it ought to be Giraffe;
but it is covered all over with chestnut blotches. What have you at your
end of the table, Brother?’
And the Leopard scratched his head and said, ‘It ought to be ‘sclusively
a delicate greyish-fawn, and it ought to be Zebra; but it is covered
all over with black and purple stripes. What in the world have you been
doing to yourself, Zebra? Don’t you know that if you were on the High
Veldt I could see you ten miles off? You haven’t any form.’
‘Yes,’ said the Zebra, ‘but this isn’t the High Veldt. Can’t you see?’
‘I can now,’ said the Leopard. ‘But I couldn’t all yesterday. How is it
done?’
‘Let us up,’ said the Zebra, ‘and we will show you.
They let the Zebra and the Giraffe get up; and Zebra moved away to some
little thorn-bushes where the sunlight fell all stripy, and Giraffe
moved off to some tallish trees where the shadows fell all blotchy.
‘Now watch,’ said the Zebra and the Giraffe. ‘This is the way it’s done.
One--two--three! And where’s your breakfast?’
Leopard stared, and Ethiopian stared, but all they could see were stripy
shadows and blotched shadows in the forest, but never a sign of Zebra
and Giraffe. They had just walked off and hidden themselves in the
shadowy forest.
‘Hi! Hi!’ said the Ethiopian. ‘That’s a trick worth learning. Take a
lesson by it, Leopard. You show up in this dark place like a bar of soap
in a coal-scuttle.’
‘Ho! Ho!’ said the Leopard. ‘Would it surprise you very much to know
that you show up in this dark place like a mustard-plaster on a sack of
coals?’
‘Well, calling names won’t catch dinner, said the Ethiopian. ‘The long
and the little of it is that we don’t match our backgrounds. I’m going
to take Baviaan’s advice. He told me I ought to change; and as I’ve
nothing to change except my skin I’m going to change that.’
‘What to?’ said the Leopard, tremendously excited.
‘To a nice working blackish-brownish colour, with a little purple in
it, and touches of slaty-blue. It will be the very thing for hiding in
hollows and behind trees.’
So he changed his skin then and there, and the Leopard was more excited
than ever; he had never seen a man change his skin before.
‘But what about me?’ he said, when the Ethiopian had worked his last
little finger into his fine new black skin.
‘You take Baviaan’s advice too. He told you to go into spots.’
‘So I did,’ said the Leopard. I went into other spots as fast as I
could. I went into this spot with you, and a lot of good it has done
me.’
‘Oh,’ said the Ethiopian, ‘Baviaan didn’t mean spots in South Africa. He
meant spots on your skin.’
‘What’s the use of that?’ said the Leopard.
‘Think of Giraffe,’ said the Ethiopian. ‘Or if you prefer stripes,
think of Zebra. They find their spots and stripes give them per-feet
satisfaction.’
‘Umm,’ said the Leopard. ‘I wouldn’t look like Zebra--not for ever so.’
‘Well, make up your mind,’ said the Ethiopian, ‘because I’d hate to
go hunting without you, but I must if you insist on looking like a
sun-flower against a tarred fence.’
‘I’ll take spots, then,’ said the Leopard; ‘but don’t make ‘em too
vulgar-big. I wouldn’t look like Giraffe--not for ever so.’
‘I’ll make ‘em with the tips of my fingers,’ said the Ethiopian.
‘There’s plenty of black left on my skin still. Stand over!’
Then the Ethiopian put his five fingers close together (there was plenty
of black left on his new skin still) and pressed them all over the
Leopard, and wherever the five fingers touched they left five little
black marks, all close together. You can see them on any Leopard’s skin
you like, Best Beloved. Sometimes the fingers slipped and the marks got
a little blurred; but if you look closely at any Leopard now you will
see that there are always five spots--off five fat black finger-tips.
‘Now you are a beauty!’ said the Ethiopian. ‘You can lie out on the bare
ground and look like a heap of pebbles. You can lie out on the naked
rocks and look like a piece of pudding-stone. You can lie out on a leafy
branch and look like sunshine sifting through the leaves; and you
can lie right across the centre of a path and look like nothing in
particular. Think of that and purr!’
‘But if I’m all this,’ said the Leopard, ‘why didn’t you go spotty too?’
‘Oh, plain black’s best for a nigger,’ said the Ethiopian. ‘Now come
along and we’ll see if we can’t get even with Mr. One-Two-Three Where’s
your Breakfast!’
So they went away and lived happily ever afterward, Best Beloved. That
is all.
Oh, now and then you will hear grown-ups say, ‘Can the Ethiopian change
his skin or the Leopard his spots?’ I don’t think even grown-ups would
keep on saying such a silly thing if the Leopard and the Ethiopian
hadn’t done it once--do you? But they will never do it again, Best
Beloved. They are quite contented as they are.
I AM the Most Wise Baviaan, saying in most wise tones,
‘Let us melt into the landscape--just us two by our lones.’
People have come--in a carriage--calling. But Mummy is there....
Yes, I can go if you take me--Nurse says she don’t care.
Let’s go up to the pig-sties and sit on the farmyard rails!
Let’s say things to the bunnies, and watch ‘em skitter their tails!
Let’s--oh, anything, daddy, so long as it’s you and me,
And going truly exploring, and not being in till tea!
Here’s your boots (I’ve brought ‘em), and here’s your cap and stick,
And here’s your pipe and tobacco. Oh, come along out of it--quick.

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Title: HOW THE RHINOCEROS GOT HIS SKIN
Author: Rudyard Kipling
HOW THE RHINOCEROS GOT HIS SKIN
ONCE upon a time, on an uninhabited island on the shores of the Red Sea,
there lived a Parsee from whose hat the rays of the sun were reflected
in more-than-oriental splendour. And the Parsee lived by the Red Sea
with nothing but his hat and his knife and a cooking-stove of the kind
that you must particularly never touch. And one day he took flour and
water and currants and plums and sugar and things, and made himself one
cake which was two feet across and three feet thick. It was indeed a
Superior Comestible (that’s magic), and he put it on stove because he
was allowed to cook on the stove, and he baked it and he baked it till
it was all done brown and smelt most sentimental. But just as he
was going to eat it there came down to the beach from the Altogether
Uninhabited Interior one Rhinoceros with a horn on his nose, two piggy
eyes, and few manners. In those days the Rhinoceros’s skin fitted him
quite tight. There were no wrinkles in it anywhere. He looked exactly
like a Noah’s Ark Rhinoceros, but of course much bigger. All the same,
he had no manners then, and he has no manners now, and he never will
have any manners. He said, ‘How!’ and the Parsee left that cake and
climbed to the top of a palm tree with nothing on but his hat, from
which the rays of the sun were always reflected in more-than-oriental
splendour. And the Rhinoceros upset the oil-stove with his nose, and
the cake rolled on the sand, and he spiked that cake on the horn of his
nose, and he ate it, and he went away, waving his tail, to the desolate
and Exclusively Uninhabited Interior which abuts on the islands of
Mazanderan, Socotra, and Promontories of the Larger Equinox. Then the
Parsee came down from his palm-tree and put the stove on its legs and
recited the following Sloka, which, as you have not heard, I will now
proceed to relate:--
Them that takes cakes
Which the Parsee-man bakes
Makes dreadful mistakes.
And there was a great deal more in that than you would think.
Because, five weeks later, there was a heat wave in the Red Sea, and
everybody took off all the clothes they had. The Parsee took off his
hat; but the Rhinoceros took off his skin and carried it over his
shoulder as he came down to the beach to bathe. In those days it
buttoned underneath with three buttons and looked like a waterproof. He
said nothing whatever about the Parsee’s cake, because he had eaten
it all; and he never had any manners, then, since, or henceforward.
He waddled straight into the water and blew bubbles through his nose,
leaving his skin on the beach.
Presently the Parsee came by and found the skin, and he smiled one smile
that ran all round his face two times. Then he danced three times round
the skin and rubbed his hands. Then he went to his camp and filled his
hat with cake-crumbs, for the Parsee never ate anything but cake, and
never swept out his camp. He took that skin, and he shook that skin, and
he scrubbed that skin, and he rubbed that skin just as full of old,
dry, stale, tickly cake-crumbs and some burned currants as ever it could
possibly hold. Then he climbed to the top of his palm-tree and waited
for the Rhinoceros to come out of the water and put it on.
And the Rhinoceros did. He buttoned it up with the three buttons, and
it tickled like cake crumbs in bed. Then he wanted to scratch, but that
made it worse; and then he lay down on the sands and rolled and rolled
and rolled, and every time he rolled the cake crumbs tickled him worse
and worse and worse. Then he ran to the palm-tree and rubbed and rubbed
and rubbed himself against it. He rubbed so much and so hard that he
rubbed his skin into a great fold over his shoulders, and another fold
underneath, where the buttons used to be (but he rubbed the buttons
off), and he rubbed some more folds over his legs. And it spoiled his
temper, but it didn’t make the least difference to the cake-crumbs.
They were inside his skin and they tickled. So he went home, very angry
indeed and horribly scratchy; and from that day to this every rhinoceros
has great folds in his skin and a very bad temper, all on account of the
cake-crumbs inside.
But the Parsee came down from his palm-tree, wearing his hat, from which
the rays of the sun were reflected in more-than-oriental splendour,
packed up his cooking-stove, and went away in the direction of Orotavo,
Amygdala, the Upland Meadows of Anantarivo, and the Marshes of Sonaput.
THIS Uninhabited Island
Is off Cape Gardafui,
By the Beaches of Socotra
And the Pink Arabian Sea:
But it’s hot--too hot from Suez
For the likes of you and me
Ever to go
In a P. and O.
And call on the Cake-Parsee!

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Title: HOW THE WHALE GOT HIS THROAT
Author: Rudyard Kipling
HOW THE WHALE GOT HIS THROAT
IN the sea, once upon a time, O my Best Beloved, there was a Whale, and
he ate fishes. He ate the starfish and the garfish, and the crab and the
dab, and the plaice and the dace, and the skate and his mate, and the
mackereel and the pickereel, and the really truly twirly-whirly eel. All
the fishes he could find in all the sea he ate with his mouth--so! Till
at last there was only one small fish left in all the sea, and he was a
small ‘Stute Fish, and he swam a little behind the Whale’s right ear,
so as to be out of harm’s way. Then the Whale stood up on his tail and
said, ‘I’m hungry.’ And the small ‘Stute Fish said in a small ‘stute
voice, ‘Noble and generous Cetacean, have you ever tasted Man?’
‘No,’ said the Whale. ‘What is it like?’
‘Nice,’ said the small ‘Stute Fish. ‘Nice but nubbly.’
‘Then fetch me some,’ said the Whale, and he made the sea froth up with
his tail.
‘One at a time is enough,’ said the ‘Stute Fish. ‘If you swim to
latitude Fifty North, longitude Forty West (that is magic), you will
find, sitting _on_ a raft, _in_ the middle of the sea, with nothing on
but a pair of blue canvas breeches, a pair of suspenders (you must _not_
forget the suspenders, Best Beloved), and a jack-knife, one
ship-wrecked Mariner, who, it is only fair to tell you, is a man of
infinite-resource-and-sagacity.’
So the Whale swam and swam to latitude Fifty North, longitude Forty
West, as fast as he could swim, and _on_ a raft, _in_ the middle of the
sea, _with_ nothing to wear except a pair of blue canvas breeches, a
pair of suspenders (you must particularly remember the suspenders, Best
Beloved), _and_ a jack-knife, he found one single, solitary shipwrecked
Mariner, trailing his toes in the water. (He had his mummy’s leave to
paddle, or else he would never have done it, because he was a man of
infinite-resource-and-sagacity.)
Then the Whale opened his mouth back and back and back till it nearly
touched his tail, and he swallowed the shipwrecked Mariner, and the
raft he was sitting on, and his blue canvas breeches, and the suspenders
(which you _must_ not forget), _and_ the jack-knife--He swallowed them
all down into his warm, dark, inside cup-boards, and then he smacked his
lips--so, and turned round three times on his tail.
But as soon as the Mariner, who was a man of
infinite-resource-and-sagacity, found himself truly inside the Whale’s
warm, dark, inside cup-boards, he stumped and he jumped and he thumped
and he bumped, and he pranced and he danced, and he banged and he
clanged, and he hit and he bit, and he leaped and he creeped, and he
prowled and he howled, and he hopped and he dropped, and he cried and he
sighed, and he crawled and he bawled, and he stepped and he lepped, and
he danced hornpipes where he shouldn’t, and the Whale felt most unhappy
indeed. (_Have_ you forgotten the suspenders?)
So he said to the ‘Stute Fish, ‘This man is very nubbly, and besides he
is making me hiccough. What shall I do?’
‘Tell him to come out,’ said the ‘Stute Fish.
So the Whale called down his own throat to the shipwrecked Mariner,
‘Come out and behave yourself. I’ve got the hiccoughs.’
‘Nay, nay!’ said the Mariner. ‘Not so, but far otherwise. Take me to my
natal-shore and the white-cliffs-of-Albion, and I’ll think about it.’
And he began to dance more than ever.
‘You had better take him home,’ said the ‘Stute Fish to the Whale.
‘I ought to have warned you that he is a man of infinite-resource-and-sagacity.’
So the Whale swam and swam and swam, with both flippers and his tail,
as hard as he could for the hiccoughs; and at last he saw the Mariner’s
natal-shore and the white-cliffs-of-Albion, and he rushed half-way
up the beach, and opened his mouth wide and wide and wide, and said,
‘Change here for Winchester, Ashuelot, Nashua, Keene, and stations on
the _Fitch_burg Road;’ and just as he said ‘Fitch’ the Mariner walked
out of his mouth. But while the Whale had been swimming, the Mariner,
who was indeed a person of infinite-resource-and-sagacity, had taken his
jack-knife and cut up the raft into a little square grating all running
criss-cross, and he had tied it firm with his suspenders (_now_, you
know why you were not to forget the suspenders!), and he dragged that
grating good and tight into the Whale’s throat, and there it stuck! Then
he recited the following _Sloka_, which, as you have not heard it, I
will now proceed to relate--
By means of a grating
I have stopped your ating.
For the Mariner he was also an Hi-ber-ni-an. And he stepped out on the
shingle, and went home to his mother, who had given him leave to trail
his toes in the water; and he married and lived happily ever afterward.
So did the Whale. But from that day on, the grating in his throat,
which he could neither cough up nor swallow down, prevented him eating
anything except very, very small fish; and that is the reason why whales
nowadays never eat men or boys or little girls.
The small ‘Stute Fish went and hid himself in the mud under the
Door-sills of the Equator. He was afraid that the Whale might be angry
with him.
The Sailor took the jack-knife home. He was wearing the blue canvas
breeches when he walked out on the shingle. The suspenders were left
behind, you see, to tie the grating with; and that is the end of _that_
tale.
WHEN the cabin port-holes are dark and green
Because of the seas outside;
When the ship goes _wop_ (with a wiggle between)
And the steward falls into the soup-tureen,
And the trunks begin to slide;
When Nursey lies on the floor in a heap,
And Mummy tells you to let her sleep,
And you aren’t waked or washed or dressed,
Why, then you will know (if you haven’t guessed)
You’re ‘Fifty North and Forty West!’

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Title: The Tale of Jemima Puddle-Duck
Author: Beatrix Potter
THE TALE OF JEMIMA PUDDLE-DUCK
by
BEATRIX POTTER
A FARMYARD TALE
FOR
RALPH AND BETSY
What a funny sight it is to see a brood of ducklings with a hen!
--Listen to the story of Jemima Puddle-duck, who was annoyed because the
farmer's wife would not let her hatch her own eggs.
Her sister-in-law, Mrs. Rebeccah Puddle-duck, was perfectly willing to
leave the hatching to some one else--"I have not the patience to sit on a
nest for twenty-eight days; and no more have you, Jemima. You would let
them go cold; you know you would!"
"I wish to hatch my own eggs; I will hatch them all by myself," quacked
Jemima Puddle-duck.
She tried to hide her eggs; but they were always found and carried off.
Jemima Puddle-duck became quite desperate. She determined to make a nest
right away from the farm.
She set off on a fine spring afternoon along the cart-road that leads over
the hill.
She was wearing a shawl and a poke bonnet.
When she reached the top of the hill, she saw a wood in the distance.
She thought that it looked a safe quiet spot.
Jemima Puddle-duck was not much in the habit of flying. She ran downhill a
few yards flapping her shawl, and then she jumped off into the air.
She flew beautifully when she had got a good start.
She skimmed along over the tree-tops until she saw an open place in the
middle of the wood, where the trees and brushwood had been cleared.
Jemima alighted rather heavily, and began to waddle about in search of a
convenient dry nesting-place. She rather fancied a tree-stump amongst some
tall fox-gloves.
But--seated upon the stump, she was startled to find an elegantly dressed
gentleman reading a newspaper.
He had black prick ears and sandy coloured whiskers.
"Quack?" said Jemima Puddle-duck, with her head and her bonnet on one
side--"Quack?"
The gentleman raised his eyes above his newspaper and looked curiously at
Jemima--
"Madam, have you lost your way?" said he. He had a long bushy tail which
he was sitting upon, as the stump was somewhat damp.
Jemima thought him mighty civil and handsome. She explained that she had
not lost her way, but that she was trying to find a convenient dry
nesting-place.
"Ah! is that so? indeed!" said the gentleman with sandy whiskers, looking
curiously at Jemima. He folded up the newspaper, and put it in his
coat-tail pocket.
Jemima complained of the superfluous hen.
"Indeed! how interesting! I wish I could meet with that fowl. I would
teach it to mind its own business!"
"But as to a nest--there is no difficulty: I have a sackful of feathers in
my wood-shed. No, my dear madam, you will be in nobody's way. You may sit
there as long as you like," said the bushy long-tailed gentleman.
He led the way to a very retired, dismal-looking house amongst the
fox-gloves.
It was built of faggots and turf, and there were two broken pails, one on
top of another, by way of a chimney.
"This is my summer residence; you would not find my earth--my winter
house--so convenient," said the hospitable gentleman.
There was a tumble-down shed at the back of the house, made of old
soap-boxes. The gentleman opened the door, and showed Jemima in.
The shed was almost quite full of feathers--it was almost suffocating; but
it was comfortable and very soft.
Jemima Puddle-duck was rather surprised to find such a vast quantity of
feathers. But it was very comfortable; and she made a nest without any
trouble at all.
When she came out, the sandy whiskered gentleman was sitting on a log
reading the newspaper--at least he had it spread out, but he was looking
over the top of it.
He was so polite, that he seemed almost sorry to let Jemima go home for
the night. He promised to take great care of her nest until she came back
again next day.
He said he loved eggs and ducklings; he should be proud to see a fine
nestful in his wood-shed.
Jemima Puddle-duck came every afternoon; she laid nine eggs in the nest.
They were greeny white and very large. The foxy gentleman admired them
immensely. He used to turn them over and count them when Jemima was not
there.
At last Jemima told him that she intended to begin to sit next day--"and I
will bring a bag of corn with me, so that I need never leave my nest until
the eggs are hatched. They might catch cold," said the conscientious
Jemima.
"Madam, I beg you not to trouble yourself with a bag; I will provide oats.
But before you commence your tedious sitting, I intend to give you a
treat. Let us have a dinner-party all to ourselves!
"May I ask you to bring up some herbs from the farm-garden to make a
savoury omelette? Sage and thyme, and mint and two onions, and some
parsley. I will provide lard for the stuff--lard for the omelette," said
the hospitable gentleman with sandy whiskers.
Jemima Puddle-duck was a simpleton: not even the mention of sage and
onions made her suspicious.
She went round the farm-garden, nibbling off snippets of all the different
sorts of herbs that are used for stuffing roast duck.
And she waddled into the kitchen, and got two onions out of a basket.
The collie-dog Kep met her coming out, "What are you doing with those
onions? Where do you go every afternoon by yourself, Jemima Puddle-duck?"
Jemima was rather in awe of the collie; she told him the whole story.
The collie listened, with his wise head on one side; he grinned when she
described the polite gentleman with sandy whiskers.
He asked several questions about the wood, and about the exact position of
the house and shed.
Then he went out, and trotted down the village. He went to look for two
fox-hound puppies who were out at walk with the butcher.
Jemima Puddle-duck went up the cart-road for the last time, on a sunny
afternoon. She was rather burdened with bunches of herbs and two onions in
a bag.
She flew over the wood, and alighted opposite the house of the bushy
long-tailed gentleman.
He was sitting on a log; he sniffed the air, and kept glancing uneasily
round the wood. When Jemima alighted he quite jumped.
"Come into the house as soon as you have looked at your eggs. Give me the
herbs for the omelette. Be sharp!"
He was rather abrupt. Jemima Puddle-duck had never heard him speak like
that.
She felt surprised, and uncomfortable.
While she was inside she heard pattering feet round the back of the shed.
Some one with a black nose sniffed at the bottom of the door, and then
locked it.
Jemima became much alarmed.
A moment afterwards there were most awful noises--barking, baying, growls
and howls, squealing and groans.
And nothing more was ever seen of that foxy-whiskered gentleman.
Presently Kep opened the door of the shed, and let out Jemima Puddle-duck.
Unfortunately the puppies rushed in and gobbled up all the eggs before he
could stop them.
He had a bite on his ear and both the puppies were limping.
Jemima Puddle-duck was escorted home in tears on account of those eggs.
She laid some more in June, and she was permitted to keep them herself:
but only four of them hatched.
Jemima Puddle-duck said that it was because of her nerves; but she had
always been a bad sitter.

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Title: The Tale of Johnny Town-Mouse
Author: Beatrix Potter
THE TALE OF JOHNNY TOWN-MOUSE
By BEATRIX POTTER
Johnny Town-mouse was born in a cupboard. Timmy Willie was born in a
garden. Timmy Willie was a little country mouse who went to town by
mistake in a hamper. The gardener sent vegetables to town once a week by
carrier; he packed them in a big hamper.
The gardener left the hamper by the garden gate, so that the carrier
could pick it up when he passed. Timmy Willie crept in through a hole in
the wicker-work, and after eating some peas--Timmy Willie fell fast
asleep.
He awoke in a fright, while the hamper was being lifted into the carrier's
cart. Then there was a jolting, and a clattering of horse's feet; other
packages were thrown in; for miles and miles--jolt--jolt--jolt! and
Timmy Willie trembled amongst the jumbled up vegetables.
At last the cart stopped at a house, where the hamper was taken out,
carried in, and set down. The cook gave the carrier sixpence; the back
door banged, and the cart rumbled away. But there was no quiet; there
seemed to be hundreds of carts passing. Dogs barked; boys whistled in
the street; the cook laughed, the parlour maid ran up and down-stairs;
and a canary sang like a steam engine.
Timmy Willie, who had lived all his life in a garden, was almost
frightened to death. Presently the cook opened the hamper and began to
unpack the vegetables. Out sprang the terrified Timmy Willie.
Up jumped the cook on a chair, exclaiming "A mouse! a mouse! Call the
cat! Fetch me the poker, Sarah!" Timmy Willie did not wait for Sarah
with the poker; he rushed along the skirting board till he came to a
little hole, and in he popped.
He dropped half a foot, and crashed into the middle of a mouse dinner
party, breaking three glasses.--"Who in the world is this?" inquired
Johnny Town-mouse. But after the first exclamation of surprise he
instantly recovered his manners.
With the utmost politeness he introduced Timmy Willie to nine other
mice, all with long tails and white neckties. Timmy Willie's own tail
was insignificant. Johnny Town-mouse and his friends noticed it; but
they were too well bred to make personal remarks; only one of them asked
Timmy Willie if he had ever been in a trap?
The dinner was of eight courses; not much of anything, but truly
elegant. All the dishes were unknown to Timmy Willie, who would have
been a little afraid of tasting them; only he was very hungry, and very
anxious to behave with company manners. The continual noise upstairs
made him so nervous, that he dropped a plate. "Never mind, they don't
belong to us," said Johnny.
"Why don't those youngsters come back with the dessert?" It should be
explained that two young mice, who were waiting on the others, went
skirmishing upstairs to the kitchen between courses. Several times they
had come tumbling in, squeaking and laughing; Timmy Willie learnt with
horror that they were being chased by the cat. His appetite failed, he
felt faint. "Try some jelly?" said Johnny Town-mouse.
"No? Would you rather go to bed? I will show you a most comfortable
sofa pillow."
The sofa pillow had a hole in it. Johnny Town-mouse quite honestly
recommended it as the best bed, kept exclusively for visitors. But the
sofa smelt of cat. Timmy Willie preferred to spend a miserable night
under the fender.
It was just the same next day. An excellent breakfast was provided--for
mice accustomed to eat bacon; but Timmy Willie had been reared on roots
and salad. Johnny Town-mouse and his friends racketted about under the
floors, and came boldly out all over the house in the evening. One
particularly loud crash had been caused by Sarah tumbling downstairs
with the tea-tray; there were crumbs and sugar and smears of jam to be
collected, in spite of the cat.
Timmy Willie longed to be at home in his peaceful nest in a sunny bank.
The food disagreed with him; the noise prevented him from sleeping. In a
few days he grew so thin that Johnny Town-mouse noticed it, and
questioned him. He listened to Timmy Willie's story and inquired about
the garden. "It sounds rather a dull place? What do you do when it
rains?"
"When it rains, I sit in my little sandy burrow and shell corn and
seeds from my Autumn store. I peep out at the throstles and blackbirds
on the lawn, and my friend Cock Robin. And when the sun comes out again,
you should see my garden and the flowers--roses and pinks and
pansies--no noise except the birds and bees, and the lambs in the
meadows."
"There goes that cat again!" exclaimed Johnny Town-mouse. When they had
taken refuge in the coal-cellar he resumed the conversation; "I confess
I am a little disappointed; we have endeavoured to entertain you,
Timothy William."
"Oh yes, yes, you have been most kind; but I do feel so ill," said Timmy
Willie.
"It may be that your teeth and digestion are unaccustomed to our food;
perhaps it might be wiser for you to return in the hamper."
"Oh? Oh!" cried Timmy Willie.
"Why of course for the matter of that we could have sent you back last
week," said Johnny rather huffily--"did you not know that the hamper
goes back empty on Saturdays?"
So Timmy Willie said good-bye to his new friends, and hid in the hamper
with a crumb of cake and a withered cabbage leaf; and after much
jolting, he was set down safely in his own garden.
Sometimes on Saturdays he went to look at the hamper lying by the gate,
but he knew better than to get in again. And nobody got out, though
Johnny Town-mouse had half promised a visit.
The winter passed; the sun came out again; Timmy Willie sat by his
burrow warming his little fur coat and sniffing the smell of violets and
spring grass. He had nearly forgotten his visit to town. When up the
sandy path all spick and span with a brown leather bag came Johnny
Town-mouse!
Timmy Willie received him with open arms. "You have come at the best of
all the year, we will have herb pudding and sit in the sun."
"H'm'm! it is a little damp," said Johnny Town-mouse, who was carrying
his tail under his arm, out of the mud.
"What is that fearful noise?" he started violently.
"That?" said Timmy Willie, "that is only a cow; I will beg a little
milk, they are quite harmless, unless they happen to lie down upon you.
How are all our friends?"
Johnny's account was rather middling. He explained why he was paying
his visit so early in the season; the family had gone to the sea-side
for Easter; the cook was doing spring cleaning, on board wages, with
particular instructions to clear out the mice. There were four kittens,
and the cat had killed the canary.
"They say we did it; but I know better," said Johnny Town-mouse.
"Whatever is that fearful racket?"
"That is only the lawn-mower; I will fetch some of the grass clippings
presently to make your bed. I am sure you had better settle in the
country, Johnny."
"H'm'm--we shall see by Tuesday week; the hamper is stopped while they
are at the sea-side."
"I am sure you will never want to live in town again," said Timmy
Willie.
But he did. He went back in the very next hamper of vegetables; he said
it was too quiet!!
One place suits one person, another place suits another person. For my
part I prefer to live in the country, like Timmy Willie.

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Title: Mesecons Luacontroller Documentation
Author: Mesecons Developers
Chapter I: Your First Program: Output
port.a = true
Enter this and close the window. If you did well, the A-Port should now light up.
You can also set multiple ports at once:
port.a = true
port.b = true
port.c = true
The same thing is also possible in one line only:
port = {a=true, b=true, c=true}
All ports are reset when Programming the Controller. However, you can also turn them off manually:
port = {a=false, b=true, c=false, d=true}
Mind that ports are set after the whole code was executed.
port.a = true
port.a = false
This program won't even activate Port A for a millisecond.
Now you know how to set ports of a luacontroller.
A table value for the luacontroller like ports is is called "register". In the luacontroller ports are set from A to D, if it gets interrupted meanwhile, it stops setting ports.
print()
Is a great function. It can mostly output anything you want through the console (the black window that likely started with minetest or the terminal you launched minetest from)
print("Hello World!")
print("What is the answer to life the universe and everything?")
print(42)
print({answer=42, question="unknown"})
print(port.c)
print(port)
As you can see, the print() function is a very flexible and useful Utility, especially for debugging of your programs.
Mind that ports are set after the whole code was executed.
print() cannot output multiple arguments:
print("ab", "cd") Use this instead: print("ab".."cd")
Write a program that first activates ports B and D and then outputs the whole resulting register.
Chapter II: Input
The input register is called "pin".
print(pin)
This simple code will give you the state of all the inputs at any time. Basically pin is the merger of incoming power and internal ports that are active.
The whole code is only executed on an event, see Chapter V.
You can easily establish a relation between input and output:
port.b = pin.a
Port B now always adapts the state of port A.
port.a = true port.b = pin.a
The first time this code is executed, port B will stay inactive: Remember, ports are set after the whole code was executed.
However, on a second event, this code will activate port B.
Now you know how to retrieve the state of ports. In the next chapter you'll learn to use them.
Write a program that emulates a simple diode crossing:
Port A adapts the state of port C, port B adapts the state of port D.
Chapter III: Logic
You can replace all gates with the Luacontroller. Lua provides you three logic operators that you can use:
not, and, or Additionally, you can use equals(==) unequals(~=) and paranthesis (brackets).
-- AND
port.a = pin.b and pin.c
-- OR
port.a = pin.b or pin.c
-- NOT
port.a = not pin.b
-- NAND
port.a = not (pin.b and pin.c)
-- NOR
port.a = not (pin.b or pin.c)
-- XOR
port.a = pin.b ~= pin.c
-- XNOR / NXOR
port.a = pin.b == pin.c
You can also make some more difficult constructions, in this example pin A and B must both be true and pin B mustn't be the same state like pin D, then an output is triggered:
if (pin.a and pin.b and (pin.b ~= pin.d)) then
print("Lua rocks")
end
Write a program that activates port A if all the other pins are the same state.
Write a program that activates port C if pin A and B are both true and pin D is false.
Chapter IV: Interrupts
interrupt(1) print("execute")
This simple code snippet is executed over and over, all 1 second. Interrupts are basically timers, they make the code get executed again after a specific time, here it is 1 second.
You can also pass a single string to the next call, use
interrupt(1, "a parameter")
An interrupt is identified by its second argument (= iid = interrupt ID). When registering an interrupt, previous ones with the same iid will be removed. When reprogramming the luacontroller, existing interrupts will also be removed.
Interrupts resume even after restarting the game.
You can access the parameter using
interrupt(0.5, "a parameter")
print(event.iid)
See chapter V for details.
When using too small values for the time, the luacontroller may overheat and drop itself, see chapter VII.
Code a timer that toggles port A every two seconds.
Chapter V: Events
Always if the code is executed, there is some reason for it. This reason is called event. You can access some of its properties in the event register.
print(event)
event.type defines the kind of event that occured. There may also be some additional information. The following types of events exist:
program Thrown when the controller gets programmed.
on Thrown when any port is activated.
Additional information available in event.pin: The name of the port (A, B, C or D), and the x/y/z offset of the pin.
off Thrown when any port is deactivated.
Additional information available in event.pin: The name of the port (A, B, C or D), and the x/y/z offset of the pin.
interrupt Thrown when an interrupt timer elapses.
Additional information available in event.iid: The iid specified in interrupt(time, iid)
digiline Thrown when information from a digiline was received.
Additional information available in event.channel: The channel of the message;
and event.msg: The content of the message. See chapter VIII for details
This now enables us to code a simple T-FlipFlop:
if (event.type == "on" and event.pin.name == "B") then
port.a = not port.a
end
This toggles port A on rising edge of pin B.
Write a program that toggles all ports apart from A when there is a falling edge on pin A.
Chapter VI: Memory
This is one of the easiest chapters: mem is a table that you can store your information in. It only gets deleted when digging the controller or if the controller overheats, you can even program it without data loss.
print (mem.var)
mem.var = "example"
The first time you execute this code, the output will be nil. But after that it will always be "example" -
you need to dig the controller to delete that information. Writing more than 100kBytes ("luacontroller_memsize" setting)
to memory will cause the luacontroller to overheat in order to protect the server.
Chapter VII: Overheating
You may have already come across overheating, e.g. if you connected both ports of a NOT-Gate.
Overheating basically protects the minetest server from crashing. The controller overheats if not enough resources are available on the controller, by default if more than 20 operations within 1 second are executed. Simply try this:
port.a = not pin.b
and connect port A and B. Result: The Controller will drop itself.
You can also provoke overheating by setting up too many interrupts:
interrupt(1)
interrupt(1)
Each of these interrupts launches two more, and so after just a few seconds the controller will overheat.
The current heat of the luacontroller is available in the "heat" variable. You can also retrieve the current maximum heat setting in "heat_max". You can use these to allow adjustment to the current heat (e.g. invoke less interrupts if the controller is too hot).
The controller may also overheat if the program uses more memory in the mem table (see chapter VI) than available. This won't affect the heat setting, but depends on the size of the serialized mem table. By default, 100kBytes are available per luacontroller ("luacontroller_memsize" setting). If the required memory space exceeds the available memory, the controller will overheat and a notice will be printed on the server command line.
Chapter VIII: Digilines
First of all, get the digilines mod from Minetest-Mods.
Digilines are bus wires (like i2c, SPI or RS232 in real electronics) that can be used to connect different digital devices like luacontrollers. Digilines are very powerful and can also be used to e.g. build a multiplier in a very small space, or even a whole computer at the size of a minetest house.
A digiline transmission is defined by its content ("message") and its channel. Digiline devices (like the LCD) usually only transmit or listen on one channel. The luacontroller, however, can communicate on any number of channels with multiple peripherals or other luacontrollers. Channels can be strings, numbers and booleans (strings are recommended though).
digiline_send(channel, msg)
This is basically the only function you need to remember. This function allows you to send any message on any channel, you can use numbers, booleans, strings or even tables as messages.
Just like an ordinary mesecon wire, you can connect a digiline to any port of the luacontroller. Digiline messages are sent out and received through all ports simultaneously. To access information received from a digiline use:
if event.type == "digiline" then
print(event.channel)
print(event.msg)
end
Digiline messages may be tables, strings, numbers, booleans, functions or nil. However, it is discouraged to use digilines for sending functions since that does not fit the bus wire metaphor and may get prohibited in a future update. The maximum length of a digiline message is limited to 50000 characters in a serialized form. This can be tweaked using the "luacontroller_digiline_maxlen" setting. If your channel doesn't comply to type restrictions or your message is too long, digiline_send will return false, otherwise true.
You know all the basics of luacontroller programming now, you should be able to build great structures already, even if you don't realize it yet. Start with something small like a 4-bit memory and got on with even larger structures. But most importantly, be creative!
Transmit the states of Pin A and B through a digiline to another luacontroller and output them there
Make a simple adder. You need to use input luacontrollers and output luacontrollers, connect them via digilines.
Chapter IX: Miscellaneous
Since access to os.date is considered unsafe as it might crash lua and therefore the minetest server, a wrapper function called "os.datetable()" has been implemented. This function returns a table containing the current real-world date and time of the server:
{ hour = 11, min = 27, wday = 7, day = 2, month = 1, year = 2016, sec = 42, yday = 2, isdst = false }
You can use this to build a clock that displays the real-world time. Lightstones are great for displays.
Chapter X: Restrictions
Even though the whole code runs in a sandbox, the environment must be restricted so that there is no chance for a player to crash the whole server.
This is an extract from the source code that shows the available non-core functionality in the environment:
{
print = safeprint,
pin = merge_portstates(vports, rports),
port = vports,
interrupt = getinterrupt(pos),
digiline_send = getdigiline_send(pos),
mem = mem,
tostring = tostring,
tonumber = tonumber,
string = string,
event = event
}
There are no other functions apart from these.
Unfortunately, in order to prevent denial of service attacks on minetest servers, code execution on the Luacontroller is limited to a certain number of instructions. It is very unlikely to reach this limit during normal usage. If, however, your code still seems to time out for no reason, you may adjust the maximum number of instructions by editing the default value of
mesecon.luacontroller_maxevents = 10000
in your minetest.conf.

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Title: The Tale of Mr. Jeremy Fisher
Author: Beatrix Potter
THE TALE OF
MR. JEREMY FISHER
BY
BEATRIX POTTER
Once upon a time there was a frog called Mr. Jeremy Fisher; he lived in a
little damp house amongst the buttercups at the edge of a pond.
The water was all slippy-sloppy in the larder and in the back passage.
But Mr. Jeremy liked getting his feet wet; nobody ever scolded him, and he
never caught a cold!
He was quite pleased when he looked out and saw large drops of rain,
splashing in the pond--
"I will get some worms and go fishing and catch a dish of minnows for my
dinner," said Mr. Jeremy Fisher. "If I catch more than five fish, I will
invite my friends Mr. Alderman Ptolemy Tortoise and Sir Isaac Newton. The
Alderman, however, eats salad."
Mr. Jeremy put on a macintosh, and a pair of shiny goloshes; he took his
rod and basket, and set off with enormous hops to the place where he kept
his boat.
The boat was round and green, and very like the other lily-leaves. It was
tied to a water-plant in the middle of the pond.
Mr. Jeremy took a reed pole, and pushed the boat out into open water. "I
know a good place for minnows," said Mr. Jeremy Fisher.
Mr. Jeremy stuck his pole into the mud and fastened the boat to it.
Then he settled himself cross-legged and arranged his fishing tackle. He
had the dearest little red float. His rod was a tough stalk of grass, his
line was a fine long white horse-hair, and he tied a little wriggling worm
at the end.
The rain trickled down his back, and for nearly an hour he stared at the
float.
"This is getting tiresome, I think I should like some lunch," said Mr.
Jeremy Fisher.
He punted back again amongst the water-plants, and took some lunch out of
his basket.
"I will eat a butterfly sandwich, and wait till the shower is over," said
Mr. Jeremy Fisher.
A great big water-beetle came up underneath the lily leaf and tweaked the
toe of one of his goloshes.
Mr. Jeremy crossed his legs up shorter, out of reach, and went on eating
his sandwich.
Once or twice something moved about with a rustle and a splash amongst
the rushes at the side of the pond.
"I trust that is not a rat," said Mr. Jeremy Fisher; "I think I had better
get away from here."
Mr. Jeremy shoved the boat out again a little way, and dropped in the
bait. There was a bite almost directly; the float gave a tremendous
bobbit!
"A minnow! a minnow! I have him by the nose!" cried Mr. Jeremy Fisher,
jerking up his rod.
But what a horrible surprise! Instead of a smooth fat minnow, Mr. Jeremy
landed little Jack Sharp the stickleback, covered with spines!
The stickleback floundered about the boat, pricking and snapping until he
was quite out of breath. Then he jumped back into the water.
And a shoal of other little fishes put their heads out, and laughed at
Mr. Jeremy Fisher.
And while Mr. Jeremy sat disconsolately on the edge of his boat--sucking
his sore fingers and peering down into the water--a _much_ worse thing
happened; a really _frightful_ thing it would have been, if Mr. Jeremy had
not been wearing a macintosh!
A great big enormous trout came up--ker-pflop-p-p-p! with a splash--and
it seized Mr. Jeremy with a snap, "Ow! Ow! Ow!"--and then it turned and
dived down to the bottom of the pond!
But the trout was so displeased with the taste of the macintosh, that in
less than half a minute it spat him out again; and the only thing it
swallowed was Mr. Jeremy's goloshes.
Mr. Jeremy bounced up to the surface of the water, like a cork and the
bubbles out of a soda water bottle; and he swam with all his might to the
edge of the pond.
He scrambled out on the first bank he came to, and he hopped home across
the meadow with his macintosh all in tatters.
"What a mercy that was not a pike!" said Mr. Jeremy Fisher. "I have lost
my rod and basket; but it does not much matter, for I am sure I should
never have dared to go fishing again!"
He put some sticking plaster on his fingers, and his friends both came to
dinner. He could not offer them fish, but he had something else in his
larder.
Sir Isaac Newton wore his black and gold waistcoat,
And Mr. Alderman Ptolemy Tortoise brought a salad with him in a string
bag.
And instead of a nice dish of minnows--they had a roasted grasshopper
with lady-bird sauce; which frogs consider a beautiful treat; but _I_
think it must have been nasty!
THE END

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Title: The Tale of Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle
Author: Beatrix Potter
THE TALE OF
MRS. TIGGY-WINKLE
BY
BEATRIX POTTER
Once upon a time there was a little girl called Lucie, who lived at a farm
called Little-town. She was a good little girl--only she was always losing
her pocket-handkerchiefs!
One day little Lucie came into the farm-yard crying--oh, she did cry so!
"I've lost my pocket-handkin! Three handkins and a pinny! Have _you_ seen
them, Tabby Kitten?"
The Kitten went on washing her white paws; so Lucie asked a speckled hen--
"Sally Henny-penny, have _you_ found three pocket-handkins?"
But the speckled hen ran into a barn, clucking--
"I go barefoot, barefoot, barefoot!"
And then Lucie asked Cock Robin sitting on a twig.
Cock Robin looked sideways at Lucie with his bright black eye, and he flew
over a stile and away.
Lucie climbed upon the stile and looked up at the hill behind
Little-town--a hill that goes up--up--into the clouds as though it had no
top!
And a great way up the hill-side she thought she saw some white things
spread upon the grass.
Lucie scrambled up the hill as fast as her stout legs would carry her; she
ran along a steep path-way--up and up--until Little-town was right away
down below--she could have dropped a pebble down the chimney!
Presently she came to a spring, bubbling out from the hill-side.
Some one had stood a tin can upon a stone to catch the water--but the
water was already running over, for the can was no bigger than an egg-cup!
And where the sand upon the path was wet--there were foot-marks of a
_very_ small person.
Lucie ran on, and on.
The path ended under a big rock. The grass was short and green, and there
were clothes--props cut from bracken stems, with lines of plaited rushes,
and a heap of tiny clothes pins--but no pocket-handkerchiefs!
But there was something else--a door! straight into the hill; and inside
it some one was singing--
"Lily-white and clean, oh!
With little frills between, oh!
Smooth and hot--red rusty spot
Never here be seen, oh!"
Lucie, knocked--once--twice, and interrupted the song. A little frightened
voice called out "Who's that?"
Lucie opened the door: and what do you think there was inside the hill?--a
nice clean kitchen with a flagged floor and wooden beams--just like any
other farm kitchen. Only the ceiling was so low that Lucie's head nearly
touched it; and the pots and pans were small, and so was everything
there.
There was a nice hot singey smell; and at the table, with an iron in her
hand stood a very stout short person staring anxiously at Lucie.
Her print gown was tucked up, and she was wearing a large apron over her
striped petticoat. Her little black nose went sniffle, sniffle, snuffle,
and her eyes went twinkle, twinkle; and underneath her cap--where Lucie
had yellow curls--that little person had PRICKLES!
"Who are you?" said Lucie. "Have you seen my pocket-handkins?"
The little person made a bob-curtsey--"Oh, yes, if you please'm; my name
is Mrs. Tiggy-winkle; oh, yes if you please'm, I'm an excellent
clear-starcher!" And she took something out of a clothes-basket, and
spread it on the ironing-blanket.
"What's that thing?" said Lucie--"that's not my pocket-handkin?"
"Oh no, if you please'm; that's a little scarlet waist-coat belonging to
Cock Robin!"
And she ironed it and folded it, and put it on one side.
Then she took something else off a clothes-horse--
"That isn't my pinny?" said Lucie.
"Oh no, if you please'm; that's a damask table-cloth belonging to Jenny
Wren; look how it's stained with currant wine! It's very bad to wash!"
said Mrs. Tiggy-winkle.
Mrs. Tiggy-winkle's nose went sniffle, sniffle, snuffle, and her eyes went
twinkle, twinkle; and she fetched another hot iron from the fire.
"There's one of my pocket-handkins!" cried Lucie--"and there's my pinny!"
Mrs. Tiggy-winkle ironed it, and goffered it, and shook out the frills.
"Oh that _is_ lovely!" said Lucie.
"And what are those long yellow things with fingers like gloves?"
"Oh, that's a pair of stockings belonging to Sally Henny-penny--look how
she's worn the heels out with scratching in the yard! She'll very soon go
barefoot!" said Mrs. Tiggy-winkle.
"Why, there's another handkersniff--but it isn't mine; it's red?"
"Oh no, if you please'm; that one belongs to old Mrs. Rabbit; and it _did_
so smell of onions! I've had to wash it separately, I can't get out the
smell."
"There's another one of mine," said Lucie.
"What are those funny little white things?"
"That's a pair of mittens belonging to Tabby Kitten; I only have to iron
them; she washes them herself."
"There's my last pocket-handkin!" said Lucie.
"And what are you dipping into the basin of starch?"
"They're little dicky shirt-fronts belonging to Tom Titmouse--most
terrible particular!" said Mrs. Tiggy-winkle. "Now I've finished my
ironing; I'm going to air some clothes."
"What are these dear soft fluffy things?" said Lucie.
"Oh those are woolly coats belonging to the little lambs at Skelghyl."
"Will their jackets take off?" asked Lucie.
"Oh yes, if you please'm; look at the sheep-mark on the shoulder. And
here's one marked for Gatesgarth, and three that come from Little-town.
They're _always_ marked at washing!" said Mrs. Tiggy-winkle.
And she hung up all sorts and sizes of clothes--small brown coats of mice;
and one velvety black moleskin waist-coat; and a red tailcoat with no tail
belonging to Squirrel Nutkin; and a very much shrunk blue jacket belonging
to Peter Rabbit; and a petticoat, not marked, that had gone lost in the
washing--and at last the basket was empty!
"Then Mrs. Tiggy-winkle made tea--a cup for herself and a cup for Lucie.
They sat before the fire on a bench and looked sideways at one another.
Mrs. Tiggy-winkle's hand, holding the tea-cup, was very very brown, and
very very wrinkly with the soap-suds; and all through her gown and her
cap, there were _hair-pins_ sticking wrong end out; so that Lucie didn't
like to sit too near her.
When they had finished tea, they tied up the clothes in bundles; and
Lucie's pocket-handkerchiefs were folded up inside her clean pinny, and
fastened with a silver safety-pin.
And then they made up the fire with turf, and came out and locked the
door, and hid the key under the door-sill.
Then away down the hill trotted Lucie and Mrs. Tiggy-winkle with the
bundles of clothes!
All the way down the path little animals came out of the fern to meet
them; the very first that they met were Peter Rabbit and Benjamin Bunny!
And she gave them their nice clean clothes; and all the little animals and
birds were so very much obliged to dear Mrs. Tiggy-winkle.
So that at the bottom of the hill when they came to the stile, there was
nothing left to carry except Lucie's one little bundle.
Lucie scrambled up the stile with the bundle in her hand; and then she
turned to say "Good-night," and to thank the washer-woman--But what a
_very_ odd thing! Mrs. Tiggy-winkle had not waited either for thanks or
for the washing bill!
She was running running running up the hill--and where was her white
frilled cap? and her shawl? and her gown--and her petticoat?
And _how_ small she had grown--and _how_ brown--and covered with PRICKLES!
Why! Mrs. Tiggy-winkle was nothing but a HEDGEHOG.
* * * * *
(Now some people say that little Lucie had been asleep upon the
stile--but then how could she have found three clean
pocket-handkins and a pinny, pinned with a silver safety-pin?
And besides--_I_ have seen that door into the back of the hill
called Cat Bells--and besides _I_ am very well acquainted with
dear Mrs. Tiggy-winkle!)

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Title: The Tale of Mrs. Tittlemouse
Author: Beatrix Potter
THE TALE OF MRS. TITTLEMOUSE
By BEATRIX POTTER
Once upon a time there was a wood-mouse, and her name was Mrs.
Tittlemouse.
She lived in a bank under a hedge.
Such a funny house! There were yards and yards of sandy passages,
leading to storerooms and nut-cellars and seed-cellars, all amongst the
roots of the hedge.
There was a kitchen, a parlour, a pantry, and a larder.
Also, there was Mrs. Tittlemouse's bedroom, where she slept in a little
box bed!
Mrs. Tittlemouse was a most terribly tidy particular little mouse,
always sweeping and dusting the soft sandy floors.
Sometimes a beetle lost its way in the passages.
"Shuh! shuh! little dirty feet!" said Mrs. Tittlemouse, clattering her
dust-pan.
And one day a little old woman ran up and down in a red spotty cloak.
"Your house is on fire, Mother Ladybird! Fly away home to your
children!"
Another day, a big fat spider came in to shelter from the rain.
"Beg pardon, is this not Miss Muffet's?"
"Go away, you bold bad spider! Leaving ends of cobweb all over my nice
clean house!"
She bundled the spider out at a window.
He let himself down the hedge with a long thin bit of string.
Mrs. Tittlemouse went on her way to a distant storeroom, to fetch
cherry-stones and thistle-down seed for dinner.
All along the passage she sniffed, and looked at the floor.
"I smell a smell of honey; is it the cowslips outside, in the hedge? I
am sure I can see the marks of little dirty feet."
Suddenly round a corner, she met Babbitty Bumble--"Zizz, Bizz, Bizzz!"
said the bumble bee.
Mrs. Tittlemouse looked at her severely. She wished that she had a
broom.
"Good-day, Babbitty Bumble; I should be glad to buy some beeswax. But
what are you doing down here? Why do you always come in at a window, and
say Zizz, Bizz, Bizzz?" Mrs. Tittlemouse began to get cross.
"Zizz, Wizz, Wizzz!" replied Babbitty Bumble in a peevish squeak. She
sidled down a passage, and disappeared into a storeroom which had been
used for acorns.
Mrs. Tittlemouse had eaten the acorns before Christmas; the storeroom
ought to have been empty.
But it was full of untidy dry moss.
Mrs. Tittlemouse began to pull out the moss. Three or four other bees
put their heads out, and buzzed fiercely.
"I am not in the habit of letting lodgings; this is an intrusion!" said
Mrs. Tittlemouse. "I will have them turned out--" "Buzz! Buzz!
Buzzz!"--"I wonder who would help me?" "Bizz, Wizz, Wizzz!"
--"I will not have Mr. Jackson; he never wipes his feet."
Mrs. Tittlemouse decided to leave the bees till after dinner.
When she got back to the parlour, she heard some one coughing in a fat
voice; and there sat Mr. Jackson himself!
He was sitting all over a small rocking-chair, twiddling his thumbs and
smiling, with his feet on the fender.
He lived in a drain below the hedge, in a very dirty wet ditch.
"How do you do, Mr. Jackson? Deary me, you have got very wet!"
"Thank you, thank you, thank you, Mrs. Tittlemouse! I'll sit awhile and
dry myself," said Mr. Jackson.
He sat and smiled, and the water dripped off his coat tails. Mrs.
Tittlemouse went round with a mop.
He sat such a while that he had to be asked if he would take some
dinner?
First she offered him cherry-stones. "Thank you, thank you, Mrs.
Tittlemouse! No teeth, no teeth, no teeth!" said Mr. Jackson.
He opened his mouth most unnecessarily wide; he certainly had not a
tooth in his head.
Then she offered him thistle-down seed--"Tiddly, widdly, widdly! Pouff,
pouff, puff!" said Mr. Jackson. He blew the thistle-down all over the
room.
"Thank you, thank you, thank you, Mrs. Tittlemouse! Now what I
really--_really_ should like--would be a little dish of honey!"
"I am afraid I have not got any, Mr. Jackson," said Mrs. Tittlemouse.
"Tiddly, widdly, widdly, Mrs. Tittlemouse!" said the smiling Mr.
Jackson, "I can _smell_ it; that is why I came to call."
Mr. Jackson rose ponderously from the table, and began to look into the
cupboards.
Mrs. Tittlemouse followed him with a dish-cloth, to wipe his large wet
footmarks off the parlour floor.
When he had convinced himself that there was no honey in the cupboards,
he began to walk down the passage.
"Indeed, indeed, you will stick fast, Mr. Jackson!"
"Tiddly, widdly, widdly, Mrs. Tittlemouse!"
First he squeezed into the pantry.
"Tiddly, widdly, widdly? no honey? no honey, Mrs. Tittlemouse?"
There were three creepy-crawly people hiding in the plate-rack. Two of
them got away; but the littlest one he caught.
Then he squeezed into the larder. Miss Butterfly was tasting the sugar;
but she flew away out of the window.
"Tiddly, widdly, widdly, Mrs. Tittlemouse; you seem to have plenty of
visitors!"
"And without any invitation!" said Mrs. Thomasina Tittlemouse.
They went along the sandy passage--"Tiddly widdly--" "Buzz! Wizz! Wizz!"
He met Babbitty round a corner, and snapped her up, and put her down
again.
"I do not like bumble bees. They are all over bristles," said Mr.
Jackson, wiping his mouth with his coat-sleeve.
"Get out, you nasty old toad!" shrieked Babbitty Bumble.
"I shall go distracted!" scolded Mrs. Tittlemouse.
She shut herself up in the nut-cellar while Mr. Jackson pulled out the
bees-nest. He seemed to have no objection to stings.
When Mrs. Tittlemouse ventured to come out--everybody had gone away.
But the untidiness was something dreadful--"Never did I see such a
mess--smears of honey; and moss, and thistledown--and marks of big and
little dirty feet--all over my nice clean house!"
She gathered up the moss and the remains of the beeswax.
Then she went out and fetched some twigs, to partly close up the front
door.
"I will make it too small for Mr. Jackson!"
She fetched soft soap, and flannel, and a new scrubbing brush from the
storeroom. But she was too tired to do any more. First she fell asleep
in her chair, and then she went to bed.
"Will it ever be tidy again?" said poor Mrs. Tittlemouse.
Next morning she got up very early and began a spring cleaning which
lasted a fortnight.
She swept, and scrubbed, and dusted; and she rubbed up the furniture
with beeswax, and polished her little tin spoons.
When it was all beautifully neat and clean, she gave a party to five
other little mice, without Mr. Jackson.
He smelt the party and came up the bank, but he could not squeeze in at
the door.
So they handed him out acorn-cupfuls of honey-dew through the window,
and he was not at all offended.
He sat outside in the sun, and said--"Tiddly, widdly, widdly! Your very
good health, Mrs. Tittlemouse!"
THE END
* * * * *

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Title: The Tale of Peter Rabbit
Author: Beatrix Potter
THE TALE OF PETER RABBIT
BY
BEATRIX POTTER
Once upon a time there were four little Rabbits, and their names
were--
Flopsy,
Mopsy,
Cotton-tail,
and Peter.
They lived with their Mother in a sand-bank, underneath the root of a
very big fir-tree.
'Now my dears,' said old Mrs. Rabbit one morning, 'you may go into
the fields or down the lane, but don't go into Mr. McGregor's garden:
your Father had an accident there; he was put in a pie by Mrs.
McGregor.'
'Now run along, and don't get into mischief. I am going out.'
Then old Mrs. Rabbit took a basket and her umbrella, and went through
the wood to the baker's. She bought a loaf of brown bread and five
currant buns.
Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cottontail, who were good little bunnies, went
down the lane to gather blackberries:
But Peter, who was very naughty, ran straight away to Mr. McGregor's
garden, and squeezed under the gate!
First he ate some lettuces and some French beans; and then he ate
some radishes;
And then, feeling rather sick, he went to look for some parsley.
But round the end of a cucumber frame, whom should he meet but Mr.
McGregor!
Mr. McGregor was on his hands and knees planting out young cabbages,
but he jumped up and ran after Peter, waving a rake and calling out,
'Stop thief!'
Peter was most dreadfully frightened; he rushed all over the garden,
for he had forgotten the way back to the gate.
He lost one of his shoes among the cabbages, and the other shoe
amongst the potatoes.
After losing them, he ran on four legs and went faster, so that I
think he might have got away altogether if he had not unfortunately
run into a gooseberry net, and got caught by the large buttons on his
jacket. It was a blue jacket with brass buttons, quite new.
Peter gave himself up for lost, and shed big tears; but his sobs were
overheard by some friendly sparrows, who flew to him in great
excitement, and implored him to exert himself.
Mr. McGregor came up with a sieve, which he intended to pop upon the
top of Peter; but Peter wriggled out just in time, leaving his jacket
behind him.
And rushed into the tool-shed, and jumped into a can. It would have
been a beautiful thing to hide in, if it had not had so much water in it.
Mr. McGregor was quite sure that Peter was somewhere in the
tool-shed, perhaps hidden underneath a flower-pot. He began to turn
them over carefully, looking under each.
Presently Peter sneezed--'Kertyschoo!' Mr. McGregor was after him in
no time.
And tried to put his foot upon Peter, who jumped out of a window,
upsetting three plants. The window was too small for Mr. McGregor, and
he was tired of running after Peter. He went back to his work.
Peter sat down to rest; he was out of breath and trembling with
fright, and he had not the least idea which way to go. Also he was
very damp with sitting in that can.
After a time he began to wander about, going lippity--lippity--not
very fast, and looking all round.
He found a door in a wall; but it was locked, and there was no room
for a fat little rabbit to squeeze underneath.
An old mouse was running in and out over the stone doorstep, carrying
peas and beans to her family in the wood. Peter asked her the way to
the gate, but she had such a large pea in her mouth that she could not
answer. She only shook her head at him. Peter began to cry.
Then he tried to find his way straight across the garden, but he
became more and more puzzled. Presently, he came to a pond where Mr.
McGregor filled his water-cans. A white cat was staring at some
gold-fish, she sat very, very still, but now and then the tip of her
tail twitched as if it were alive. Peter thought it best to go away
without speaking to her; he had heard about cats from his cousin,
little Benjamin Bunny.
He went back towards the tool-shed, but suddenly, quite close to him,
he heard the noise of a hoe--scr-r-ritch, scratch, scratch, scritch.
Peter scuttered underneath the bushes. But presently, as nothing
happened, he came out, and climbed upon a wheelbarrow and peeped over.
The first thing he saw was Mr. McGregor hoeing onions. His back was
turned towards Peter, and beyond him was the gate!
Peter got down very quietly off the wheelbarrow; and started running
as fast as he could go, along a straight walk behind some
black-currant bushes.
Mr. McGregor caught sight of him at the corner, but Peter did not
care. He slipped underneath the gate, and was safe at last in the wood
outside the garden.
Mr. McGregor hung up the little jacket and the shoes for a scare-crow
to frighten the blackbirds.
Peter never stopped running or looked behind him till he got home to
the big fir-tree.
He was so tired that he flopped down upon the nice soft sand on the
floor of the rabbit-hole and shut his eyes. His mother was busy
cooking; she wondered what he had done with his clothes. It was the
second little jacket and pair of shoes that Peter had lost in a
fortnight!
I am sorry to say that Peter was not very well during the evening.
His mother put him to bed, and made some camomile tea; and she gave a
dose of it to Peter!
'One table-spoonful to be taken at bed-time.'
But Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cotton-tail had bread and milk and
blackberries for supper.
THE END

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Title: The Tale of Squirrel Nutkin
Author: Beatrix Potter
THE TALE OF
SQUIRREL NUTKIN
BY
BEATRIX POTTER
This is a Tale about a tail--a tail that belonged to a little red
squirrel, and his name was Nutkin.
He had a brother called Twinkleberry, and a great many cousins: they lived
in a wood at the edge of a lake.
In the middle of the lake there is an island covered with trees and nut
bushes; and amongst those trees stands a hollow oak-tree, which is the
house of an owl who is called Old Brown.
One autumn when the nuts were ripe, and the leaves on the hazel bushes
were golden and green--Nutkin and Twinkleberry and all the other little
squirrels came out of the wood, and down to the edge of the lake.
They made little rafts out of twigs, and they paddled away over the water
to Owl Island to gather nuts.
Each squirrel had a little sack and a large oar, and spread out his tail
for a sail.
They also took with them an offering of three fat mice as a present for
Old Brown, and put them down upon his door-step.
Then Twinkleberry and the other little squirrels each made a low bow, and
said politely--
"Old Mr. Brown, will you favour us with permission to gather nuts upon
your island?"
But Nutkin was excessively impertinent in his manners. He bobbed up and
down like a little red _cherry_, singing--
"Riddle me, riddle me, rot-tot-tote!
A little wee man, in a red red coat!
A staff in his hand, and a stone in his throat;
If you'll tell me this riddle, I'll give you a groat."
Now this riddle is as old as the hills; Mr. Brown paid no attention
whatever to Nutkin.
He shut his eyes obstinately and went to sleep.
The squirrels filled their little sacks with nuts, and sailed away home in
the evening.
But next morning they all came back again to Owl Island; and Twinkleberry
and the others brought a fine fat mole, and laid it on the stone in front
of Old Brown's doorway, and said--
"Mr. Brown, will you favour us with your gracious permission to gather
some more nuts?"
But Nutkin, who had no respect, began to dance up and down, tickling old
Mr. Brown with a _nettle_ and singing--
"Old Mr. B! Riddle-me-ree!
Hitty Pitty within the wall,
Hitty Pitty without the wall;
If you touch Hitty Pitty,
Hitty Pitty will bite you!"
Mr. Brown woke up suddenly and carried the mole into his house.
He shut the door in Nutkin's face. Presently a little thread of blue
_smoke_ from a wood fire came up from the top of the tree, and Nutkin
peeped through the key-hole and sang--
"A house full, a hole full!
And you cannot gather a bowl-full!"
The squirrels searched for nuts all over the island and filled their
little sacks.
But Nutkin gathered oak-apples--yellow and scarlet--and sat upon a
beech-stump playing marbles, and watching the door of old Mr. Brown.
On the third day the squirrels got up very early and went fishing; they
caught seven fat minnows as a present for Old Brown.
They paddled over the lake and landed under a crooked chestnut tree on Owl
Island.
Twinkleberry and six other little squirrels each carried a fat minnow; but
Nutkin, who had no nice manners, brought no present at all. He ran in
front, singing--
"The man in the wilderness said to me,
'How many strawberries grow in the sea?'
I answered him as I thought good--
'As many red herrings as grow in the wood.'"
But old Mr. Brown took no interest in riddles--not even when the answer
was provided for him.
On the fourth day the squirrels brought a present of six fat beetles,
which were as good as plums in _plum-pudding_ for Old Brown. Each beetle
was wrapped up carefully in a dock-leaf, fastened with a pine-needle pin.
But Nutkin sang as rudely as ever--
"Old Mr. B! riddle-me-ree
Flour of England, fruit of Spain,
Met together in a shower of rain;
Put in a bag tied round with a string,
If you'll tell me this riddle, I'll give you a ring!"
Which was ridiculous of Nutkin, because he had not got any ring to give to
Old Brown.
The other squirrels hunted up and down the nut bushes; but Nutkin
gathered robin's pincushions off a briar bush, and stuck them full of
pine-needle pins.
On the fifth day the squirrels brought a present of wild honey; it was so
sweet and sticky that they licked their fingers as they put it down upon
the stone. They had stolen it out of a bumble _bees'_ nest on the tippitty
top of the hill.
But Nutkin skipped up and down, singing--
"Hum-a-bum! buzz! buzz! Hum-a-bum buzz!
As I went over Tipple-tine
I met a flock of bonny swine;
Some yellow-nacked, some yellow backed!
They were the very bonniest swine
That e'er went over Tipple-tine."
Old Mr. Brown turned up his eyes in disgust at the impertinence of Nutkin.
But he ate up the honey!
The squirrels filled their little sacks with nuts.
But Nutkin sat upon a big flat rock, and played ninepins with a crab apple
and green fir-cones.
On the sixth day, which was Saturday, the squirrels came again for the
last time; they brought a new-laid _egg_ in a little rush basket as a last
parting present for Old Brown.
But Nutkin ran in front laughing, and shouting--
"Humpty Dumpty lies in the beck,
With a white counterpane round his neck,
Forty doctors and forty wrights,
Cannot put Humpty Dumpty to rights!"
Now old Mr. Brown took an interest in eggs; he opened one eye and shut it
again. But still he did not speak.
Nutkin became more and more impertinent--
"Old Mr. B! Old Mr. B!
Hickamore, Hackamore, on the King's kitchen door;
All the King's horses, and all the King's men,
Couldn't drive Hickamore, Hackamore,
Off the King's kitchen door."
Nutkin danced up and down like a _sunbeam_; but still Old Brown said
nothing at all.
Nutkin began again--
"Arthur O'Bower has broken his band,
He comes roaring up the land!
The King of Scots with all his power,
Cannot turn Arthur of the Bower!"
Nutkin made a whirring noise to sound like the _wind_, and he took a
running jump right onto the head of Old Brown!...
Then all at once there was a flutterment and a scufflement and a loud
"Squeak!"
The other squirrels scuttered away into the bushes.
When they came back very cautiously, peeping round the tree--there was Old
Brown sitting on his door-step, quite still, with his eyes closed, as if
nothing had happened.
* * * * *
_But Nutkin was in his waistcoat pocket!_
This looks like the end of the story; but it isn't.
Old Brown carried Nutkin into his house, and held him up by the tail,
intending to skin him; but Nutkin pulled so very hard that his tail broke
in two, and he dashed up the staircase and escaped out of the attic
window.
And to this day, if you meet Nutkin up a tree and ask him a riddle, he
will throw sticks at you, and stamp his feet and scold, and shout--
"Cuck-cuck-cuck-cur-r-r-cuck-k-k!"
THE END

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Title: The Absence of Mr Glass
Author: G. K. Chesterton
The Absence of Mr Glass
THE consulting-rooms of Dr Orion Hood, the eminent criminologist and
specialist in certain moral disorders, lay along the sea-front at
Scarborough, in a series of very large and well-lighted french windows,
which showed the North Sea like one endless outer wall of blue-green
marble. In such a place the sea had something of the monotony of a
blue-green dado: for the chambers themselves were ruled throughout by a
terrible tidiness not unlike the terrible tidiness of the sea. It must
not be supposed that Dr Hood’s apartments excluded luxury, or even
poetry. These things were there, in their place; but one felt that they
were never allowed out of their place. Luxury was there: there stood
upon a special table eight or ten boxes of the best cigars; but they
were built upon a plan so that the strongest were always nearest the
wall and the mildest nearest the window. A tantalus containing three
kinds of spirit, all of a liqueur excellence, stood always on this table
of luxury; but the fanciful have asserted that the whisky, brandy, and
rum seemed always to stand at the same level. Poetry was there: the
left-hand corner of the room was lined with as complete a set of
English classics as the right hand could show of English and foreign
physiologists. But if one took a volume of Chaucer or Shelley from that
rank, its absence irritated the mind like a gap in a man’s front teeth.
One could not say the books were never read; probably they were, but
there was a sense of their being chained to their places, like the
Bibles in the old churches. Dr Hood treated his private book-shelf as
if it were a public library. And if this strict scientific intangibility
steeped even the shelves laden with lyrics and ballads and the tables
laden with drink and tobacco, it goes without saying that yet more
of such heathen holiness protected the other shelves that held the
specialist’s library, and the other tables that sustained the frail and
even fairylike instruments of chemistry or mechanics.
Dr Hood paced the length of his string of apartments, bounded--as the
boys’ geographies say--on the east by the North Sea and on the west by
the serried ranks of his sociological and criminologist library. He was
clad in an artist’s velvet, but with none of an artist’s negligence; his
hair was heavily shot with grey, but growing thick and healthy; his face
was lean, but sanguine and expectant. Everything about him and his room
indicated something at once rigid and restless, like that great northern
sea by which (on pure principles of hygiene) he had built his home.
Fate, being in a funny mood, pushed the door open and introduced into
those long, strict, sea-flanked apartments one who was perhaps the most
startling opposite of them and their master. In answer to a curt but
civil summons, the door opened inwards and there shambled into the room
a shapeless little figure, which seemed to find its own hat and umbrella
as unmanageable as a mass of luggage. The umbrella was a black and
prosaic bundle long past repair; the hat was a broad-curved black hat,
clerical but not common in England; the man was the very embodiment of
all that is homely and helpless.
The doctor regarded the new-comer with a restrained astonishment, not
unlike that he would have shown if some huge but obviously harmless
sea-beast had crawled into his room. The new-comer regarded the doctor
with that beaming but breathless geniality which characterizes a
corpulent charwoman who has just managed to stuff herself into an
omnibus. It is a rich confusion of social self-congratulation and bodily
disarray. His hat tumbled to the carpet, his heavy umbrella slipped
between his knees with a thud; he reached after the one and ducked
after the other, but with an unimpaired smile on his round face spoke
simultaneously as follows:
“My name is Brown. Pray excuse me. I’ve come about that business of the
MacNabs. I have heard, you often help people out of such troubles. Pray
excuse me if I am wrong.”
By this time he had sprawlingly recovered the hat, and made an odd
little bobbing bow over it, as if setting everything quite right.
“I hardly understand you,” replied the scientist, with a cold intensity
of manner. “I fear you have mistaken the chambers. I am Dr Hood, and my
work is almost entirely literary and educational. It is true that I have
sometimes been consulted by the police in cases of peculiar difficulty
and importance, but--”
“Oh, this is of the greatest importance,” broke in the little man called
Brown. “Why, her mother won’t let them get engaged.” And he leaned back
in his chair in radiant rationality.
The brows of Dr Hood were drawn down darkly, but the eyes under them
were bright with something that might be anger or might be amusement.
“And still,” he said, “I do not quite understand.”
“You see, they want to get married,” said the man with the clerical hat.
“Maggie MacNab and young Todhunter want to get married. Now, what can be
more important than that?”
The great Orion Hood’s scientific triumphs had deprived him of many
things--some said of his health, others of his God; but they had not
wholly despoiled him of his sense of the absurd. At the last plea of the
ingenuous priest a chuckle broke out of him from inside, and he threw
himself into an arm-chair in an ironical attitude of the consulting
physician.
“Mr Brown,” he said gravely, “it is quite fourteen and a half years
since I was personally asked to test a personal problem: then it was
the case of an attempt to poison the French President at a Lord Mayor’s
Banquet. It is now, I understand, a question of whether some friend of
yours called Maggie is a suitable fiancee for some friend of hers called
Todhunter. Well, Mr Brown, I am a sportsman. I will take it on. I will
give the MacNab family my best advice, as good as I gave the French
Republic and the King of England--no, better: fourteen years better. I
have nothing else to do this afternoon. Tell me your story.”
The little clergyman called Brown thanked him with unquestionable
warmth, but still with a queer kind of simplicity. It was rather as
if he were thanking a stranger in a smoking-room for some trouble in
passing the matches, than as if he were (as he was) practically thanking
the Curator of Kew Gardens for coming with him into a field to find a
four-leaved clover. With scarcely a semi-colon after his hearty thanks,
the little man began his recital:
“I told you my name was Brown; well, that’s the fact, and I’m the
priest of the little Catholic Church I dare say you’ve seen beyond those
straggly streets, where the town ends towards the north. In the last and
straggliest of those streets which runs along the sea like a sea-wall
there is a very honest but rather sharp-tempered member of my flock, a
widow called MacNab. She has one daughter, and she lets lodgings, and
between her and the daughter, and between her and the lodgers--well, I
dare say there is a great deal to be said on both sides. At present she
has only one lodger, the young man called Todhunter; but he has given
more trouble than all the rest, for he wants to marry the young woman of
the house.”
“And the young woman of the house,” asked Dr Hood, with huge and silent
amusement, “what does she want?”
“Why, she wants to marry him,” cried Father Brown, sitting up eagerly.
“That is just the awful complication.”
“It is indeed a hideous enigma,” said Dr Hood.
“This young James Todhunter,” continued the cleric, “is a very decent
man so far as I know; but then nobody knows very much. He is a bright,
brownish little fellow, agile like a monkey, clean-shaven like an actor,
and obliging like a born courtier. He seems to have quite a pocketful of
money, but nobody knows what his trade is. Mrs MacNab, therefore (being
of a pessimistic turn), is quite sure it is something dreadful, and
probably connected with dynamite. The dynamite must be of a shy and
noiseless sort, for the poor fellow only shuts himself up for several
hours of the day and studies something behind a locked door. He declares
his privacy is temporary and justified, and promises to explain before
the wedding. That is all that anyone knows for certain, but Mrs MacNab
will tell you a great deal more than even she is certain of. You know
how the tales grow like grass on such a patch of ignorance as that.
There are tales of two voices heard talking in the room; though, when
the door is opened, Todhunter is always found alone. There are tales of
a mysterious tall man in a silk hat, who once came out of the sea-mists
and apparently out of the sea, stepping softly across the sandy fields
and through the small back garden at twilight, till he was heard talking
to the lodger at his open window. The colloquy seemed to end in a
quarrel. Todhunter dashed down his window with violence, and the man in
the high hat melted into the sea-fog again. This story is told by the
family with the fiercest mystification; but I really think Mrs MacNab
prefers her own original tale: that the Other Man (or whatever it is)
crawls out every night from the big box in the corner, which is kept
locked all day. You see, therefore, how this sealed door of Todhunter’s
is treated as the gate of all the fancies and monstrosities of the
‘Thousand and One Nights’. And yet there is the little fellow in his
respectable black jacket, as punctual and innocent as a parlour clock.
He pays his rent to the tick; he is practically a teetotaller; he is
tirelessly kind with the younger children, and can keep them amused
for a day on end; and, last and most urgent of all, he has made himself
equally popular with the eldest daughter, who is ready to go to church
with him tomorrow.”
A man warmly concerned with any large theories has always a relish
for applying them to any triviality. The great specialist having
condescended to the priest’s simplicity, condescended expansively. He
settled himself with comfort in his arm-chair and began to talk in the
tone of a somewhat absent-minded lecturer:
“Even in a minute instance, it is best to look first to the main
tendencies of Nature. A particular flower may not be dead in early
winter, but the flowers are dying; a particular pebble may never be
wetted with the tide, but the tide is coming in. To the scientific eye
all human history is a series of collective movements, destructions or
migrations, like the massacre of flies in winter or the return of birds
in spring. Now the root fact in all history is Race. Race produces
religion; Race produces legal and ethical wars. There is no stronger
case than that of the wild, unworldly and perishing stock which we
commonly call the Celts, of whom your friends the MacNabs are specimens.
Small, swarthy, and of this dreamy and drifting blood, they accept
easily the superstitious explanation of any incidents, just as they
still accept (you will excuse me for saying) that superstitious
explanation of all incidents which you and your Church represent. It is
not remarkable that such people, with the sea moaning behind them
and the Church (excuse me again) droning in front of them, should put
fantastic features into what are probably plain events. You, with your
small parochial responsibilities, see only this particular Mrs MacNab,
terrified with this particular tale of two voices and a tall man out of
the sea. But the man with the scientific imagination sees, as it
were, the whole clans of MacNab scattered over the whole world, in its
ultimate average as uniform as a tribe of birds. He sees thousands
of Mrs MacNabs, in thousands of houses, dropping their little drop of
morbidity in the tea-cups of their friends; he sees--”
Before the scientist could conclude his sentence, another and more
impatient summons sounded from without; someone with swishing skirts was
marshalled hurriedly down the corridor, and the door opened on a young
girl, decently dressed but disordered and red-hot with haste. She had
sea-blown blonde hair, and would have been entirely beautiful if her
cheek-bones had not been, in the Scotch manner, a little high in relief
as well as in colour. Her apology was almost as abrupt as a command.
“I’m sorry to interrupt you, sir,” she said, “but I had to follow Father
Brown at once; it’s nothing less than life or death.”
Father Brown began to get to his feet in some disorder. “Why, what has
happened, Maggie?” he said.
“James has been murdered, for all I can make out,” answered the girl,
still breathing hard from her rush. “That man Glass has been with him
again; I heard them talking through the door quite plain. Two separate
voices: for James speaks low, with a burr, and the other voice was high
and quavery.”
“That man Glass?” repeated the priest in some perplexity.
“I know his name is Glass,” answered the girl, in great impatience.
“I heard it through the door. They were quarrelling--about money, I
think--for I heard James say again and again, ‘That’s right, Mr Glass,’
or ‘No, Mr Glass,’ and then, ‘Two or three, Mr Glass.’ But we’re talking
too much; you must come at once, and there may be time yet.”
“But time for what?” asked Dr Hood, who had been studying the young
lady with marked interest. “What is there about Mr Glass and his money
troubles that should impel such urgency?”
“I tried to break down the door and couldn’t,” answered the girl
shortly, “Then I ran to the back-yard, and managed to climb on to the
window-sill that looks into the room. It was all dim, and seemed to be
empty, but I swear I saw James lying huddled up in a corner, as if he
were drugged or strangled.”
“This is very serious,” said Father Brown, gathering his errant hat and
umbrella and standing up; “in point of fact I was just putting your case
before this gentleman, and his view--”
“Has been largely altered,” said the scientist gravely. “I do not think
this young lady is so Celtic as I had supposed. As I have nothing else
to do, I will put on my hat and stroll down town with you.”
In a few minutes all three were approaching the dreary tail of the
MacNabs’ street: the girl with the stern and breathless stride of the
mountaineer, the criminologist with a lounging grace (which was
not without a certain leopard-like swiftness), and the priest at an
energetic trot entirely devoid of distinction. The aspect of this edge
of the town was not entirely without justification for the doctor’s
hints about desolate moods and environments. The scattered houses stood
farther and farther apart in a broken string along the seashore; the
afternoon was closing with a premature and partly lurid twilight; the
sea was of an inky purple and murmuring ominously. In the scrappy
back garden of the MacNabs which ran down towards the sand, two black,
barren-looking trees stood up like demon hands held up in astonishment,
and as Mrs MacNab ran down the street to meet them with lean hands
similarly spread, and her fierce face in shadow, she was a little like a
demon herself. The doctor and the priest made scant reply to her shrill
reiterations of her daughter’s story, with more disturbing details
of her own, to the divided vows of vengeance against Mr Glass for
murdering, and against Mr Todhunter for being murdered, or against
the latter for having dared to want to marry her daughter, and for not
having lived to do it. They passed through the narrow passage in the
front of the house until they came to the lodger’s door at the back,
and there Dr Hood, with the trick of an old detective, put his shoulder
sharply to the panel and burst in the door.
It opened on a scene of silent catastrophe. No one seeing it, even for a
flash, could doubt that the room had been the theatre of some thrilling
collision between two, or perhaps more, persons. Playing-cards lay
littered across the table or fluttered about the floor as if a game had
been interrupted. Two wine glasses stood ready for wine on a side-table,
but a third lay smashed in a star of crystal upon the carpet. A few feet
from it lay what looked like a long knife or short sword, straight, but
with an ornamental and pictured handle, its dull blade just caught a
grey glint from the dreary window behind, which showed the black trees
against the leaden level of the sea. Towards the opposite corner of
the room was rolled a gentleman’s silk top hat, as if it had just been
knocked off his head; so much so, indeed, that one almost looked to see
it still rolling. And in the corner behind it, thrown like a sack of
potatoes, but corded like a railway trunk, lay Mr James Todhunter,
with a scarf across his mouth, and six or seven ropes knotted round his
elbows and ankles. His brown eyes were alive and shifted alertly.
Dr Orion Hood paused for one instant on the doormat and drank in the
whole scene of voiceless violence. Then he stepped swiftly across the
carpet, picked up the tall silk hat, and gravely put it upon the head
of the yet pinioned Todhunter. It was so much too large for him that it
almost slipped down on to his shoulders.
“Mr Glass’s hat,” said the doctor, returning with it and peering into
the inside with a pocket lens. “How to explain the absence of Mr Glass
and the presence of Mr Glass’s hat? For Mr Glass is not a careless man
with his clothes. That hat is of a stylish shape and systematically
brushed and burnished, though not very new. An old dandy, I should
think.”
“But, good heavens!” called out Miss MacNab, “aren’t you going to untie
the man first?”
“I say ‘old’ with intention, though not with certainty” continued the
expositor; “my reason for it might seem a little far-fetched. The hair
of human beings falls out in very varying degrees, but almost always
falls out slightly, and with the lens I should see the tiny hairs in a
hat recently worn. It has none, which leads me to guess that Mr Glass is
bald. Now when this is taken with the high-pitched and querulous
voice which Miss MacNab described so vividly (patience, my dear lady,
patience), when we take the hairless head together with the tone common
in senile anger, I should think we may deduce some advance in years.
Nevertheless, he was probably vigorous, and he was almost certainly
tall. I might rely in some degree on the story of his previous
appearance at the window, as a tall man in a silk hat, but I think I
have more exact indication. This wineglass has been smashed all over
the place, but one of its splinters lies on the high bracket beside the
mantelpiece. No such fragment could have fallen there if the vessel
had been smashed in the hand of a comparatively short man like Mr
Todhunter.”
“By the way,” said Father Brown, “might it not be as well to untie Mr
Todhunter?”
“Our lesson from the drinking-vessels does not end here,” proceeded the
specialist. “I may say at once that it is possible that the man Glass
was bald or nervous through dissipation rather than age. Mr Todhunter,
as has been remarked, is a quiet thrifty gentleman, essentially an
abstainer. These cards and wine-cups are no part of his normal habit;
they have been produced for a particular companion. But, as it
happens, we may go farther. Mr Todhunter may or may not possess this
wine-service, but there is no appearance of his possessing any wine.
What, then, were these vessels to contain? I would at once suggest
some brandy or whisky, perhaps of a luxurious sort, from a flask in the
pocket of Mr Glass. We have thus something like a picture of the man, or
at least of the type: tall, elderly, fashionable, but somewhat frayed,
certainly fond of play and strong waters, perhaps rather too fond of
them. Mr Glass is a gentleman not unknown on the fringes of society.”
“Look here,” cried the young woman, “if you don’t let me pass to untie
him I’ll run outside and scream for the police.”
“I should not advise you, Miss MacNab,” said Dr Hood gravely, “to be
in any hurry to fetch the police. Father Brown, I seriously ask you to
compose your flock, for their sakes, not for mine. Well, we have seen
something of the figure and quality of Mr Glass; what are the chief
facts known of Mr Todhunter? They are substantially three: that he is
economical, that he is more or less wealthy, and that he has a secret.
Now, surely it is obvious that there are the three chief marks of the
kind of man who is blackmailed. And surely it is equally obvious that
the faded finery, the profligate habits, and the shrill irritation of Mr
Glass are the unmistakable marks of the kind of man who blackmails him.
We have the two typical figures of a tragedy of hush money: on the one
hand, the respectable man with a mystery; on the other, the West-end
vulture with a scent for a mystery. These two men have met here today
and have quarrelled, using blows and a bare weapon.”
“Are you going to take those ropes off?” asked the girl stubbornly.
Dr Hood replaced the silk hat carefully on the side table, and went
across to the captive. He studied him intently, even moving him a little
and half-turning him round by the shoulders, but he only answered:
“No; I think these ropes will do very well till your friends the police
bring the handcuffs.”
Father Brown, who had been looking dully at the carpet, lifted his round
face and said: “What do you mean?”
The man of science had picked up the peculiar dagger-sword from the
carpet and was examining it intently as he answered:
“Because you find Mr Todhunter tied up,” he said, “you all jump to the
conclusion that Mr Glass had tied him up; and then, I suppose, escaped.
There are four objections to this: First, why should a gentleman so
dressy as our friend Glass leave his hat behind him, if he left of his
own free will? Second,” he continued, moving towards the window, “this
is the only exit, and it is locked on the inside. Third, this blade
here has a tiny touch of blood at the point, but there is no wound on Mr
Todhunter. Mr Glass took that wound away with him, dead or alive. Add
to all this primary probability. It is much more likely that the
blackmailed person would try to kill his incubus, rather than that the
blackmailer would try to kill the goose that lays his golden egg. There,
I think, we have a pretty complete story.”
“But the ropes?” inquired the priest, whose eyes had remained open with
a rather vacant admiration.
“Ah, the ropes,” said the expert with a singular intonation. “Miss
MacNab very much wanted to know why I did not set Mr Todhunter free from
his ropes. Well, I will tell her. I did not do it because Mr Todhunter
can set himself free from them at any minute he chooses.”
“What?” cried the audience on quite different notes of astonishment.
“I have looked at all the knots on Mr Todhunter,” reiterated Hood
quietly. “I happen to know something about knots; they are quite a
branch of criminal science. Every one of those knots he has made himself
and could loosen himself; not one of them would have been made by an
enemy really trying to pinion him. The whole of this affair of the
ropes is a clever fake, to make us think him the victim of the struggle
instead of the wretched Glass, whose corpse may be hidden in the garden
or stuffed up the chimney.”
There was a rather depressed silence; the room was darkening, the
sea-blighted boughs of the garden trees looked leaner and blacker than
ever, yet they seemed to have come nearer to the window. One could
almost fancy they were sea-monsters like krakens or cuttlefish, writhing
polypi who had crawled up from the sea to see the end of this tragedy,
even as he, the villain and victim of it, the terrible man in the tall
hat, had once crawled up from the sea. For the whole air was dense with
the morbidity of blackmail, which is the most morbid of human things,
because it is a crime concealing a crime; a black plaster on a blacker
wound.
The face of the little Catholic priest, which was commonly complacent
and even comic, had suddenly become knotted with a curious frown. It
was not the blank curiosity of his first innocence. It was rather that
creative curiosity which comes when a man has the beginnings of an idea.
“Say it again, please,” he said in a simple, bothered manner; “do you
mean that Todhunter can tie himself up all alone and untie himself all
alone?”
“That is what I mean,” said the doctor.
“Jerusalem!” ejaculated Brown suddenly, “I wonder if it could possibly
be that!”
He scuttled across the room rather like a rabbit, and peered with quite
a new impulsiveness into the partially-covered face of the captive. Then
he turned his own rather fatuous face to the company. “Yes, that’s it!”
he cried in a certain excitement. “Can’t you see it in the man’s face?
Why, look at his eyes!”
Both the Professor and the girl followed the direction of his glance.
And though the broad black scarf completely masked the lower half of
Todhunter’s visage, they did grow conscious of something struggling and
intense about the upper part of it.
“His eyes do look queer,” cried the young woman, strongly moved. “You
brutes; I believe it’s hurting him!”
“Not that, I think,” said Dr Hood; “the eyes have certainly a singular
expression. But I should interpret those transverse wrinkles as
expressing rather such slight psychological abnormality--”
“Oh, bosh!” cried Father Brown: “can’t you see he’s laughing?”
“Laughing!” repeated the doctor, with a start; “but what on earth can he
be laughing at?”
“Well,” replied the Reverend Brown apologetically, “not to put too fine
a point on it, I think he is laughing at you. And indeed, I’m a little
inclined to laugh at myself, now I know about it.”
“Now you know about what?” asked Hood, in some exasperation.
“Now I know,” replied the priest, “the profession of Mr Todhunter.”
He shuffled about the room, looking at one object after another with
what seemed to be a vacant stare, and then invariably bursting into an
equally vacant laugh, a highly irritating process for those who had to
watch it. He laughed very much over the hat, still more uproariously
over the broken glass, but the blood on the sword point sent him
into mortal convulsions of amusement. Then he turned to the fuming
specialist.
“Dr Hood,” he cried enthusiastically, “you are a great poet! You have
called an uncreated being out of the void. How much more godlike that is
than if you had only ferreted out the mere facts! Indeed, the mere facts
are rather commonplace and comic by comparison.”
“I have no notion what you are talking about,” said Dr Hood rather
haughtily; “my facts are all inevitable, though necessarily incomplete.
A place may be permitted to intuition, perhaps (or poetry if you prefer
the term), but only because the corresponding details cannot as yet be
ascertained. In the absence of Mr Glass--”
“That’s it, that’s it,” said the little priest, nodding quite eagerly,
“that’s the first idea to get fixed; the absence of Mr Glass. He is so
extremely absent. I suppose,” he added reflectively, “that there was
never anybody so absent as Mr Glass.”
“Do you mean he is absent from the town?” demanded the doctor.
“I mean he is absent from everywhere,” answered Father Brown; “he is
absent from the Nature of Things, so to speak.”
“Do you seriously mean,” said the specialist with a smile, “that there
is no such person?”
The priest made a sign of assent. “It does seem a pity,” he said.
Orion Hood broke into a contemptuous laugh. “Well,” he said, “before
we go on to the hundred and one other evidences, let us take the first
proof we found; the first fact we fell over when we fell into this room.
If there is no Mr Glass, whose hat is this?”
“It is Mr Todhunter’s,” replied Father Brown.
“But it doesn’t fit him,” cried Hood impatiently. “He couldn’t possibly
wear it!”
Father Brown shook his head with ineffable mildness. “I never said he
could wear it,” he answered. “I said it was his hat. Or, if you insist
on a shade of difference, a hat that is his.”
“And what is the shade of difference?” asked the criminologist with a
slight sneer.
“My good sir,” cried the mild little man, with his first movement akin
to impatience, “if you will walk down the street to the nearest hatter’s
shop, you will see that there is, in common speech, a difference between
a man’s hat and the hats that are his.”
“But a hatter,” protested Hood, “can get money out of his stock of new
hats. What could Todhunter get out of this one old hat?”
“Rabbits,” replied Father Brown promptly.
“What?” cried Dr Hood.
“Rabbits, ribbons, sweetmeats, goldfish, rolls of coloured paper,” said
the reverend gentleman with rapidity. “Didn’t you see it all when
you found out the faked ropes? It’s just the same with the sword.
Mr Todhunter hasn’t got a scratch on him, as you say; but he’s got a
scratch in him, if you follow me.”
“Do you mean inside Mr Todhunter’s clothes?” inquired Mrs MacNab
sternly.
“I do not mean inside Mr Todhunter’s clothes,” said Father Brown. “I
mean inside Mr Todhunter.”
“Well, what in the name of Bedlam do you mean?”
“Mr Todhunter,” explained Father Brown placidly, “is learning to be a
professional conjurer, as well as juggler, ventriloquist, and expert in
the rope trick. The conjuring explains the hat. It is without traces
of hair, not because it is worn by the prematurely bald Mr Glass, but
because it has never been worn by anybody. The juggling explains the
three glasses, which Todhunter was teaching himself to throw up and
catch in rotation. But, being only at the stage of practice, he smashed
one glass against the ceiling. And the juggling also explains the sword,
which it was Mr Todhunter’s professional pride and duty to swallow.
But, again, being at the stage of practice, he very slightly grazed the
inside of his throat with the weapon. Hence he has a wound inside him,
which I am sure (from the expression on his face) is not a serious
one. He was also practising the trick of a release from ropes, like the
Davenport Brothers, and he was just about to free himself when we all
burst into the room. The cards, of course, are for card tricks, and they
are scattered on the floor because he had just been practising one of
those dodges of sending them flying through the air. He merely kept his
trade secret, because he had to keep his tricks secret, like any other
conjurer. But the mere fact of an idler in a top hat having once
looked in at his back window, and been driven away by him with great
indignation, was enough to set us all on a wrong track of romance, and
make us imagine his whole life overshadowed by the silk-hatted spectre
of Mr Glass.”
“But what about the two voices?” asked Maggie, staring.
“Have you never heard a ventriloquist?” asked Father Brown. “Don’t you
know they speak first in their natural voice, and then answer themselves
in just that shrill, squeaky, unnatural voice that you heard?”
There was a long silence, and Dr Hood regarded the little man who
had spoken with a dark and attentive smile. “You are certainly a very
ingenious person,” he said; “it could not have been done better in a
book. But there is just one part of Mr Glass you have not succeeded in
explaining away, and that is his name. Miss MacNab distinctly heard him
so addressed by Mr Todhunter.”
The Rev. Mr Brown broke into a rather childish giggle. “Well, that,”
he said, “that’s the silliest part of the whole silly story. When our
juggling friend here threw up the three glasses in turn, he counted
them aloud as he caught them, and also commented aloud when he failed to
catch them. What he really said was: ‘One, two and three--missed a glass
one, two--missed a glass.’ And so on.”
There was a second of stillness in the room, and then everyone with
one accord burst out laughing. As they did so the figure in the corner
complacently uncoiled all the ropes and let them fall with a flourish.
Then, advancing into the middle of the room with a bow, he produced
from his pocket a big bill printed in blue and red, which announced that
ZALADIN, the World’s Greatest Conjurer, Contortionist, Ventriloquist and
Human Kangaroo would be ready with an entirely new series of Tricks
at the Empire Pavilion, Scarborough, on Monday next at eight o’clock
precisely.

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Title: THE BEGINNING OF THE ARMADILLOS
Author: Rudyard Kipling
THE BEGINNING OF THE ARMADILLOS
THIS, O Best Beloved, is another story of the High and Far-Off Times.
In the very middle of those times was a Stickly-Prickly Hedgehog, and
he lived on the banks of the turbid Amazon, eating shelly snails and
things. And he had a friend, a Slow-Solid Tortoise, who lived on the
banks of the turbid Amazon, eating green lettuces and things. And so
that was all right, Best Beloved. Do you see?
But also, and at the same time, in those High and Far-Off Times, there
was a Painted Jaguar, and he lived on the banks of the turbid Amazon
too; and he ate everything that he could catch. When he could not catch
deer or monkeys he would eat frogs and beetles; and when he could not
catch frogs and beetles he went to his Mother Jaguar, and she told him
how to eat hedgehogs and tortoises.
She said to him ever so many times, graciously waving her tail, ‘My son,
when you find a Hedgehog you must drop him into the water and then he
will uncoil, and when you catch a Tortoise you must scoop him out of his
shell with your paw.’ And so that was all right, Best Beloved.
One beautiful night on the banks of the turbid Amazon, Painted Jaguar
found Stickly-Prickly Hedgehog and Slow-Solid Tortoise sitting under the
trunk of a fallen tree. They could not run away, and so Stickly-Prickly
curled himself up into a ball, because he was a Hedgehog, and Slow-Solid
Tortoise drew in his head and feet into his shell as far as they would
go, because he was a Tortoise; and so that was all right, Best Beloved.
Do you see?
‘Now attend to me,’ said Painted Jaguar, ‘because this is very
important. My mother said that when I meet a Hedgehog I am to drop him
into the water and then he will uncoil, and when I meet a Tortoise I am
to scoop him out of his shell with my paw. Now which of you is Hedgehog
and which is Tortoise? because, to save my spots, I can’t tell.’
‘Are you sure of what your Mummy told you?’ said Stickly-Prickly
Hedgehog. ‘Are you quite sure? Perhaps she said that when you uncoil a
Tortoise you must shell him out the water with a scoop, and when you paw
a Hedgehog you must drop him on the shell.’
‘Are you sure of what your Mummy told you?’ said Slow-and-Solid
Tortoise. ‘Are you quite sure? Perhaps she said that when you water a
Hedgehog you must drop him into your paw, and when you meet a Tortoise
you must shell him till he uncoils.’
‘I don’t think it was at all like that,’ said Painted Jaguar, but he
felt a little puzzled; ‘but, please, say it again more distinctly.’
‘When you scoop water with your paw you uncoil it with a Hedgehog,’ said
Stickly-Prickly. ‘Remember that, because it’s important.’
‘But,’ said the Tortoise, ‘when you paw your meat you drop it into a
Tortoise with a scoop. Why can’t you understand?’
‘You are making my spots ache,’ said Painted Jaguar; ‘and besides, I
didn’t want your advice at all. I only wanted to know which of you is
Hedgehog and which is Tortoise.’
‘I shan’t tell you,’ said Stickly-Prickly, ‘but you can scoop me out of
my shell if you like.’
‘Aha!’ said Painted Jaguar. ‘Now I know you’re Tortoise. You thought I
wouldn’t! Now I will.’ Painted Jaguar darted out his paddy-paw just as
Stickly-Prickly curled himself up, and of course Jaguar’s paddy-paw was
just filled with prickles. Worse than that, he knocked Stickly-Prickly
away and away into the woods and the bushes, where it was too dark to
find him. Then he put his paddy-paw into his mouth, and of course the
prickles hurt him worse than ever. As soon as he could speak he said,
‘Now I know he isn’t Tortoise at all. But’--and then he scratched
his head with his un-prickly paw--‘how do I know that this other is
Tortoise?’
‘But I am Tortoise,’ said Slow-and-Solid. Your mother was quite right.
She said that you were to scoop me out of my shell with your paw.
Begin.’
‘You didn’t say she said that a minute ago, said Painted Jaguar, sucking
the prickles out of his paddy-paw. ‘You said she said something quite
different.’
‘Well, suppose you say that I said that she said something quite
different, I don’t see that it makes any difference; because if she said
what you said I said she said, it’s just the same as if I said what she
said she said. On the other hand, if you think she said that you were to
uncoil me with a scoop, instead of pawing me into drops with a shell, I
can’t help that, can I?’
‘But you said you wanted to be scooped out of your shell with my paw,’
said Painted Jaguar.
‘If you’ll think again you’ll find that I didn’t say anything of the
kind. I said that your mother said that you were to scoop me out of my
shell,’ said Slow-and-Solid.
‘What will happen if I do?’ said the Jaguar most sniffily and most
cautious.
‘I don’t know, because I’ve never been scooped out of my shell before;
but I tell you truly, if you want to see me swim away you’ve only got to
drop me into the water.
‘I don’t believe it,’ said Painted Jaguar. ‘You’ve mixed up all the
things my mother told me to do with the things that you asked me whether
I was sure that she didn’t say, till I don’t know whether I’m on my
head or my painted tail; and now you come and tell me something I can
understand, and it makes me more mixy than before. My mother told me
that I was to drop one of you two into the water, and as you seem so
anxious to be dropped I think you don’t want to be dropped. So jump into
the turbid Amazon and be quick about it.’
‘I warn you that your Mummy won’t be pleased. Don’t tell her I didn’t
tell you,’ said Slow-Solid.
‘If you say another word about what my mother said--’ the Jaguar
answered, but he had not finished the sentence before Slow-and-Solid
quietly dived into the turbid Amazon, swam under water for a long way,
and came out on the bank where Stickly-Prickly was waiting for him.
‘That was a very narrow escape,’ said Stickly-Prickly. ‘I don’t rib
Painted Jaguar. What did you tell him that you were?’
‘I told him truthfully that I was a truthful Tortoise, but he wouldn’t
believe it, and he made me jump into the river to see if I was, and I
was, and he is surprised. Now he’s gone to tell his Mummy. Listen to
him!’
They could hear Painted Jaguar roaring up and down among the trees and
the bushes by the side of the turbid Amazon, till his Mummy came.
‘Son, son!’ said his mother ever so many times, graciously waving her
tail, ‘what have you been doing that you shouldn’t have done?’
‘I tried to scoop something that said it wanted to be scooped out of
its shell with my paw, and my paw is full of per-ickles,’ said Painted
Jaguar.
‘Son, son!’ said his mother ever so many times, graciously waving her
tail, ‘by the prickles in your paddy-paw I see that that must have been
a Hedgehog. You should have dropped him into the water.
‘I did that to the other thing; and he said he was a Tortoise, and I
didn’t believe him, and it was quite true, and he has dived under the
turbid Amazon, and he won’t come up again, and I haven’t anything at all
to eat, and I think we had better find lodgings somewhere else. They are
too clever on the turbid Amazon for poor me!’
‘Son, son!’ said his mother ever so many times, graciously waving
her tail, ‘now attend to me and remember what I say. A Hedgehog curls
himself up into a ball and his prickles stick out every which way at
once. By this you may know the Hedgehog.’
‘I don’t like this old lady one little bit,’ said Stickly-Prickly, under
the shadow of a large leaf. ‘I wonder what else she knows?’
‘A Tortoise can’t curl himself up,’ Mother Jaguar went on, ever so many
times, graciously waving her tail. ‘He only draws his head and legs into
his shell. By this you may know the tortoise.’
‘I don’t like this old lady at all--at all,’ said Slow-and-Solid
Tortoise. ‘Even Painted Jaguar can’t forget those directions. It’s a
great pity that you can’t swim, Stickly-Prickly.’
‘Don’t talk to me,’ said Stickly-Prickly. ‘Just think how much better
it would be if you could curl up. This is a mess! Listen to Painted
Jaguar.’
Painted Jaguar was sitting on the banks of the turbid Amazon sucking
prickles out of his Paws and saying to himself--
‘Can’t curl, but can swim--
Slow-Solid, that’s him!
Curls up, but can’t swim--
Stickly-Prickly, that’s him!’
‘He’ll never forget that this month of Sundays,’ said Stickly-Prickly.
‘Hold up my chin, Slow-and-Solid. I’m going to try to learn to swim. It
may be useful.’
‘Excellent!’ said Slow-and-Solid; and he held up Stickly-Prickly’s chin,
while Stickly-Prickly kicked in the waters of the turbid Amazon.
‘You’ll make a fine swimmer yet,’ said Slow-and-Solid. ‘Now, if you can
unlace my back-plates a little, I’ll see what I can do towards curling
up. It may be useful.’
Stickly-Prickly helped to unlace Tortoise’s back-plates, so that by
twisting and straining Slow-and-Solid actually managed to curl up a
tiddy wee bit.
‘Excellent!’ said Stickly-Prickly; ‘but I shouldn’t do any more just
now. It’s making you black in the face. Kindly lead me into the water
once again and I’ll practice that side-stroke which you say is so easy.’
And so Stickly-Prickly practiced, and Slow-Solid swam alongside.
‘Excellent!’ said Slow-and-Solid. ‘A little more practice will make you
a regular whale. Now, if I may trouble you to unlace my back and front
plates two holes more, I’ll try that fascinating bend that you say is so
easy. Won’t Painted Jaguar be surprised!’
‘Excellent!’ said Stickly-Prickly, all wet from the turbid Amazon. ‘I
declare, I shouldn’t know you from one of my own family. Two holes, I
think, you said? A little more expression, please, and don’t grunt quite
so much, or Painted Jaguar may hear us. When you’ve finished, I want
to try that long dive which you say is so easy. Won’t Painted Jaguar be
surprised!’
And so Stickly-Prickly dived, and Slow-and-Solid dived alongside.
‘Excellent!’ said Slow-and-Solid. ‘A leetle more attention to holding
your breath and you will be able to keep house at the bottom of the
turbid Amazon. Now I’ll try that exercise of putting my hind legs round
my ears which you say is so peculiarly comfortable. Won’t Painted Jaguar
be surprised!’
‘Excellent!’ said Stickly-Prickly. ‘But it’s straining your back-plates
a little. They are all overlapping now, instead of lying side by side.’
‘Oh, that’s the result of exercise,’ said Slow-and-Solid. ‘I’ve noticed
that your prickles seem to be melting into one another, and that
you’re growing to look rather more like a pinecone, and less like a
chestnut-burr, than you used to.’
‘Am I?’ said Stickly-Prickly. ‘That comes from my soaking in the water.
Oh, won’t Painted Jaguar be surprised!’
They went on with their exercises, each helping the other, till morning
came; and when the sun was high they rested and dried themselves. Then
they saw that they were both of them quite different from what they had
been.
‘Stickly-Prickly,’ said Tortoise after breakfast, ‘I am not what I was
yesterday; but I think that I may yet amuse Painted Jaguar.
‘That was the very thing I was thinking just now,’ said Stickly-Prickly.
‘I think scales are a tremendous improvement on prickles--to say nothing
of being able to swim. Oh, won’t Painted Jaguar be surprised! Let’s go
and find him.’
By and by they found Painted Jaguar, still nursing his paddy-paw that
had been hurt the night before. He was so astonished that he fell three
times backward over his own painted tail without stopping.
‘Good morning!’ said Stickly-Prickly. ‘And how is your dear gracious
Mummy this morning?’
‘She is quite well, thank you,’ said Painted Jaguar; ‘but you must
forgive me if I do not at this precise moment recall your name.’
‘That’s unkind of you,’ said Stickly-Prickly, ‘seeing that this time
yesterday you tried to scoop me out of my shell with your paw.’
‘But you hadn’t any shell. It was all prickles,’ said Painted Jaguar. ‘I
know it was. Just look at my paw!’
‘You told me to drop into the turbid Amazon and be drowned,’ said
Slow-Solid. ‘Why are you so rude and forgetful to-day?’
‘Don’t you remember what your mother told you?’ said Stickly-Prickly,--
‘Can’t curl, but can swim--
Stickly-Prickly, that’s him!
Curls up, but can’t swim--
Slow-Solid, that’s him!’
Then they both curled themselves up and rolled round and round Painted
Jaguar till his eyes turned truly cart-wheels in his head.
Then he went to fetch his mother.
‘Mother,’ he said, ‘there are two new animals in the woods to-day, and
the one that you said couldn’t swim, swims, and the one that you said
couldn’t curl up, curls; and they’ve gone shares in their prickles, I
think, because both of them are scaly all over, instead of one being
smooth and the other very prickly; and, besides that, they are rolling
round and round in circles, and I don’t feel comfy.’
‘Son, son!’ said Mother Jaguar ever so many times, graciously waving her
tail, ‘a Hedgehog is a Hedgehog, and can’t be anything but a Hedgehog;
and a Tortoise is a Tortoise, and can never be anything else.’
‘But it isn’t a Hedgehog, and it isn’t a Tortoise. It’s a little bit of
both, and I don’t know its proper name.’
‘Nonsense!’ said Mother Jaguar. ‘Everything has its proper name. I
should call it “Armadillo” till I found out the real one. And I should
leave it alone.’
So Painted Jaguar did as he was told, especially about leaving them
alone; but the curious thing is that from that day to this, O Best
Beloved, no one on the banks of the turbid Amazon has ever called
Stickly-Prickly and Slow-Solid anything except Armadillo. There are
Hedgehogs and Tortoises in other places, of course (there are some in
my garden); but the real old and clever kind, with their scales lying
lippety-lappety one over the other, like pine-cone scales, that lived on
the banks of the turbid Amazon in the High and Far-Off Days, are always
called Armadillos, because they were so clever.
So that; all right, Best Beloved. Do you see?
I’VE never sailed the Amazon,
I’ve never reached Brazil;
But the Don and Magdelana,
They can go there when they will!
Yes, weekly from Southampton,
Great steamers, white and gold,
Go rolling down to Rio
(Roll down--roll down to Rio!)
And I’d like to roll to Rio
Some day before I’m old!
I’ve never seen a Jaguar,
Nor yet an Armadill
O dilloing in his armour,
And I s’pose I never will,
Unless I go to Rio
These wonders to behold--
Roll down--roll down to Rio--
Roll really down to Rio!
Oh, I’d love to roll to Rio
Some day before I’m old!

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Title: The Blue Cross
Author: G. K. Chesterton
The Blue Cross
Between the silver ribbon of morning and the green glittering ribbon of
sea, the boat touched Harwich and let loose a swarm of folk like flies,
among whom the man we must follow was by no means conspicuous--nor
wished to be. There was nothing notable about him, except a slight
contrast between the holiday gaiety of his clothes and the official
gravity of his face. His clothes included a slight, pale grey jacket,
a white waistcoat, and a silver straw hat with a grey-blue ribbon. His
lean face was dark by contrast, and ended in a curt black beard that
looked Spanish and suggested an Elizabethan ruff. He was smoking a
cigarette with the seriousness of an idler. There was nothing about him
to indicate the fact that the grey jacket covered a loaded revolver,
that the white waistcoat covered a police card, or that the straw hat
covered one of the most powerful intellects in Europe. For this was
Valentin himself, the head of the Paris police and the most famous
investigator of the world; and he was coming from Brussels to London to
make the greatest arrest of the century.
Flambeau was in England. The police of three countries had tracked the
great criminal at last from Ghent to Brussels, from Brussels to the Hook
of Holland; and it was conjectured that he would take some advantage of
the unfamiliarity and confusion of the Eucharistic Congress, then
taking place in London. Probably he would travel as some minor clerk
or secretary connected with it; but, of course, Valentin could not be
certain; nobody could be certain about Flambeau.
It is many years now since this colossus of crime suddenly ceased
keeping the world in a turmoil; and when he ceased, as they said after
the death of Roland, there was a great quiet upon the earth. But in
his best days (I mean, of course, his worst) Flambeau was a figure as
statuesque and international as the Kaiser. Almost every morning the
daily paper announced that he had escaped the consequences of one
extraordinary crime by committing another. He was a Gascon of gigantic
stature and bodily daring; and the wildest tales were told of his
outbursts of athletic humour; how he turned the juge d’instruction
upside down and stood him on his head, “to clear his mind”; how he ran
down the Rue de Rivoli with a policeman under each arm. It is due to him
to say that his fantastic physical strength was generally employed in
such bloodless though undignified scenes; his real crimes were chiefly
those of ingenious and wholesale robbery. But each of his thefts was
almost a new sin, and would make a story by itself. It was he who ran
the great Tyrolean Dairy Company in London, with no dairies, no cows, no
carts, no milk, but with some thousand subscribers. These he served by
the simple operation of moving the little milk cans outside people’s
doors to the doors of his own customers. It was he who had kept up an
unaccountable and close correspondence with a young lady whose whole
letter-bag was intercepted, by the extraordinary trick of photographing
his messages infinitesimally small upon the slides of a microscope. A
sweeping simplicity, however, marked many of his experiments. It is said
that he once repainted all the numbers in a street in the dead of night
merely to divert one traveller into a trap. It is quite certain that
he invented a portable pillar-box, which he put up at corners in quiet
suburbs on the chance of strangers dropping postal orders into it.
Lastly, he was known to be a startling acrobat; despite his huge figure,
he could leap like a grasshopper and melt into the tree-tops like a
monkey. Hence the great Valentin, when he set out to find Flambeau, was
perfectly aware that his adventures would not end when he had found him.
But how was he to find him? On this the great Valentin’s ideas were
still in process of settlement.
There was one thing which Flambeau, with all his dexterity of disguise,
could not cover, and that was his singular height. If Valentin’s quick
eye had caught a tall apple-woman, a tall grenadier, or even a tolerably
tall duchess, he might have arrested them on the spot. But all along his
train there was nobody that could be a disguised Flambeau, any more than
a cat could be a disguised giraffe. About the people on the boat he had
already satisfied himself; and the people picked up at Harwich or on
the journey limited themselves with certainty to six. There was a short
railway official travelling up to the terminus, three fairly short
market gardeners picked up two stations afterwards, one very short widow
lady going up from a small Essex town, and a very short Roman Catholic
priest going up from a small Essex village. When it came to the last
case, Valentin gave it up and almost laughed. The little priest was so
much the essence of those Eastern flats; he had a face as round and dull
as a Norfolk dumpling; he had eyes as empty as the North Sea; he had
several brown paper parcels, which he was quite incapable of collecting.
The Eucharistic Congress had doubtless sucked out of their local
stagnation many such creatures, blind and helpless, like moles
disinterred. Valentin was a sceptic in the severe style of France, and
could have no love for priests. But he could have pity for them, and
this one might have provoked pity in anybody. He had a large, shabby
umbrella, which constantly fell on the floor. He did not seem to know
which was the right end of his return ticket. He explained with a
moon-calf simplicity to everybody in the carriage that he had to be
careful, because he had something made of real silver “with blue stones”
in one of his brown-paper parcels. His quaint blending of Essex flatness
with saintly simplicity continuously amused the Frenchman till the
priest arrived (somehow) at Tottenham with all his parcels, and came
back for his umbrella. When he did the last, Valentin even had the good
nature to warn him not to take care of the silver by telling everybody
about it. But to whomever he talked, Valentin kept his eye open for
someone else; he looked out steadily for anyone, rich or poor, male or
female, who was well up to six feet; for Flambeau was four inches above
it.
He alighted at Liverpool Street, however, quite conscientiously secure
that he had not missed the criminal so far. He then went to Scotland
Yard to regularise his position and arrange for help in case of need; he
then lit another cigarette and went for a long stroll in the streets of
London. As he was walking in the streets and squares beyond Victoria, he
paused suddenly and stood. It was a quaint, quiet square, very typical
of London, full of an accidental stillness. The tall, flat houses round
looked at once prosperous and uninhabited; the square of shrubbery in
the centre looked as deserted as a green Pacific islet. One of the four
sides was much higher than the rest, like a dais; and the line of this
side was broken by one of London’s admirable accidents--a restaurant
that looked as if it had strayed from Soho. It was an unreasonably
attractive object, with dwarf plants in pots and long, striped blinds of
lemon yellow and white. It stood specially high above the street, and in
the usual patchwork way of London, a flight of steps from the street
ran up to meet the front door almost as a fire-escape might run up to
a first-floor window. Valentin stood and smoked in front of the
yellow-white blinds and considered them long.
The most incredible thing about miracles is that they happen. A few
clouds in heaven do come together into the staring shape of one human
eye. A tree does stand up in the landscape of a doubtful journey in the
exact and elaborate shape of a note of interrogation. I have seen both
these things myself within the last few days. Nelson does die in the
instant of victory; and a man named Williams does quite accidentally
murder a man named Williamson; it sounds like a sort of infanticide.
In short, there is in life an element of elfin coincidence which people
reckoning on the prosaic may perpetually miss. As it has been well
expressed in the paradox of Poe, wisdom should reckon on the unforeseen.
Aristide Valentin was unfathomably French; and the French intelligence
is intelligence specially and solely. He was not “a thinking machine”;
for that is a brainless phrase of modern fatalism and materialism. A
machine only is a machine because it cannot think. But he was a thinking
man, and a plain man at the same time. All his wonderful successes, that
looked like conjuring, had been gained by plodding logic, by clear
and commonplace French thought. The French electrify the world not by
starting any paradox, they electrify it by carrying out a truism. They
carry a truism so far--as in the French Revolution. But exactly because
Valentin understood reason, he understood the limits of reason. Only a
man who knows nothing of motors talks of motoring without petrol; only
a man who knows nothing of reason talks of reasoning without strong,
undisputed first principles. Here he had no strong first principles.
Flambeau had been missed at Harwich; and if he was in London at all,
he might be anything from a tall tramp on Wimbledon Common to a tall
toast-master at the Hotel Metropole. In such a naked state of nescience,
Valentin had a view and a method of his own.
In such cases he reckoned on the unforeseen. In such cases, when he
could not follow the train of the reasonable, he coldly and carefully
followed the train of the unreasonable. Instead of going to the right
places--banks, police stations, rendezvous--he systematically went to
the wrong places; knocked at every empty house, turned down every cul de
sac, went up every lane blocked with rubbish, went round every crescent
that led him uselessly out of the way. He defended this crazy course
quite logically. He said that if one had a clue this was the worst way;
but if one had no clue at all it was the best, because there was just
the chance that any oddity that caught the eye of the pursuer might be
the same that had caught the eye of the pursued. Somewhere a man must
begin, and it had better be just where another man might stop. Something
about that flight of steps up to the shop, something about the quietude
and quaintness of the restaurant, roused all the detective’s rare
romantic fancy and made him resolve to strike at random. He went up the
steps, and sitting down at a table by the window, asked for a cup of
black coffee.
It was half-way through the morning, and he had not breakfasted; the
slight litter of other breakfasts stood about on the table to remind
him of his hunger; and adding a poached egg to his order, he proceeded
musingly to shake some white sugar into his coffee, thinking all the
time about Flambeau. He remembered how Flambeau had escaped, once by a
pair of nail scissors, and once by a house on fire; once by having to
pay for an unstamped letter, and once by getting people to look through
a telescope at a comet that might destroy the world. He thought his
detective brain as good as the criminal’s, which was true. But he fully
realised the disadvantage. “The criminal is the creative artist; the
detective only the critic,” he said with a sour smile, and lifted his
coffee cup to his lips slowly, and put it down very quickly. He had put
salt in it.
He looked at the vessel from which the silvery powder had come; it
was certainly a sugar-basin; as unmistakably meant for sugar as a
champagne-bottle for champagne. He wondered why they should keep salt in
it. He looked to see if there were any more orthodox vessels. Yes; there
were two salt-cellars quite full. Perhaps there was some speciality in
the condiment in the salt-cellars. He tasted it; it was sugar. Then he
looked round at the restaurant with a refreshed air of interest, to see
if there were any other traces of that singular artistic taste which
puts the sugar in the salt-cellars and the salt in the sugar-basin.
Except for an odd splash of some dark fluid on one of the white-papered
walls, the whole place appeared neat, cheerful and ordinary. He rang the
bell for the waiter.
When that official hurried up, fuzzy-haired and somewhat blear-eyed at
that early hour, the detective (who was not without an appreciation of
the simpler forms of humour) asked him to taste the sugar and see if
it was up to the high reputation of the hotel. The result was that the
waiter yawned suddenly and woke up.
“Do you play this delicate joke on your customers every morning?”
inquired Valentin. “Does changing the salt and sugar never pall on you
as a jest?”
The waiter, when this irony grew clearer, stammeringly assured him that
the establishment had certainly no such intention; it must be a most
curious mistake. He picked up the sugar-basin and looked at it; he
picked up the salt-cellar and looked at that, his face growing more and
more bewildered. At last he abruptly excused himself, and hurrying
away, returned in a few seconds with the proprietor. The proprietor also
examined the sugar-basin and then the salt-cellar; the proprietor also
looked bewildered.
Suddenly the waiter seemed to grow inarticulate with a rush of words.
“I zink,” he stuttered eagerly, “I zink it is those two clergy-men.”
“What two clergymen?”
“The two clergymen,” said the waiter, “that threw soup at the wall.”
“Threw soup at the wall?” repeated Valentin, feeling sure this must be
some singular Italian metaphor.
“Yes, yes,” said the attendant excitedly, and pointed at the dark splash
on the white paper; “threw it over there on the wall.”
Valentin looked his query at the proprietor, who came to his rescue with
fuller reports.
“Yes, sir,” he said, “it’s quite true, though I don’t suppose it has
anything to do with the sugar and salt. Two clergymen came in and drank
soup here very early, as soon as the shutters were taken down. They were
both very quiet, respectable people; one of them paid the bill and went
out; the other, who seemed a slower coach altogether, was some minutes
longer getting his things together. But he went at last. Only, the
instant before he stepped into the street he deliberately picked up
his cup, which he had only half emptied, and threw the soup slap on the
wall. I was in the back room myself, and so was the waiter; so I could
only rush out in time to find the wall splashed and the shop empty. It
don’t do any particular damage, but it was confounded cheek; and I tried
to catch the men in the street. They were too far off though; I only
noticed they went round the next corner into Carstairs Street.”
The detective was on his feet, hat settled and stick in hand. He had
already decided that in the universal darkness of his mind he could
only follow the first odd finger that pointed; and this finger was odd
enough. Paying his bill and clashing the glass doors behind him, he was
soon swinging round into the other street.
It was fortunate that even in such fevered moments his eye was cool and
quick. Something in a shop-front went by him like a mere flash; yet
he went back to look at it. The shop was a popular greengrocer and
fruiterer’s, an array of goods set out in the open air and plainly
ticketed with their names and prices. In the two most prominent
compartments were two heaps, of oranges and of nuts respectively. On
the heap of nuts lay a scrap of cardboard, on which was written in bold,
blue chalk, “Best tangerine oranges, two a penny.” On the oranges was
the equally clear and exact description, “Finest Brazil nuts, 4d. a lb.”
M. Valentin looked at these two placards and fancied he had met this
highly subtle form of humour before, and that somewhat recently. He
drew the attention of the red-faced fruiterer, who was looking
rather sullenly up and down the street, to this inaccuracy in his
advertisements. The fruiterer said nothing, but sharply put each
card into its proper place. The detective, leaning elegantly on his
walking-cane, continued to scrutinise the shop. At last he said, “Pray
excuse my apparent irrelevance, my good sir, but I should like to ask
you a question in experimental psychology and the association of ideas.”
The red-faced shopman regarded him with an eye of menace; but he
continued gaily, swinging his cane, “Why,” he pursued, “why are two
tickets wrongly placed in a greengrocer’s shop like a shovel hat that
has come to London for a holiday? Or, in case I do not make myself
clear, what is the mystical association which connects the idea of nuts
marked as oranges with the idea of two clergymen, one tall and the other
short?”
The eyes of the tradesman stood out of his head like a snail’s; he
really seemed for an instant likely to fling himself upon the stranger.
At last he stammered angrily: “I don’t know what you ‘ave to do with it,
but if you’re one of their friends, you can tell ‘em from me that I’ll
knock their silly ‘eads off, parsons or no parsons, if they upset my
apples again.”
“Indeed?” asked the detective, with great sympathy. “Did they upset your
apples?”
“One of ‘em did,” said the heated shopman; “rolled ‘em all over the
street. I’d ‘ave caught the fool but for havin’ to pick ‘em up.”
“Which way did these parsons go?” asked Valentin.
“Up that second road on the left-hand side, and then across the square,”
said the other promptly.
“Thanks,” replied Valentin, and vanished like a fairy. On the other side
of the second square he found a policeman, and said: “This is urgent,
constable; have you seen two clergymen in shovel hats?”
The policeman began to chuckle heavily. “I ‘ave, sir; and if you arst
me, one of ‘em was drunk. He stood in the middle of the road that
bewildered that--”
“Which way did they go?” snapped Valentin.
“They took one of them yellow buses over there,” answered the man; “them
that go to Hampstead.”
Valentin produced his official card and said very rapidly: “Call up two
of your men to come with me in pursuit,” and crossed the road with such
contagious energy that the ponderous policeman was moved to almost agile
obedience. In a minute and a half the French detective was joined on the
opposite pavement by an inspector and a man in plain clothes.
“Well, sir,” began the former, with smiling importance, “and what
may--?”
Valentin pointed suddenly with his cane. “I’ll tell you on the top of
that omnibus,” he said, and was darting and dodging across the tangle of
the traffic. When all three sank panting on the top seats of the yellow
vehicle, the inspector said: “We could go four times as quick in a
taxi.”
“Quite true,” replied their leader placidly, “if we only had an idea of
where we were going.”
“Well, where are you going?” asked the other, staring.
Valentin smoked frowningly for a few seconds; then, removing his
cigarette, he said: “If you know what a man’s doing, get in front of
him; but if you want to guess what he’s doing, keep behind him. Stray
when he strays; stop when he stops; travel as slowly as he. Then you may
see what he saw and may act as he acted. All we can do is to keep our
eyes skinned for a queer thing.”
“What sort of queer thing do you mean?” asked the inspector.
“Any sort of queer thing,” answered Valentin, and relapsed into
obstinate silence.
The yellow omnibus crawled up the northern roads for what seemed like
hours on end; the great detective would not explain further, and perhaps
his assistants felt a silent and growing doubt of his errand. Perhaps,
also, they felt a silent and growing desire for lunch, for the hours
crept long past the normal luncheon hour, and the long roads of the
North London suburbs seemed to shoot out into length after length like
an infernal telescope. It was one of those journeys on which a man
perpetually feels that now at last he must have come to the end of the
universe, and then finds he has only come to the beginning of Tufnell
Park. London died away in draggled taverns and dreary scrubs, and then
was unaccountably born again in blazing high streets and blatant hotels.
It was like passing through thirteen separate vulgar cities all
just touching each other. But though the winter twilight was already
threatening the road ahead of them, the Parisian detective still sat
silent and watchful, eyeing the frontage of the streets that slid by on
either side. By the time they had left Camden Town behind, the policemen
were nearly asleep; at least, they gave something like a jump as
Valentin leapt erect, struck a hand on each man’s shoulder, and shouted
to the driver to stop.
They tumbled down the steps into the road without realising why they
had been dislodged; when they looked round for enlightenment they found
Valentin triumphantly pointing his finger towards a window on the left
side of the road. It was a large window, forming part of the long
facade of a gilt and palatial public-house; it was the part reserved for
respectable dining, and labelled “Restaurant.” This window, like all the
rest along the frontage of the hotel, was of frosted and figured glass;
but in the middle of it was a big, black smash, like a star in the ice.
“Our cue at last,” cried Valentin, waving his stick; “the place with the
broken window.”
“What window? What cue?” asked his principal assistant. “Why, what proof
is there that this has anything to do with them?”
Valentin almost broke his bamboo stick with rage.
“Proof!” he cried. “Good God! the man is looking for proof! Why, of
course, the chances are twenty to one that it has nothing to do with
them. But what else can we do? Don’t you see we must either follow one
wild possibility or else go home to bed?” He banged his way into the
restaurant, followed by his companions, and they were soon seated at a
late luncheon at a little table, and looked at the star of smashed glass
from the inside. Not that it was very informative to them even then.
“Got your window broken, I see,” said Valentin to the waiter as he paid
the bill.
“Yes, sir,” answered the attendant, bending busily over the change, to
which Valentin silently added an enormous tip. The waiter straightened
himself with mild but unmistakable animation.
“Ah, yes, sir,” he said. “Very odd thing, that, sir.”
“Indeed?” Tell us about it,” said the detective with careless curiosity.
“Well, two gents in black came in,” said the waiter; “two of those
foreign parsons that are running about. They had a cheap and quiet
little lunch, and one of them paid for it and went out. The other was
just going out to join him when I looked at my change again and found
he’d paid me more than three times too much. ‘Here,’ I says to the chap
who was nearly out of the door, ‘you’ve paid too much.’ ‘Oh,’ he says,
very cool, ‘have we?’ ‘Yes,’ I says, and picks up the bill to show him.
Well, that was a knock-out.”
“What do you mean?” asked his interlocutor.
“Well, I’d have sworn on seven Bibles that I’d put 4s. on that bill. But
now I saw I’d put 14s., as plain as paint.”
“Well?” cried Valentin, moving slowly, but with burning eyes, “and
then?”
“The parson at the door he says all serene, ‘Sorry to confuse your
accounts, but it’ll pay for the window.’ ‘What window?’ I says. ‘The
one I’m going to break,’ he says, and smashed that blessed pane with his
umbrella.”
All three inquirers made an exclamation; and the inspector said under
his breath, “Are we after escaped lunatics?” The waiter went on with
some relish for the ridiculous story:
“I was so knocked silly for a second, I couldn’t do anything. The man
marched out of the place and joined his friend just round the corner.
Then they went so quick up Bullock Street that I couldn’t catch them,
though I ran round the bars to do it.”
“Bullock Street,” said the detective, and shot up that thoroughfare as
quickly as the strange couple he pursued.
Their journey now took them through bare brick ways like tunnels;
streets with few lights and even with few windows; streets that seemed
built out of the blank backs of everything and everywhere. Dusk was
deepening, and it was not easy even for the London policemen to guess
in what exact direction they were treading. The inspector, however, was
pretty certain that they would eventually strike some part of Hampstead
Heath. Abruptly one bulging gas-lit window broke the blue twilight like
a bull’s-eye lantern; and Valentin stopped an instant before a little
garish sweetstuff shop. After an instant’s hesitation he went in; he
stood amid the gaudy colours of the confectionery with entire gravity
and bought thirteen chocolate cigars with a certain care. He was clearly
preparing an opening; but he did not need one.
An angular, elderly young woman in the shop had regarded his elegant
appearance with a merely automatic inquiry; but when she saw the door
behind him blocked with the blue uniform of the inspector, her eyes
seemed to wake up.
“Oh,” she said, “if you’ve come about that parcel, I’ve sent it off
already.”
“Parcel?” repeated Valentin; and it was his turn to look inquiring.
“I mean the parcel the gentleman left--the clergyman gentleman.”
“For goodness’ sake,” said Valentin, leaning forward with his first
real confession of eagerness, “for Heaven’s sake tell us what happened
exactly.”
“Well,” said the woman a little doubtfully, “the clergymen came in about
half an hour ago and bought some peppermints and talked a bit, and then
went off towards the Heath. But a second after, one of them runs
back into the shop and says, ‘Have I left a parcel!’ Well, I looked
everywhere and couldn’t see one; so he says, ‘Never mind; but if it
should turn up, please post it to this address,’ and he left me the
address and a shilling for my trouble. And sure enough, though I thought
I’d looked everywhere, I found he’d left a brown paper parcel, so I
posted it to the place he said. I can’t remember the address now; it
was somewhere in Westminster. But as the thing seemed so important, I
thought perhaps the police had come about it.”
“So they have,” said Valentin shortly. “Is Hampstead Heath near here?”
“Straight on for fifteen minutes,” said the woman, “and you’ll come
right out on the open.” Valentin sprang out of the shop and began to
run. The other detectives followed him at a reluctant trot.
The street they threaded was so narrow and shut in by shadows that when
they came out unexpectedly into the void common and vast sky they were
startled to find the evening still so light and clear. A perfect dome
of peacock-green sank into gold amid the blackening trees and the dark
violet distances. The glowing green tint was just deep enough to pick
out in points of crystal one or two stars. All that was left of the
daylight lay in a golden glitter across the edge of Hampstead and that
popular hollow which is called the Vale of Health. The holiday makers
who roam this region had not wholly dispersed; a few couples sat
shapelessly on benches; and here and there a distant girl still shrieked
in one of the swings. The glory of heaven deepened and darkened around
the sublime vulgarity of man; and standing on the slope and looking
across the valley, Valentin beheld the thing which he sought.
Among the black and breaking groups in that distance was one especially
black which did not break--a group of two figures clerically clad.
Though they seemed as small as insects, Valentin could see that one of
them was much smaller than the other. Though the other had a student’s
stoop and an inconspicuous manner, he could see that the man was well
over six feet high. He shut his teeth and went forward, whirling his
stick impatiently. By the time he had substantially diminished the
distance and magnified the two black figures as in a vast microscope,
he had perceived something else; something which startled him, and yet
which he had somehow expected. Whoever was the tall priest, there could
be no doubt about the identity of the short one. It was his friend of
the Harwich train, the stumpy little cure of Essex whom he had warned
about his brown paper parcels.
Now, so far as this went, everything fitted in finally and rationally
enough. Valentin had learned by his inquiries that morning that a Father
Brown from Essex was bringing up a silver cross with sapphires, a
relic of considerable value, to show some of the foreign priests at the
congress. This undoubtedly was the “silver with blue stones”; and Father
Brown undoubtedly was the little greenhorn in the train. Now there
was nothing wonderful about the fact that what Valentin had found out
Flambeau had also found out; Flambeau found out everything. Also there
was nothing wonderful in the fact that when Flambeau heard of a sapphire
cross he should try to steal it; that was the most natural thing in all
natural history. And most certainly there was nothing wonderful about
the fact that Flambeau should have it all his own way with such a silly
sheep as the man with the umbrella and the parcels. He was the sort of
man whom anybody could lead on a string to the North Pole; it was not
surprising that an actor like Flambeau, dressed as another priest, could
lead him to Hampstead Heath. So far the crime seemed clear enough; and
while the detective pitied the priest for his helplessness, he almost
despised Flambeau for condescending to so gullible a victim. But when
Valentin thought of all that had happened in between, of all that had
led him to his triumph, he racked his brains for the smallest rhyme or
reason in it. What had the stealing of a blue-and-silver cross from a
priest from Essex to do with chucking soup at wall paper? What had it
to do with calling nuts oranges, or with paying for windows first and
breaking them afterwards? He had come to the end of his chase; yet
somehow he had missed the middle of it. When he failed (which was
seldom), he had usually grasped the clue, but nevertheless missed the
criminal. Here he had grasped the criminal, but still he could not grasp
the clue.
The two figures that they followed were crawling like black flies
across the huge green contour of a hill. They were evidently sunk in
conversation, and perhaps did not notice where they were going; but they
were certainly going to the wilder and more silent heights of the Heath.
As their pursuers gained on them, the latter had to use the undignified
attitudes of the deer-stalker, to crouch behind clumps of trees and
even to crawl prostrate in deep grass. By these ungainly ingenuities the
hunters even came close enough to the quarry to hear the murmur of the
discussion, but no word could be distinguished except the word “reason”
recurring frequently in a high and almost childish voice. Once over
an abrupt dip of land and a dense tangle of thickets, the detectives
actually lost the two figures they were following. They did not find the
trail again for an agonising ten minutes, and then it led round the brow
of a great dome of hill overlooking an amphitheatre of rich and desolate
sunset scenery. Under a tree in this commanding yet neglected spot was
an old ramshackle wooden seat. On this seat sat the two priests still in
serious speech together. The gorgeous green and gold still clung to
the darkening horizon; but the dome above was turning slowly from
peacock-green to peacock-blue, and the stars detached themselves more
and more like solid jewels. Mutely motioning to his followers, Valentin
contrived to creep up behind the big branching tree, and, standing there
in deathly silence, heard the words of the strange priests for the first
time.
After he had listened for a minute and a half, he was gripped by a
devilish doubt. Perhaps he had dragged the two English policemen to the
wastes of a nocturnal heath on an errand no saner than seeking figs on
its thistles. For the two priests were talking exactly like priests,
piously, with learning and leisure, about the most aerial enigmas of
theology. The little Essex priest spoke the more simply, with his round
face turned to the strengthening stars; the other talked with his
head bowed, as if he were not even worthy to look at them. But no more
innocently clerical conversation could have been heard in any white
Italian cloister or black Spanish cathedral.
The first he heard was the tail of one of Father Brown’s sentences,
which ended: “... what they really meant in the Middle Ages by the
heavens being incorruptible.”
The taller priest nodded his bowed head and said:
“Ah, yes, these modern infidels appeal to their reason; but who can
look at those millions of worlds and not feel that there may well be
wonderful universes above us where reason is utterly unreasonable?”
“No,” said the other priest; “reason is always reasonable, even in the
last limbo, in the lost borderland of things. I know that people charge
the Church with lowering reason, but it is just the other way. Alone
on earth, the Church makes reason really supreme. Alone on earth, the
Church affirms that God himself is bound by reason.”
The other priest raised his austere face to the spangled sky and said:
“Yet who knows if in that infinite universe--?”
“Only infinite physically,” said the little priest, turning sharply
in his seat, “not infinite in the sense of escaping from the laws of
truth.”
Valentin behind his tree was tearing his fingernails with silent fury.
He seemed almost to hear the sniggers of the English detectives whom
he had brought so far on a fantastic guess only to listen to the
metaphysical gossip of two mild old parsons. In his impatience he lost
the equally elaborate answer of the tall cleric, and when he listened
again it was again Father Brown who was speaking:
“Reason and justice grip the remotest and the loneliest star. Look
at those stars. Don’t they look as if they were single diamonds and
sapphires? Well, you can imagine any mad botany or geology you please.
Think of forests of adamant with leaves of brilliants. Think the moon
is a blue moon, a single elephantine sapphire. But don’t fancy that all
that frantic astronomy would make the smallest difference to the reason
and justice of conduct. On plains of opal, under cliffs cut out of
pearl, you would still find a notice-board, ‘Thou shalt not steal.’”
Valentin was just in the act of rising from his rigid and crouching
attitude and creeping away as softly as might be, felled by the one
great folly of his life. But something in the very silence of the tall
priest made him stop until the latter spoke. When at last he did speak,
he said simply, his head bowed and his hands on his knees:
“Well, I think that other worlds may perhaps rise higher than our
reason. The mystery of heaven is unfathomable, and I for one can only
bow my head.”
Then, with brow yet bent and without changing by the faintest shade his
attitude or voice, he added:
“Just hand over that sapphire cross of yours, will you? We’re all alone
here, and I could pull you to pieces like a straw doll.”
The utterly unaltered voice and attitude added a strange violence to
that shocking change of speech. But the guarder of the relic only seemed
to turn his head by the smallest section of the compass. He seemed still
to have a somewhat foolish face turned to the stars. Perhaps he had not
understood. Or, perhaps, he had understood and sat rigid with terror.
“Yes,” said the tall priest, in the same low voice and in the same still
posture, “yes, I am Flambeau.”
Then, after a pause, he said:
“Come, will you give me that cross?”
“No,” said the other, and the monosyllable had an odd sound.
Flambeau suddenly flung off all his pontifical pretensions. The great
robber leaned back in his seat and laughed low but long.
“No,” he cried, “you won’t give it me, you proud prelate. You won’t give
it me, you little celibate simpleton. Shall I tell you why you won’t
give it me? Because I’ve got it already in my own breast-pocket.”
The small man from Essex turned what seemed to be a dazed face in the
dusk, and said, with the timid eagerness of “The Private Secretary”:
“Are--are you sure?”
Flambeau yelled with delight.
“Really, you’re as good as a three-act farce,” he cried. “Yes, you
turnip, I am quite sure. I had the sense to make a duplicate of the
right parcel, and now, my friend, you’ve got the duplicate and I’ve got
the jewels. An old dodge, Father Brown--a very old dodge.”
“Yes,” said Father Brown, and passed his hand through his hair with the
same strange vagueness of manner. “Yes, I’ve heard of it before.”
The colossus of crime leaned over to the little rustic priest with a
sort of sudden interest.
“You have heard of it?” he asked. “Where have you heard of it?”
“Well, I mustn’t tell you his name, of course,” said the little man
simply. “He was a penitent, you know. He had lived prosperously for
about twenty years entirely on duplicate brown paper parcels. And so,
you see, when I began to suspect you, I thought of this poor chap’s way
of doing it at once.”
“Began to suspect me?” repeated the outlaw with increased intensity.
“Did you really have the gumption to suspect me just because I brought
you up to this bare part of the heath?”
“No, no,” said Brown with an air of apology. “You see, I suspected you
when we first met. It’s that little bulge up the sleeve where you people
have the spiked bracelet.”
“How in Tartarus,” cried Flambeau, “did you ever hear of the spiked
bracelet?”
“Oh, one’s little flock, you know!” said Father Brown, arching his
eyebrows rather blankly. “When I was a curate in Hartlepool, there were
three of them with spiked bracelets. So, as I suspected you from the
first, don’t you see, I made sure that the cross should go safe, anyhow.
I’m afraid I watched you, you know. So at last I saw you change the
parcels. Then, don’t you see, I changed them back again. And then I left
the right one behind.”
“Left it behind?” repeated Flambeau, and for the first time there was
another note in his voice beside his triumph.
“Well, it was like this,” said the little priest, speaking in the same
unaffected way. “I went back to that sweet-shop and asked if I’d left a
parcel, and gave them a particular address if it turned up. Well, I knew
I hadn’t; but when I went away again I did. So, instead of running after
me with that valuable parcel, they have sent it flying to a friend of
mine in Westminster.” Then he added rather sadly: “I learnt that, too,
from a poor fellow in Hartlepool. He used to do it with handbags he
stole at railway stations, but he’s in a monastery now. Oh, one gets to
know, you know,” he added, rubbing his head again with the same sort of
desperate apology. “We can’t help being priests. People come and tell us
these things.”
Flambeau tore a brown-paper parcel out of his inner pocket and rent it
in pieces. There was nothing but paper and sticks of lead inside it. He
sprang to his feet with a gigantic gesture, and cried:
“I don’t believe you. I don’t believe a bumpkin like you could manage
all that. I believe you’ve still got the stuff on you, and if you don’t
give it up--why, we’re all alone, and I’ll take it by force!”
“No,” said Father Brown simply, and stood up also, “you won’t take it
by force. First, because I really haven’t still got it. And, second,
because we are not alone.”
Flambeau stopped in his stride forward.
“Behind that tree,” said Father Brown, pointing, “are two strong
policemen and the greatest detective alive. How did they come here, do
you ask? Why, I brought them, of course! How did I do it? Why, I’ll tell
you if you like! Lord bless you, we have to know twenty such things
when we work among the criminal classes! Well, I wasn’t sure you were
a thief, and it would never do to make a scandal against one of our
own clergy. So I just tested you to see if anything would make you show
yourself. A man generally makes a small scene if he finds salt in his
coffee; if he doesn’t, he has some reason for keeping quiet. I changed
the salt and sugar, and you kept quiet. A man generally objects if
his bill is three times too big. If he pays it, he has some motive for
passing unnoticed. I altered your bill, and you paid it.”
The world seemed waiting for Flambeau to leap like a tiger. But he was
held back as by a spell; he was stunned with the utmost curiosity.
“Well,” went on Father Brown, with lumbering lucidity, “as you wouldn’t
leave any tracks for the police, of course somebody had to. At every
place we went to, I took care to do something that would get us talked
about for the rest of the day. I didn’t do much harm--a splashed wall,
spilt apples, a broken window; but I saved the cross, as the cross will
always be saved. It is at Westminster by now. I rather wonder you didn’t
stop it with the Donkey’s Whistle.”
“With the what?” asked Flambeau.
“I’m glad you’ve never heard of it,” said the priest, making a face.
“It’s a foul thing. I’m sure you’re too good a man for a Whistler. I
couldn’t have countered it even with the Spots myself; I’m not strong
enough in the legs.”
“What on earth are you talking about?” asked the other.
“Well, I did think you’d know the Spots,” said Father Brown, agreeably
surprised. “Oh, you can’t have gone so very wrong yet!”
“How in blazes do you know all these horrors?” cried Flambeau.
The shadow of a smile crossed the round, simple face of his clerical
opponent.
“Oh, by being a celibate simpleton, I suppose,” he said. “Has it never
struck you that a man who does next to nothing but hear men’s real sins
is not likely to be wholly unaware of human evil? But, as a matter of
fact, another part of my trade, too, made me sure you weren’t a priest.”
“What?” asked the thief, almost gaping.
“You attacked reason,” said Father Brown. “It’s bad theology.”
And even as he turned away to collect his property, the three policemen
came out from under the twilight trees. Flambeau was an artist and a
sportsman. He stepped back and swept Valentin a great bow.
“Do not bow to me, mon ami,” said Valentin with silver clearness. “Let
us both bow to our master.”
And they both stood an instant uncovered while the little Essex priest
blinked about for his umbrella.

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Title: THE BUTTERFLY THAT STAMPED
Author: Rudyard Kipling
THE BUTTERFLY THAT STAMPED
THIS, O my Best Beloved, is a story--a new and a wonderful story--a
story quite different from the other stories--a story about The Most
Wise Sovereign Suleiman-bin-Daoud--Solomon the Son of David.
There are three hundred and fifty-five stories about Suleiman-bin-Daoud;
but this is not one of them. It is not the story of the Lapwing who
found the Water; or the Hoopoe who shaded Suleimanbin-Daoud from the
heat. It is not the story of the Glass Pavement, or the Ruby with
the Crooked Hole, or the Gold Bars of Balkis. It is the story of the
Butterfly that Stamped.
Now attend all over again and listen!
Suleiman-bin-Daoud was wise. He understood what the beasts said, what
the birds said, what the fishes said, and what the insects said. He
understood what the rocks said deep under the earth when they bowed in
towards each other and groaned; and he understood what the trees
said when they rustled in the middle of the morning. He understood
everything, from the bishop on the bench to the hyssop on the wall, and
Balkis, his Head Queen, the Most Beautiful Queen Balkis, was nearly as
wise as he was.
Suleiman-bin-Daoud was strong. Upon the third finger of the right hand
he wore a ring. When he turned it once, Afrits and Djinns came Out of
the earth to do whatever he told them. When he turned it twice, Fairies
came down from the sky to do whatever he told them; and when he turned
it three times, the very great angel Azrael of the Sword came dressed
as a water-carrier, and told him the news of the three worlds,
Above--Below--and Here.
And yet Suleiman-bin-Daoud was not proud. He very seldom showed off, and
when he did he was sorry for it. Once he tried to feed all the animals
in all the world in one day, but when the food was ready an Animal came
out of the deep sea and ate it up in three mouthfuls. Suleiman-bin-Daoud
was very surprised and said, ‘O Animal, who are you?’ And the Animal
said, ‘O King, live for ever! I am the smallest of thirty thousand
brothers, and our home is at the bottom of the sea. We heard that you
were going to feed all the animals in all the world, and my brothers
sent me to ask when dinner would be ready.’ Suleiman-bin-Daoud was more
surprised than ever and said, ‘O Animal, you have eaten all the dinner
that I made ready for all the animals in the world.’ And the Animal
said, ‘O King, live for ever, but do you really call that a dinner?
Where I come from we each eat twice as much as that between meals.’ Then
Suleiman-bin-Daoud fell flat on his face and said, ‘O Animal! I gave
that dinner to show what a great and rich king I was, and not because I
really wanted to be kind to the animals. Now I am ashamed, and it serves
me right. Suleiman-bin-Daoud was a really truly wise man, Best Beloved.
After that he never forgot that it was silly to show off; and now the
real story part of my story begins.
He married ever so many wifes. He married nine hundred and ninety-nine
wives, besides the Most Beautiful Balkis; and they all lived in a great
golden palace in the middle of a lovely garden with fountains. He
didn’t really want nine-hundred and ninety-nine wives, but in those
days everybody married ever so many wives, and of course the King had to
marry ever so many more just to show that he was the King.
Some of the wives were nice, but some were simply horrid, and the horrid
ones quarrelled with the nice ones and made them horrid too, and then
they would all quarrel with Suleiman-bin-Daoud, and that was horrid
for him. But Balkis the Most Beautiful never quarrelled with
Suleiman-bin-Daoud. She loved him too much. She sat in her rooms in the
Golden Palace, or walked in the Palace garden, and was truly sorry for
him.
Of course if he had chosen to turn his ring on his finger and call
up the Djinns and the Afrits they would have magicked all those nine
hundred and ninety-nine quarrelsome wives into white mules of the desert
or greyhounds or pomegranate seeds; but Suleiman-bin-Daoud thought that
that would be showing off. So, when they quarrelled too much, he only
walked by himself in one part of the beautiful Palace gardens and wished
he had never been born.
One day, when they had quarrelled for three weeks--all nine hundred and
ninety-nine wives together--Suleiman-bin-Daoud went out for peace
and quiet as usual; and among the orange trees he met Balkis the Most
Beautiful, very sorrowful because Suleiman-bin-Daoud was so worried.
And she said to him, ‘O my Lord and Light of my Eyes, turn the ring upon
your finger and show these Queens of Egypt and Mesopotamia and
Persia and China that you are the great and terrible King.’ But
Suleiman-bin-Daoud shook his head and said, ‘O my Lady and Delight of my
Life, remember the Animal that came out of the sea and made me ashamed
before all the animals in all the world because I showed off. Now, if
I showed off before these Queens of Persia and Egypt and Abyssinia and
China, merely because they worry me, I might be made even more ashamed
than I have been.’
And Balkis the Most Beautiful said, ‘O my Lord and Treasure of my Soul,
what will you do?’
And Suleiman-bin-Daoud said, ‘O my Lady and Content of my Heart, I
shall continue to endure my fate at the hands of these nine hundred and
ninety-nine Queens who vex me with their continual quarrelling.’
So he went on between the lilies and the loquats and the roses and the
cannas and the heavy-scented ginger-plants that grew in the garden, till
he came to the great camphor-tree that was called the Camphor Tree of
Suleiman-bin-Daoud. But Balkis hid among the tall irises and the spotted
bamboos and the red lillies behind the camphor-tree, so as to be near
her own true love, Suleiman-bin-Daoud.
Presently two Butterflies flew under the tree, quarrelling.
Suleiman-bin-Daoud heard one say to the other, ‘I wonder at your
presumption in talking like this to me. Don’t you know that if I stamped
with my foot all Suleiman-bin-Daoud’s Palace and this garden here would
immediately vanish in a clap of thunder.’
Then Suleiman-bin-Daoud forgot his nine hundred and ninety-nine
bothersome wives, and laughed, till the camphor-tree shook, at the
Butterfly’s boast. And he held out his finger and said, ‘Little man,
come here.’
The Butterfly was dreadfully frightened, but he managed to fly up to
the hand of Suleiman-bin-Daoud, and clung there, fanning himself.
Suleiman-bin-Daoud bent his head and whispered very softly, ‘Little man,
you know that all your stamping wouldn’t bend one blade of grass. What
made you tell that awful fib to your wife?--for doubtless she is your
wife.’
The Butterfly looked at Suleiman-bin-Daoud and saw the most wise King’s
eye twinkle like stars on a frosty night, and he picked up his courage
with both wings, and he put his head on one side and said, ‘O King, live
for ever. She is my wife; and you know what wives are like.
Suleiman-bin-Daoud smiled in his beard and said, ‘Yes, I know, little
brother.
‘One must keep them in order somehow, said the Butterfly, and she has
been quarrelling with me all the morning. I said that to quiet her.’
And Suleiman-bin-Daoud said, ‘May it quiet her. Go back to your wife,
little brother, and let me hear what you say.’
Back flew the Butterfly to his wife, who was all of a twitter behind
a leaf, and she said, ‘He heard you! Suleiman-bin-Daoud himself heard
you!’
‘Heard me!’ said the Butterfly. ‘Of course he did. I meant him to hear
me.’
‘And what did he say? Oh, what did he say?’
‘Well,’ said the Butterfly, fanning himself most importantly, ‘between
you and me, my dear--of course I don’t blame him, because his Palace
must have cost a great deal and the oranges are just ripening,--he asked
me not to stamp, and I promised I wouldn’t.’
‘Gracious!’ said his wife, and sat quite quiet; but Suleiman-bin-Daoud
laughed till the tears ran down his face at the impudence of the bad
little Butterfly.
Balkis the Most Beautiful stood up behind the tree among the red lilies
and smiled to herself, for she had heard all this talk. She thought,
‘If I am wise I can yet save my Lord from the persecutions of these
quarrelsome Queens,’ and she held out her finger and whispered softly to
the Butterfly’s Wife, ‘Little woman, come here.’ Up flew the Butterfly’s
Wife, very frightened, and clung to Balkis’s white hand.
Balkis bent her beautiful head down and whispered, ‘Little woman, do you
believe what your husband has just said?’
The Butterfly’s Wife looked at Balkis, and saw the most beautiful
Queen’s eyes shining like deep pools with starlight on them, and she
picked up her courage with both wings and said, ‘O Queen, be lovely for
ever. You know what men-folk are like.’
And the Queen Balkis, the Wise Balkis of Sheba, put her hand to her lips
to hide a smile and said, ‘Little sister, I know.’
‘They get angry,’ said the Butterfly’s Wife, fanning herself quickly,
‘over nothing at all, but we must humour them, O Queen. They never mean
half they say. If it pleases my husband to believe that I believe he
can make Suleiman-bin-Daoud’s Palace disappear by stamping his foot, I’m
sure I don’t care. He’ll forget all about it to-morrow.’
‘Little sister,’ said Balkis, ‘you are quite right; but next time he
begins to boast, take him at his word. Ask him to stamp, and see what
will happen. We know what men-folk are like, don’t we? He’ll be very
much ashamed.’
Away flew the Butterfly’s Wife to her husband, and in five minutes they
were quarrelling worse than ever.
‘Remember!’ said the Butterfly. ‘Remember what I can do if I stamp my
foot.’
‘I don’t believe you one little bit,’ said the Butterfly’s Wife. ‘I
should very much like to see it done. Suppose you stamp now.’
‘I promised Suleiman-bin-Daoud that I wouldn’t,’ said the Butterfly,
‘and I don’t want to break my promise.’
‘It wouldn’t matter if you did,’ said his wife. ‘You couldn’t bend
a blade of grass with your stamping. I dare you to do it,’ she said.
Stamp! Stamp! Stamp!’
Suleiman-bin-Daoud, sitting under the camphor-tree, heard every word
of this, and he laughed as he had never laughed in his life before. He
forgot all about his Queens; he forgot all about the Animal that came
out of the sea; he forgot about showing off. He just laughed with joy,
and Balkis, on the other side of the tree, smiled because her own true
love was so joyful.
Presently the Butterfly, very hot and puffy, came whirling back under
the shadow of the camphor-tree and said to Suleiman, ‘She wants me to
stamp! She wants to see what will happen, O Suleiman-bin-Daoud! You know
I can’t do it, and now she’ll never believe a word I say. She’ll laugh
at me to the end of my days!’
‘No, little brother,’ said Suleiman-bin-Daoud, ‘she will never laugh at
you again,’ and he turned the ring on his finger--just for the little
Butterfly’s sake, not for the sake of showing off,--and, lo and behold,
four huge Djinns came out of the earth!
‘Slaves,’ said Suleiman-bin-Daoud, ‘when this gentleman on my finger’
(that was where the impudent Butterfly was sitting) ‘stamps his left
front forefoot you will make my Palace and these gardens disappear in
a clap of thunder. When he stamps again you will bring them back
carefully.’
‘Now, little brother,’ he said, ‘go back to your wife and stamp all
you’ve a mind to.’
Away flew the Butterfly to his wife, who was crying, ‘I dare you to do
it! I dare you to do it! Stamp! Stamp now! Stamp!’ Balkis saw the four
vast Djinns stoop down to the four corners of the gardens with the
Palace in the middle, and she clapped her hands softly and said, ‘At
last Suleiman-bin-Daoud will do for the sake of a Butterfly what he
ought to have done long ago for his own sake, and the quarrelsome Queens
will be frightened!’
The the butterfly stamped. The Djinns jerked the Palace and the gardens
a thousand miles into the air: there was a most awful thunder-clap, and
everything grew inky-black. The Butterfly’s Wife fluttered about in the
dark, crying, ‘Oh, I’ll be good! I’m so sorry I spoke. Only bring the
gardens back, my dear darling husband, and I’ll never contradict again.’
The Butterfly was nearly as frightened as his wife, and
Suleiman-bin-Daoud laughed so much that it was several minutes before
he found breath enough to whisper to the Butterfly, ‘Stamp again, little
brother. Give me back my Palace, most great magician.’
‘Yes, give him back his Palace,’ said the Butterfly’s Wife, still flying
about in the dark like a moth. ‘Give him back his Palace, and don’t
let’s have any more horrid.magic.’
‘Well, my dear,’ said the Butterfly as bravely as he could, ‘you see
what your nagging has led to. Of course it doesn’t make any difference
to me--I’m used to this kind of thing--but as a favour to you and to
Suleiman-bin-Daoud I don’t mind putting things right.’
So he stamped once more, and that instant the Djinns let down the Palace
and the gardens, without even a bump. The sun shone on the dark-green
orange leaves; the fountains played among the pink Egyptian lilies; the
birds went on singing, and the Butterfly’s Wife lay on her side under
the camphor-tree waggling her wings and panting, ‘Oh, I’ll be good! I’ll
be good!’
Suleiman-bin-Daolld could hardly speak for laughing. He leaned back all
weak and hiccoughy, and shook his finger at the Butterfly and said, ‘O
great wizard, what is the sense of returning to me my Palace if at the
same time you slay me with mirth!’
Then came a terrible noise, for all the nine hundred and ninety-nine
Queens ran out of the Palace shrieking and shouting and calling for
their babies. They hurried down the great marble steps below the
fountain, one hundred abreast, and the Most Wise Balkis went statelily
forward to meet them and said, ‘What is your trouble, O Queens?’
They stood on the marble steps one hundred abreast and shouted, ‘What is
our trouble? We were living peacefully in our golden palace, as is our
custom, when upon a sudden the Palace disappeared, and we were left
sitting in a thick and noisome darkness; and it thundered, and Djinns
and Afrits moved about in the darkness! That is our trouble, O Head
Queen, and we are most extremely troubled on account of that trouble,
for it was a troublesome trouble, unlike any trouble we have known.’
Then Balkis the Most Beautiful Queen--Suleiman-bin-Daoud’s Very Best
Beloved--Queen that was of Sheba and Sable and the Rivers of the Gold
of the South--from the Desert of Zinn to the Towers of Zimbabwe--Balkis,
almost as wise as the Most Wise Suleiman-bin-Daoud himself, said, ‘It
is nothing, O Queens! A Butterfly has made complaint against his
wife because she quarrelled with him, and it has pleased our Lord
Suleiman-bin-Daoud to teach her a lesson in low-speaking and humbleness,
for that is counted a virtue among the wives of the butterflies.’
Then up and spoke an Egyptian Queen--the daughter of a Pharoah--and she
said, ‘Our Palace cannot be plucked up by the roots like a leek for the
sake of a little insect. No! Suleiman-bin-Daoud must be dead, and what
we heard and saw was the earth thundering and darkening at the news.’
Then Balkis beckoned that bold Queen without looking at her, and said to
her and to the others, ‘Come and see.’
They came down the marble steps, one hundred abreast, and beneath his
camphor-tree, still weak with laughing, they saw the Most Wise King
Suleiman-bin-Daoud rocking back and forth with a Butterfly on either
hand, and they heard him say, ‘O wife of my brother in the air, remember
after this, to please your husband in all things, lest he be provoked to
stamp his foot yet again; for he has said that he is used to this magic,
and he is most eminently a great magician--one who steals away the very
Palace of Suleirnan-bin-Daoud himself. Go in peace, little folk!’ And he
kissed them on the wings, and they flew away.
Then all the Queens except Balkis--the Most Beautiful and Splendid
Balkis, who stood apart smiling--fell flat on their faces, for they
said, ‘If these things are done when a Butterfly is displeased with
his wife, what shall be done to us who have vexed our King with our
loud-speaking and open quarrelling through many days?’
Then they put their veils over their heads, and they put their hands
over their mouths, and they tiptoed back to the Palace most mousy-quiet.
Then Balkis--The Most Beautiful and Excellent Balkis--went forward
through the red lilies into the shade of the camphor-tree and laid
her hand upon Suleiman-bin-Daoud’s shoulder and said, ‘O my Lord and
Treasure of my Soul, rejoice, for we have taught the Queens of Egypt and
Ethiopia and Abyssinia and Persia and India and China with a great and a
memorable teaching.’
And Suleiman-bin-Daoud, still looking after the Butterflies where they
played in the sunlight, said, ‘O my Lady and Jewel of my Felicity, when
did this happen? For I have been jesting with a Butterfly ever since I
came into the garden.’ And he told Balkis what he had done.
Balkis--The tender and Most Lovely Balkis--said, ‘O my Lord and Regent
of my Existence, I hid behind the camphor-tree and saw it all. It was I
who told the Butterfly’s Wife to ask the Butterfly to stamp, because I
hoped that for the sake of the jest my Lord would make some great magic
and that the Queens would see it and be frightened.’ And she told him
what the Queens had said and seen and thought.
Then Suleiman-bin-Daoud rose up from his seat under the camphor-tree,
and stretched his arms and rejoiced and said, ‘O my Lady and Sweetener
of my Days, know that if I had made a magic against my Queens for the
sake of pride or anger, as I made that feast for all the animals, I
should certainly have been put to shame. But by means of your wisdom
I made the magic for the sake of a jest and for the sake of a little
Butterfly, and--behold--it has also delivered me from the vexations of
my vexatious wives! Tell me, therefore, O my Lady and Heart of my Heart,
how did you come to be so wise?’ And Balkis the Queen, beautiful and
tall, looked up into Suleiman-bin-Daoud’s eyes and put her head a little
on one side, just like the Butterfly, and said, ‘First, O my Lord,
because I loved you; and secondly, O my Lord, because I know what
women-folk are.’
Then they went up to the Palace and lived happily ever afterwards.
But wasn’t it clever of Balkis?
THERE was never a Queen like Balkis,
From here to the wide world’s end;
But Balkis talked to a butterfly
As you would talk to a friend.
There was never a King like Solomon,
Not since the world began;
But Solomon talked to a butterfly
As a man would talk to a man.
She was Queen of Sabaea--
And he was Asia’s Lord--
But they both of ‘em talked to butterflies
When they took their walks abroad!

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Title: THE CAT THAT WALKED BY HIMSELF
Author: Rudyard Kipling
HEAR and attend and listen; for this befell and behappened and became
and was, O my Best Beloved, when the Tame animals were wild. The Dog was
wild, and the Horse was wild, and the Cow was wild, and the Sheep was
wild, and the Pig was wild--as wild as wild could be--and they walked in
the Wet Wild Woods by their wild lones. But the wildest of all the wild
animals was the Cat. He walked by himself, and all places were alike to
him.
Of course the Man was wild too. He was dreadfully wild. He didn’t even
begin to be tame till he met the Woman, and she told him that she
did not like living in his wild ways. She picked out a nice dry Cave,
instead of a heap of wet leaves, to lie down in; and she strewed clean
sand on the floor; and she lit a nice fire of wood at the back of
the Cave; and she hung a dried wild-horse skin, tail-down, across the
opening of the Cave; and she said, ‘Wipe you feet, dear, when you come
in, and now we’ll keep house.’
That night, Best Beloved, they ate wild sheep roasted on the hot stones,
and flavoured with wild garlic and wild pepper; and wild duck stuffed
with wild rice and wild fenugreek and wild coriander; and marrow-bones
of wild oxen; and wild cherries, and wild grenadillas. Then the Man
went to sleep in front of the fire ever so happy; but the Woman sat up,
combing her hair. She took the bone of the shoulder of mutton--the big
fat blade-bone--and she looked at the wonderful marks on it, and she
threw more wood on the fire, and she made a Magic. She made the First
Singing Magic in the world.
Out in the Wet Wild Woods all the wild animals gathered together where
they could see the light of the fire a long way off, and they wondered
what it meant.
Then Wild Horse stamped with his wild foot and said, ‘O my Friends and O
my Enemies, why have the Man and the Woman made that great light in that
great Cave, and what harm will it do us?’
Wild Dog lifted up his wild nose and smelled the smell of roast mutton,
and said, ‘I will go up and see and look, and say; for I think it is
good. Cat, come with me.’
‘Nenni!’ said the Cat. ‘I am the Cat who walks by himself, and all
places are alike to me. I will not come.’
‘Then we can never be friends again,’ said Wild Dog, and he trotted off
to the Cave. But when he had gone a little way the Cat said to himself,
‘All places are alike to me. Why should I not go too and see and look
and come away at my own liking.’ So he slipped after Wild Dog softly,
very softly, and hid himself where he could hear everything.
When Wild Dog reached the mouth of the Cave he lifted up the dried
horse-skin with his nose and sniffed the beautiful smell of the roast
mutton, and the Woman, looking at the blade-bone, heard him, and
laughed, and said, ‘Here comes the first. Wild Thing out of the Wild
Woods, what do you want?’
Wild Dog said, ‘O my Enemy and Wife of my Enemy, what is this that
smells so good in the Wild Woods?’
Then the Woman picked up a roasted mutton-bone and threw it to Wild Dog,
and said, ‘Wild Thing out of the Wild Woods, taste and try.’ Wild Dog
gnawed the bone, and it was more delicious than anything he had ever
tasted, and he said, ‘O my Enemy and Wife of my Enemy, give me another.’
The Woman said, ‘Wild Thing out of the Wild Woods, help my Man to hunt
through the day and guard this Cave at night, and I will give you as
many roast bones as you need.’
‘Ah!’ said the Cat, listening. ‘This is a very wise Woman, but she is
not so wise as I am.’
Wild Dog crawled into the Cave and laid his head on the Woman’s lap, and
said, ‘O my Friend and Wife of my Friend, I will help Your Man to hunt
through the day, and at night I will guard your Cave.’
‘Ah!’ said the Cat, listening. ‘That is a very foolish Dog.’ And he went
back through the Wet Wild Woods waving his wild tail, and walking by his
wild lone. But he never told anybody.
When the Man waked up he said, ‘What is Wild Dog doing here?’ And the
Woman said, ‘His name is not Wild Dog any more, but the First Friend,
because he will be our friend for always and always and always. Take him
with you when you go hunting.’
Next night the Woman cut great green armfuls of fresh grass from the
water-meadows, and dried it before the fire, so that it smelt like
new-mown hay, and she sat at the mouth of the Cave and plaited a halter
out of horse-hide, and she looked at the shoulder of mutton-bone--at the
big broad blade-bone--and she made a Magic. She made the Second Singing
Magic in the world.
Out in the Wild Woods all the wild animals wondered what had happened to
Wild Dog, and at last Wild Horse stamped with his foot and said, ‘I will
go and see and say why Wild Dog has not returned. Cat, come with me.’
‘Nenni!’ said the Cat. ‘I am the Cat who walks by himself, and all
places are alike to me. I will not come.’ But all the same he followed
Wild Horse softly, very softly, and hid himself where he could hear
everything.
When the Woman heard Wild Horse tripping and stumbling on his long mane,
she laughed and said, ‘Here comes the second. Wild Thing out of the Wild
Woods what do you want?’
Wild Horse said, ‘O my Enemy and Wife of my Enemy, where is Wild Dog?’
The Woman laughed, and picked up the blade-bone and looked at it, and
said, ‘Wild Thing out of the Wild Woods, you did not come here for Wild
Dog, but for the sake of this good grass.’
And Wild Horse, tripping and stumbling on his long mane, said, ‘That is
true; give it me to eat.’
The Woman said, ‘Wild Thing out of the Wild Woods, bend your wild head
and wear what I give you, and you shall eat the wonderful grass three
times a day.’
‘Ah,’ said the Cat, listening, ‘this is a clever Woman, but she is not
so clever as I am.’ Wild Horse bent his wild head, and the Woman slipped
the plaited hide halter over it, and Wild Horse breathed on the Woman’s
feet and said, ‘O my Mistress, and Wife of my Master, I will be your
servant for the sake of the wonderful grass.’
‘Ah,’ said the Cat, listening, ‘that is a very foolish Horse.’ And he
went back through the Wet Wild Woods, waving his wild tail and walking
by his wild lone. But he never told anybody.
When the Man and the Dog came back from hunting, the Man said, ‘What is
Wild Horse doing here?’ And the Woman said, ‘His name is not Wild Horse
any more, but the First Servant, because he will carry us from place
to place for always and always and always. Ride on his back when you go
hunting.
Next day, holding her wild head high that her wild horns should not
catch in the wild trees, Wild Cow came up to the Cave, and the Cat
followed, and hid himself just the same as before; and everything
happened just the same as before; and the Cat said the same things as
before, and when Wild Cow had promised to give her milk to the Woman
every day in exchange for the wonderful grass, the Cat went back through
the Wet Wild Woods waving his wild tail and walking by his wild lone,
just the same as before. But he never told anybody. And when the Man
and the Horse and the Dog came home from hunting and asked the same
questions same as before, the Woman said, ‘Her name is not Wild Cow any
more, but the Giver of Good Food. She will give us the warm white milk
for always and always and always, and I will take care of her while you
and the First Friend and the First Servant go hunting.
Next day the Cat waited to see if any other Wild thing would go up to
the Cave, but no one moved in the Wet Wild Woods, so the Cat walked
there by himself; and he saw the Woman milking the Cow, and he saw the
light of the fire in the Cave, and he smelt the smell of the warm white
milk.
Cat said, ‘O my Enemy and Wife of my Enemy, where did Wild Cow go?’
The Woman laughed and said, ‘Wild Thing out of the Wild Woods, go back
to the Woods again, for I have braided up my hair, and I have put away
the magic blade-bone, and we have no more need of either friends or
servants in our Cave.
Cat said, ‘I am not a friend, and I am not a servant. I am the Cat who
walks by himself, and I wish to come into your cave.’
Woman said, ‘Then why did you not come with First Friend on the first
night?’
Cat grew very angry and said, ‘Has Wild Dog told tales of me?’
Then the Woman laughed and said, ‘You are the Cat who walks by himself,
and all places are alike to you. Your are neither a friend nor a
servant. You have said it yourself. Go away and walk by yourself in all
places alike.’
Then Cat pretended to be sorry and said, ‘Must I never come into the
Cave? Must I never sit by the warm fire? Must I never drink the warm
white milk? You are very wise and very beautiful. You should not be
cruel even to a Cat.’
Woman said, ‘I knew I was wise, but I did not know I was beautiful. So I
will make a bargain with you. If ever I say one word in your praise you
may come into the Cave.’
‘And if you say two words in my praise?’ said the Cat.
‘I never shall,’ said the Woman, ‘but if I say two words in your praise,
you may sit by the fire in the Cave.’
‘And if you say three words?’ said the Cat.
‘I never shall,’ said the Woman, ‘but if I say three words in your
praise, you may drink the warm white milk three times a day for always
and always and always.’
Then the Cat arched his back and said, ‘Now let the Curtain at the mouth
of the Cave, and the Fire at the back of the Cave, and the Milk-pots
that stand beside the Fire, remember what my Enemy and the Wife of my
Enemy has said.’ And he went away through the Wet Wild Woods waving his
wild tail and walking by his wild lone.
That night when the Man and the Horse and the Dog came home from
hunting, the Woman did not tell them of the bargain that she had made
with the Cat, because she was afraid that they might not like it.
Cat went far and far away and hid himself in the Wet Wild Woods by his
wild lone for a long time till the Woman forgot all about him. Only the
Bat--the little upside-down Bat--that hung inside the Cave, knew where
Cat hid; and every evening Bat would fly to Cat with news of what was
happening.
One evening Bat said, ‘There is a Baby in the Cave. He is new and pink
and fat and small, and the Woman is very fond of him.’
‘Ah,’ said the Cat, listening, ‘but what is the Baby fond of?’
‘He is fond of things that are soft and tickle,’ said the Bat. ‘He is
fond of warm things to hold in his arms when he goes to sleep. He is
fond of being played with. He is fond of all those things.’
‘Ah,’ said the Cat, listening, ‘then my time has come.’
Next night Cat walked through the Wet Wild Woods and hid very near the
Cave till morning-time, and Man and Dog and Horse went hunting. The
Woman was busy cooking that morning, and the Baby cried and interrupted.
So she carried him outside the Cave and gave him a handful of pebbles to
play with. But still the Baby cried.
Then the Cat put out his paddy paw and patted the Baby on the cheek, and
it cooed; and the Cat rubbed against its fat knees and tickled it under
its fat chin with his tail. And the Baby laughed; and the Woman heard
him and smiled.
Then the Bat--the little upside-down bat--that hung in the mouth of the
Cave said, ‘O my Hostess and Wife of my Host and Mother of my Host’s
Son, a Wild Thing from the Wild Woods is most beautifully playing with
your Baby.’
‘A blessing on that Wild Thing whoever he may be,’ said the Woman,
straightening her back, ‘for I was a busy woman this morning and he has
done me a service.’
That very minute and second, Best Beloved, the dried horse-skin
Curtain that was stretched tail-down at the mouth of the Cave fell
down--whoosh!--because it remembered the bargain she had made with the
Cat, and when the Woman went to pick it up--lo and behold!--the Cat was
sitting quite comfy inside the Cave.
‘O my Enemy and Wife of my Enemy and Mother of my Enemy,’ said the Cat,
‘it is I: for you have spoken a word in my praise, and now I can sit
within the Cave for always and always and always. But still I am the Cat
who walks by himself, and all places are alike to me.’
The Woman was very angry, and shut her lips tight and took up her
spinning-wheel and began to spin. But the Baby cried because the Cat had
gone away, and the Woman could not hush it, for it struggled and kicked
and grew black in the face.
‘O my Enemy and Wife of my Enemy and Mother of my Enemy,’ said the Cat,
‘take a strand of the wire that you are spinning and tie it to your
spinning-whorl and drag it along the floor, and I will show you a magic
that shall make your Baby laugh as loudly as he is now crying.’
‘I will do so,’ said the Woman, ‘because I am at my wits’ end; but I
will not thank you for it.’
She tied the thread to the little clay spindle whorl and drew it across
the floor, and the Cat ran after it and patted it with his paws and
rolled head over heels, and tossed it backward over his shoulder and
chased it between his hind-legs and pretended to lose it, and pounced
down upon it again, till the Baby laughed as loudly as it had been
crying, and scrambled after the Cat and frolicked all over the Cave till
it grew tired and settled down to sleep with the Cat in its arms.
‘Now,’ said the Cat, ‘I will sing the Baby a song that shall keep him
asleep for an hour. And he began to purr, loud and low, low and loud,
till the Baby fell fast asleep. The Woman smiled as she looked down upon
the two of them and said, ‘That was wonderfully done. No question but
you are very clever, O Cat.’
That very minute and second, Best Beloved, the smoke of the fire at the
back of the Cave came down in clouds from the roof--puff!--because
it remembered the bargain she had made with the Cat, and when it had
cleared away--lo and behold!--the Cat was sitting quite comfy close to
the fire.
‘O my Enemy and Wife of my Enemy and Mother of My Enemy,’ said the Cat,
‘it is I, for you have spoken a second word in my praise, and now I can
sit by the warm fire at the back of the Cave for always and always and
always. But still I am the Cat who walks by himself, and all places are
alike to me.’
Then the Woman was very very angry, and let down her hair and put more
wood on the fire and brought out the broad blade-bone of the shoulder of
mutton and began to make a Magic that should prevent her from saying
a third word in praise of the Cat. It was not a Singing Magic, Best
Beloved, it was a Still Magic; and by and by the Cave grew so still that
a little wee-wee mouse crept out of a corner and ran across the floor.
‘O my Enemy and Wife of my Enemy and Mother of my Enemy,’ said the Cat,
‘is that little mouse part of your magic?’
‘Ouh! Chee! No indeed!’ said the Woman, and she dropped the blade-bone
and jumped upon the footstool in front of the fire and braided up her
hair very quick for fear that the mouse should run up it.
‘Ah,’ said the Cat, watching, ‘then the mouse will do me no harm if I
eat it?’
‘No,’ said the Woman, braiding up her hair, ‘eat it quickly and I will
ever be grateful to you.’
Cat made one jump and caught the little mouse, and the Woman said,
‘A hundred thanks. Even the First Friend is not quick enough to catch
little mice as you have done. You must be very wise.’
That very moment and second, O Best Beloved, the Milk-pot that stood by
the fire cracked in two pieces--ffft--because it remembered the bargain
she had made with the Cat, and when the Woman jumped down from the
footstool--lo and behold!--the Cat was lapping up the warm white milk
that lay in one of the broken pieces.
‘O my Enemy and Wife of my Enemy and Mother of my Enemy, said the Cat,
‘it is I; for you have spoken three words in my praise, and now I can
drink the warm white milk three times a day for always and always and
always. But still I am the Cat who walks by himself, and all places are
alike to me.’
Then the Woman laughed and set the Cat a bowl of the warm white milk and
said, ‘O Cat, you are as clever as a man, but remember that your bargain
was not made with the Man or the Dog, and I do not know what they will
do when they come home.’
‘What is that to me?’ said the Cat. ‘If I have my place in the Cave by
the fire and my warm white milk three times a day I do not care what the
Man or the Dog can do.’
That evening when the Man and the Dog came into the Cave, the Woman
told them all the story of the bargain while the Cat sat by the fire and
smiled. Then the Man said, ‘Yes, but he has not made a bargain with me
or with all proper Men after me.’ Then he took off his two leather boots
and he took up his little stone axe (that makes three) and he fetched a
piece of wood and a hatchet (that is five altogether), and he set them
out in a row and he said, ‘Now we will make our bargain. If you do not
catch mice when you are in the Cave for always and always and always, I
will throw these five things at you whenever I see you, and so shall all
proper Men do after me.’
‘Ah,’ said the Woman, listening, ‘this is a very clever Cat, but he is
not so clever as my Man.’
The Cat counted the five things (and they looked very knobby) and he
said, ‘I will catch mice when I am in the Cave for always and always and
always; but still I am the Cat who walks by himself, and all places are
alike to me.’
‘Not when I am near,’ said the Man. ‘If you had not said that last I
would have put all these things away for always and always and always;
but I am now going to throw my two boots and my little stone axe (that
makes three) at you whenever I meet you. And so shall all proper Men do
after me!’
Then the Dog said, ‘Wait a minute. He has not made a bargain with me or
with all proper Dogs after me.’ And he showed his teeth and said, ‘If
you are not kind to the Baby while I am in the Cave for always and
always and always, I will hunt you till I catch you, and when I catch
you I will bite you. And so shall all proper Dogs do after me.’
‘Ah,’ said the Woman, listening, ‘this is a very clever Cat, but he is
not so clever as the Dog.’
Cat counted the Dog’s teeth (and they looked very pointed) and he said,
‘I will be kind to the Baby while I am in the Cave, as long as he does
not pull my tail too hard, for always and always and always. But still I
am the Cat that walks by himself, and all places are alike to me.’
‘Not when I am near,’ said the Dog. ‘If you had not said that last I
would have shut my mouth for always and always and always; but now I am
going to hunt you up a tree whenever I meet you. And so shall all proper
Dogs do after me.’
Then the Man threw his two boots and his little stone axe (that makes
three) at the Cat, and the Cat ran out of the Cave and the Dog chased
him up a tree; and from that day to this, Best Beloved, three proper Men
out of five will always throw things at a Cat whenever they meet him,
and all proper Dogs will chase him up a tree. But the Cat keeps his side
of the bargain too. He will kill mice and he will be kind to Babies when
he is in the house, just as long as they do not pull his tail too hard.
But when he has done that, and between times, and when the moon gets up
and night comes, he is the Cat that walks by himself, and all places are
alike to him. Then he goes out to the Wet Wild Woods or up the Wet Wild
Trees or on the Wet Wild Roofs, waving his wild tail and walking by his
wild lone.
PUSSY can sit by the fire and sing,
Pussy can climb a tree,
Or play with a silly old cork and string
To’muse herself, not me.
But I like Binkie my dog, because
He Lnows how to behave;
So, Binkie’s the same as the First Friend was,
And I am the Man in the Cave.
Pussy will play man-Friday till
It’s time to wet her paw
And make her walk on the window-sill
(For the footprint Crusoe saw);
Then she fluffles her tail and mews,
And scratches and won’t attend.
But Binkie will play whatever I choose,
And he is my true First Friend.
Pussy will rub my knees with her head
Pretending she loves me hard;
But the very minute I go to my bed
Pussy runs out in the yard,
And there she stays till the morning-light;
So I know it is only pretend;
But Binkie, he snores at my feet all night,
And he is my Firstest Friend!

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Title: THE ELEPHANT’S CHILD
Author: Rudyard Kipling
THE ELEPHANT’S CHILD
IN the High and Far-Off Times the Elephant, O Best Beloved, had no
trunk. He had only a blackish, bulgy nose, as big as a boot, that he
could wriggle about from side to side; but he couldn’t pick up things
with it. But there was one Elephant--a new Elephant--an Elephant’s
Child--who was full of ‘satiable curtiosity, and that means he asked
ever so many questions. And he lived in Africa, and he filled all Africa
with his ‘satiable curtiosities. He asked his tall aunt, the Ostrich,
why her tail-feathers grew just so, and his tall aunt the Ostrich
spanked him with her hard, hard claw. He asked his tall uncle, the
Giraffe, what made his skin spotty, and his tall uncle, the Giraffe,
spanked him with his hard, hard hoof. And still he was full of ‘satiable
curtiosity! He asked his broad aunt, the Hippopotamus, why her eyes were
red, and his broad aunt, the Hippopotamus, spanked him with her broad,
broad hoof; and he asked his hairy uncle, the Baboon, why melons tasted
just so, and his hairy uncle, the Baboon, spanked him with his hairy,
hairy paw. And still he was full of ‘satiable curtiosity! He asked
questions about everything that he saw, or heard, or felt, or smelt, or
touched, and all his uncles and his aunts spanked him. And still he was
full of ‘satiable curtiosity!
One fine morning in the middle of the Precession of the Equinoxes this
‘satiable Elephant’s Child asked a new fine question that he had never
asked before. He asked, ‘What does the Crocodile have for dinner?’ Then
everybody said, ‘Hush!’ in a loud and dretful tone, and they spanked him
immediately and directly, without stopping, for a long time.
By and by, when that was finished, he came upon Kolokolo Bird sitting
in the middle of a wait-a-bit thorn-bush, and he said, ‘My father has
spanked me, and my mother has spanked me; all my aunts and uncles have
spanked me for my ‘satiable curtiosity; and still I want to know what
the Crocodile has for dinner!’
Then Kolokolo Bird said, with a mournful cry, ‘Go to the banks of the
great grey-green, greasy Limpopo River, all set about with fever-trees,
and find out.’
That very next morning, when there was nothing left of the Equinoxes,
because the Precession had preceded according to precedent, this
‘satiable Elephant’s Child took a hundred pounds of bananas (the little
short red kind), and a hundred pounds of sugar-cane (the long purple
kind), and seventeen melons (the greeny-crackly kind), and said to all
his dear families, ‘Goodbye. I am going to the great grey-green, greasy
Limpopo River, all set about with fever-trees, to find out what the
Crocodile has for dinner.’ And they all spanked him once more for luck,
though he asked them most politely to stop.
Then he went away, a little warm, but not at all astonished, eating
melons, and throwing the rind about, because he could not pick it up.
He went from Graham’s Town to Kimberley, and from Kimberley to Khama’s
Country, and from Khama’s Country he went east by north, eating melons
all the time, till at last he came to the banks of the great grey-green,
greasy Limpopo River, all set about with fever-trees, precisely as
Kolokolo Bird had said.
Now you must know and understand, O Best Beloved, that till that very
week, and day, and hour, and minute, this ‘satiable Elephant’s Child had
never seen a Crocodile, and did not know what one was like. It was all
his ‘satiable curtiosity.
The first thing that he found was a Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake curled
round a rock.
‘’Scuse me,’ said the Elephant’s Child most politely, ‘but have you seen
such a thing as a Crocodile in these promiscuous parts?’
‘Have I seen a Crocodile?’ said the Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake, in a
voice of dretful scorn. ‘What will you ask me next?’
‘’Scuse me,’ said the Elephant’s Child, ‘but could you kindly tell me
what he has for dinner?’
Then the Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake uncoiled himself very quickly
from the rock, and spanked the Elephant’s Child with his scalesome,
flailsome tail.
‘That is odd,’ said the Elephant’s Child, ‘because my father and my
mother, and my uncle and my aunt, not to mention my other aunt, the
Hippopotamus, and my other uncle, the Baboon, have all spanked me for my
‘satiable curtiosity--and I suppose this is the same thing.
So he said good-bye very politely to the Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake,
and helped to coil him up on the rock again, and went on, a little warm,
but not at all astonished, eating melons, and throwing the rind about,
because he could not pick it up, till he trod on what he thought was
a log of wood at the very edge of the great grey-green, greasy Limpopo
River, all set about with fever-trees.
But it was really the Crocodile, O Best Beloved, and the Crocodile
winked one eye--like this!
‘’Scuse me,’ said the Elephant’s Child most politely, ‘but do you happen
to have seen a Crocodile in these promiscuous parts?’
Then the Crocodile winked the other eye, and lifted half his tail out of
the mud; and the Elephant’s Child stepped back most politely, because he
did not wish to be spanked again.
‘Come hither, Little One,’ said the Crocodile. ‘Why do you ask such
things?’
‘’Scuse me,’ said the Elephant’s Child most politely, ‘but my father has
spanked me, my mother has spanked me, not to mention my tall aunt, the
Ostrich, and my tall uncle, the Giraffe, who can kick ever so hard, as
well as my broad aunt, the Hippopotamus, and my hairy uncle, the Baboon,
and including the Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake, with the scalesome,
flailsome tail, just up the bank, who spanks harder than any of them;
and so, if it’s quite all the same to you, I don’t want to be spanked
any more.’
‘Come hither, Little One,’ said the Crocodile, ‘for I am the Crocodile,’
and he wept crocodile-tears to show it was quite true.
Then the Elephant’s Child grew all breathless, and panted, and kneeled
down on the bank and said, ‘You are the very person I have been looking
for all these long days. Will you please tell me what you have for
dinner?’
‘Come hither, Little One,’ said the Crocodile, ‘and I’ll whisper.’
Then the Elephant’s Child put his head down close to the Crocodile’s
musky, tusky mouth, and the Crocodile caught him by his little nose,
which up to that very week, day, hour, and minute, had been no bigger
than a boot, though much more useful.
‘I think, said the Crocodile--and he said it between his teeth, like
this--‘I think to-day I will begin with Elephant’s Child!’
At this, O Best Beloved, the Elephant’s Child was much annoyed, and he
said, speaking through his nose, like this, ‘Led go! You are hurtig be!’
Then the Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake scuffled down from the bank and
said, ‘My young friend, if you do not now, immediately and instantly,
pull as hard as ever you can, it is my opinion that your acquaintance in
the large-pattern leather ulster’ (and by this he meant the Crocodile)
‘will jerk you into yonder limpid stream before you can say Jack
Robinson.’
This is the way Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snakes always talk.
Then the Elephant’s Child sat back on his little haunches, and pulled,
and pulled, and pulled, and his nose began to stretch. And the Crocodile
floundered into the water, making it all creamy with great sweeps of his
tail, and he pulled, and pulled, and pulled.
And the Elephant’s Child’s nose kept on stretching; and the Elephant’s
Child spread all his little four legs and pulled, and pulled, and
pulled, and his nose kept on stretching; and the Crocodile threshed his
tail like an oar, and he pulled, and pulled, and pulled, and at each
pull the Elephant’s Child’s nose grew longer and longer--and it hurt him
hijjus!
Then the Elephant’s Child felt his legs slipping, and he said through
his nose, which was now nearly five feet long, ‘This is too butch for
be!’
Then the Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake came down from the bank, and
knotted himself in a double-clove-hitch round the Elephant’s Child’s
hind legs, and said, ‘Rash and inexperienced traveller, we will now
seriously devote ourselves to a little high tension, because if we do
not, it is my impression that yonder self-propelling man-of-war with
the armour-plated upper deck’ (and by this, O Best Beloved, he meant the
Crocodile), ‘will permanently vitiate your future career.
That is the way all Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snakes always talk.
So he pulled, and the Elephant’s Child pulled, and the Crocodile pulled;
but the Elephant’s Child and the Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake pulled
hardest; and at last the Crocodile let go of the Elephant’s Child’s nose
with a plop that you could hear all up and down the Limpopo.
Then the Elephant’s Child sat down most hard and sudden; but first he
was careful to say ‘Thank you’ to the Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake; and
next he was kind to his poor pulled nose, and wrapped it all up in cool
banana leaves, and hung it in the great grey-green, greasy Limpopo to
cool.
‘What are you doing that for?’ said the Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake.
‘’Scuse me,’ said the Elephant’s Child, ‘but my nose is badly out of
shape, and I am waiting for it to shrink.
‘Then you will have to wait a long time, said the
Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake. ‘Some people do not know what is good for
them.’
The Elephant’s Child sat there for three days waiting for his nose to
shrink. But it never grew any shorter, and, besides, it made him squint.
For, O Best Beloved, you will see and understand that the Crocodile
had pulled it out into a really truly trunk same as all Elephants have
to-day.
At the end of the third day a fly came and stung him on the shoulder,
and before he knew what he was doing he lifted up his trunk and hit that
fly dead with the end of it.
‘’Vantage number one!’ said the Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake. ‘You
couldn’t have done that with a mere-smear nose. Try and eat a little
now.’
Before he thought what he was doing the Elephant’s Child put out his
trunk and plucked a large bundle of grass, dusted it clean against his
fore-legs, and stuffed it into his own mouth.
‘Vantage number two!’ said the Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake. ‘You
couldn’t have done that with a mear-smear nose. Don’t you think the sun
is very hot here?’
‘It is,’ said the Elephant’s Child, and before he thought what he was
doing he schlooped up a schloop of mud from the banks of the great
grey-green, greasy Limpopo, and slapped it on his head, where it made a
cool schloopy-sloshy mud-cap all trickly behind his ears.
‘Vantage number three!’ said the Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake. ‘You
couldn’t have done that with a mere-smear nose. Now how do you feel
about being spanked again?’
‘’Scuse me,’ said the Elephant’s Child, ‘but I should not like it at
all.’
‘How would you like to spank somebody?’ said the
Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake.
‘I should like it very much indeed,’ said the Elephant’s Child.
‘Well,’ said the Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake, ‘you will find that new
nose of yours very useful to spank people with.’
‘Thank you,’ said the Elephant’s Child, ‘I’ll remember that; and now I
think I’ll go home to all my dear families and try.’
So the Elephant’s Child went home across Africa frisking and whisking
his trunk. When he wanted fruit to eat he pulled fruit down from a tree,
instead of waiting for it to fall as he used to do. When he wanted grass
he plucked grass up from the ground, instead of going on his knees as he
used to do. When the flies bit him he broke off the branch of a tree
and used it as fly-whisk; and he made himself a new, cool, slushy-squshy
mud-cap whenever the sun was hot. When he felt lonely walking through
Africa he sang to himself down his trunk, and the noise was louder than
several brass bands.
He went especially out of his way to find a broad Hippopotamus (she was
no relation of his), and he spanked her very hard, to make sure that the
Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake had spoken the truth about his new trunk.
The rest of the time he picked up the melon rinds that he had dropped on
his way to the Limpopo--for he was a Tidy Pachyderm.
One dark evening he came back to all his dear families, and he coiled up
his trunk and said, ‘How do you do?’ They were very glad to see him,
and immediately said, ‘Come here and be spanked for your ‘satiable
curtiosity.’
‘Pooh,’ said the Elephant’s Child. ‘I don’t think you peoples know
anything about spanking; but I do, and I’ll show you.’ Then he uncurled
his trunk and knocked two of his dear brothers head over heels.
‘O Bananas!’ said they, ‘where did you learn that trick, and what have
you done to your nose?’
‘I got a new one from the Crocodile on the banks of the great
grey-green, greasy Limpopo River,’ said the Elephant’s Child. ‘I asked
him what he had for dinner, and he gave me this to keep.’
‘It looks very ugly,’ said his hairy uncle, the Baboon.
‘It does,’ said the Elephant’s Child. ‘But it’s very useful,’ and he
picked up his hairy uncle, the Baboon, by one hairy leg, and hove him
into a hornet’s nest.
Then that bad Elephant’s Child spanked all his dear families for a long
time, till they were very warm and greatly astonished. He pulled out
his tall Ostrich aunt’s tail-feathers; and he caught his tall uncle, the
Giraffe, by the hind-leg, and dragged him through a thorn-bush; and he
shouted at his broad aunt, the Hippopotamus, and blew bubbles into her
ear when she was sleeping in the water after meals; but he never let any
one touch Kolokolo Bird.
At last things grew so exciting that his dear families went off one
by one in a hurry to the banks of the great grey-green, greasy Limpopo
River, all set about with fever-trees, to borrow new noses from the
Crocodile. When they came back nobody spanked anybody any more; and ever
since that day, O Best Beloved, all the Elephants you will ever see,
besides all those that you won’t, have trunks precisely like the trunk
of the ‘satiable Elephant’s Child.
I Keep six honest serving-men:
(They taught me all I knew)
Their names are What and Where and When
And How and Why and Who.
I send them over land and sea,
I send them east and west;
But after they have worked for me,
I give them all a rest.
I let them rest from nine till five.
For I am busy then,
As well as breakfast, lunch, and tea,
For they are hungry men:
But different folk have different views:
I know a person small--
She keeps ten million serving-men,
Who get no rest at all!
She sends ‘em abroad on her own affairs,
From the second she opens her eyes--
One million Hows, two million Wheres,
And seven million Whys!

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Title: THE FIVE ORANGE PIPS
Author: Arthur Conan Doyle
THE FIVE ORANGE PIPS
When I glance over my notes and records of the Sherlock Holmes cases
between the years ’82 and ’90, I am faced by so many which present
strange and interesting features that it is no easy matter to know
which to choose and which to leave. Some, however, have already gained
publicity through the papers, and others have not offered a field for
those peculiar qualities which my friend possessed in so high a degree,
and which it is the object of these papers to illustrate. Some, too,
have baffled his analytical skill, and would be, as narratives,
beginnings without an ending, while others have been but partially
cleared up, and have their explanations founded rather upon conjecture
and surmise than on that absolute logical proof which was so dear to
him. There is, however, one of these last which was so remarkable in
its details and so startling in its results that I am tempted to give
some account of it in spite of the fact that there are points in
connection with it which never have been, and probably never will be,
entirely cleared up.
The year ’87 furnished us with a long series of cases of greater or
less interest, of which I retain the records. Among my headings under
this one twelve months I find an account of the adventure of the
Paradol Chamber, of the Amateur Mendicant Society, who held a luxurious
club in the lower vault of a furniture warehouse, of the facts
connected with the loss of the British barque _Sophy Anderson_, of the
singular adventures of the Grice Patersons in the island of Uffa, and
finally of the Camberwell poisoning case. In the latter, as may be
remembered, Sherlock Holmes was able, by winding up the dead man’s
watch, to prove that it had been wound up two hours before, and that
therefore the deceased had gone to bed within that time—a deduction
which was of the greatest importance in clearing up the case. All these
I may sketch out at some future date, but none of them present such
singular features as the strange train of circumstances which I have
now taken up my pen to describe.
It was in the latter days of September, and the equinoctial gales had
set in with exceptional violence. All day the wind had screamed and the
rain had beaten against the windows, so that even here in the heart of
great, hand-made London we were forced to raise our minds for the
instant from the routine of life and to recognise the presence of those
great elemental forces which shriek at mankind through the bars of his
civilisation, like untamed beasts in a cage. As evening drew in, the
storm grew higher and louder, and the wind cried and sobbed like a
child in the chimney. Sherlock Holmes sat moodily at one side of the
fireplace cross-indexing his records of crime, while I at the other was
deep in one of Clark Russell’s fine sea-stories until the howl of the
gale from without seemed to blend with the text, and the splash of the
rain to lengthen out into the long swash of the sea waves. My wife was
on a visit to her mother’s, and for a few days I was a dweller once
more in my old quarters at Baker Street.
“Why,” said I, glancing up at my companion, “that was surely the bell.
Who could come to-night? Some friend of yours, perhaps?”
“Except yourself I have none,” he answered. “I do not encourage
visitors.”
“A client, then?”
“If so, it is a serious case. Nothing less would bring a man out on
such a day and at such an hour. But I take it that it is more likely to
be some crony of the landlady’s.”
Sherlock Holmes was wrong in his conjecture, however, for there came a
step in the passage and a tapping at the door. He stretched out his
long arm to turn the lamp away from himself and towards the vacant
chair upon which a newcomer must sit.
“Come in!” said he.
The man who entered was young, some two-and-twenty at the outside,
well-groomed and trimly clad, with something of refinement and delicacy
in his bearing. The streaming umbrella which he held in his hand, and
his long shining waterproof told of the fierce weather through which he
had come. He looked about him anxiously in the glare of the lamp, and I
could see that his face was pale and his eyes heavy, like those of a
man who is weighed down with some great anxiety.
“I owe you an apology,” he said, raising his golden pince-nez to his
eyes. “I trust that I am not intruding. I fear that I have brought some
traces of the storm and rain into your snug chamber.”
“Give me your coat and umbrella,” said Holmes. “They may rest here on
the hook and will be dry presently. You have come up from the
south-west, I see.”
“Yes, from Horsham.”
“That clay and chalk mixture which I see upon your toe caps is quite
distinctive.”
“I have come for advice.”
“That is easily got.”
“And help.”
“That is not always so easy.”
“I have heard of you, Mr. Holmes. I heard from Major Prendergast how
you saved him in the Tankerville Club scandal.”
“Ah, of course. He was wrongfully accused of cheating at cards.”
“He said that you could solve anything.”
“He said too much.”
“That you are never beaten.”
“I have been beaten four times—three times by men, and once by a
woman.”
“But what is that compared with the number of your successes?”
“It is true that I have been generally successful.”
“Then you may be so with me.”
“I beg that you will draw your chair up to the fire and favour me with
some details as to your case.”
“It is no ordinary one.”
“None of those which come to me are. I am the last court of appeal.”
“And yet I question, sir, whether, in all your experience, you have
ever listened to a more mysterious and inexplicable chain of events
than those which have happened in my own family.”
“You fill me with interest,” said Holmes. “Pray give us the essential
facts from the commencement, and I can afterwards question you as to
those details which seem to me to be most important.”
The young man pulled his chair up and pushed his wet feet out towards
the blaze.
“My name,” said he, “is John Openshaw, but my own affairs have, as far
as I can understand, little to do with this awful business. It is a
hereditary matter; so in order to give you an idea of the facts, I must
go back to the commencement of the affair.
“You must know that my grandfather had two sons—my uncle Elias and my
father Joseph. My father had a small factory at Coventry, which he
enlarged at the time of the invention of bicycling. He was a patentee
of the Openshaw unbreakable tire, and his business met with such
success that he was able to sell it and to retire upon a handsome
competence.
“My uncle Elias emigrated to America when he was a young man and became
a planter in Florida, where he was reported to have done very well. At
the time of the war he fought in Jackson’s army, and afterwards under
Hood, where he rose to be a colonel. When Lee laid down his arms my
uncle returned to his plantation, where he remained for three or four
years. About 1869 or 1870 he came back to Europe and took a small
estate in Sussex, near Horsham. He had made a very considerable fortune
in the States, and his reason for leaving them was his aversion to the
negroes, and his dislike of the Republican policy in extending the
franchise to them. He was a singular man, fierce and quick-tempered,
very foul-mouthed when he was angry, and of a most retiring
disposition. During all the years that he lived at Horsham, I doubt if
ever he set foot in the town. He had a garden and two or three fields
round his house, and there he would take his exercise, though very
often for weeks on end he would never leave his room. He drank a great
deal of brandy and smoked very heavily, but he would see no society and
did not want any friends, not even his own brother.
“He didn’t mind me; in fact, he took a fancy to me, for at the time
when he saw me first I was a youngster of twelve or so. This would be
in the year 1878, after he had been eight or nine years in England. He
begged my father to let me live with him and he was very kind to me in
his way. When he was sober he used to be fond of playing backgammon and
draughts with me, and he would make me his representative both with the
servants and with the tradespeople, so that by the time that I was
sixteen I was quite master of the house. I kept all the keys and could
go where I liked and do what I liked, so long as I did not disturb him
in his privacy. There was one singular exception, however, for he had a
single room, a lumber-room up among the attics, which was invariably
locked, and which he would never permit either me or anyone else to
enter. With a boy’s curiosity I have peeped through the keyhole, but I
was never able to see more than such a collection of old trunks and
bundles as would be expected in such a room.
“One day—it was in March, 1883—a letter with a foreign stamp lay upon
the table in front of the colonel’s plate. It was not a common thing
for him to receive letters, for his bills were all paid in ready money,
and he had no friends of any sort. ‘From India!’ said he as he took it
up, ‘Pondicherry postmark! What can this be?’ Opening it hurriedly, out
there jumped five little dried orange pips, which pattered down upon
his plate. I began to laugh at this, but the laugh was struck from my
lips at the sight of his face. His lip had fallen, his eyes were
protruding, his skin the colour of putty, and he glared at the envelope
which he still held in his trembling hand, ‘K. K. K.!’ he shrieked, and
then, ‘My God, my God, my sins have overtaken me!’
“‘What is it, uncle?’ I cried.
“‘Death,’ said he, and rising from the table he retired to his room,
leaving me palpitating with horror. I took up the envelope and saw
scrawled in red ink upon the inner flap, just above the gum, the letter
K three times repeated. There was nothing else save the five dried
pips. What could be the reason of his overpowering terror? I left the
breakfast-table, and as I ascended the stair I met him coming down with
an old rusty key, which must have belonged to the attic, in one hand,
and a small brass box, like a cashbox, in the other.
“‘They may do what they like, but I’ll checkmate them still,’ said he
with an oath. ‘Tell Mary that I shall want a fire in my room to-day,
and send down to Fordham, the Horsham lawyer.’
“I did as he ordered, and when the lawyer arrived I was asked to step
up to the room. The fire was burning brightly, and in the grate there
was a mass of black, fluffy ashes, as of burned paper, while the brass
box stood open and empty beside it. As I glanced at the box I noticed,
with a start, that upon the lid was printed the treble K which I had
read in the morning upon the envelope.
“‘I wish you, John,’ said my uncle, ‘to witness my will. I leave my
estate, with all its advantages and all its disadvantages, to my
brother, your father, whence it will, no doubt, descend to you. If you
can enjoy it in peace, well and good! If you find you cannot, take my
advice, my boy, and leave it to your deadliest enemy. I am sorry to
give you such a two-edged thing, but I can’t say what turn things are
going to take. Kindly sign the paper where Mr. Fordham shows you.’
“I signed the paper as directed, and the lawyer took it away with him.
The singular incident made, as you may think, the deepest impression
upon me, and I pondered over it and turned it every way in my mind
without being able to make anything of it. Yet I could not shake off
the vague feeling of dread which it left behind, though the sensation
grew less keen as the weeks passed and nothing happened to disturb the
usual routine of our lives. I could see a change in my uncle, however.
He drank more than ever, and he was less inclined for any sort of
society. Most of his time he would spend in his room, with the door
locked upon the inside, but sometimes he would emerge in a sort of
drunken frenzy and would burst out of the house and tear about the
garden with a revolver in his hand, screaming out that he was afraid of
no man, and that he was not to be cooped up, like a sheep in a pen, by
man or devil. When these hot fits were over, however, he would rush
tumultuously in at the door and lock and bar it behind him, like a man
who can brazen it out no longer against the terror which lies at the
roots of his soul. At such times I have seen his face, even on a cold
day, glisten with moisture, as though it were new raised from a basin.
“Well, to come to an end of the matter, Mr. Holmes, and not to abuse
your patience, there came a night when he made one of those drunken
sallies from which he never came back. We found him, when we went to
search for him, face downward in a little green-scummed pool, which lay
at the foot of the garden. There was no sign of any violence, and the
water was but two feet deep, so that the jury, having regard to his
known eccentricity, brought in a verdict of ‘suicide.’ But I, who knew
how he winced from the very thought of death, had much ado to persuade
myself that he had gone out of his way to meet it. The matter passed,
however, and my father entered into possession of the estate, and of
some £ 14,000, which lay to his credit at the bank.”
“One moment,” Holmes interposed, “your statement is, I foresee, one of
the most remarkable to which I have ever listened. Let me have the date
of the reception by your uncle of the letter, and the date of his
supposed suicide.”
“The letter arrived on March 10, 1883. His death was seven weeks later,
upon the night of May 2nd.”
“Thank you. Pray proceed.”
“When my father took over the Horsham property, he, at my request, made
a careful examination of the attic, which had been always locked up. We
found the brass box there, although its contents had been destroyed. On
the inside of the cover was a paper label, with the initials of K. K.
K. repeated upon it, and ‘Letters, memoranda, receipts, and a register’
written beneath. These, we presume, indicated the nature of the papers
which had been destroyed by Colonel Openshaw. For the rest, there was
nothing of much importance in the attic save a great many scattered
papers and note-books bearing upon my uncle’s life in America. Some of
them were of the war time and showed that he had done his duty well and
had borne the repute of a brave soldier. Others were of a date during
the reconstruction of the Southern states, and were mostly concerned
with politics, for he had evidently taken a strong part in opposing the
carpet-bag politicians who had been sent down from the North.
“Well, it was the beginning of ’84 when my father came to live at
Horsham, and all went as well as possible with us until the January of
’85. On the fourth day after the new year I heard my father give a
sharp cry of surprise as we sat together at the breakfast-table. There
he was, sitting with a newly opened envelope in one hand and five dried
orange pips in the outstretched palm of the other one. He had always
laughed at what he called my cock-and-bull story about the colonel, but
he looked very scared and puzzled now that the same thing had come upon
himself.
“‘Why, what on earth does this mean, John?’ he stammered.
“My heart had turned to lead. ‘It is K. K. K.,’ said I.
“He looked inside the envelope. ‘So it is,’ he cried. ‘Here are the
very letters. But what is this written above them?’
“‘Put the papers on the sundial,’ I read, peeping over his shoulder.
“‘What papers? What sundial?’ he asked.
“‘The sundial in the garden. There is no other,’ said I; ‘but the
papers must be those that are destroyed.’
“‘Pooh!’ said he, gripping hard at his courage. ‘We are in a civilised
land here, and we can’t have tomfoolery of this kind. Where does the
thing come from?’
“‘From Dundee,’ I answered, glancing at the postmark.
“‘Some preposterous practical joke,’ said he. ‘What have I to do with
sundials and papers? I shall take no notice of such nonsense.’
“‘I should certainly speak to the police,’ I said.
“‘And be laughed at for my pains. Nothing of the sort.’
“‘Then let me do so?’
“‘No, I forbid you. I won’t have a fuss made about such nonsense.’
“It was in vain to argue with him, for he was a very obstinate man. I
went about, however, with a heart which was full of forebodings.
“On the third day after the coming of the letter my father went from
home to visit an old friend of his, Major Freebody, who is in command
of one of the forts upon Portsdown Hill. I was glad that he should go,
for it seemed to me that he was farther from danger when he was away
from home. In that, however, I was in error. Upon the second day of his
absence I received a telegram from the major, imploring me to come at
once. My father had fallen over one of the deep chalk-pits which abound
in the neighbourhood, and was lying senseless, with a shattered skull.
I hurried to him, but he passed away without having ever recovered his
consciousness. He had, as it appears, been returning from Fareham in
the twilight, and as the country was unknown to him, and the chalk-pit
unfenced, the jury had no hesitation in bringing in a verdict of ‘death
from accidental causes.’ Carefully as I examined every fact connected
with his death, I was unable to find anything which could suggest the
idea of murder. There were no signs of violence, no footmarks, no
robbery, no record of strangers having been seen upon the roads. And
yet I need not tell you that my mind was far from at ease, and that I
was well-nigh certain that some foul plot had been woven round him.
“In this sinister way I came into my inheritance. You will ask me why I
did not dispose of it? I answer, because I was well convinced that our
troubles were in some way dependent upon an incident in my uncle’s
life, and that the danger would be as pressing in one house as in
another.
“It was in January, ’85, that my poor father met his end, and two years
and eight months have elapsed since then. During that time I have lived
happily at Horsham, and I had begun to hope that this curse had passed
away from the family, and that it had ended with the last generation. I
had begun to take comfort too soon, however; yesterday morning the blow
fell in the very shape in which it had come upon my father.”
The young man took from his waistcoat a crumpled envelope, and turning
to the table he shook out upon it five little dried orange pips.
“This is the envelope,” he continued. “The postmark is London—eastern
division. Within are the very words which were upon my father’s last
message: ‘K. K. K.’; and then ‘Put the papers on the sundial.’”
“What have you done?” asked Holmes.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“To tell the truth”—he sank his face into his thin, white hands—“I have
felt helpless. I have felt like one of those poor rabbits when the
snake is writhing towards it. I seem to be in the grasp of some
resistless, inexorable evil, which no foresight and no precautions can
guard against.”
“Tut! tut!” cried Sherlock Holmes. “You must act, man, or you are lost.
Nothing but energy can save you. This is no time for despair.”
“I have seen the police.”
“Ah!”
“But they listened to my story with a smile. I am convinced that the
inspector has formed the opinion that the letters are all practical
jokes, and that the deaths of my relations were really accidents, as
the jury stated, and were not to be connected with the warnings.”
Holmes shook his clenched hands in the air. “Incredible imbecility!” he
cried.
“They have, however, allowed me a policeman, who may remain in the
house with me.”
“Has he come with you to-night?”
“No. His orders were to stay in the house.”
Again Holmes raved in the air.
“Why did you come to me?” he said, “and, above all, why did you not
come at once?”
“I did not know. It was only to-day that I spoke to Major Prendergast
about my troubles and was advised by him to come to you.”
“It is really two days since you had the letter. We should have acted
before this. You have no further evidence, I suppose, than that which
you have placed before us—no suggestive detail which might help us?”
“There is one thing,” said John Openshaw. He rummaged in his coat
pocket, and, drawing out a piece of discoloured, blue-tinted paper, he
laid it out upon the table. “I have some remembrance,” said he, “that
on the day when my uncle burned the papers I observed that the small,
unburned margins which lay amid the ashes were of this particular
colour. I found this single sheet upon the floor of his room, and I am
inclined to think that it may be one of the papers which has, perhaps,
fluttered out from among the others, and in that way has escaped
destruction. Beyond the mention of pips, I do not see that it helps us
much. I think myself that it is a page from some private diary. The
writing is undoubtedly my uncle’s.”
Holmes moved the lamp, and we both bent over the sheet of paper, which
showed by its ragged edge that it had indeed been torn from a book. It
was headed, “March, 1869,” and beneath were the following enigmatical
notices:
“4th. Hudson came. Same old platform.
“7th. Set the pips on McCauley, Paramore, and John Swain of St.
Augustine.
“9th. McCauley cleared.
“10th. John Swain cleared.
“12th. Visited Paramore. All well.”
“Thank you!” said Holmes, folding up the paper and returning it to our
visitor. “And now you must on no account lose another instant. We
cannot spare time even to discuss what you have told me. You must get
home instantly and act.”
“What shall I do?”
“There is but one thing to do. It must be done at once. You must put
this piece of paper which you have shown us into the brass box which
you have described. You must also put in a note to say that all the
other papers were burned by your uncle, and that this is the only one
which remains. You must assert that in such words as will carry
conviction with them. Having done this, you must at once put the box
out upon the sundial, as directed. Do you understand?”
“Entirely.”
“Do not think of revenge, or anything of the sort, at present. I think
that we may gain that by means of the law; but we have our web to
weave, while theirs is already woven. The first consideration is to
remove the pressing danger which threatens you. The second is to clear
up the mystery and to punish the guilty parties.”
“I thank you,” said the young man, rising and pulling on his overcoat.
“You have given me fresh life and hope. I shall certainly do as you
advise.”
“Do not lose an instant. And, above all, take care of yourself in the
meanwhile, for I do not think that there can be a doubt that you are
threatened by a very real and imminent danger. How do you go back?”
“By train from Waterloo.”
“It is not yet nine. The streets will be crowded, so I trust that you
may be in safety. And yet you cannot guard yourself too closely.”
“I am armed.”
“That is well. To-morrow I shall set to work upon your case.”
“I shall see you at Horsham, then?”
“No, your secret lies in London. It is there that I shall seek it.”
“Then I shall call upon you in a day, or in two days, with news as to
the box and the papers. I shall take your advice in every particular.”
He shook hands with us and took his leave. Outside the wind still
screamed and the rain splashed and pattered against the windows. This
strange, wild story seemed to have come to us from amid the mad
elements—blown in upon us like a sheet of sea-weed in a gale—and now to
have been reabsorbed by them once more.
Sherlock Holmes sat for some time in silence, with his head sunk
forward and his eyes bent upon the red glow of the fire. Then he lit
his pipe, and leaning back in his chair he watched the blue smoke-rings
as they chased each other up to the ceiling.
“I think, Watson,” he remarked at last, “that of all our cases we have
had none more fantastic than this.”
“Save, perhaps, the Sign of Four.”
“Well, yes. Save, perhaps, that. And yet this John Openshaw seems to me
to be walking amid even greater perils than did the Sholtos.”
“But have you,” I asked, “formed any definite conception as to what
these perils are?”
“There can be no question as to their nature,” he answered.
“Then what are they? Who is this K. K. K., and why does he pursue this
unhappy family?”
Sherlock Holmes closed his eyes and placed his elbows upon the arms of
his chair, with his finger-tips together. “The ideal reasoner,” he
remarked, “would, when he had once been shown a single fact in all its
bearings, deduce from it not only all the chain of events which led up
to it but also all the results which would follow from it. As Cuvier
could correctly describe a whole animal by the contemplation of a
single bone, so the observer who has thoroughly understood one link in
a series of incidents should be able to accurately state all the other
ones, both before and after. We have not yet grasped the results which
the reason alone can attain to. Problems may be solved in the study
which have baffled all those who have sought a solution by the aid of
their senses. To carry the art, however, to its highest pitch, it is
necessary that the reasoner should be able to utilise all the facts
which have come to his knowledge; and this in itself implies, as you
will readily see, a possession of all knowledge, which, even in these
days of free education and encyclopædias, is a somewhat rare
accomplishment. It is not so impossible, however, that a man should
possess all knowledge which is likely to be useful to him in his work,
and this I have endeavoured in my case to do. If I remember rightly,
you on one occasion, in the early days of our friendship, defined my
limits in a very precise fashion.”
“Yes,” I answered, laughing. “It was a singular document. Philosophy,
astronomy, and politics were marked at zero, I remember. Botany
variable, geology profound as regards the mud-stains from any region
within fifty miles of town, chemistry eccentric, anatomy unsystematic,
sensational literature and crime records unique, violin-player, boxer,
swordsman, lawyer, and self-poisoner by cocaine and tobacco. Those, I
think, were the main points of my analysis.”
Holmes grinned at the last item. “Well,” he said, “I say now, as I said
then, that a man should keep his little brain-attic stocked with all
the furniture that he is likely to use, and the rest he can put away in
the lumber-room of his library, where he can get it if he wants it.
Now, for such a case as the one which has been submitted to us
to-night, we need certainly to muster all our resources. Kindly hand me
down the letter K of the _American Encyclopædia_ which stands upon the
shelf beside you. Thank you. Now let us consider the situation and see
what may be deduced from it. In the first place, we may start with a
strong presumption that Colonel Openshaw had some very strong reason
for leaving America. Men at his time of life do not change all their
habits and exchange willingly the charming climate of Florida for the
lonely life of an English provincial town. His extreme love of solitude
in England suggests the idea that he was in fear of someone or
something, so we may assume as a working hypothesis that it was fear of
someone or something which drove him from America. As to what it was he
feared, we can only deduce that by considering the formidable letters
which were received by himself and his successors. Did you remark the
postmarks of those letters?”
“The first was from Pondicherry, the second from Dundee, and the third
from London.”
“From East London. What do you deduce from that?”
“They are all seaports. That the writer was on board of a ship.”
“Excellent. We have already a clue. There can be no doubt that the
probability—the strong probability—is that the writer was on board of a
ship. And now let us consider another point. In the case of
Pondicherry, seven weeks elapsed between the threat and its fulfilment,
in Dundee it was only some three or four days. Does that suggest
anything?”
“A greater distance to travel.”
“But the letter had also a greater distance to come.”
“Then I do not see the point.”
“There is at least a presumption that the vessel in which the man or
men are is a sailing-ship. It looks as if they always send their
singular warning or token before them when starting upon their mission.
You see how quickly the deed followed the sign when it came from
Dundee. If they had come from Pondicherry in a steamer they would have
arrived almost as soon as their letter. But, as a matter of fact, seven
weeks elapsed. I think that those seven weeks represented the
difference between the mail-boat which brought the letter and the
sailing vessel which brought the writer.”
“It is possible.”
“More than that. It is probable. And now you see the deadly urgency of
this new case, and why I urged young Openshaw to caution. The blow has
always fallen at the end of the time which it would take the senders to
travel the distance. But this one comes from London, and therefore we
cannot count upon delay.”
“Good God!” I cried. “What can it mean, this relentless persecution?”
“The papers which Openshaw carried are obviously of vital importance to
the person or persons in the sailing-ship. I think that it is quite
clear that there must be more than one of them. A single man could not
have carried out two deaths in such a way as to deceive a coroner’s
jury. There must have been several in it, and they must have been men
of resource and determination. Their papers they mean to have, be the
holder of them who it may. In this way you see K. K. K. ceases to be
the initials of an individual and becomes the badge of a society.”
“But of what society?”
“Have you never—” said Sherlock Holmes, bending forward and sinking his
voice—“have you never heard of the Ku Klux Klan?”
“I never have.”
Holmes turned over the leaves of the book upon his knee. “Here it is,”
said he presently:
“‘Ku Klux Klan. A name derived from the fanciful resemblance to the
sound produced by cocking a rifle. This terrible secret society was
formed by some ex-Confederate soldiers in the Southern states after the
Civil War, and it rapidly formed local branches in different parts of
the country, notably in Tennessee, Louisiana, the Carolinas, Georgia,
and Florida. Its power was used for political purposes, principally for
the terrorising of the negro voters and the murdering and driving from
the country of those who were opposed to its views. Its outrages were
usually preceded by a warning sent to the marked man in some fantastic
but generally recognised shape—a sprig of oak-leaves in some parts,
melon seeds or orange pips in others. On receiving this the victim
might either openly abjure his former ways, or might fly from the
country. If he braved the matter out, death would unfailingly come upon
him, and usually in some strange and unforeseen manner. So perfect was
the organisation of the society, and so systematic its methods, that
there is hardly a case upon record where any man succeeded in braving
it with impunity, or in which any of its outrages were traced home to
the perpetrators. For some years the organisation flourished in spite
of the efforts of the United States government and of the better
classes of the community in the South. Eventually, in the year 1869,
the movement rather suddenly collapsed, although there have been
sporadic outbreaks of the same sort since that date.’
“You will observe,” said Holmes, laying down the volume, “that the
sudden breaking up of the society was coincident with the disappearance
of Openshaw from America with their papers. It may well have been cause
and effect. It is no wonder that he and his family have some of the
more implacable spirits upon their track. You can understand that this
register and diary may implicate some of the first men in the South,
and that there may be many who will not sleep easy at night until it is
recovered.”
“Then the page we have seen—”
“Is such as we might expect. It ran, if I remember right, ‘sent the
pips to A, B, and C’—that is, sent the society’s warning to them. Then
there are successive entries that A and B cleared, or left the country,
and finally that C was visited, with, I fear, a sinister result for C.
Well, I think, Doctor, that we may let some light into this dark place,
and I believe that the only chance young Openshaw has in the meantime
is to do what I have told him. There is nothing more to be said or to
be done to-night, so hand me over my violin and let us try to forget
for half an hour the miserable weather and the still more miserable
ways of our fellow men.”
It had cleared in the morning, and the sun was shining with a subdued
brightness through the dim veil which hangs over the great city.
Sherlock Holmes was already at breakfast when I came down.
“You will excuse me for not waiting for you,” said he; “I have, I
foresee, a very busy day before me in looking into this case of young
Openshaw’s.”
“What steps will you take?” I asked.
“It will very much depend upon the results of my first inquiries. I may
have to go down to Horsham, after all.”
“You will not go there first?”
“No, I shall commence with the City. Just ring the bell and the maid
will bring up your coffee.”
As I waited, I lifted the unopened newspaper from the table and glanced
my eye over it. It rested upon a heading which sent a chill to my
heart.
“Holmes,” I cried, “you are too late.”
“Ah!” said he, laying down his cup, “I feared as much. How was it
done?” He spoke calmly, but I could see that he was deeply moved.
“My eye caught the name of Openshaw, and the heading ‘Tragedy Near
Waterloo Bridge.’ Here is the account:
“‘Between nine and ten last night Police-Constable Cook, of the H
Division, on duty near Waterloo Bridge, heard a cry for help and a
splash in the water. The night, however, was extremely dark and stormy,
so that, in spite of the help of several passers-by, it was quite
impossible to effect a rescue. The alarm, however, was given, and, by
the aid of the water-police, the body was eventually recovered. It
proved to be that of a young gentleman whose name, as it appears from
an envelope which was found in his pocket, was John Openshaw, and whose
residence is near Horsham. It is conjectured that he may have been
hurrying down to catch the last train from Waterloo Station, and that
in his haste and the extreme darkness he missed his path and walked
over the edge of one of the small landing-places for river steamboats.
The body exhibited no traces of violence, and there can be no doubt
that the deceased had been the victim of an unfortunate accident, which
should have the effect of calling the attention of the authorities to
the condition of the riverside landing-stages.’”
We sat in silence for some minutes, Holmes more depressed and shaken
than I had ever seen him.
“That hurts my pride, Watson,” he said at last. “It is a petty feeling,
no doubt, but it hurts my pride. It becomes a personal matter with me
now, and, if God sends me health, I shall set my hand upon this gang.
That he should come to me for help, and that I should send him away to
his death—!” He sprang from his chair and paced about the room in
uncontrollable agitation, with a flush upon his sallow cheeks and a
nervous clasping and unclasping of his long thin hands.
“They must be cunning devils,” he exclaimed at last. “How could they
have decoyed him down there? The Embankment is not on the direct line
to the station. The bridge, no doubt, was too crowded, even on such a
night, for their purpose. Well, Watson, we shall see who will win in
the long run. I am going out now!”
“To the police?”
“No; I shall be my own police. When I have spun the web they may take
the flies, but not before.”
All day I was engaged in my professional work, and it was late in the
evening before I returned to Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes had not come
back yet. It was nearly ten o’clock before he entered, looking pale and
worn. He walked up to the sideboard, and tearing a piece from the loaf
he devoured it voraciously, washing it down with a long draught of
water.
“You are hungry,” I remarked.
“Starving. It had escaped my memory. I have had nothing since
breakfast.”
“Nothing?”
“Not a bite. I had no time to think of it.”
“And how have you succeeded?”
“Well.”
“You have a clue?”
“I have them in the hollow of my hand. Young Openshaw shall not long
remain unavenged. Why, Watson, let us put their own devilish trade-mark
upon them. It is well thought of!”
“What do you mean?”
He took an orange from the cupboard, and tearing it to pieces he
squeezed out the pips upon the table. Of these he took five and thrust
them into an envelope. On the inside of the flap he wrote “S. H. for J.
O.” Then he sealed it and addressed it to “Captain James Calhoun,
Barque _Lone Star_, Savannah, Georgia.”
“That will await him when he enters port,” said he, chuckling. “It may
give him a sleepless night. He will find it as sure a precursor of his
fate as Openshaw did before him.”
“And who is this Captain Calhoun?”
“The leader of the gang. I shall have the others, but he first.”
“How did you trace it, then?”
He took a large sheet of paper from his pocket, all covered with dates
and names.
“I have spent the whole day,” said he, “over Lloyd’s registers and
files of the old papers, following the future career of every vessel
which touched at Pondicherry in January and February in ’83. There were
thirty-six ships of fair tonnage which were reported there during those
months. Of these, one, the _Lone Star_, instantly attracted my
attention, since, although it was reported as having cleared from
London, the name is that which is given to one of the states of the
Union.”
“Texas, I think.”
“I was not and am not sure which; but I knew that the ship must have an
American origin.”
“What then?”
“I searched the Dundee records, and when I found that the barque _Lone
Star_ was there in January, ’85, my suspicion became a certainty. I
then inquired as to the vessels which lay at present in the port of
London.”
“Yes?”
“The _Lone Star_ had arrived here last week. I went down to the Albert
Dock and found that she had been taken down the river by the early tide
this morning, homeward bound to Savannah. I wired to Gravesend and
learned that she had passed some time ago, and as the wind is easterly
I have no doubt that she is now past the Goodwins and not very far from
the Isle of Wight.”
“What will you do, then?”
“Oh, I have my hand upon him. He and the two mates, are as I learn, the
only native-born Americans in the ship. The others are Finns and
Germans. I know, also, that they were all three away from the ship last
night. I had it from the stevedore who has been loading their cargo. By
the time that their sailing-ship reaches Savannah the mail-boat will
have carried this letter, and the cable will have informed the police
of Savannah that these three gentlemen are badly wanted here upon a
charge of murder.”
There is ever a flaw, however, in the best laid of human plans, and the
murderers of John Openshaw were never to receive the orange pips which
would show them that another, as cunning and as resolute as themselves,
was upon their track. Very long and very severe were the equinoctial
gales that year. We waited long for news of the _Lone Star_ of
Savannah, but none ever reached us. We did at last hear that somewhere
far out in the Atlantic a shattered stern-post of a boat was seen
swinging in the trough of a wave, with the letters “L. S.” carved upon
it, and that is all which we shall ever know of the fate of the _Lone
Star_.

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Title: The Flying Stars
Author: G. K. Chesterton
The Flying Stars
“The most beautiful crime I ever committed,” Flambeau would say in his
highly moral old age, “was also, by a singular coincidence, my last.
It was committed at Christmas. As an artist I had always attempted to
provide crimes suitable to the special season or landscapes in which I
found myself, choosing this or that terrace or garden for a catastrophe,
as if for a statuary group. Thus squires should be swindled in long
rooms panelled with oak; while Jews, on the other hand, should rather
find themselves unexpectedly penniless among the lights and screens of
the Cafe Riche. Thus, in England, if I wished to relieve a dean of his
riches (which is not so easy as you might suppose), I wished to frame
him, if I make myself clear, in the green lawns and grey towers of some
cathedral town. Similarly, in France, when I had got money out of a rich
and wicked peasant (which is almost impossible), it gratified me to get
his indignant head relieved against a grey line of clipped poplars,
and those solemn plains of Gaul over which broods the mighty spirit of
Millet.
“Well, my last crime was a Christmas crime, a cheery, cosy, English
middle-class crime; a crime of Charles Dickens. I did it in a good old
middle-class house near Putney, a house with a crescent of carriage
drive, a house with a stable by the side of it, a house with the name
on the two outer gates, a house with a monkey tree. Enough, you know the
species. I really think my imitation of Dickens’s style was dexterous
and literary. It seems almost a pity I repented the same evening.”
Flambeau would then proceed to tell the story from the inside; and
even from the inside it was odd. Seen from the outside it was perfectly
incomprehensible, and it is from the outside that the stranger must
study it. From this standpoint the drama may be said to have begun when
the front doors of the house with the stable opened on the garden with
the monkey tree, and a young girl came out with bread to feed the birds
on the afternoon of Boxing Day. She had a pretty face, with brave brown
eyes; but her figure was beyond conjecture, for she was so wrapped up in
brown furs that it was hard to say which was hair and which was fur. But
for the attractive face she might have been a small toddling bear.
The winter afternoon was reddening towards evening, and already a ruby
light was rolled over the bloomless beds, filling them, as it were, with
the ghosts of the dead roses. On one side of the house stood the stable,
on the other an alley or cloister of laurels led to the larger garden
behind. The young lady, having scattered bread for the birds (for
the fourth or fifth time that day, because the dog ate it), passed
unobtrusively down the lane of laurels and into a glimmering plantation
of evergreens behind. Here she gave an exclamation of wonder, real or
ritual, and looking up at the high garden wall above her, beheld it
fantastically bestridden by a somewhat fantastic figure.
“Oh, don’t jump, Mr. Crook,” she called out in some alarm; “it’s much
too high.”
The individual riding the party wall like an aerial horse was a tall,
angular young man, with dark hair sticking up like a hair brush,
intelligent and even distinguished lineaments, but a sallow and almost
alien complexion. This showed the more plainly because he wore an
aggressive red tie, the only part of his costume of which he seemed to
take any care. Perhaps it was a symbol. He took no notice of the girl’s
alarmed adjuration, but leapt like a grasshopper to the ground beside
her, where he might very well have broken his legs.
“I think I was meant to be a burglar,” he said placidly, “and I have no
doubt I should have been if I hadn’t happened to be born in that nice
house next door. I can’t see any harm in it, anyhow.”
“How can you say such things!” she remonstrated.
“Well,” said the young man, “if you’re born on the wrong side of the
wall, I can’t see that it’s wrong to climb over it.”
“I never know what you will say or do next,” she said.
“I don’t often know myself,” replied Mr. Crook; “but then I am on the
right side of the wall now.”
“And which is the right side of the wall?” asked the young lady,
smiling.
“Whichever side you are on,” said the young man named Crook.
As they went together through the laurels towards the front garden
a motor horn sounded thrice, coming nearer and nearer, and a car of
splendid speed, great elegance, and a pale green colour swept up to the
front doors like a bird and stood throbbing.
“Hullo, hullo!” said the young man with the red tie, “here’s somebody
born on the right side, anyhow. I didn’t know, Miss Adams, that your
Santa Claus was so modern as this.”
“Oh, that’s my godfather, Sir Leopold Fischer. He always comes on Boxing
Day.”
Then, after an innocent pause, which unconsciously betrayed some lack of
enthusiasm, Ruby Adams added:
“He is very kind.”
John Crook, journalist, had heard of that eminent City magnate; and
it was not his fault if the City magnate had not heard of him; for in
certain articles in The Clarion or The New Age Sir Leopold had been
dealt with austerely. But he said nothing and grimly watched the
unloading of the motor-car, which was rather a long process. A large,
neat chauffeur in green got out from the front, and a small, neat
manservant in grey got out from the back, and between them they
deposited Sir Leopold on the doorstep and began to unpack him, like some
very carefully protected parcel. Rugs enough to stock a bazaar, furs
of all the beasts of the forest, and scarves of all the colours of
the rainbow were unwrapped one by one, till they revealed something
resembling the human form; the form of a friendly, but foreign-looking
old gentleman, with a grey goat-like beard and a beaming smile, who
rubbed his big fur gloves together.
Long before this revelation was complete the two big doors of the porch
had opened in the middle, and Colonel Adams (father of the furry young
lady) had come out himself to invite his eminent guest inside. He was a
tall, sunburnt, and very silent man, who wore a red smoking-cap like a
fez, making him look like one of the English Sirdars or Pashas in Egypt.
With him was his brother-in-law, lately come from Canada, a big and
rather boisterous young gentleman-farmer, with a yellow beard, by name
James Blount. With him also was the more insignificant figure of the
priest from the neighbouring Roman Church; for the colonel’s late wife
had been a Catholic, and the children, as is common in such cases, had
been trained to follow her. Everything seemed undistinguished about
the priest, even down to his name, which was Brown; yet the colonel had
always found something companionable about him, and frequently asked him
to such family gatherings.
In the large entrance hall of the house there was ample room even for
Sir Leopold and the removal of his wraps. Porch and vestibule, indeed,
were unduly large in proportion to the house, and formed, as it were, a
big room with the front door at one end, and the bottom of the staircase
at the other. In front of the large hall fire, over which hung the
colonel’s sword, the process was completed and the company, including
the saturnine Crook, presented to Sir Leopold Fischer. That venerable
financier, however, still seemed struggling with portions of his
well-lined attire, and at length produced from a very interior tail-coat
pocket, a black oval case which he radiantly explained to be his
Christmas present for his god-daughter. With an unaffected vain-glory
that had something disarming about it he held out the case before them
all; it flew open at a touch and half-blinded them. It was just as if a
crystal fountain had spurted in their eyes. In a nest of orange velvet
lay like three eggs, three white and vivid diamonds that seemed to set
the very air on fire all round them. Fischer stood beaming benevolently
and drinking deep of the astonishment and ecstasy of the girl, the grim
admiration and gruff thanks of the colonel, the wonder of the whole
group.
“I’ll put ‘em back now, my dear,” said Fischer, returning the case to
the tails of his coat. “I had to be careful of ‘em coming down. They’re
the three great African diamonds called ‘The Flying Stars,’ because
they’ve been stolen so often. All the big criminals are on the track;
but even the rough men about in the streets and hotels could hardly have
kept their hands off them. I might have lost them on the road here. It
was quite possible.”
“Quite natural, I should say,” growled the man in the red tie. “I
shouldn’t blame ‘em if they had taken ‘em. When they ask for bread, and
you don’t even give them a stone, I think they might take the stone for
themselves.”
“I won’t have you talking like that,” cried the girl, who was in a
curious glow. “You’ve only talked like that since you became a horrid
what’s-his-name. You know what I mean. What do you call a man who wants
to embrace the chimney-sweep?”
“A saint,” said Father Brown.
“I think,” said Sir Leopold, with a supercilious smile, “that Ruby means
a Socialist.”
“A radical does not mean a man who lives on radishes,” remarked Crook,
with some impatience; “and a Conservative does not mean a man who
preserves jam. Neither, I assure you, does a Socialist mean a man who
desires a social evening with the chimney-sweep. A Socialist means a
man who wants all the chimneys swept and all the chimney-sweeps paid for
it.”
“But who won’t allow you,” put in the priest in a low voice, “to own
your own soot.”
Crook looked at him with an eye of interest and even respect. “Does one
want to own soot?” he asked.
“One might,” answered Brown, with speculation in his eye. “I’ve heard
that gardeners use it. And I once made six children happy at Christmas
when the conjuror didn’t come, entirely with soot--applied externally.”
“Oh, splendid,” cried Ruby. “Oh, I wish you’d do it to this company.”
The boisterous Canadian, Mr. Blount, was lifting his loud voice in
applause, and the astonished financier his (in some considerable
deprecation), when a knock sounded at the double front doors. The priest
opened them, and they showed again the front garden of evergreens,
monkey-tree and all, now gathering gloom against a gorgeous violet
sunset. The scene thus framed was so coloured and quaint, like a back
scene in a play, that they forgot a moment the insignificant figure
standing in the door. He was dusty-looking and in a frayed coat,
evidently a common messenger. “Any of you gentlemen Mr. Blount?” he
asked, and held forward a letter doubtfully. Mr. Blount started, and
stopped in his shout of assent. Ripping up the envelope with evident
astonishment he read it; his face clouded a little, and then cleared,
and he turned to his brother-in-law and host.
“I’m sick at being such a nuisance, colonel,” he said, with the cheery
colonial conventions; “but would it upset you if an old acquaintance
called on me here tonight on business? In point of fact it’s Florian,
that famous French acrobat and comic actor; I knew him years ago out
West (he was a French-Canadian by birth), and he seems to have business
for me, though I hardly guess what.”
“Of course, of course,” replied the colonel carelessly--“My dear chap,
any friend of yours. No doubt he will prove an acquisition.”
“He’ll black his face, if that’s what you mean,” cried Blount, laughing.
“I don’t doubt he’d black everyone else’s eyes. I don’t care; I’m not
refined. I like the jolly old pantomime where a man sits on his top
hat.”
“Not on mine, please,” said Sir Leopold Fischer, with dignity.
“Well, well,” observed Crook, airily, “don’t let’s quarrel. There are
lower jokes than sitting on a top hat.”
Dislike of the red-tied youth, born of his predatory opinions and
evident intimacy with the pretty godchild, led Fischer to say, in his
most sarcastic, magisterial manner: “No doubt you have found something
much lower than sitting on a top hat. What is it, pray?”
“Letting a top hat sit on you, for instance,” said the Socialist.
“Now, now, now,” cried the Canadian farmer with his barbarian
benevolence, “don’t let’s spoil a jolly evening. What I say is, let’s
do something for the company tonight. Not blacking faces or sitting on
hats, if you don’t like those--but something of the sort. Why couldn’t
we have a proper old English pantomime--clown, columbine, and so on. I
saw one when I left England at twelve years old, and it’s blazed in my
brain like a bonfire ever since. I came back to the old country
only last year, and I find the thing’s extinct. Nothing but a lot of
snivelling fairy plays. I want a hot poker and a policeman made into
sausages, and they give me princesses moralising by moonlight, Blue
Birds, or something. Blue Beard’s more in my line, and him I like best
when he turned into the pantaloon.”
“I’m all for making a policeman into sausages,” said John Crook. “It’s a
better definition of Socialism than some recently given. But surely the
get-up would be too big a business.”
“Not a scrap,” cried Blount, quite carried away. “A harlequinade’s the
quickest thing we can do, for two reasons. First, one can gag to any
degree; and, second, all the objects are household things--tables and
towel-horses and washing baskets, and things like that.”
“That’s true,” admitted Crook, nodding eagerly and walking about.
“But I’m afraid I can’t have my policeman’s uniform? Haven’t killed a
policeman lately.”
Blount frowned thoughtfully a space, and then smote his thigh. “Yes,
we can!” he cried. “I’ve got Florian’s address here, and he knows every
costumier in London. I’ll phone him to bring a police dress when he
comes.” And he went bounding away to the telephone.
“Oh, it’s glorious, godfather,” cried Ruby, almost dancing. “I’ll be
columbine and you shall be pantaloon.”
The millionaire held himself stiff with a sort of heathen solemnity. “I
think, my dear,” he said, “you must get someone else for pantaloon.”
“I will be pantaloon, if you like,” said Colonel Adams, taking his cigar
out of his mouth, and speaking for the first and last time.
“You ought to have a statue,” cried the Canadian, as he came back,
radiant, from the telephone. “There, we are all fitted. Mr. Crook shall
be clown; he’s a journalist and knows all the oldest jokes. I can
be harlequin, that only wants long legs and jumping about. My friend
Florian ‘phones he’s bringing the police costume; he’s changing on the
way. We can act it in this very hall, the audience sitting on those
broad stairs opposite, one row above another. These front doors can be
the back scene, either open or shut. Shut, you see an English interior.
Open, a moonlit garden. It all goes by magic.” And snatching a chance
piece of billiard chalk from his pocket, he ran it across the hall
floor, half-way between the front door and the staircase, to mark the
line of the footlights.
How even such a banquet of bosh was got ready in the time remained
a riddle. But they went at it with that mixture of recklessness and
industry that lives when youth is in a house; and youth was in that
house that night, though not all may have isolated the two faces and
hearts from which it flamed. As always happens, the invention grew
wilder and wilder through the very tameness of the bourgeois conventions
from which it had to create. The columbine looked charming in an
outstanding skirt that strangely resembled the large lamp-shade in the
drawing-room. The clown and pantaloon made themselves white with flour
from the cook, and red with rouge from some other domestic, who remained
(like all true Christian benefactors) anonymous. The harlequin, already
clad in silver paper out of cigar boxes, was, with difficulty, prevented
from smashing the old Victorian lustre chandeliers, that he might cover
himself with resplendent crystals. In fact he would certainly have done
so, had not Ruby unearthed some old pantomime paste jewels she had worn
at a fancy dress party as the Queen of Diamonds. Indeed, her uncle,
James Blount, was getting almost out of hand in his excitement; he was
like a schoolboy. He put a paper donkey’s head unexpectedly on Father
Brown, who bore it patiently, and even found some private manner of
moving his ears. He even essayed to put the paper donkey’s tail to the
coat-tails of Sir Leopold Fischer. This, however, was frowned down.
“Uncle is too absurd,” cried Ruby to Crook, round whose shoulders she
had seriously placed a string of sausages. “Why is he so wild?”
“He is harlequin to your columbine,” said Crook. “I am only the clown
who makes the old jokes.”
“I wish you were the harlequin,” she said, and left the string of
sausages swinging.
Father Brown, though he knew every detail done behind the scenes,
and had even evoked applause by his transformation of a pillow into a
pantomime baby, went round to the front and sat among the audience
with all the solemn expectation of a child at his first matinee. The
spectators were few, relations, one or two local friends, and the
servants; Sir Leopold sat in the front seat, his full and still
fur-collared figure largely obscuring the view of the little cleric
behind him; but it has never been settled by artistic authorities
whether the cleric lost much. The pantomime was utterly chaotic, yet not
contemptible; there ran through it a rage of improvisation which came
chiefly from Crook the clown. Commonly he was a clever man, and he was
inspired tonight with a wild omniscience, a folly wiser than the world,
that which comes to a young man who has seen for an instant a particular
expression on a particular face. He was supposed to be the clown, but
he was really almost everything else, the author (so far as there was an
author), the prompter, the scene-painter, the scene-shifter, and, above
all, the orchestra. At abrupt intervals in the outrageous performance
he would hurl himself in full costume at the piano and bang out some
popular music equally absurd and appropriate.
The climax of this, as of all else, was the moment when the two front
doors at the back of the scene flew open, showing the lovely moonlit
garden, but showing more prominently the famous professional guest; the
great Florian, dressed up as a policeman. The clown at the piano played
the constabulary chorus in the “Pirates of Penzance,” but it was drowned
in the deafening applause, for every gesture of the great comic actor
was an admirable though restrained version of the carriage and manner
of the police. The harlequin leapt upon him and hit him over the helmet;
the pianist playing “Where did you get that hat?” he faced about in
admirably simulated astonishment, and then the leaping harlequin hit him
again (the pianist suggesting a few bars of “Then we had another one”).
Then the harlequin rushed right into the arms of the policeman and fell
on top of him, amid a roar of applause. Then it was that the strange
actor gave that celebrated imitation of a dead man, of which the fame
still lingers round Putney. It was almost impossible to believe that a
living person could appear so limp.
The athletic harlequin swung him about like a sack or twisted or tossed
him like an Indian club; all the time to the most maddeningly ludicrous
tunes from the piano. When the harlequin heaved the comic constable
heavily off the floor the clown played “I arise from dreams of thee.”
When he shuffled him across his back, “With my bundle on my shoulder,”
and when the harlequin finally let fall the policeman with a most
convincing thud, the lunatic at the instrument struck into a jingling
measure with some words which are still believed to have been, “I sent a
letter to my love and on the way I dropped it.”
At about this limit of mental anarchy Father Brown’s view was obscured
altogether; for the City magnate in front of him rose to his full height
and thrust his hands savagely into all his pockets. Then he sat down
nervously, still fumbling, and then stood up again. For an instant it
seemed seriously likely that he would stride across the footlights; then
he turned a glare at the clown playing the piano; and then he burst in
silence out of the room.
The priest had only watched for a few more minutes the absurd but not
inelegant dance of the amateur harlequin over his splendidly unconscious
foe. With real though rude art, the harlequin danced slowly backwards
out of the door into the garden, which was full of moonlight and
stillness. The vamped dress of silver paper and paste, which had been
too glaring in the footlights, looked more and more magical and silvery
as it danced away under a brilliant moon. The audience was closing in
with a cataract of applause, when Brown felt his arm abruptly touched,
and he was asked in a whisper to come into the colonel’s study.
He followed his summoner with increasing doubt, which was not dispelled
by a solemn comicality in the scene of the study. There sat Colonel
Adams, still unaffectedly dressed as a pantaloon, with the knobbed
whalebone nodding above his brow, but with his poor old eyes sad enough
to have sobered a Saturnalia. Sir Leopold Fischer was leaning against
the mantelpiece and heaving with all the importance of panic.
“This is a very painful matter, Father Brown,” said Adams. “The truth
is, those diamonds we all saw this afternoon seem to have vanished from
my friend’s tail-coat pocket. And as you--”
“As I,” supplemented Father Brown, with a broad grin, “was sitting just
behind him--”
“Nothing of the sort shall be suggested,” said Colonel Adams, with a
firm look at Fischer, which rather implied that some such thing had been
suggested. “I only ask you to give me the assistance that any gentleman
might give.”
“Which is turning out his pockets,” said Father Brown, and proceeded to
do so, displaying seven and sixpence, a return ticket, a small silver
crucifix, a small breviary, and a stick of chocolate.
The colonel looked at him long, and then said, “Do you know, I should
like to see the inside of your head more than the inside of your
pockets. My daughter is one of your people, I know; well, she has
lately--” and he stopped.
“She has lately,” cried out old Fischer, “opened her father’s house to
a cut-throat Socialist, who says openly he would steal anything from a
richer man. This is the end of it. Here is the richer man--and none the
richer.”
“If you want the inside of my head you can have it,” said Brown rather
wearily. “What it’s worth you can say afterwards. But the first thing I
find in that disused pocket is this: that men who mean to steal diamonds
don’t talk Socialism. They are more likely,” he added demurely, “to
denounce it.”
Both the others shifted sharply and the priest went on:
“You see, we know these people, more or less. That Socialist would no
more steal a diamond than a Pyramid. We ought to look at once to the one
man we don’t know. The fellow acting the policeman--Florian. Where is he
exactly at this minute, I wonder.”
The pantaloon sprang erect and strode out of the room. An interlude
ensued, during which the millionaire stared at the priest, and the
priest at his breviary; then the pantaloon returned and said, with
staccato gravity, “The policeman is still lying on the stage. The
curtain has gone up and down six times; he is still lying there.”
Father Brown dropped his book and stood staring with a look of blank
mental ruin. Very slowly a light began to creep in his grey eyes, and
then he made the scarcely obvious answer.
“Please forgive me, colonel, but when did your wife die?”
“Wife!” replied the staring soldier, “she died this year two months. Her
brother James arrived just a week too late to see her.”
The little priest bounded like a rabbit shot. “Come on!” he cried in
quite unusual excitement. “Come on! We’ve got to go and look at that
policeman!”
They rushed on to the now curtained stage, breaking rudely past the
columbine and clown (who seemed whispering quite contentedly), and
Father Brown bent over the prostrate comic policeman.
“Chloroform,” he said as he rose; “I only guessed it just now.”
There was a startled stillness, and then the colonel said slowly,
“Please say seriously what all this means.”
Father Brown suddenly shouted with laughter, then stopped, and
only struggled with it for instants during the rest of his speech.
“Gentlemen,” he gasped, “there’s not much time to talk. I must run after
the criminal. But this great French actor who played the policeman--this
clever corpse the harlequin waltzed with and dandled and threw about--he
was--” His voice again failed him, and he turned his back to run.
“He was?” called Fischer inquiringly.
“A real policeman,” said Father Brown, and ran away into the dark.
There were hollows and bowers at the extreme end of that leafy garden,
in which the laurels and other immortal shrubs showed against sapphire
sky and silver moon, even in that midwinter, warm colours as of the
south. The green gaiety of the waving laurels, the rich purple indigo
of the night, the moon like a monstrous crystal, make an almost
irresponsible romantic picture; and among the top branches of the garden
trees a strange figure is climbing, who looks not so much romantic as
impossible. He sparkles from head to heel, as if clad in ten million
moons; the real moon catches him at every movement and sets a new inch
of him on fire. But he swings, flashing and successful, from the short
tree in this garden to the tall, rambling tree in the other, and only
stops there because a shade has slid under the smaller tree and has
unmistakably called up to him.
“Well, Flambeau,” says the voice, “you really look like a Flying Star;
but that always means a Falling Star at last.”
The silver, sparkling figure above seems to lean forward in the laurels
and, confident of escape, listens to the little figure below.
“You never did anything better, Flambeau. It was clever to come from
Canada (with a Paris ticket, I suppose) just a week after Mrs. Adams
died, when no one was in a mood to ask questions. It was cleverer to
have marked down the Flying Stars and the very day of Fischer’s coming.
But there’s no cleverness, but mere genius, in what followed. Stealing
the stones, I suppose, was nothing to you. You could have done it by
sleight of hand in a hundred other ways besides that pretence of putting
a paper donkey’s tail to Fischer’s coat. But in the rest you eclipsed
yourself.”
The silvery figure among the green leaves seems to linger as if
hypnotised, though his escape is easy behind him; he is staring at the
man below.
“Oh, yes,” says the man below, “I know all about it. I know you not
only forced the pantomime, but put it to a double use. You were going
to steal the stones quietly; news came by an accomplice that you were
already suspected, and a capable police officer was coming to rout you
up that very night. A common thief would have been thankful for the
warning and fled; but you are a poet. You already had the clever notion
of hiding the jewels in a blaze of false stage jewellery. Now, you saw
that if the dress were a harlequin’s the appearance of a policeman
would be quite in keeping. The worthy officer started from Putney police
station to find you, and walked into the queerest trap ever set in this
world. When the front door opened he walked straight on to the stage of
a Christmas pantomime, where he could be kicked, clubbed, stunned and
drugged by the dancing harlequin, amid roars of laughter from all
the most respectable people in Putney. Oh, you will never do anything
better. And now, by the way, you might give me back those diamonds.”
The green branch on which the glittering figure swung, rustled as if in
astonishment; but the voice went on:
“I want you to give them back, Flambeau, and I want you to give up this
life. There is still youth and honour and humour in you; don’t fancy
they will last in that trade. Men may keep a sort of level of good, but
no man has ever been able to keep on one level of evil. That road goes
down and down. The kind man drinks and turns cruel; the frank man kills
and lies about it. Many a man I’ve known started like you to be an
honest outlaw, a merry robber of the rich, and ended stamped into slime.
Maurice Blum started out as an anarchist of principle, a father of the
poor; he ended a greasy spy and tale-bearer that both sides used and
despised. Harry Burke started his free money movement sincerely enough;
now he’s sponging on a half-starved sister for endless brandies and
sodas. Lord Amber went into wild society in a sort of chivalry; now he’s
paying blackmail to the lowest vultures in London. Captain Barillon
was the great gentleman-apache before your time; he died in a madhouse,
screaming with fear of the “narks” and receivers that had betrayed
him and hunted him down. I know the woods look very free behind you,
Flambeau; I know that in a flash you could melt into them like a monkey.
But some day you will be an old grey monkey, Flambeau. You will sit up
in your free forest cold at heart and close to death, and the tree-tops
will be very bare.”
Everything continued still, as if the small man below held the other in
the tree in some long invisible leash; and he went on:
“Your downward steps have begun. You used to boast of doing nothing
mean, but you are doing something mean tonight. You are leaving
suspicion on an honest boy with a good deal against him already; you are
separating him from the woman he loves and who loves him. But you will
do meaner things than that before you die.”
Three flashing diamonds fell from the tree to the turf. The small man
stooped to pick them up, and when he looked up again the green cage of
the tree was emptied of its silver bird.
The restoration of the gems (accidentally picked up by Father Brown, of
all people) ended the evening in uproarious triumph; and Sir Leopold, in
his height of good humour, even told the priest that though he himself
had broader views, he could respect those whose creed required them to
be cloistered and ignorant of this world.

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Title: The Honour of Israel Gow
Author: G. K. Chesterton
The Honour of Israel Gow
A stormy evening of olive and silver was closing in, as Father Brown,
wrapped in a grey Scotch plaid, came to the end of a grey Scotch valley
and beheld the strange castle of Glengyle. It stopped one end of the
glen or hollow like a blind alley; and it looked like the end of the
world. Rising in steep roofs and spires of seagreen slate in the manner
of the old French-Scotch chateaux, it reminded an Englishman of the
sinister steeple-hats of witches in fairy tales; and the pine woods
that rocked round the green turrets looked, by comparison, as black
as numberless flocks of ravens. This note of a dreamy, almost a sleepy
devilry, was no mere fancy from the landscape. For there did rest on
the place one of those clouds of pride and madness and mysterious sorrow
which lie more heavily on the noble houses of Scotland than on any other
of the children of men. For Scotland has a double dose of the poison
called heredity; the sense of blood in the aristocrat, and the sense of
doom in the Calvinist.
The priest had snatched a day from his business at Glasgow to meet his
friend Flambeau, the amateur detective, who was at Glengyle Castle with
another more formal officer investigating the life and death of the late
Earl of Glengyle. That mysterious person was the last representative
of a race whose valour, insanity, and violent cunning had made them
terrible even among the sinister nobility of their nation in the
sixteenth century. None were deeper in that labyrinthine ambition, in
chamber within chamber of that palace of lies that was built up around
Mary Queen of Scots.
The rhyme in the country-side attested the motive and the result of
their machinations candidly:
As green sap to the simmer trees
Is red gold to the Ogilvies.
For many centuries there had never been a decent lord in Glengyle
Castle; and with the Victorian era one would have thought that all
eccentricities were exhausted. The last Glengyle, however, satisfied his
tribal tradition by doing the only thing that was left for him to do; he
disappeared. I do not mean that he went abroad; by all accounts he was
still in the castle, if he was anywhere. But though his name was in the
church register and the big red Peerage, nobody ever saw him under the
sun.
If anyone saw him it was a solitary man-servant, something between a
groom and a gardener. He was so deaf that the more business-like
assumed him to be dumb; while the more penetrating declared him to be
half-witted. A gaunt, red-haired labourer, with a dogged jaw and chin,
but quite blank blue eyes, he went by the name of Israel Gow, and was
the one silent servant on that deserted estate. But the energy with
which he dug potatoes, and the regularity with which he disappeared
into the kitchen gave people an impression that he was providing for the
meals of a superior, and that the strange earl was still concealed in
the castle. If society needed any further proof that he was there, the
servant persistently asserted that he was not at home. One morning the
provost and the minister (for the Glengyles were Presbyterian) were
summoned to the castle. There they found that the gardener, groom and
cook had added to his many professions that of an undertaker, and had
nailed up his noble master in a coffin. With how much or how little
further inquiry this odd fact was passed, did not as yet very plainly
appear; for the thing had never been legally investigated till Flambeau
had gone north two or three days before. By then the body of Lord
Glengyle (if it was the body) had lain for some time in the little
churchyard on the hill.
As Father Brown passed through the dim garden and came under the
shadow of the chateau, the clouds were thick and the whole air damp
and thundery. Against the last stripe of the green-gold sunset he saw
a black human silhouette; a man in a chimney-pot hat, with a big spade
over his shoulder. The combination was queerly suggestive of a sexton;
but when Brown remembered the deaf servant who dug potatoes, he thought
it natural enough. He knew something of the Scotch peasant; he knew the
respectability which might well feel it necessary to wear “blacks” for
an official inquiry; he knew also the economy that would not lose an
hour’s digging for that. Even the man’s start and suspicious stare as
the priest went by were consonant enough with the vigilance and jealousy
of such a type.
The great door was opened by Flambeau himself, who had with him a lean
man with iron-grey hair and papers in his hand: Inspector Craven from
Scotland Yard. The entrance hall was mostly stripped and empty; but the
pale, sneering faces of one or two of the wicked Ogilvies looked down
out of black periwigs and blackening canvas.
Following them into an inner room, Father Brown found that the allies
had been seated at a long oak table, of which their end was covered with
scribbled papers, flanked with whisky and cigars. Through the whole of
its remaining length it was occupied by detached objects arranged at
intervals; objects about as inexplicable as any objects could be. One
looked like a small heap of glittering broken glass. Another looked like
a high heap of brown dust. A third appeared to be a plain stick of wood.
“You seem to have a sort of geological museum here,” he said, as he sat
down, jerking his head briefly in the direction of the brown dust and
the crystalline fragments.
“Not a geological museum,” replied Flambeau; “say a psychological
museum.”
“Oh, for the Lord’s sake,” cried the police detective laughing, “don’t
let’s begin with such long words.”
“Don’t you know what psychology means?” asked Flambeau with friendly
surprise. “Psychology means being off your chump.”
“Still I hardly follow,” replied the official.
“Well,” said Flambeau, with decision, “I mean that we’ve only found out
one thing about Lord Glengyle. He was a maniac.”
The black silhouette of Gow with his top hat and spade passed the
window, dimly outlined against the darkening sky. Father Brown stared
passively at it and answered:
“I can understand there must have been something odd about the man, or
he wouldn’t have buried himself alive--nor been in such a hurry to bury
himself dead. But what makes you think it was lunacy?”
“Well,” said Flambeau, “you just listen to the list of things Mr. Craven
has found in the house.”
“We must get a candle,” said Craven, suddenly. “A storm is getting up,
and it’s too dark to read.”
“Have you found any candles,” asked Brown smiling, “among your
oddities?”
Flambeau raised a grave face, and fixed his dark eyes on his friend.
“That is curious, too,” he said. “Twenty-five candles, and not a trace
of a candlestick.”
In the rapidly darkening room and rapidly rising wind, Brown went along
the table to where a bundle of wax candles lay among the other scrappy
exhibits. As he did so he bent accidentally over the heap of red-brown
dust; and a sharp sneeze cracked the silence.
“Hullo!” he said, “snuff!”
He took one of the candles, lit it carefully, came back and stuck it in
the neck of the whisky bottle. The unrestful night air, blowing through
the crazy window, waved the long flame like a banner. And on every side
of the castle they could hear the miles and miles of black pine wood
seething like a black sea around a rock.
“I will read the inventory,” began Craven gravely, picking up one of
the papers, “the inventory of what we found loose and unexplained in the
castle. You are to understand that the place generally was dismantled
and neglected; but one or two rooms had plainly been inhabited in a
simple but not squalid style by somebody; somebody who was not the
servant Gow. The list is as follows:
“First item. A very considerable hoard of precious stones, nearly
all diamonds, and all of them loose, without any setting whatever. Of
course, it is natural that the Ogilvies should have family jewels; but
those are exactly the jewels that are almost always set in particular
articles of ornament. The Ogilvies would seem to have kept theirs loose
in their pockets, like coppers.
“Second item. Heaps and heaps of loose snuff, not kept in a horn, or
even a pouch, but lying in heaps on the mantelpieces, on the sideboard,
on the piano, anywhere. It looks as if the old gentleman would not take
the trouble to look in a pocket or lift a lid.
“Third item. Here and there about the house curious little heaps of
minute pieces of metal, some like steel springs and some in the form of
microscopic wheels. As if they had gutted some mechanical toy.
“Fourth item. The wax candles, which have to be stuck in bottle necks
because there is nothing else to stick them in. Now I wish you to note
how very much queerer all this is than anything we anticipated. For the
central riddle we are prepared; we have all seen at a glance that there
was something wrong about the last earl. We have come here to find out
whether he really lived here, whether he really died here, whether that
red-haired scarecrow who did his burying had anything to do with his
dying. But suppose the worst in all this, the most lurid or melodramatic
solution you like. Suppose the servant really killed the master, or
suppose the master isn’t really dead, or suppose the master is dressed
up as the servant, or suppose the servant is buried for the master;
invent what Wilkie Collins’ tragedy you like, and you still have not
explained a candle without a candlestick, or why an elderly gentleman of
good family should habitually spill snuff on the piano. The core of
the tale we could imagine; it is the fringes that are mysterious. By no
stretch of fancy can the human mind connect together snuff and diamonds
and wax and loose clockwork.”
“I think I see the connection,” said the priest. “This Glengyle was
mad against the French Revolution. He was an enthusiast for the ancien
regime, and was trying to re-enact literally the family life of the last
Bourbons. He had snuff because it was the eighteenth century luxury;
wax candles, because they were the eighteenth century lighting; the
mechanical bits of iron represent the locksmith hobby of Louis XVI; the
diamonds are for the Diamond Necklace of Marie Antoinette.”
Both the other men were staring at him with round eyes. “What a
perfectly extraordinary notion!” cried Flambeau. “Do you really think
that is the truth?”
“I am perfectly sure it isn’t,” answered Father Brown, “only you said
that nobody could connect snuff and diamonds and clockwork and candles.
I give you that connection off-hand. The real truth, I am very sure,
lies deeper.”
He paused a moment and listened to the wailing of the wind in the
turrets. Then he said, “The late Earl of Glengyle was a thief. He lived
a second and darker life as a desperate housebreaker. He did not have
any candlesticks because he only used these candles cut short in the
little lantern he carried. The snuff he employed as the fiercest French
criminals have used pepper: to fling it suddenly in dense masses in
the face of a captor or pursuer. But the final proof is in the curious
coincidence of the diamonds and the small steel wheels. Surely that
makes everything plain to you? Diamonds and small steel wheels are the
only two instruments with which you can cut out a pane of glass.”
The bough of a broken pine tree lashed heavily in the blast against the
windowpane behind them, as if in parody of a burglar, but they did not
turn round. Their eyes were fastened on Father Brown.
“Diamonds and small wheels,” repeated Craven ruminating. “Is that all
that makes you think it the true explanation?”
“I don’t think it the true explanation,” replied the priest placidly;
“but you said that nobody could connect the four things. The true
tale, of course, is something much more humdrum. Glengyle had found,
or thought he had found, precious stones on his estate. Somebody had
bamboozled him with those loose brilliants, saying they were found in
the castle caverns. The little wheels are some diamond-cutting affair.
He had to do the thing very roughly and in a small way, with the help of
a few shepherds or rude fellows on these hills. Snuff is the one great
luxury of such Scotch shepherds; it’s the one thing with which you can
bribe them. They didn’t have candlesticks because they didn’t want them;
they held the candles in their hands when they explored the caves.”
“Is that all?” asked Flambeau after a long pause. “Have we got to the
dull truth at last?”
“Oh, no,” said Father Brown.
As the wind died in the most distant pine woods with a long hoot as of
mockery Father Brown, with an utterly impassive face, went on:
“I only suggested that because you said one could not plausibly
connect snuff with clockwork or candles with bright stones. Ten false
philosophies will fit the universe; ten false theories will fit Glengyle
Castle. But we want the real explanation of the castle and the universe.
But are there no other exhibits?”
Craven laughed, and Flambeau rose smiling to his feet and strolled down
the long table.
“Items five, six, seven, etc.,” he said, “and certainly more varied than
instructive. A curious collection, not of lead pencils, but of the lead
out of lead pencils. A senseless stick of bamboo, with the top rather
splintered. It might be the instrument of the crime. Only, there isn’t
any crime. The only other things are a few old missals and little
Catholic pictures, which the Ogilvies kept, I suppose, from the Middle
Ages--their family pride being stronger than their Puritanism. We
only put them in the museum because they seem curiously cut about and
defaced.”
The heady tempest without drove a dreadful wrack of clouds across
Glengyle and threw the long room into darkness as Father Brown picked up
the little illuminated pages to examine them. He spoke before the drift
of darkness had passed; but it was the voice of an utterly new man.
“Mr. Craven,” said he, talking like a man ten years younger, “you have
got a legal warrant, haven’t you, to go up and examine that grave?
The sooner we do it the better, and get to the bottom of this horrible
affair. If I were you I should start now.”
“Now,” repeated the astonished detective, “and why now?”
“Because this is serious,” answered Brown; “this is not spilt snuff or
loose pebbles, that might be there for a hundred reasons. There is only
one reason I know of for this being done; and the reason goes down to
the roots of the world. These religious pictures are not just dirtied
or torn or scrawled over, which might be done in idleness or bigotry, by
children or by Protestants. These have been treated very carefully--and
very queerly. In every place where the great ornamented name of God
comes in the old illuminations it has been elaborately taken out. The
only other thing that has been removed is the halo round the head of the
Child Jesus. Therefore, I say, let us get our warrant and our spade and
our hatchet, and go up and break open that coffin.”
“What do you mean?” demanded the London officer.
“I mean,” answered the little priest, and his voice seemed to rise
slightly in the roar of the gale. “I mean that the great devil of the
universe may be sitting on the top tower of this castle at this moment,
as big as a hundred elephants, and roaring like the Apocalypse. There is
black magic somewhere at the bottom of this.”
“Black magic,” repeated Flambeau in a low voice, for he was too
enlightened a man not to know of such things; “but what can these other
things mean?”
“Oh, something damnable, I suppose,” replied Brown impatiently. “How
should I know? How can I guess all their mazes down below? Perhaps you
can make a torture out of snuff and bamboo. Perhaps lunatics lust after
wax and steel filings. Perhaps there is a maddening drug made of lead
pencils! Our shortest cut to the mystery is up the hill to the grave.”
His comrades hardly knew that they had obeyed and followed him till a
blast of the night wind nearly flung them on their faces in the garden.
Nevertheless they had obeyed him like automata; for Craven found
a hatchet in his hand, and the warrant in his pocket; Flambeau was
carrying the heavy spade of the strange gardener; Father Brown was
carrying the little gilt book from which had been torn the name of God.
The path up the hill to the churchyard was crooked but short; only under
that stress of wind it seemed laborious and long. Far as the eye could
see, farther and farther as they mounted the slope, were seas beyond
seas of pines, now all aslope one way under the wind. And that universal
gesture seemed as vain as it was vast, as vain as if that wind were
whistling about some unpeopled and purposeless planet. Through all that
infinite growth of grey-blue forests sang, shrill and high, that ancient
sorrow that is in the heart of all heathen things. One could fancy that
the voices from the under world of unfathomable foliage were cries of
the lost and wandering pagan gods: gods who had gone roaming in that
irrational forest, and who will never find their way back to heaven.
“You see,” said Father Brown in low but easy tone, “Scotch people before
Scotland existed were a curious lot. In fact, they’re a curious lot
still. But in the prehistoric times I fancy they really worshipped
demons. That,” he added genially, “is why they jumped at the Puritan
theology.”
“My friend,” said Flambeau, turning in a kind of fury, “what does all
that snuff mean?”
“My friend,” replied Brown, with equal seriousness, “there is one mark
of all genuine religions: materialism. Now, devil-worship is a perfectly
genuine religion.”
They had come up on the grassy scalp of the hill, one of the few bald
spots that stood clear of the crashing and roaring pine forest. A mean
enclosure, partly timber and partly wire, rattled in the tempest to tell
them the border of the graveyard. But by the time Inspector Craven had
come to the corner of the grave, and Flambeau had planted his spade
point downwards and leaned on it, they were both almost as shaken as the
shaky wood and wire. At the foot of the grave grew great tall
thistles, grey and silver in their decay. Once or twice, when a ball
of thistledown broke under the breeze and flew past him, Craven jumped
slightly as if it had been an arrow.
Flambeau drove the blade of his spade through the whistling grass into
the wet clay below. Then he seemed to stop and lean on it as on a staff.
“Go on,” said the priest very gently. “We are only trying to find the
truth. What are you afraid of?”
“I am afraid of finding it,” said Flambeau.
The London detective spoke suddenly in a high crowing voice that was
meant to be conversational and cheery. “I wonder why he really did hide
himself like that. Something nasty, I suppose; was he a leper?”
“Something worse than that,” said Flambeau.
“And what do you imagine,” asked the other, “would be worse than a
leper?”
“I don’t imagine it,” said Flambeau.
He dug for some dreadful minutes in silence, and then said in a choked
voice, “I’m afraid of his not being the right shape.”
“Nor was that piece of paper, you know,” said Father Brown quietly, “and
we survived even that piece of paper.”
Flambeau dug on with a blind energy. But the tempest had shouldered away
the choking grey clouds that clung to the hills like smoke and revealed
grey fields of faint starlight before he cleared the shape of a rude
timber coffin, and somehow tipped it up upon the turf. Craven stepped
forward with his axe; a thistle-top touched him, and he flinched. Then
he took a firmer stride, and hacked and wrenched with an energy like
Flambeau’s till the lid was torn off, and all that was there lay
glimmering in the grey starlight.
“Bones,” said Craven; and then he added, “but it is a man,” as if that
were something unexpected.
“Is he,” asked Flambeau in a voice that went oddly up and down, “is he
all right?”
“Seems so,” said the officer huskily, bending over the obscure and
decaying skeleton in the box. “Wait a minute.”
A vast heave went over Flambeau’s huge figure. “And now I come to think
of it,” he cried, “why in the name of madness shouldn’t he be all right?
What is it gets hold of a man on these cursed cold mountains? I think
it’s the black, brainless repetition; all these forests, and over all
an ancient horror of unconsciousness. It’s like the dream of an atheist.
Pine-trees and more pine-trees and millions more pine-trees--”
“God!” cried the man by the coffin, “but he hasn’t got a head.”
While the others stood rigid the priest, for the first time, showed a
leap of startled concern.
“No head!” he repeated. “No head?” as if he had almost expected some
other deficiency.
Half-witted visions of a headless baby born to Glengyle, of a headless
youth hiding himself in the castle, of a headless man pacing those
ancient halls or that gorgeous garden, passed in panorama through their
minds. But even in that stiffened instant the tale took no root in them
and seemed to have no reason in it. They stood listening to the loud
woods and the shrieking sky quite foolishly, like exhausted animals.
Thought seemed to be something enormous that had suddenly slipped out of
their grasp.
“There are three headless men,” said Father Brown, “standing round this
open grave.”
The pale detective from London opened his mouth to speak, and left it
open like a yokel, while a long scream of wind tore the sky; then he
looked at the axe in his hands as if it did not belong to him, and
dropped it.
“Father,” said Flambeau in that infantile and heavy voice he used very
seldom, “what are we to do?”
His friend’s reply came with the pent promptitude of a gun going off.
“Sleep!” cried Father Brown. “Sleep. We have come to the end of the
ways. Do you know what sleep is? Do you know that every man who sleeps
believes in God? It is a sacrament; for it is an act of faith and it is
a food. And we need a sacrament, if only a natural one. Something has
fallen on us that falls very seldom on men; perhaps the worst thing that
can fall on them.”
Craven’s parted lips came together to say, “What do you mean?”
The priest had turned his face to the castle as he answered: “We have
found the truth; and the truth makes no sense.”
He went down the path in front of them with a plunging and reckless
step very rare with him, and when they reached the castle again he threw
himself upon sleep with the simplicity of a dog.
Despite his mystic praise of slumber, Father Brown was up earlier than
anyone else except the silent gardener; and was found smoking a big
pipe and watching that expert at his speechless labours in the kitchen
garden. Towards daybreak the rocking storm had ended in roaring rains,
and the day came with a curious freshness. The gardener seemed even
to have been conversing, but at sight of the detectives he planted
his spade sullenly in a bed and, saying something about his breakfast,
shifted along the lines of cabbages and shut himself in the kitchen.
“He’s a valuable man, that,” said Father Brown. “He does the potatoes
amazingly. Still,” he added, with a dispassionate charity, “he has his
faults; which of us hasn’t? He doesn’t dig this bank quite regularly.
There, for instance,” and he stamped suddenly on one spot. “I’m really
very doubtful about that potato.”
“And why?” asked Craven, amused with the little man’s hobby.
“I’m doubtful about it,” said the other, “because old Gow was doubtful
about it himself. He put his spade in methodically in every place but
just this. There must be a mighty fine potato just here.”
Flambeau pulled up the spade and impetuously drove it into the place.
He turned up, under a load of soil, something that did not look like a
potato, but rather like a monstrous, over-domed mushroom. But it struck
the spade with a cold click; it rolled over like a ball, and grinned up
at them.
“The Earl of Glengyle,” said Brown sadly, and looked down heavily at the
skull.
Then, after a momentary meditation, he plucked the spade from Flambeau,
and, saying “We must hide it again,” clamped the skull down in the
earth. Then he leaned his little body and huge head on the great handle
of the spade, that stood up stiffly in the earth, and his eyes were
empty and his forehead full of wrinkles. “If one could only conceive,”
he muttered, “the meaning of this last monstrosity.” And leaning on
the large spade handle, he buried his brows in his hands, as men do in
church.
All the corners of the sky were brightening into blue and silver; the
birds were chattering in the tiny garden trees; so loud it seemed as if
the trees themselves were talking. But the three men were silent enough.
“Well, I give it all up,” said Flambeau at last boisterously. “My brain
and this world don’t fit each other; and there’s an end of it. Snuff,
spoilt Prayer Books, and the insides of musical boxes--what--”
Brown threw up his bothered brow and rapped on the spade handle with an
intolerance quite unusual with him. “Oh, tut, tut, tut, tut!” he
cried. “All that is as plain as a pikestaff. I understood the snuff
and clockwork, and so on, when I first opened my eyes this morning. And
since then I’ve had it out with old Gow, the gardener, who is neither so
deaf nor so stupid as he pretends. There’s nothing amiss about the loose
items. I was wrong about the torn mass-book, too; there’s no harm in
that. But it’s this last business. Desecrating graves and stealing dead
men’s heads--surely there’s harm in that? Surely there’s black magic
still in that? That doesn’t fit in to the quite simple story of the
snuff and the candles.” And, striding about again, he smoked moodily.
“My friend,” said Flambeau, with a grim humour, “you must be careful
with me and remember I was once a criminal. The great advantage of that
estate was that I always made up the story myself, and acted it as quick
as I chose. This detective business of waiting about is too much for my
French impatience. All my life, for good or evil, I have done things at
the instant; I always fought duels the next morning; I always paid bills
on the nail; I never even put off a visit to the dentist--”
Father Brown’s pipe fell out of his mouth and broke into three pieces
on the gravel path. He stood rolling his eyes, the exact picture of
an idiot. “Lord, what a turnip I am!” he kept saying. “Lord, what a
turnip!” Then, in a somewhat groggy kind of way, he began to laugh.
“The dentist!” he repeated. “Six hours in the spiritual abyss, and all
because I never thought of the dentist! Such a simple, such a beautiful
and peaceful thought! Friends, we have passed a night in hell; but now
the sun is risen, the birds are singing, and the radiant form of the
dentist consoles the world.”
“I will get some sense out of this,” cried Flambeau, striding forward,
“if I use the tortures of the Inquisition.”
Father Brown repressed what appeared to be a momentary disposition to
dance on the now sunlit lawn and cried quite piteously, like a child,
“Oh, let me be silly a little. You don’t know how unhappy I have been.
And now I know that there has been no deep sin in this business at all.
Only a little lunacy, perhaps--and who minds that?”
He spun round once more, then faced them with gravity.
“This is not a story of crime,” he said; “rather it is the story of a
strange and crooked honesty. We are dealing with the one man on earth,
perhaps, who has taken no more than his due. It is a study in the savage
living logic that has been the religion of this race.
“That old local rhyme about the house of Glengyle--
As green sap to the simmer trees
Is red gold to the Ogilvies--
was literal as well as metaphorical. It did not merely mean that the
Glengyles sought for wealth; it was also true that they literally
gathered gold; they had a huge collection of ornaments and utensils in
that metal. They were, in fact, misers whose mania took that turn.
In the light of that fact, run through all the things we found in the
castle. Diamonds without their gold rings; candles without their gold
candlesticks; snuff without the gold snuff-boxes; pencil-leads without
the gold pencil-cases; a walking stick without its gold top; clockwork
without the gold clocks--or rather watches. And, mad as it sounds,
because the halos and the name of God in the old missals were of real
gold; these also were taken away.”
The garden seemed to brighten, the grass to grow gayer in the
strengthening sun, as the crazy truth was told. Flambeau lit a cigarette
as his friend went on.
“Were taken away,” continued Father Brown; “were taken away--but not
stolen. Thieves would never have left this mystery. Thieves would have
taken the gold snuff-boxes, snuff and all; the gold pencil-cases, lead
and all. We have to deal with a man with a peculiar conscience, but
certainly a conscience. I found that mad moralist this morning in the
kitchen garden yonder, and I heard the whole story.
“The late Archibald Ogilvie was the nearest approach to a good man
ever born at Glengyle. But his bitter virtue took the turn of the
misanthrope; he moped over the dishonesty of his ancestors, from which,
somehow, he generalised a dishonesty of all men. More especially he
distrusted philanthropy or free-giving; and he swore if he could
find one man who took his exact rights he should have all the gold of
Glengyle. Having delivered this defiance to humanity he shut himself
up, without the smallest expectation of its being answered. One day,
however, a deaf and seemingly senseless lad from a distant village
brought him a belated telegram; and Glengyle, in his acrid pleasantry,
gave him a new farthing. At least he thought he had done so, but when
he turned over his change he found the new farthing still there and a
sovereign gone. The accident offered him vistas of sneering speculation.
Either way, the boy would show the greasy greed of the species. Either
he would vanish, a thief stealing a coin; or he would sneak back with
it virtuously, a snob seeking a reward. In the middle of that night Lord
Glengyle was knocked up out of his bed--for he lived alone--and forced
to open the door to the deaf idiot. The idiot brought with him, not
the sovereign, but exactly nineteen shillings and eleven-pence
three-farthings in change.
“Then the wild exactitude of this action took hold of the mad lord’s
brain like fire. He swore he was Diogenes, that had long sought an
honest man, and at last had found one. He made a new will, which I have
seen. He took the literal youth into his huge, neglected house, and
trained him up as his solitary servant and--after an odd manner--his
heir. And whatever that queer creature understands, he understood
absolutely his lord’s two fixed ideas: first, that the letter of right
is everything; and second, that he himself was to have the gold of
Glengyle. So far, that is all; and that is simple. He has stripped the
house of gold, and taken not a grain that was not gold; not so much as
a grain of snuff. He lifted the gold leaf off an old illumination, fully
satisfied that he left the rest unspoilt. All that I understood; but I
could not understand this skull business. I was really uneasy about that
human head buried among the potatoes. It distressed me--till Flambeau
said the word.
“It will be all right. He will put the skull back in the grave, when he
has taken the gold out of the tooth.”
And, indeed, when Flambeau crossed the hill that morning, he saw that
strange being, the just miser, digging at the desecrated grave, the
plaid round his throat thrashing out in the mountain wind; the sober top
hat on his head.

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Title: The Hunting of the Snark An Agony in Eight Fits
Author: Lewis Carroll
THE HUNTING OF THE SNARK
Lewis Carroll
THE MILLENNIUM FULCRUM EDITION 1.2
THE HUNTING OF THE SNARK
an Agony in Eight Fits
by
Lewis Carroll
Fit the First
THE LANDING
“Just the place for a Snark!” the Bellman cried,
As he landed his crew with care;
Supporting each man on the top of the tide
By a finger entwined in his hair.
“Just the place for a Snark! I have said it twice:
That alone should encourage the crew.
Just the place for a Snark! I have said it thrice:
What I tell you three times is true.”
The crew was complete: it included a Boots--
A maker of Bonnets and Hoods--
A Barrister, brought to arrange their disputes--
And a Broker, to value their goods.
A Billiard-marker, whose skill was immense,
Might perhaps have won more than his share--
But a Banker, engaged at enormous expense,
Had the whole of their cash in his care.
There was also a Beaver, that paced on the deck,
Or would sit making lace in the bow:
And had often (the Bellman said) saved them from wreck,
Though none of the sailors knew how.
There was one who was famed for the number of things
He forgot when he entered the ship:
His umbrella, his watch, all his jewels and rings,
And the clothes he had bought for the trip.
He had forty-two boxes, all carefully packed,
With his name painted clearly on each:
But, since he omitted to mention the fact,
They were all left behind on the beach.
The loss of his clothes hardly mattered, because
He had seven coats on when he came,
With three pairs of boots--but the worst of it was,
He had wholly forgotten his name.
He would answer to “Hi!” or to any loud cry,
Such as “Fry me!” or “Fritter my wig!”
To “What-you-may-call-um!” or “What-was-his-name!”
But especially “Thing-um-a-jig!”
While, for those who preferred a more forcible word,
He had different names from these:
His intimate friends called him “Candle-ends,”
And his enemies “Toasted-cheese.”
“His form is ungainly--his intellect small--”
(So the Bellman would often remark)
“But his courage is perfect! And that, after all,
Is the thing that one needs with a Snark.”
He would joke with hyenas, returning their stare
With an impudent wag of the head:
And he once went a walk, paw-in-paw, with a bear,
“Just to keep up its spirits,” he said.
He came as a Baker: but owned, when too late--
And it drove the poor Bellman half-mad--
He could only bake Bridecake--for which, I may state,
No materials were to be had.
The last of the crew needs especial remark,
Though he looked an incredible dunce:
He had just one idea--but, that one being “Snark,”
The good Bellman engaged him at once.
He came as a Butcher: but gravely declared,
When the ship had been sailing a week,
He could only kill Beavers. The Bellman looked scared,
And was almost too frightened to speak:
But at length he explained, in a tremulous tone,
There was only one Beaver on board;
And that was a tame one he had of his own,
Whose death would be deeply deplored.
The Beaver, who happened to hear the remark,
Protested, with tears in its eyes,
That not even the rapture of hunting the Snark
Could atone for that dismal surprise!
It strongly advised that the Butcher should be
Conveyed in a separate ship:
But the Bellman declared that would never agree
With the plans he had made for the trip:
Navigation was always a difficult art,
Though with only one ship and one bell:
And he feared he must really decline, for his part,
Undertaking another as well.
The Beaver’s best course was, no doubt, to procure
A second-hand dagger-proof coat--
So the Baker advised it--and next, to insure
Its life in some Office of note:
This the Banker suggested, and offered for hire
(On moderate terms), or for sale,
Two excellent Policies, one Against Fire,
And one Against Damage From Hail.
Yet still, ever after that sorrowful day,
Whenever the Butcher was by,
The Beaver kept looking the opposite way,
And appeared unaccountably shy.
Fit the Second
THE BELLMAN’S SPEECH
The Bellman himself they all praised to the skies--
Such a carriage, such ease and such grace!
Such solemnity, too! One could see he was wise,
The moment one looked in his face!
He had bought a large map representing the sea,
Without the least vestige of land:
And the crew were much pleased when they found it to be
A map they could all understand.
“What’s the good of Mercator’s North Poles and Equators,
Tropics, Zones, and Meridian Lines?”
So the Bellman would cry: and the crew would reply
“They are merely conventional signs!
“Other maps are such shapes, with their islands and capes!
But we’ve got our brave Captain to thank:”
(So the crew would protest) “that he’s bought us the best--
A perfect and absolute blank!”
This was charming, no doubt; but they shortly found out
That the Captain they trusted so well
Had only one notion for crossing the ocean,
And that was to tingle his bell.
He was thoughtful and grave--but the orders he gave
Were enough to bewilder a crew.
When he cried “Steer to starboard, but keep her head larboard!”
What on earth was the helmsman to do?
Then the bowsprit got mixed with the rudder sometimes:
A thing, as the Bellman remarked,
That frequently happens in tropical climes,
When a vessel is, so to speak, “snarked.”
But the principal failing occurred in the sailing,
And the Bellman, perplexed and distressed,
Said he had hoped, at least, when the wind blew due East,
That the ship would not travel due West!
But the danger was past--they had landed at last,
With their boxes, portmanteaus, and bags:
Yet at first sight the crew were not pleased with the view,
Which consisted of chasms and crags.
The Bellman perceived that their spirits were low,
And repeated in musical tone
Some jokes he had kept for a season of woe--
But the crew would do nothing but groan.
He served out some grog with a liberal hand,
And bade them sit down on the beach:
And they could not but own that their Captain looked grand,
As he stood and delivered his speech.
“Friends, Romans, and countrymen, lend me your ears!”
(They were all of them fond of quotations:
So they drank to his health, and they gave him three cheers,
While he served out additional rations).
“We have sailed many months, we have sailed many weeks,
(Four weeks to the month you may mark),
But never as yet [‘tis your Captain who speaks)
Have we caught the least glimpse of a Snark!
“We have sailed many weeks, we have sailed many days,
(Seven days to the week I allow),
But a Snark, on the which we might lovingly gaze,
We have never beheld till now!
“Come, listen, my men, while I tell you again
The five unmistakable marks
By which you may know, wheresoever you go,
The warranted genuine Snarks.
“Let us take them in order. The first is the taste,
Which is meagre and hollow, but crisp:
Like a coat that is rather too tight in the waist,
With a flavour of Will-o’-the-wisp.
“Its habit of getting up late you’ll agree
That it carries too far, when I say
That it frequently breakfasts at five-o’clock tea,
And dines on the following day.
“The third is its slowness in taking a jest.
Should you happen to venture on one,
It will sigh like a thing that is deeply distressed:
And it always looks grave at a pun.
“The fourth is its fondness for bathing-machines,
Which is constantly carries about,
And believes that they add to the beauty of scenes--
A sentiment open to doubt.
“The fifth is ambition. It next will be right
To describe each particular batch:
Distinguishing those that have feathers, and bite,
And those that have whiskers, and scratch.
“For, although common Snarks do no manner of harm,
Yet, I feel it my duty to say,
Some are Boojums--” The Bellman broke off in alarm,
For the Baker had fainted away.
Fit the Third
THE BAKER’S TALE
They roused him with muffins--they roused him with ice--
They roused him with mustard and cress--
They roused him with jam and judicious advice--
They set him conundrums to guess.
When at length he sat up and was able to speak,
His sad story he offered to tell;
And the Bellman cried “Silence! Not even a shriek!”
And excitedly tingled his bell.
There was silence supreme! Not a shriek, not a scream,
Scarcely even a howl or a groan,
As the man they called “Ho!” told his story of woe
In an antediluvian tone.
“My father and mother were honest, though poor--”
“Skip all that!” cried the Bellman in haste.
“If it once becomes dark, there’s no chance of a Snark--
We have hardly a minute to waste!”
“I skip forty years,” said the Baker, in tears,
“And proceed without further remark
To the day when you took me aboard of your ship
To help you in hunting the Snark.
“A dear uncle of mine (after whom I was named)
Remarked, when I bade him farewell--”
“Oh, skip your dear uncle!” the Bellman exclaimed,
As he angrily tingled his bell.
“He remarked to me then,” said that mildest of men,
“‘If your Snark be a Snark, that is right:
Fetch it home by all means--you may serve it with greens,
And it’s handy for striking a light.
“‘You may seek it with thimbles--and seek it with care;
You may hunt it with forks and hope;
You may threaten its life with a railway-share;
You may charm it with smiles and soap--’”
(“That’s exactly the method,” the Bellman bold
In a hasty parenthesis cried,
“That’s exactly the way I have always been told
That the capture of Snarks should be tried!”)
“‘But oh, beamish nephew, beware of the day,
If your Snark be a Boojum! For then
You will softly and suddenly vanish away,
And never be met with again!’
“It is this, it is this that oppresses my soul,
When I think of my uncle’s last words:
And my heart is like nothing so much as a bowl
Brimming over with quivering curds!
“It is this, it is this--” “We have had that before!”
The Bellman indignantly said.
And the Baker replied “Let me say it once more.
It is this, it is this that I dread!
“I engage with the Snark--every night after dark--
In a dreamy delirious fight:
I serve it with greens in those shadowy scenes,
And I use it for striking a light:
“But if ever I meet with a Boojum, that day,
In a moment (of this I am sure),
I shall softly and suddenly vanish away--
And the notion I cannot endure!”
Fit the fourth
THE HUNTING
The Bellman looked huffish, and wrinkled his brow.
“If only you’d spoken before!
It’s excessively awkward to mention it now,
With the Snark, so to speak, at the door!
“We should all of us grieve, as you well may believe,
If you never were met with again--
But surely, my man, when the voyage began,
You might have suggested it then?
“It’s excessively awkward to mention it now--
As I think I’ve already remarked.”
And the man they called “Hi!” replied, with a sigh,
“I informed you the day we embarked.
“You may charge me with murder--or want of sense--
(We are all of us weak at times):
But the slightest approach to a false pretence
Was never among my crimes!
“I said it in Hebrew--I said it in Dutch--
I said it in German and Greek:
But I wholly forgot (and it vexes me much)
That English is what you speak!”
“‘Tis a pitiful tale,” said the Bellman, whose face
Had grown longer at every word:
“But, now that you’ve stated the whole of your case,
More debate would be simply absurd.
“The rest of my speech” (he explained to his men)
“You shall hear when I’ve leisure to speak it.
But the Snark is at hand, let me tell you again!
‘Tis your glorious duty to seek it!
“To seek it with thimbles, to seek it with care;
To pursue it with forks and hope;
To threaten its life with a railway-share;
To charm it with smiles and soap!
“For the Snark’s a peculiar creature, that won’t
Be caught in a commonplace way.
Do all that you know, and try all that you don’t:
Not a chance must be wasted to-day!
“For England expects--I forbear to proceed:
‘Tis a maxim tremendous, but trite:
And you’d best be unpacking the things that you need
To rig yourselves out for the fight.”
Then the Banker endorsed a blank cheque (which he crossed),
And changed his loose silver for notes.
The Baker with care combed his whiskers and hair,
And shook the dust out of his coats.
The Boots and the Broker were sharpening a spade--
Each working the grindstone in turn:
But the Beaver went on making lace, and displayed
No interest in the concern:
Though the Barrister tried to appeal to its pride,
And vainly proceeded to cite
A number of cases, in which making laces
Had been proved an infringement of right.
The maker of Bonnets ferociously planned
A novel arrangement of bows:
While the Billiard-marker with quivering hand
Was chalking the tip of his nose.
But the Butcher turned nervous, and dressed himself fine,
With yellow kid gloves and a ruff--
Said he felt it exactly like going to dine,
Which the Bellman declared was all “stuff.”
“Introduce me, now there’s a good fellow,” he said,
“If we happen to meet it together!”
And the Bellman, sagaciously nodding his head,
Said “That must depend on the weather.”
The Beaver went simply galumphing about,
At seeing the Butcher so shy:
And even the Baker, though stupid and stout,
Made an effort to wink with one eye.
“Be a man!” said the Bellman in wrath, as he heard
The Butcher beginning to sob.
“Should we meet with a Jubjub, that desperate bird,
We shall need all our strength for the job!”
Fit the Fifth
THE BEAVER’S LESSON
They sought it with thimbles, they sought it with care;
They pursued it with forks and hope;
They threatened its life with a railway-share;
They charmed it with smiles and soap.
Then the Butcher contrived an ingenious plan
For making a separate sally;
And had fixed on a spot unfrequented by man,
A dismal and desolate valley.
But the very same plan to the Beaver occurred:
It had chosen the very same place:
Yet neither betrayed, by a sign or a word,
The disgust that appeared in his face.
Each thought he was thinking of nothing but “Snark”
And the glorious work of the day;
And each tried to pretend that he did not remark
That the other was going that way.
But the valley grew narrow and narrower still,
And the evening got darker and colder,
Till (merely from nervousness, not from goodwill)
They marched along shoulder to shoulder.
Then a scream, shrill and high, rent the shuddering sky,
And they knew that some danger was near:
The Beaver turned pale to the tip of its tail,
And even the Butcher felt queer.
He thought of his childhood, left far far behind--
That blissful and innocent state--
The sound so exactly recalled to his mind
A pencil that squeaks on a slate!
“‘Tis the voice of the Jubjub!” he suddenly cried.
(This man, that they used to call “Dunce.”)
“As the Bellman would tell you,” he added with pride,
“I have uttered that sentiment once.
“‘Tis the note of the Jubjub! Keep count, I entreat;
You will find I have told it you twice.
‘Tis the song of the Jubjub! The proof is complete,
If only I’ve stated it thrice.”
The Beaver had counted with scrupulous care,
Attending to every word:
But it fairly lost heart, and outgrabe in despair,
When the third repetition occurred.
It felt that, in spite of all possible pains,
It had somehow contrived to lose count,
And the only thing now was to rack its poor brains
By reckoning up the amount.
“Two added to one--if that could but be done,”
It said, “with one’s fingers and thumbs!”
Recollecting with tears how, in earlier years,
It had taken no pains with its sums.
“The thing can be done,” said the Butcher, “I think.
The thing must be done, I am sure.
The thing shall be done! Bring me paper and ink,
The best there is time to procure.”
The Beaver brought paper, portfolio, pens,
And ink in unfailing supplies:
While strange creepy creatures came out of their dens,
And watched them with wondering eyes.
So engrossed was the Butcher, he heeded them not,
As he wrote with a pen in each hand,
And explained all the while in a popular style
Which the Beaver could well understand.
“Taking Three as the subject to reason about--
A convenient number to state--
We add Seven, and Ten, and then multiply out
By One Thousand diminished by Eight.
“The result we proceed to divide, as you see,
By Nine Hundred and Ninety Two:
Then subtract Seventeen, and the answer must be
Exactly and perfectly true.
“The method employed I would gladly explain,
While I have it so clear in my head,
If I had but the time and you had but the brain--
But much yet remains to be said.
“In one moment I’ve seen what has hitherto been
Enveloped in absolute mystery,
And without extra charge I will give you at large
A Lesson in Natural History.”
In his genial way he proceeded to say
(Forgetting all laws of propriety,
And that giving instruction, without introduction,
Would have caused quite a thrill in Society),
“As to temper the Jubjub’s a desperate bird,
Since it lives in perpetual passion:
Its taste in costume is entirely absurd--
It is ages ahead of the fashion:
“But it knows any friend it has met once before:
It never will look at a bribe:
And in charity-meetings it stands at the door,
And collects--though it does not subscribe.
“Its’ flavour when cooked is more exquisite far
Than mutton, or oysters, or eggs:
(Some think it keeps best in an ivory jar,
And some, in mahogany kegs:)
“You boil it in sawdust: you salt it in glue:
You condense it with locusts and tape:
Still keeping one principal object in view--
To preserve its symmetrical shape.”
The Butcher would gladly have talked till next day,
But he felt that the lesson must end,
And he wept with delight in attempting to say
He considered the Beaver his friend.
While the Beaver confessed, with affectionate looks
More eloquent even than tears,
It had learned in ten minutes far more than all books
Would have taught it in seventy years.
They returned hand-in-hand, and the Bellman, unmanned
(For a moment) with noble emotion,
Said “This amply repays all the wearisome days
We have spent on the billowy ocean!”
Such friends, as the Beaver and Butcher became,
Have seldom if ever been known;
In winter or summer, ‘twas always the same--
You could never meet either alone.
And when quarrels arose--as one frequently finds
Quarrels will, spite of every endeavour--
The song of the Jubjub recurred to their minds,
And cemented their friendship for ever!
Fit the Sixth
THE BARRISTER’S DREAM
They sought it with thimbles, they sought it with care;
They pursued it with forks and hope;
They threatened its life with a railway-share;
They charmed it with smiles and soap.
But the Barrister, weary of proving in vain
That the Beaver’s lace-making was wrong,
Fell asleep, and in dreams saw the creature quite plain
That his fancy had dwelt on so long.
He dreamed that he stood in a shadowy Court,
Where the Snark, with a glass in its eye,
Dressed in gown, bands, and wig, was defending a pig
On the charge of deserting its sty.
The Witnesses proved, without error or flaw,
That the sty was deserted when found:
And the Judge kept explaining the state of the law
In a soft under-current of sound.
The indictment had never been clearly expressed,
And it seemed that the Snark had begun,
And had spoken three hours, before any one guessed
What the pig was supposed to have done.
The Jury had each formed a different view
(Long before the indictment was read),
And they all spoke at once, so that none of them knew
One word that the others had said.
“You must know--” said the Judge: but the Snark exclaimed “Fudge!”
That statute is obsolete quite!
Let me tell you, my friends, the whole question depends
On an ancient manorial right.
“In the matter of Treason the pig would appear
To have aided, but scarcely abetted:
While the charge of Insolvency fails, it is clear,
If you grant the plea ‘never indebted.’
“The fact of Desertion I will not dispute;
But its guilt, as I trust, is removed
(So far as related to the costs of this suit)
By the Alibi which has been proved.
“My poor client’s fate now depends on your votes.”
Here the speaker sat down in his place,
And directed the Judge to refer to his notes
And briefly to sum up the case.
But the Judge said he never had summed up before;
So the Snark undertook it instead,
And summed it so well that it came to far more
Than the Witnesses ever had said!
When the verdict was called for, the Jury declined,
As the word was so puzzling to spell;
But they ventured to hope that the Snark wouldn’t mind
Undertaking that duty as well.
So the Snark found the verdict, although, as it owned,
It was spent with the toils of the day:
When it said the word “GUILTY!” the Jury all groaned,
And some of them fainted away.
Then the Snark pronounced sentence, the Judge being quite
Too nervous to utter a word:
When it rose to its feet, there was silence like night,
And the fall of a pin might be heard.
“Transportation for life” was the sentence it gave,
“And _then_ to be fined forty pound.”
The Jury all cheered, though the Judge said he feared
That the phrase was not legally sound.
But their wild exultation was suddenly checked
When the jailer informed them, with tears,
Such a sentence would have not the slightest effect,
As the pig had been dead for some years.
The Judge left the Court, looking deeply disgusted:
But the Snark, though a little aghast,
As the lawyer to whom the defense was entrusted,
Went bellowing on to the last.
Thus the Barrister dreamed, while the bellowing seemed
To grow every moment more clear:
Till he woke to the knell of a furious bell,
Which the Bellman rang close at his ear.
Fit the Seventh
THE BANKER’S FATE
They sought it with thimbles, they sought it with care;
They pursued it with forks and hope;
They threatened its life with a railway-share;
They charmed it with smiles and soap.
And the Banker, inspired with a courage so new
It was matter for general remark,
Rushed madly ahead and was lost to their view
In his zeal to discover the Snark
But while he was seeking with thimbles and care,
A Bandersnatch swiftly drew nigh
And grabbed at the Banker, who shrieked in despair,
For he knew it was useless to fly.
He offered large discount--he offered a cheque
(Drawn “to bearer”) for seven-pounds-ten:
But the Bandersnatch merely extended its neck
And grabbed at the Banker again.
Without rest or pause--while those frumious jaws
Went savagely snapping around--
He skipped and he hopped, and he floundered and flopped,
Till fainting he fell to the ground.
The Bandersnatch fled as the others appeared
Led on by that fear-stricken yell:
And the Bellman remarked “It is just as I feared!”
And solemnly tolled on his bell.
He was black in the face, and they scarcely could trace
The least likeness to what he had been:
While so great was his fright that his waistcoat turned white--
A wonderful thing to be seen!
To the horror of all who were present that day.
He uprose in full evening dress,
And with senseless grimaces endeavoured to say
What his tongue could no longer express.
Down he sank in a chair--ran his hands through his hair--
And chanted in mimsiest tones
Words whose utter inanity proved his insanity,
While he rattled a couple of bones.
“Leave him here to his fate--it is getting so late!”
The Bellman exclaimed in a fright.
“We have lost half the day. Any further delay,
And we sha’nt catch a Snark before night!”
Fit the Eighth
THE VANISHING
They sought it with thimbles, they sought it with care;
They pursued it with forks and hope;
They threatened its life with a railway-share;
They charmed it with smiles and soap.
They shuddered to think that the chase might fail,
And the Beaver, excited at last,
Went bounding along on the tip of its tail,
For the daylight was nearly past.
“There is Thingumbob shouting!” the Bellman said,
“He is shouting like mad, only hark!
He is waving his hands, he is wagging his head,
He has certainly found a Snark!”
They gazed in delight, while the Butcher exclaimed
“He was always a desperate wag!”
They beheld him--their Baker--their hero unnamed--
On the top of a neighboring crag.
Erect and sublime, for one moment of time.
In the next, that wild figure they saw
(As if stung by a spasm) plunge into a chasm,
While they waited and listened in awe.
“It’s a Snark!” was the sound that first came to their ears,
And seemed almost too good to be true.
Then followed a torrent of laughter and cheers:
Then the ominous words “It’s a Boo-”
Then, silence. Some fancied they heard in the air
A weary and wandering sigh
Then sounded like “-jum!” but the others declare
It was only a breeze that went by.
They hunted till darkness came on, but they found
Not a button, or feather, or mark,
By which they could tell that they stood on the ground
Where the Baker had met with the Snark.
In the midst of the word he was trying to say,
In the midst of his laughter and glee,
He had softly and suddenly vanished away---
For the Snark _was_ a Boojum, you see.
THE END

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Title: The Invisible Man
Author: G. K. Chesterton
The Invisible Man
In the cool blue twilight of two steep streets in Camden Town, the shop
at the corner, a confectioner’s, glowed like the butt of a cigar. One
should rather say, perhaps, like the butt of a firework, for the light
was of many colours and some complexity, broken up by many mirrors and
dancing on many gilt and gaily-coloured cakes and sweetmeats. Against
this one fiery glass were glued the noses of many gutter-snipes, for
the chocolates were all wrapped in those red and gold and green metallic
colours which are almost better than chocolate itself; and the huge
white wedding-cake in the window was somehow at once remote and
satisfying, just as if the whole North Pole were good to eat.
Such rainbow provocations could naturally collect the youth of the
neighbourhood up to the ages of ten or twelve. But this corner was also
attractive to youth at a later stage; and a young man, not less than
twenty-four, was staring into the same shop window. To him, also,
the shop was of fiery charm, but this attraction was not wholly to be
explained by chocolates; which, however, he was far from despising.
He was a tall, burly, red-haired young man, with a resolute face but
a listless manner. He carried under his arm a flat, grey portfolio of
black-and-white sketches, which he had sold with more or less success
to publishers ever since his uncle (who was an admiral) had disinherited
him for Socialism, because of a lecture which he had delivered against
that economic theory. His name was John Turnbull Angus.
Entering at last, he walked through the confectioner’s shop to the back
room, which was a sort of pastry-cook restaurant, merely raising his hat
to the young lady who was serving there. She was a dark, elegant, alert
girl in black, with a high colour and very quick, dark eyes; and after
the ordinary interval she followed him into the inner room to take his
order.
His order was evidently a usual one. “I want, please,” he said with
precision, “one halfpenny bun and a small cup of black coffee.” An
instant before the girl could turn away he added, “Also, I want you to
marry me.”
The young lady of the shop stiffened suddenly and said, “Those are jokes
I don’t allow.”
The red-haired young man lifted grey eyes of an unexpected gravity.
“Really and truly,” he said, “it’s as serious--as serious as the
halfpenny bun. It is expensive, like the bun; one pays for it. It is
indigestible, like the bun. It hurts.”
The dark young lady had never taken her dark eyes off him, but seemed
to be studying him with almost tragic exactitude. At the end of her
scrutiny she had something like the shadow of a smile, and she sat down
in a chair.
“Don’t you think,” observed Angus, absently, “that it’s rather cruel to
eat these halfpenny buns? They might grow up into penny buns. I shall
give up these brutal sports when we are married.”
The dark young lady rose from her chair and walked to the window,
evidently in a state of strong but not unsympathetic cogitation. When at
last she swung round again with an air of resolution she was bewildered
to observe that the young man was carefully laying out on the table
various objects from the shop-window. They included a pyramid of highly
coloured sweets, several plates of sandwiches, and the two decanters
containing that mysterious port and sherry which are peculiar to
pastry-cooks. In the middle of this neat arrangement he had carefully
let down the enormous load of white sugared cake which had been the huge
ornament of the window.
“What on earth are you doing?” she asked.
“Duty, my dear Laura,” he began.
“Oh, for the Lord’s sake, stop a minute,” she cried, “and don’t talk to
me in that way. I mean, what is all that?”
“A ceremonial meal, Miss Hope.”
“And what is that?” she asked impatiently, pointing to the mountain of
sugar.
“The wedding-cake, Mrs. Angus,” he said.
The girl marched to that article, removed it with some clatter, and put
it back in the shop window; she then returned, and, putting her elegant
elbows on the table, regarded the young man not unfavourably but with
considerable exasperation.
“You don’t give me any time to think,” she said.
“I’m not such a fool,” he answered; “that’s my Christian humility.”
She was still looking at him; but she had grown considerably graver
behind the smile.
“Mr. Angus,” she said steadily, “before there is a minute more of this
nonsense I must tell you something about myself as shortly as I can.’”
“Delighted,” replied Angus gravely. “You might tell me something about
myself, too, while you are about it.”
“Oh, do hold your tongue and listen,” she said. “It’s nothing that I’m
ashamed of, and it isn’t even anything that I’m specially sorry about.
But what would you say if there were something that is no business of
mine and yet is my nightmare?”
“In that case,” said the man seriously, “I should suggest that you bring
back the cake.”
“Well, you must listen to the story first,” said Laura, persistently.
“To begin with, I must tell you that my father owned the inn called the
‘Red Fish’ at Ludbury, and I used to serve people in the bar.”
“I have often wondered,” he said, “why there was a kind of a Christian
air about this one confectioner’s shop.”
“Ludbury is a sleepy, grassy little hole in the Eastern Counties, and
the only kind of people who ever came to the ‘Red Fish’ were occasional
commercial travellers, and for the rest, the most awful people you can
see, only you’ve never seen them. I mean little, loungy men, who had
just enough to live on and had nothing to do but lean about in bar-rooms
and bet on horses, in bad clothes that were just too good for them.
Even these wretched young rotters were not very common at our house; but
there were two of them that were a lot too common--common in every sort
of way. They both lived on money of their own, and were wearisomely idle
and over-dressed. But yet I was a bit sorry for them, because I half
believe they slunk into our little empty bar because each of them had a
slight deformity; the sort of thing that some yokels laugh at. It wasn’t
exactly a deformity either; it was more an oddity. One of them was
a surprisingly small man, something like a dwarf, or at least like a
jockey. He was not at all jockeyish to look at, though; he had a round
black head and a well-trimmed black beard, bright eyes like a bird’s; he
jingled money in his pockets; he jangled a great gold watch chain; and
he never turned up except dressed just too much like a gentleman to
be one. He was no fool though, though a futile idler; he was curiously
clever at all kinds of things that couldn’t be the slightest use; a sort
of impromptu conjuring; making fifteen matches set fire to each other
like a regular firework; or cutting a banana or some such thing into a
dancing doll. His name was Isidore Smythe; and I can see him still, with
his little dark face, just coming up to the counter, making a jumping
kangaroo out of five cigars.
“The other fellow was more silent and more ordinary; but somehow he
alarmed me much more than poor little Smythe. He was very tall and
slight, and light-haired; his nose had a high bridge, and he might
almost have been handsome in a spectral sort of way; but he had one of
the most appalling squints I have ever seen or heard of. When he looked
straight at you, you didn’t know where you were yourself, let alone what
he was looking at. I fancy this sort of disfigurement embittered the
poor chap a little; for while Smythe was ready to show off his monkey
tricks anywhere, James Welkin (that was the squinting man’s name) never
did anything except soak in our bar parlour, and go for great walks
by himself in the flat, grey country all round. All the same, I think
Smythe, too, was a little sensitive about being so small, though he
carried it off more smartly. And so it was that I was really puzzled, as
well as startled, and very sorry, when they both offered to marry me in
the same week.
“Well, I did what I’ve since thought was perhaps a silly thing. But,
after all, these freaks were my friends in a way; and I had a horror of
their thinking I refused them for the real reason, which was that they
were so impossibly ugly. So I made up some gas of another sort, about
never meaning to marry anyone who hadn’t carved his way in the world. I
said it was a point of principle with me not to live on money that
was just inherited like theirs. Two days after I had talked in this
well-meaning sort of way, the whole trouble began. The first thing I
heard was that both of them had gone off to seek their fortunes, as if
they were in some silly fairy tale.
“Well, I’ve never seen either of them from that day to this. But I’ve
had two letters from the little man called Smythe, and really they were
rather exciting.”
“Ever heard of the other man?” asked Angus.
“No, he never wrote,” said the girl, after an instant’s hesitation.
“Smythe’s first letter was simply to say that he had started out walking
with Welkin to London; but Welkin was such a good walker that the little
man dropped out of it, and took a rest by the roadside. He happened to
be picked up by some travelling show, and, partly because he was nearly
a dwarf, and partly because he was really a clever little wretch, he
got on quite well in the show business, and was soon sent up to the
Aquarium, to do some tricks that I forget. That was his first letter.
His second was much more of a startler, and I only got it last week.”
The man called Angus emptied his coffee-cup and regarded her with mild
and patient eyes. Her own mouth took a slight twist of laughter as
she resumed, “I suppose you’ve seen on the hoardings all about this
‘Smythe’s Silent Service’? Or you must be the only person that hasn’t.
Oh, I don’t know much about it, it’s some clockwork invention for doing
all the housework by machinery. You know the sort of thing: ‘Press a
Button--A Butler who Never Drinks.’ ‘Turn a Handle--Ten Housemaids who
Never Flirt.’ You must have seen the advertisements. Well, whatever
these machines are, they are making pots of money; and they are making
it all for that little imp whom I knew down in Ludbury. I can’t help
feeling pleased the poor little chap has fallen on his feet; but the
plain fact is, I’m in terror of his turning up any minute and telling me
he’s carved his way in the world--as he certainly has.”
“And the other man?” repeated Angus with a sort of obstinate quietude.
Laura Hope got to her feet suddenly. “My friend,” she said, “I think
you are a witch. Yes, you are quite right. I have not seen a line of the
other man’s writing; and I have no more notion than the dead of what or
where he is. But it is of him that I am frightened. It is he who is all
about my path. It is he who has half driven me mad. Indeed, I think he
has driven me mad; for I have felt him where he could not have been, and
I have heard his voice when he could not have spoken.”
“Well, my dear,” said the young man, cheerfully, “if he were Satan
himself, he is done for now you have told somebody. One goes mad all
alone, old girl. But when was it you fancied you felt and heard our
squinting friend?”
“I heard James Welkin laugh as plainly as I hear you speak,” said the
girl, steadily. “There was nobody there, for I stood just outside the
shop at the corner, and could see down both streets at once. I had
forgotten how he laughed, though his laugh was as odd as his squint. I
had not thought of him for nearly a year. But it’s a solemn truth that a
few seconds later the first letter came from his rival.”
“Did you ever make the spectre speak or squeak, or anything?” asked
Angus, with some interest.
Laura suddenly shuddered, and then said, with an unshaken voice, “Yes.
Just when I had finished reading the second letter from Isidore Smythe
announcing his success. Just then, I heard Welkin say, ‘He shan’t have
you, though.’ It was quite plain, as if he were in the room. It is
awful, I think I must be mad.”
“If you really were mad,” said the young man, “you would think you must
be sane. But certainly there seems to me to be something a little rum
about this unseen gentleman. Two heads are better than one--I spare you
allusions to any other organs and really, if you would allow me, as
a sturdy, practical man, to bring back the wedding-cake out of the
window--”
Even as he spoke, there was a sort of steely shriek in the street
outside, and a small motor, driven at devilish speed, shot up to the
door of the shop and stuck there. In the same flash of time a small man
in a shiny top hat stood stamping in the outer room.
Angus, who had hitherto maintained hilarious ease from motives of mental
hygiene, revealed the strain of his soul by striding abruptly out of
the inner room and confronting the new-comer. A glance at him was quite
sufficient to confirm the savage guesswork of a man in love. This
very dapper but dwarfish figure, with the spike of black beard carried
insolently forward, the clever unrestful eyes, the neat but very nervous
fingers, could be none other than the man just described to him: Isidore
Smythe, who made dolls out of banana skins and match-boxes; Isidore
Smythe, who made millions out of undrinking butlers and unflirting
housemaids of metal. For a moment the two men, instinctively
understanding each other’s air of possession, looked at each other with
that curious cold generosity which is the soul of rivalry.
Mr. Smythe, however, made no allusion to the ultimate ground of their
antagonism, but said simply and explosively, “Has Miss Hope seen that
thing on the window?”
“On the window?” repeated the staring Angus.
“There’s no time to explain other things,” said the small millionaire
shortly. “There’s some tomfoolery going on here that has to be
investigated.”
He pointed his polished walking-stick at the window, recently depleted
by the bridal preparations of Mr. Angus; and that gentleman was
astonished to see along the front of the glass a long strip of paper
pasted, which had certainly not been on the window when he looked
through it some time before. Following the energetic Smythe outside into
the street, he found that some yard and a half of stamp paper had been
carefully gummed along the glass outside, and on this was written in
straggly characters, “If you marry Smythe, he will die.”
“Laura,” said Angus, putting his big red head into the shop, “you’re not
mad.”
“It’s the writing of that fellow Welkin,” said Smythe gruffly. “I
haven’t seen him for years, but he’s always bothering me. Five times in
the last fortnight he’s had threatening letters left at my flat, and I
can’t even find out who leaves them, let alone if it is Welkin himself.
The porter of the flats swears that no suspicious characters have been
seen, and here he has pasted up a sort of dado on a public shop window,
while the people in the shop--”
“Quite so,” said Angus modestly, “while the people in the shop were
having tea. Well, sir, I can assure you I appreciate your common sense
in dealing so directly with the matter. We can talk about other things
afterwards. The fellow cannot be very far off yet, for I swear there was
no paper there when I went last to the window, ten or fifteen minutes
ago. On the other hand, he’s too far off to be chased, as we don’t even
know the direction. If you’ll take my advice, Mr. Smythe, you’ll put
this at once in the hands of some energetic inquiry man, private rather
than public. I know an extremely clever fellow, who has set up in
business five minutes from here in your car. His name’s Flambeau, and
though his youth was a bit stormy, he’s a strictly honest man now, and
his brains are worth money. He lives in Lucknow Mansions, Hampstead.”
“That is odd,” said the little man, arching his black eyebrows. “I live,
myself, in Himylaya Mansions, round the corner. Perhaps you might care
to come with me; I can go to my rooms and sort out these queer Welkin
documents, while you run round and get your friend the detective.”
“You are very good,” said Angus politely. “Well, the sooner we act the
better.”
Both men, with a queer kind of impromptu fairness, took the same sort of
formal farewell of the lady, and both jumped into the brisk little
car. As Smythe took the handles and they turned the great corner of the
street, Angus was amused to see a gigantesque poster of “Smythe’s
Silent Service,” with a picture of a huge headless iron doll, carrying a
saucepan with the legend, “A Cook Who is Never Cross.”
“I use them in my own flat,” said the little black-bearded man,
laughing, “partly for advertisements, and partly for real convenience.
Honestly, and all above board, those big clockwork dolls of mine do
bring your coals or claret or a timetable quicker than any live servants
I’ve ever known, if you know which knob to press. But I’ll never deny,
between ourselves, that such servants have their disadvantages, too.”
“Indeed?” said Angus; “is there something they can’t do?”
“Yes,” replied Smythe coolly; “they can’t tell me who left those
threatening letters at my flat.”
The man’s motor was small and swift like himself; in fact, like his
domestic service, it was of his own invention. If he was an advertising
quack, he was one who believed in his own wares. The sense of something
tiny and flying was accentuated as they swept up long white curves of
road in the dead but open daylight of evening. Soon the white curves
came sharper and dizzier; they were upon ascending spirals, as they say
in the modern religions. For, indeed, they were cresting a corner of
London which is almost as precipitous as Edinburgh, if not quite so
picturesque. Terrace rose above terrace, and the special tower of flats
they sought, rose above them all to almost Egyptian height, gilt by
the level sunset. The change, as they turned the corner and entered the
crescent known as Himylaya Mansions, was as abrupt as the opening of a
window; for they found that pile of flats sitting above London as above
a green sea of slate. Opposite to the mansions, on the other side of the
gravel crescent, was a bushy enclosure more like a steep hedge or dyke
than a garden, and some way below that ran a strip of artificial water,
a sort of canal, like the moat of that embowered fortress. As the car
swept round the crescent it passed, at one corner, the stray stall of
a man selling chestnuts; and right away at the other end of the curve,
Angus could see a dim blue policeman walking slowly. These were the only
human shapes in that high suburban solitude; but he had an irrational
sense that they expressed the speechless poetry of London. He felt as if
they were figures in a story.
The little car shot up to the right house like a bullet, and shot out
its owner like a bomb shell. He was immediately inquiring of a tall
commissionaire in shining braid, and a short porter in shirt sleeves,
whether anybody or anything had been seeking his apartments. He was
assured that nobody and nothing had passed these officials since his
last inquiries; whereupon he and the slightly bewildered Angus were shot
up in the lift like a rocket, till they reached the top floor.
“Just come in for a minute,” said the breathless Smythe. “I want to show
you those Welkin letters. Then you might run round the corner and fetch
your friend.” He pressed a button concealed in the wall, and the door
opened of itself.
It opened on a long, commodious ante-room, of which the only arresting
features, ordinarily speaking, were the rows of tall half-human
mechanical figures that stood up on both sides like tailors’ dummies.
Like tailors’ dummies they were headless; and like tailors’ dummies
they had a handsome unnecessary humpiness in the shoulders, and a
pigeon-breasted protuberance of chest; but barring this, they were not
much more like a human figure than any automatic machine at a station
that is about the human height. They had two great hooks like arms, for
carrying trays; and they were painted pea-green, or vermilion, or
black for convenience of distinction; in every other way they were only
automatic machines and nobody would have looked twice at them. On
this occasion, at least, nobody did. For between the two rows of
these domestic dummies lay something more interesting than most of the
mechanics of the world. It was a white, tattered scrap of paper scrawled
with red ink; and the agile inventor had snatched it up almost as soon
as the door flew open. He handed it to Angus without a word. The red ink
on it actually was not dry, and the message ran, “If you have been to
see her today, I shall kill you.”
There was a short silence, and then Isidore Smythe said quietly, “Would
you like a little whiskey? I rather feel as if I should.”
“Thank you; I should like a little Flambeau,” said Angus, gloomily.
“This business seems to me to be getting rather grave. I’m going round
at once to fetch him.”
“Right you are,” said the other, with admirable cheerfulness. “Bring him
round here as quick as you can.”
But as Angus closed the front door behind him he saw Smythe push back a
button, and one of the clockwork images glided from its place and slid
along a groove in the floor carrying a tray with syphon and decanter.
There did seem something a trifle weird about leaving the little man
alone among those dead servants, who were coming to life as the door
closed.
Six steps down from Smythe’s landing the man in shirt sleeves was doing
something with a pail. Angus stopped to extract a promise, fortified
with a prospective bribe, that he would remain in that place until the
return with the detective, and would keep count of any kind of stranger
coming up those stairs. Dashing down to the front hall he then laid
similar charges of vigilance on the commissionaire at the front door,
from whom he learned the simplifying circumstances that there was no
back door. Not content with this, he captured the floating policeman
and induced him to stand opposite the entrance and watch it; and finally
paused an instant for a pennyworth of chestnuts, and an inquiry as to
the probable length of the merchant’s stay in the neighbourhood.
The chestnut seller, turning up the collar of his coat, told him he
should probably be moving shortly, as he thought it was going to snow.
Indeed, the evening was growing grey and bitter, but Angus, with all his
eloquence, proceeded to nail the chestnut man to his post.
“Keep yourself warm on your own chestnuts,” he said earnestly. “Eat
up your whole stock; I’ll make it worth your while. I’ll give you a
sovereign if you’ll wait here till I come back, and then tell me
whether any man, woman, or child has gone into that house where the
commissionaire is standing.”
He then walked away smartly, with a last look at the besieged tower.
“I’ve made a ring round that room, anyhow,” he said. “They can’t all
four of them be Mr. Welkin’s accomplices.”
Lucknow Mansions were, so to speak, on a lower platform of that hill
of houses, of which Himylaya Mansions might be called the peak. Mr.
Flambeau’s semi-official flat was on the ground floor, and presented
in every way a marked contrast to the American machinery and cold
hotel-like luxury of the flat of the Silent Service. Flambeau, who was
a friend of Angus, received him in a rococo artistic den behind his
office, of which the ornaments were sabres, harquebuses, Eastern
curiosities, flasks of Italian wine, savage cooking-pots, a plumy
Persian cat, and a small dusty-looking Roman Catholic priest, who looked
particularly out of place.
“This is my friend Father Brown,” said Flambeau. “I’ve often wanted you
to meet him. Splendid weather, this; a little cold for Southerners like
me.”
“Yes, I think it will keep clear,” said Angus, sitting down on a
violet-striped Eastern ottoman.
“No,” said the priest quietly, “it has begun to snow.”
And, indeed, as he spoke, the first few flakes, foreseen by the man of
chestnuts, began to drift across the darkening windowpane.
“Well,” said Angus heavily. “I’m afraid I’ve come on business, and
rather jumpy business at that. The fact is, Flambeau, within a stone’s
throw of your house is a fellow who badly wants your help; he’s
perpetually being haunted and threatened by an invisible enemy--a
scoundrel whom nobody has even seen.” As Angus proceeded to tell the
whole tale of Smythe and Welkin, beginning with Laura’s story, and
going on with his own, the supernatural laugh at the corner of two empty
streets, the strange distinct words spoken in an empty room, Flambeau
grew more and more vividly concerned, and the little priest seemed to be
left out of it, like a piece of furniture. When it came to the scribbled
stamp-paper pasted on the window, Flambeau rose, seeming to fill the
room with his huge shoulders.
“If you don’t mind,” he said, “I think you had better tell me the rest
on the nearest road to this man’s house. It strikes me, somehow, that
there is no time to be lost.”
“Delighted,” said Angus, rising also, “though he’s safe enough for the
present, for I’ve set four men to watch the only hole to his burrow.”
They turned out into the street, the small priest trundling after them
with the docility of a small dog. He merely said, in a cheerful way,
like one making conversation, “How quick the snow gets thick on the
ground.”
As they threaded the steep side streets already powdered with silver,
Angus finished his story; and by the time they reached the crescent with
the towering flats, he had leisure to turn his attention to the four
sentinels. The chestnut seller, both before and after receiving a
sovereign, swore stubbornly that he had watched the door and seen no
visitor enter. The policeman was even more emphatic. He said he had had
experience of crooks of all kinds, in top hats and in rags; he wasn’t so
green as to expect suspicious characters to look suspicious; he looked
out for anybody, and, so help him, there had been nobody. And when all
three men gathered round the gilded commissionaire, who still stood
smiling astride of the porch, the verdict was more final still.
“I’ve got a right to ask any man, duke or dustman, what he wants in
these flats,” said the genial and gold-laced giant, “and I’ll swear
there’s been nobody to ask since this gentleman went away.”
The unimportant Father Brown, who stood back, looking modestly at the
pavement, here ventured to say meekly, “Has nobody been up and down
stairs, then, since the snow began to fall? It began while we were all
round at Flambeau’s.”
“Nobody’s been in here, sir, you can take it from me,” said the
official, with beaming authority.
“Then I wonder what that is?” said the priest, and stared at the ground
blankly like a fish.
The others all looked down also; and Flambeau used a fierce exclamation
and a French gesture. For it was unquestionably true that down the
middle of the entrance guarded by the man in gold lace, actually between
the arrogant, stretched legs of that colossus, ran a stringy pattern of
grey footprints stamped upon the white snow.
“God!” cried Angus involuntarily, “the Invisible Man!”
Without another word he turned and dashed up the stairs, with Flambeau
following; but Father Brown still stood looking about him in the
snow-clad street as if he had lost interest in his query.
Flambeau was plainly in a mood to break down the door with his big
shoulders; but the Scotchman, with more reason, if less intuition,
fumbled about on the frame of the door till he found the invisible
button; and the door swung slowly open.
It showed substantially the same serried interior; the hall had grown
darker, though it was still struck here and there with the last crimson
shafts of sunset, and one or two of the headless machines had been moved
from their places for this or that purpose, and stood here and there
about the twilit place. The green and red of their coats were all
darkened in the dusk; and their likeness to human shapes slightly
increased by their very shapelessness. But in the middle of them all,
exactly where the paper with the red ink had lain, there lay something
that looked like red ink spilt out of its bottle. But it was not red
ink.
With a French combination of reason and violence Flambeau simply said
“Murder!” and, plunging into the flat, had explored, every corner and
cupboard of it in five minutes. But if he expected to find a corpse he
found none. Isidore Smythe was not in the place, either dead or alive.
After the most tearing search the two men met each other in the outer
hall, with streaming faces and staring eyes. “My friend,” said Flambeau,
talking French in his excitement, “not only is your murderer invisible,
but he makes invisible also the murdered man.”
Angus looked round at the dim room full of dummies, and in some Celtic
corner of his Scotch soul a shudder started. One of the life-size dolls
stood immediately overshadowing the blood stain, summoned, perhaps,
by the slain man an instant before he fell. One of the high-shouldered
hooks that served the thing for arms, was a little lifted, and Angus had
suddenly the horrid fancy that poor Smythe’s own iron child had struck
him down. Matter had rebelled, and these machines had killed their
master. But even so, what had they done with him?
“Eaten him?” said the nightmare at his ear; and he sickened for an
instant at the idea of rent, human remains absorbed and crushed into all
that acephalous clockwork.
He recovered his mental health by an emphatic effort, and said to
Flambeau, “Well, there it is. The poor fellow has evaporated like a
cloud and left a red streak on the floor. The tale does not belong to
this world.”
“There is only one thing to be done,” said Flambeau, “whether it belongs
to this world or the other. I must go down and talk to my friend.”
They descended, passing the man with the pail, who again asseverated
that he had let no intruder pass, down to the commissionaire and the
hovering chestnut man, who rigidly reasserted their own watchfulness.
But when Angus looked round for his fourth confirmation he could not see
it, and called out with some nervousness, “Where is the policeman?”
“I beg your pardon,” said Father Brown; “that is my fault. I just sent
him down the road to investigate something--that I just thought worth
investigating.”
“Well, we want him back pretty soon,” said Angus abruptly, “for the
wretched man upstairs has not only been murdered, but wiped out.”
“How?” asked the priest.
“Father,” said Flambeau, after a pause, “upon my soul I believe it is
more in your department than mine. No friend or foe has entered the
house, but Smythe is gone, as if stolen by the fairies. If that is not
supernatural, I--”
As he spoke they were all checked by an unusual sight; the big blue
policeman came round the corner of the crescent, running. He came
straight up to Brown.
“You’re right, sir,” he panted, “they’ve just found poor Mr. Smythe’s
body in the canal down below.”
Angus put his hand wildly to his head. “Did he run down and drown
himself?” he asked.
“He never came down, I’ll swear,” said the constable, “and he wasn’t
drowned either, for he died of a great stab over the heart.”
“And yet you saw no one enter?” said Flambeau in a grave voice.
“Let us walk down the road a little,” said the priest.
As they reached the other end of the crescent he observed abruptly,
“Stupid of me! I forgot to ask the policeman something. I wonder if they
found a light brown sack.”
“Why a light brown sack?” asked Angus, astonished.
“Because if it was any other coloured sack, the case must begin over
again,” said Father Brown; “but if it was a light brown sack, why, the
case is finished.”
“I am pleased to hear it,” said Angus with hearty irony. “It hasn’t
begun, so far as I am concerned.”
“You must tell us all about it,” said Flambeau with a strange heavy
simplicity, like a child.
Unconsciously they were walking with quickening steps down the long
sweep of road on the other side of the high crescent, Father Brown
leading briskly, though in silence. At last he said with an almost
touching vagueness, “Well, I’m afraid you’ll think it so prosy. We
always begin at the abstract end of things, and you can’t begin this
story anywhere else.
“Have you ever noticed this--that people never answer what you say? They
answer what you mean--or what they think you mean. Suppose one lady says
to another in a country house, ‘Is anybody staying with you?’ the lady
doesn’t answer ‘Yes; the butler, the three footmen, the parlourmaid, and
so on,’ though the parlourmaid may be in the room, or the butler behind
her chair. She says ‘There is nobody staying with us,’ meaning nobody of
the sort you mean. But suppose a doctor inquiring into an epidemic asks,
‘Who is staying in the house?’ then the lady will remember the butler,
the parlourmaid, and the rest. All language is used like that; you never
get a question answered literally, even when you get it answered truly.
When those four quite honest men said that no man had gone into the
Mansions, they did not really mean that no man had gone into them. They
meant no man whom they could suspect of being your man. A man did go
into the house, and did come out of it, but they never noticed him.”
“An invisible man?” inquired Angus, raising his red eyebrows. “A
mentally invisible man,” said Father Brown.
A minute or two after he resumed in the same unassuming voice, like a
man thinking his way. “Of course you can’t think of such a man, until
you do think of him. That’s where his cleverness comes in. But I came
to think of him through two or three little things in the tale Mr. Angus
told us. First, there was the fact that this Welkin went for long walks.
And then there was the vast lot of stamp paper on the window. And then,
most of all, there were the two things the young lady said--things that
couldn’t be true. Don’t get annoyed,” he added hastily, noting a sudden
movement of the Scotchman’s head; “she thought they were true. A person
can’t be quite alone in a street a second before she receives a letter.
She can’t be quite alone in a street when she starts reading a letter
just received. There must be somebody pretty near her; he must be
mentally invisible.”
“Why must there be somebody near her?” asked Angus.
“Because,” said Father Brown, “barring carrier-pigeons, somebody must
have brought her the letter.”
“Do you really mean to say,” asked Flambeau, with energy, “that Welkin
carried his rival’s letters to his lady?”
“Yes,” said the priest. “Welkin carried his rival’s letters to his lady.
You see, he had to.”
“Oh, I can’t stand much more of this,” exploded Flambeau. “Who is this
fellow? What does he look like? What is the usual get-up of a mentally
invisible man?”
“He is dressed rather handsomely in red, blue and gold,” replied the
priest promptly with precision, “and in this striking, and even showy,
costume he entered Himylaya Mansions under eight human eyes; he killed
Smythe in cold blood, and came down into the street again carrying the
dead body in his arms--”
“Reverend sir,” cried Angus, standing still, “are you raving mad, or am
I?”
“You are not mad,” said Brown, “only a little unobservant. You have not
noticed such a man as this, for example.”
He took three quick strides forward, and put his hand on the shoulder of
an ordinary passing postman who had bustled by them unnoticed under the
shade of the trees.
“Nobody ever notices postmen somehow,” he said thoughtfully; “yet they
have passions like other men, and even carry large bags where a small
corpse can be stowed quite easily.”
The postman, instead of turning naturally, had ducked and tumbled
against the garden fence. He was a lean fair-bearded man of very
ordinary appearance, but as he turned an alarmed face over his shoulder,
all three men were fixed with an almost fiendish squint.
* * * * *
Flambeau went back to his sabres, purple rugs and Persian cat, having
many things to attend to. John Turnbull Angus went back to the lady at
the shop, with whom that imprudent young man contrives to be extremely
comfortable. But Father Brown walked those snow-covered hills under the
stars for many hours with a murderer, and what they said to each other
will never be known.

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Title: The Queer Feet
Author: G. K. Chesterton
The Queer Feet
If you meet a member of that select club, “The Twelve True Fishermen,”
entering the Vernon Hotel for the annual club dinner, you will observe,
as he takes off his overcoat, that his evening coat is green and not
black. If (supposing that you have the star-defying audacity to address
such a being) you ask him why, he will probably answer that he does it
to avoid being mistaken for a waiter. You will then retire crushed. But
you will leave behind you a mystery as yet unsolved and a tale worth
telling.
If (to pursue the same vein of improbable conjecture) you were to meet
a mild, hard-working little priest, named Father Brown, and were to ask
him what he thought was the most singular luck of his life, he would
probably reply that upon the whole his best stroke was at the Vernon
Hotel, where he had averted a crime and, perhaps, saved a soul, merely
by listening to a few footsteps in a passage. He is perhaps a little
proud of this wild and wonderful guess of his, and it is possible that
he might refer to it. But since it is immeasurably unlikely that you
will ever rise high enough in the social world to find “The Twelve
True Fishermen,” or that you will ever sink low enough among slums and
criminals to find Father Brown, I fear you will never hear the story at
all unless you hear it from me.
The Vernon Hotel at which The Twelve True Fishermen held their annual
dinners was an institution such as can only exist in an oligarchical
society which has almost gone mad on good manners. It was that
topsy-turvy product--an “exclusive” commercial enterprise. That is, it
was a thing which paid not by attracting people, but actually by turning
people away. In the heart of a plutocracy tradesmen become cunning
enough to be more fastidious than their customers. They positively
create difficulties so that their wealthy and weary clients may spend
money and diplomacy in overcoming them. If there were a fashionable
hotel in London which no man could enter who was under six foot, society
would meekly make up parties of six-foot men to dine in it. If there
were an expensive restaurant which by a mere caprice of its proprietor
was only open on Thursday afternoon, it would be crowded on Thursday
afternoon. The Vernon Hotel stood, as if by accident, in the corner of a
square in Belgravia. It was a small hotel; and a very inconvenient
one. But its very inconveniences were considered as walls protecting a
particular class. One inconvenience, in particular, was held to be of
vital importance: the fact that practically only twenty-four people
could dine in the place at once. The only big dinner table was the
celebrated terrace table, which stood open to the air on a sort of
veranda overlooking one of the most exquisite old gardens in London.
Thus it happened that even the twenty-four seats at this table could
only be enjoyed in warm weather; and this making the enjoyment yet more
difficult made it yet more desired. The existing owner of the hotel was
a Jew named Lever; and he made nearly a million out of it, by making it
difficult to get into. Of course he combined with this limitation in the
scope of his enterprise the most careful polish in its performance.
The wines and cooking were really as good as any in Europe, and the
demeanour of the attendants exactly mirrored the fixed mood of the
English upper class. The proprietor knew all his waiters like the
fingers on his hand; there were only fifteen of them all told. It was
much easier to become a Member of Parliament than to become a waiter in
that hotel. Each waiter was trained in terrible silence and smoothness,
as if he were a gentleman’s servant. And, indeed, there was generally at
least one waiter to every gentleman who dined.
The club of The Twelve True Fishermen would not have consented to dine
anywhere but in such a place, for it insisted on a luxurious privacy;
and would have been quite upset by the mere thought that any other club
was even dining in the same building. On the occasion of their annual
dinner the Fishermen were in the habit of exposing all their treasures,
as if they were in a private house, especially the celebrated set
of fish knives and forks which were, as it were, the insignia of the
society, each being exquisitely wrought in silver in the form of a fish,
and each loaded at the hilt with one large pearl. These were always
laid out for the fish course, and the fish course was always the most
magnificent in that magnificent repast. The society had a vast number
of ceremonies and observances, but it had no history and no object; that
was where it was so very aristocratic. You did not have to be anything
in order to be one of the Twelve Fishers; unless you were already a
certain sort of person, you never even heard of them. It had been in
existence twelve years. Its president was Mr. Audley. Its vice-president
was the Duke of Chester.
If I have in any degree conveyed the atmosphere of this appalling hotel,
the reader may feel a natural wonder as to how I came to know anything
about it, and may even speculate as to how so ordinary a person as my
friend Father Brown came to find himself in that golden galley. As far
as that is concerned, my story is simple, or even vulgar. There is in
the world a very aged rioter and demagogue who breaks into the most
refined retreats with the dreadful information that all men are
brothers, and wherever this leveller went on his pale horse it was
Father Brown’s trade to follow. One of the waiters, an Italian, had
been struck down with a paralytic stroke that afternoon; and his Jewish
employer, marvelling mildly at such superstitions, had consented to send
for the nearest Popish priest. With what the waiter confessed to Father
Brown we are not concerned, for the excellent reason that that cleric
kept it to himself; but apparently it involved him in writing out a note
or statement for the conveying of some message or the righting of some
wrong. Father Brown, therefore, with a meek impudence which he would
have shown equally in Buckingham Palace, asked to be provided with a
room and writing materials. Mr. Lever was torn in two. He was a kind
man, and had also that bad imitation of kindness, the dislike of any
difficulty or scene. At the same time the presence of one unusual
stranger in his hotel that evening was like a speck of dirt on something
just cleaned. There was never any borderland or anteroom in the Vernon
Hotel, no people waiting in the hall, no customers coming in on chance.
There were fifteen waiters. There were twelve guests. It would be as
startling to find a new guest in the hotel that night as to find a
new brother taking breakfast or tea in one’s own family. Moreover,
the priest’s appearance was second-rate and his clothes muddy; a mere
glimpse of him afar off might precipitate a crisis in the club. Mr.
Lever at last hit on a plan to cover, since he might not obliterate, the
disgrace. When you enter (as you never will) the Vernon Hotel, you pass
down a short passage decorated with a few dingy but important pictures,
and come to the main vestibule and lounge which opens on your right
into passages leading to the public rooms, and on your left to a similar
passage pointing to the kitchens and offices of the hotel. Immediately
on your left hand is the corner of a glass office, which abuts upon
the lounge--a house within a house, so to speak, like the old hotel bar
which probably once occupied its place.
In this office sat the representative of the proprietor (nobody in this
place ever appeared in person if he could help it), and just beyond the
office, on the way to the servants’ quarters, was the gentlemen’s cloak
room, the last boundary of the gentlemen’s domain. But between the
office and the cloak room was a small private room without other outlet,
sometimes used by the proprietor for delicate and important matters,
such as lending a duke a thousand pounds or declining to lend him
sixpence. It is a mark of the magnificent tolerance of Mr. Lever that
he permitted this holy place to be for about half an hour profaned by a
mere priest, scribbling away on a piece of paper. The story which Father
Brown was writing down was very likely a much better story than this
one, only it will never be known. I can merely state that it was very
nearly as long, and that the last two or three paragraphs of it were the
least exciting and absorbing.
For it was by the time that he had reached these that the priest began a
little to allow his thoughts to wander and his animal senses, which were
commonly keen, to awaken. The time of darkness and dinner was drawing
on; his own forgotten little room was without a light, and perhaps the
gathering gloom, as occasionally happens, sharpened the sense of sound.
As Father Brown wrote the last and least essential part of his document,
he caught himself writing to the rhythm of a recurrent noise outside,
just as one sometimes thinks to the tune of a railway train. When he
became conscious of the thing he found what it was: only the ordinary
patter of feet passing the door, which in an hotel was no very unlikely
matter. Nevertheless, he stared at the darkened ceiling, and listened to
the sound. After he had listened for a few seconds dreamily, he got to
his feet and listened intently, with his head a little on one side.
Then he sat down again and buried his brow in his hands, now not merely
listening, but listening and thinking also.
The footsteps outside at any given moment were such as one might hear in
any hotel; and yet, taken as a whole, there was something very strange
about them. There were no other footsteps. It was always a very silent
house, for the few familiar guests went at once to their own apartments,
and the well-trained waiters were told to be almost invisible until
they were wanted. One could not conceive any place where there was less
reason to apprehend anything irregular. But these footsteps were so
odd that one could not decide to call them regular or irregular. Father
Brown followed them with his finger on the edge of the table, like a man
trying to learn a tune on the piano.
First, there came a long rush of rapid little steps, such as a light man
might make in winning a walking race. At a certain point they stopped
and changed to a sort of slow, swinging stamp, numbering not a quarter
of the steps, but occupying about the same time. The moment the last
echoing stamp had died away would come again the run or ripple of light,
hurrying feet, and then again the thud of the heavier walking. It was
certainly the same pair of boots, partly because (as has been said)
there were no other boots about, and partly because they had a small
but unmistakable creak in them. Father Brown had the kind of head that
cannot help asking questions; and on this apparently trivial question
his head almost split. He had seen men run in order to jump. He had seen
men run in order to slide. But why on earth should a man run in order
to walk? Or, again, why should he walk in order to run? Yet no other
description would cover the antics of this invisible pair of legs. The
man was either walking very fast down one-half of the corridor in order
to walk very slow down the other half; or he was walking very slow
at one end to have the rapture of walking fast at the other. Neither
suggestion seemed to make much sense. His brain was growing darker and
darker, like his room.
Yet, as he began to think steadily, the very blackness of his cell
seemed to make his thoughts more vivid; he began to see as in a kind of
vision the fantastic feet capering along the corridor in unnatural or
symbolic attitudes. Was it a heathen religious dance? Or some entirely
new kind of scientific exercise? Father Brown began to ask himself with
more exactness what the steps suggested. Taking the slow step first: it
certainly was not the step of the proprietor. Men of his type walk
with a rapid waddle, or they sit still. It could not be any servant or
messenger waiting for directions. It did not sound like it. The poorer
orders (in an oligarchy) sometimes lurch about when they are slightly
drunk, but generally, and especially in such gorgeous scenes, they stand
or sit in constrained attitudes. No; that heavy yet springy step, with
a kind of careless emphasis, not specially noisy, yet not caring what
noise it made, belonged to only one of the animals of this earth. It was
a gentleman of western Europe, and probably one who had never worked for
his living.
Just as he came to this solid certainty, the step changed to the quicker
one, and ran past the door as feverishly as a rat. The listener remarked
that though this step was much swifter it was also much more noiseless,
almost as if the man were walking on tiptoe. Yet it was not associated
in his mind with secrecy, but with something else--something that he
could not remember. He was maddened by one of those half-memories that
make a man feel half-witted. Surely he had heard that strange, swift
walking somewhere. Suddenly he sprang to his feet with a new idea in
his head, and walked to the door. His room had no direct outlet on the
passage, but let on one side into the glass office, and on the other
into the cloak room beyond. He tried the door into the office, and
found it locked. Then he looked at the window, now a square pane full of
purple cloud cleft by livid sunset, and for an instant he smelt evil as
a dog smells rats.
The rational part of him (whether the wiser or not) regained its
supremacy. He remembered that the proprietor had told him that he should
lock the door, and would come later to release him. He told himself that
twenty things he had not thought of might explain the eccentric sounds
outside; he reminded himself that there was just enough light left to
finish his own proper work. Bringing his paper to the window so as to
catch the last stormy evening light, he resolutely plunged once more
into the almost completed record. He had written for about twenty
minutes, bending closer and closer to his paper in the lessening light;
then suddenly he sat upright. He had heard the strange feet once more.
This time they had a third oddity. Previously the unknown man had
walked, with levity indeed and lightning quickness, but he had walked.
This time he ran. One could hear the swift, soft, bounding steps coming
along the corridor, like the pads of a fleeing and leaping panther.
Whoever was coming was a very strong, active man, in still yet tearing
excitement. Yet, when the sound had swept up to the office like a sort
of whispering whirlwind, it suddenly changed again to the old slow,
swaggering stamp.
Father Brown flung down his paper, and, knowing the office door to
be locked, went at once into the cloak room on the other side. The
attendant of this place was temporarily absent, probably because the
only guests were at dinner and his office was a sinecure. After groping
through a grey forest of overcoats, he found that the dim cloak room
opened on the lighted corridor in the form of a sort of counter or
half-door, like most of the counters across which we have all handed
umbrellas and received tickets. There was a light immediately above
the semicircular arch of this opening. It threw little illumination on
Father Brown himself, who seemed a mere dark outline against the dim
sunset window behind him. But it threw an almost theatrical light on the
man who stood outside the cloak room in the corridor.
He was an elegant man in very plain evening dress; tall, but with an air
of not taking up much room; one felt that he could have slid along like
a shadow where many smaller men would have been obvious and obstructive.
His face, now flung back in the lamplight, was swarthy and vivacious,
the face of a foreigner. His figure was good, his manners good humoured
and confident; a critic could only say that his black coat was a shade
below his figure and manners, and even bulged and bagged in an odd
way. The moment he caught sight of Brown’s black silhouette against the
sunset, he tossed down a scrap of paper with a number and called out
with amiable authority: “I want my hat and coat, please; I find I have
to go away at once.”
Father Brown took the paper without a word, and obediently went to look
for the coat; it was not the first menial work he had done in his
life. He brought it and laid it on the counter; meanwhile, the strange
gentleman who had been feeling in his waistcoat pocket, said laughing:
“I haven’t got any silver; you can keep this.” And he threw down half a
sovereign, and caught up his coat.
Father Brown’s figure remained quite dark and still; but in that instant
he had lost his head. His head was always most valuable when he had lost
it. In such moments he put two and two together and made four million.
Often the Catholic Church (which is wedded to common sense) did not
approve of it. Often he did not approve of it himself. But it was real
inspiration--important at rare crises--when whosoever shall lose his
head the same shall save it.
“I think, sir,” he said civilly, “that you have some silver in your
pocket.”
The tall gentleman stared. “Hang it,” he cried, “if I choose to give you
gold, why should you complain?”
“Because silver is sometimes more valuable than gold,” said the priest
mildly; “that is, in large quantities.”
The stranger looked at him curiously. Then he looked still more
curiously up the passage towards the main entrance. Then he looked back
at Brown again, and then he looked very carefully at the window beyond
Brown’s head, still coloured with the after-glow of the storm. Then he
seemed to make up his mind. He put one hand on the counter, vaulted
over as easily as an acrobat and towered above the priest, putting one
tremendous hand upon his collar.
“Stand still,” he said, in a hacking whisper. “I don’t want to threaten
you, but--”
“I do want to threaten you,” said Father Brown, in a voice like a
rolling drum, “I want to threaten you with the worm that dieth not, and
the fire that is not quenched.”
“You’re a rum sort of cloak-room clerk,” said the other.
“I am a priest, Monsieur Flambeau,” said Brown, “and I am ready to hear
your confession.”
The other stood gasping for a few moments, and then staggered back into
a chair.
The first two courses of the dinner of The Twelve True Fishermen had
proceeded with placid success. I do not possess a copy of the menu; and
if I did it would not convey anything to anybody. It was written in
a sort of super-French employed by cooks, but quite unintelligible to
Frenchmen. There was a tradition in the club that the hors d’oeuvres
should be various and manifold to the point of madness. They were taken
seriously because they were avowedly useless extras, like the whole
dinner and the whole club. There was also a tradition that the soup
course should be light and unpretending--a sort of simple and austere
vigil for the feast of fish that was to come. The talk was that strange,
slight talk which governs the British Empire, which governs it in
secret, and yet would scarcely enlighten an ordinary Englishman even if
he could overhear it. Cabinet ministers on both sides were alluded to
by their Christian names with a sort of bored benignity. The Radical
Chancellor of the Exchequer, whom the whole Tory party was supposed to
be cursing for his extortions, was praised for his minor poetry, or his
saddle in the hunting field. The Tory leader, whom all Liberals
were supposed to hate as a tyrant, was discussed and, on the whole,
praised--as a Liberal. It seemed somehow that politicians were very
important. And yet, anything seemed important about them except their
politics. Mr. Audley, the chairman, was an amiable, elderly man who
still wore Gladstone collars; he was a kind of symbol of all that
phantasmal and yet fixed society. He had never done anything--not even
anything wrong. He was not fast; he was not even particularly rich.
He was simply in the thing; and there was an end of it. No party could
ignore him, and if he had wished to be in the Cabinet he certainly would
have been put there. The Duke of Chester, the vice-president, was a
young and rising politician. That is to say, he was a pleasant youth,
with flat, fair hair and a freckled face, with moderate intelligence and
enormous estates. In public his appearances were always successful and
his principle was simple enough. When he thought of a joke he made it,
and was called brilliant. When he could not think of a joke he said that
this was no time for trifling, and was called able. In private, in a
club of his own class, he was simply quite pleasantly frank and silly,
like a schoolboy. Mr. Audley, never having been in politics, treated
them a little more seriously. Sometimes he even embarrassed the company
by phrases suggesting that there was some difference between a Liberal
and a Conservative. He himself was a Conservative, even in private life.
He had a roll of grey hair over the back of his collar, like certain
old-fashioned statesmen, and seen from behind he looked like the man the
empire wants. Seen from the front he looked like a mild, self-indulgent
bachelor, with rooms in the Albany--which he was.
As has been remarked, there were twenty-four seats at the terrace table,
and only twelve members of the club. Thus they could occupy the terrace
in the most luxurious style of all, being ranged along the inner side of
the table, with no one opposite, commanding an uninterrupted view of
the garden, the colours of which were still vivid, though evening was
closing in somewhat luridly for the time of year. The chairman sat in
the centre of the line, and the vice-president at the right-hand end
of it. When the twelve guests first trooped into their seats it was the
custom (for some unknown reason) for all the fifteen waiters to stand
lining the wall like troops presenting arms to the king, while the fat
proprietor stood and bowed to the club with radiant surprise, as if he
had never heard of them before. But before the first chink of knife and
fork this army of retainers had vanished, only the one or two required
to collect and distribute the plates darting about in deathly silence.
Mr. Lever, the proprietor, of course had disappeared in convulsions of
courtesy long before. It would be exaggerative, indeed irreverent,
to say that he ever positively appeared again. But when the important
course, the fish course, was being brought on, there was--how shall I
put it?--a vivid shadow, a projection of his personality, which told
that he was hovering near. The sacred fish course consisted (to the eyes
of the vulgar) in a sort of monstrous pudding, about the size and shape
of a wedding cake, in which some considerable number of interesting
fishes had finally lost the shapes which God had given to them. The
Twelve True Fishermen took up their celebrated fish knives and fish
forks, and approached it as gravely as if every inch of the pudding cost
as much as the silver fork it was eaten with. So it did, for all I know.
This course was dealt with in eager and devouring silence; and it was
only when his plate was nearly empty that the young duke made the ritual
remark: “They can’t do this anywhere but here.”
“Nowhere,” said Mr. Audley, in a deep bass voice, turning to the speaker
and nodding his venerable head a number of times. “Nowhere, assuredly,
except here. It was represented to me that at the Cafe Anglais--”
Here he was interrupted and even agitated for a moment by the removal
of his plate, but he recaptured the valuable thread of his thoughts. “It
was represented to me that the same could be done at the Cafe Anglais.
Nothing like it, sir,” he said, shaking his head ruthlessly, like a
hanging judge. “Nothing like it.”
“Overrated place,” said a certain Colonel Pound, speaking (by the look
of him) for the first time for some months.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said the Duke of Chester, who was an optimist, “it’s
jolly good for some things. You can’t beat it at--”
A waiter came swiftly along the room, and then stopped dead. His
stoppage was as silent as his tread; but all those vague and kindly
gentlemen were so used to the utter smoothness of the unseen machinery
which surrounded and supported their lives, that a waiter doing anything
unexpected was a start and a jar. They felt as you and I would feel if
the inanimate world disobeyed--if a chair ran away from us.
The waiter stood staring a few seconds, while there deepened on every
face at table a strange shame which is wholly the product of our time.
It is the combination of modern humanitarianism with the horrible
modern abyss between the souls of the rich and poor. A genuine historic
aristocrat would have thrown things at the waiter, beginning with empty
bottles, and very probably ending with money. A genuine democrat would
have asked him, with comrade-like clearness of speech, what the devil he
was doing. But these modern plutocrats could not bear a poor man near
to them, either as a slave or as a friend. That something had gone wrong
with the servants was merely a dull, hot embarrassment. They did not
want to be brutal, and they dreaded the need to be benevolent. They
wanted the thing, whatever it was, to be over. It was over. The waiter,
after standing for some seconds rigid, like a cataleptic, turned round
and ran madly out of the room.
When he reappeared in the room, or rather in the doorway, it was in
company with another waiter, with whom he whispered and gesticulated
with southern fierceness. Then the first waiter went away, leaving the
second waiter, and reappeared with a third waiter. By the time a fourth
waiter had joined this hurried synod, Mr. Audley felt it necessary to
break the silence in the interests of Tact. He used a very loud cough,
instead of a presidential hammer, and said: “Splendid work young
Moocher’s doing in Burmah. Now, no other nation in the world could
have--”
A fifth waiter had sped towards him like an arrow, and was whispering in
his ear: “So sorry. Important! Might the proprietor speak to you?”
The chairman turned in disorder, and with a dazed stare saw Mr. Lever
coming towards them with his lumbering quickness. The gait of the good
proprietor was indeed his usual gait, but his face was by no means
usual. Generally it was a genial copper-brown; now it was a sickly
yellow.
“You will pardon me, Mr. Audley,” he said, with asthmatic
breathlessness. “I have great apprehensions. Your fish-plates, they are
cleared away with the knife and fork on them!”
“Well, I hope so,” said the chairman, with some warmth.
“You see him?” panted the excited hotel keeper; “you see the waiter who
took them away? You know him?”
“Know the waiter?” answered Mr. Audley indignantly. “Certainly not!”
Mr. Lever opened his hands with a gesture of agony. “I never send him,”
he said. “I know not when or why he come. I send my waiter to take away
the plates, and he find them already away.”
Mr. Audley still looked rather too bewildered to be really the man the
empire wants; none of the company could say anything except the man of
wood--Colonel Pound--who seemed galvanised into an unnatural life. He
rose rigidly from his chair, leaving all the rest sitting, screwed his
eyeglass into his eye, and spoke in a raucous undertone as if he had
half-forgotten how to speak. “Do you mean,” he said, “that somebody has
stolen our silver fish service?”
The proprietor repeated the open-handed gesture with even greater
helplessness and in a flash all the men at the table were on their feet.
“Are all your waiters here?” demanded the colonel, in his low, harsh
accent.
“Yes; they’re all here. I noticed it myself,” cried the young duke,
pushing his boyish face into the inmost ring. “Always count ‘em as I
come in; they look so queer standing up against the wall.”
“But surely one cannot exactly remember,” began Mr. Audley, with heavy
hesitation.
“I remember exactly, I tell you,” cried the duke excitedly. “There never
have been more than fifteen waiters at this place, and there were no
more than fifteen tonight, I’ll swear; no more and no less.”
The proprietor turned upon him, quaking in a kind of palsy of surprise.
“You say--you say,” he stammered, “that you see all my fifteen waiters?”
“As usual,” assented the duke. “What is the matter with that!”
“Nothing,” said Lever, with a deepening accent, “only you did not. For
one of zem is dead upstairs.”
There was a shocking stillness for an instant in that room. It may be
(so supernatural is the word death) that each of those idle men looked
for a second at his soul, and saw it as a small dried pea. One of
them--the duke, I think--even said with the idiotic kindness of wealth:
“Is there anything we can do?”
“He has had a priest,” said the Jew, not untouched.
Then, as to the clang of doom, they awoke to their own position. For a
few weird seconds they had really felt as if the fifteenth waiter might
be the ghost of the dead man upstairs. They had been dumb under that
oppression, for ghosts were to them an embarrassment, like beggars. But
the remembrance of the silver broke the spell of the miraculous; broke
it abruptly and with a brutal reaction. The colonel flung over his chair
and strode to the door. “If there was a fifteenth man here, friends,” he
said, “that fifteenth fellow was a thief. Down at once to the front
and back doors and secure everything; then we’ll talk. The twenty-four
pearls of the club are worth recovering.”
Mr. Audley seemed at first to hesitate about whether it was gentlemanly
to be in such a hurry about anything; but, seeing the duke dash down the
stairs with youthful energy, he followed with a more mature motion.
At the same instant a sixth waiter ran into the room, and declared that
he had found the pile of fish plates on a sideboard, with no trace of
the silver.
The crowd of diners and attendants that tumbled helter-skelter down the
passages divided into two groups. Most of the Fishermen followed the
proprietor to the front room to demand news of any exit. Colonel Pound,
with the chairman, the vice-president, and one or two others darted down
the corridor leading to the servants’ quarters, as the more likely line
of escape. As they did so they passed the dim alcove or cavern of
the cloak room, and saw a short, black-coated figure, presumably an
attendant, standing a little way back in the shadow of it.
“Hallo, there!” called out the duke. “Have you seen anyone pass?”
The short figure did not answer the question directly, but merely said:
“Perhaps I have got what you are looking for, gentlemen.”
They paused, wavering and wondering, while he quietly went to the back
of the cloak room, and came back with both hands full of shining silver,
which he laid out on the counter as calmly as a salesman. It took the
form of a dozen quaintly shaped forks and knives.
“You--you--” began the colonel, quite thrown off his balance at last.
Then he peered into the dim little room and saw two things: first, that
the short, black-clad man was dressed like a clergyman; and, second,
that the window of the room behind him was burst, as if someone had
passed violently through. “Valuable things to deposit in a cloak room,
aren’t they?” remarked the clergyman, with cheerful composure.
“Did--did you steal those things?” stammered Mr. Audley, with staring
eyes.
“If I did,” said the cleric pleasantly, “at least I am bringing them
back again.”
“But you didn’t,” said Colonel Pound, still staring at the broken
window.
“To make a clean breast of it, I didn’t,” said the other, with some
humour. And he seated himself quite gravely on a stool. “But you know
who did,” said the, colonel.
“I don’t know his real name,” said the priest placidly, “but I know
something of his fighting weight, and a great deal about his spiritual
difficulties. I formed the physical estimate when he was trying to
throttle me, and the moral estimate when he repented.”
“Oh, I say--repented!” cried young Chester, with a sort of crow of
laughter.
Father Brown got to his feet, putting his hands behind him. “Odd, isn’t
it,” he said, “that a thief and a vagabond should repent, when so many
who are rich and secure remain hard and frivolous, and without fruit for
God or man? But there, if you will excuse me, you trespass a little upon
my province. If you doubt the penitence as a practical fact, there are
your knives and forks. You are The Twelve True Fishers, and there are
all your silver fish. But He has made me a fisher of men.”
“Did you catch this man?” asked the colonel, frowning.
Father Brown looked him full in his frowning face. “Yes,” he said, “I
caught him, with an unseen hook and an invisible line which is long
enough to let him wander to the ends of the world, and still to bring
him back with a twitch upon the thread.”
There was a long silence. All the other men present drifted away
to carry the recovered silver to their comrades, or to consult the
proprietor about the queer condition of affairs. But the grim-faced
colonel still sat sideways on the counter, swinging his long, lank legs
and biting his dark moustache.
At last he said quietly to the priest: “He must have been a clever
fellow, but I think I know a cleverer.”
“He was a clever fellow,” answered the other, “but I am not quite sure
of what other you mean.”
“I mean you,” said the colonel, with a short laugh. “I don’t want to get
the fellow jailed; make yourself easy about that. But I’d give a good
many silver forks to know exactly how you fell into this affair, and how
you got the stuff out of him. I reckon you’re the most up-to-date devil
of the present company.”
Father Brown seemed rather to like the saturnine candour of the soldier.
“Well,” he said, smiling, “I mustn’t tell you anything of the man’s
identity, or his own story, of course; but there’s no particular reason
why I shouldn’t tell you of the mere outside facts which I found out for
myself.”
He hopped over the barrier with unexpected activity, and sat beside
Colonel Pound, kicking his short legs like a little boy on a gate. He
began to tell the story as easily as if he were telling it to an old
friend by a Christmas fire.
“You see, colonel,” he said, “I was shut up in that small room there
doing some writing, when I heard a pair of feet in this passage doing a
dance that was as queer as the dance of death. First came quick, funny
little steps, like a man walking on tiptoe for a wager; then came slow,
careless, creaking steps, as of a big man walking about with a cigar.
But they were both made by the same feet, I swear, and they came in
rotation; first the run and then the walk, and then the run again. I
wondered at first idly and then wildly why a man should act these two
parts at once. One walk I knew; it was just like yours, colonel. It
was the walk of a well-fed gentleman waiting for something, who strolls
about rather because he is physically alert than because he is mentally
impatient. I knew that I knew the other walk, too, but I could not
remember what it was. What wild creature had I met on my travels that
tore along on tiptoe in that extraordinary style? Then I heard a clink
of plates somewhere; and the answer stood up as plain as St. Peter’s. It
was the walk of a waiter--that walk with the body slanted forward, the
eyes looking down, the ball of the toe spurning away the ground, the
coat tails and napkin flying. Then I thought for a minute and a half
more. And I believe I saw the manner of the crime, as clearly as if I
were going to commit it.”
Colonel Pound looked at him keenly, but the speaker’s mild grey eyes
were fixed upon the ceiling with almost empty wistfulness.
“A crime,” he said slowly, “is like any other work of art. Don’t look
surprised; crimes are by no means the only works of art that come from
an infernal workshop. But every work of art, divine or diabolic, has
one indispensable mark--I mean, that the centre of it is simple, however
much the fulfilment may be complicated. Thus, in Hamlet, let us say,
the grotesqueness of the grave-digger, the flowers of the mad girl, the
fantastic finery of Osric, the pallor of the ghost and the grin of
the skull are all oddities in a sort of tangled wreath round one plain
tragic figure of a man in black. Well, this also,” he said, getting
slowly down from his seat with a smile, “this also is the plain tragedy
of a man in black. Yes,” he went on, seeing the colonel look up in some
wonder, “the whole of this tale turns on a black coat. In this, as in
Hamlet, there are the rococo excrescences--yourselves, let us say. There
is the dead waiter, who was there when he could not be there. There is
the invisible hand that swept your table clear of silver and melted
into air. But every clever crime is founded ultimately on some one quite
simple fact--some fact that is not itself mysterious. The mystification
comes in covering it up, in leading men’s thoughts away from it. This
large and subtle and (in the ordinary course) most profitable crime, was
built on the plain fact that a gentleman’s evening dress is the same as
a waiter’s. All the rest was acting, and thundering good acting, too.”
“Still,” said the colonel, getting up and frowning at his boots, “I am
not sure that I understand.”
“Colonel,” said Father Brown, “I tell you that this archangel of
impudence who stole your forks walked up and down this passage twenty
times in the blaze of all the lamps, in the glare of all the eyes. He
did not go and hide in dim corners where suspicion might have searched
for him. He kept constantly on the move in the lighted corridors, and
everywhere that he went he seemed to be there by right. Don’t ask me
what he was like; you have seen him yourself six or seven times tonight.
You were waiting with all the other grand people in the reception room
at the end of the passage there, with the terrace just beyond. Whenever
he came among you gentlemen, he came in the lightning style of a waiter,
with bent head, flapping napkin and flying feet. He shot out on to the
terrace, did something to the table cloth, and shot back again towards
the office and the waiters’ quarters. By the time he had come under the
eye of the office clerk and the waiters he had become another man in
every inch of his body, in every instinctive gesture. He strolled among
the servants with the absent-minded insolence which they have all seen
in their patrons. It was no new thing to them that a swell from the
dinner party should pace all parts of the house like an animal at the
Zoo; they know that nothing marks the Smart Set more than a habit of
walking where one chooses. When he was magnificently weary of walking
down that particular passage he would wheel round and pace back past
the office; in the shadow of the arch just beyond he was altered as by
a blast of magic, and went hurrying forward again among the Twelve
Fishermen, an obsequious attendant. Why should the gentlemen look at
a chance waiter? Why should the waiters suspect a first-rate walking
gentleman? Once or twice he played the coolest tricks. In the
proprietor’s private quarters he called out breezily for a syphon of
soda water, saying he was thirsty. He said genially that he would carry
it himself, and he did; he carried it quickly and correctly through the
thick of you, a waiter with an obvious errand. Of course, it could not
have been kept up long, but it only had to be kept up till the end of
the fish course.
“His worst moment was when the waiters stood in a row; but even then he
contrived to lean against the wall just round the corner in such a way
that for that important instant the waiters thought him a gentleman,
while the gentlemen thought him a waiter. The rest went like winking. If
any waiter caught him away from the table, that waiter caught a languid
aristocrat. He had only to time himself two minutes before the fish was
cleared, become a swift servant, and clear it himself. He put the plates
down on a sideboard, stuffed the silver in his breast pocket, giving it
a bulgy look, and ran like a hare (I heard him coming) till he came to
the cloak room. There he had only to be a plutocrat again--a plutocrat
called away suddenly on business. He had only to give his ticket to
the cloak-room attendant, and go out again elegantly as he had come in.
Only--only I happened to be the cloak-room attendant.”
“What did you do to him?” cried the colonel, with unusual intensity.
“What did he tell you?”
“I beg your pardon,” said the priest immovably, “that is where the story
ends.”
“And the interesting story begins,” muttered Pound. “I think I
understand his professional trick. But I don’t seem to have got hold of
yours.”
“I must be going,” said Father Brown.
They walked together along the passage to the entrance hall, where they
saw the fresh, freckled face of the Duke of Chester, who was bounding
buoyantly along towards them.
“Come along, Pound,” he cried breathlessly. “I’ve been looking for you
everywhere. The dinner’s going again in spanking style, and old Audley
has got to make a speech in honour of the forks being saved. We want to
start some new ceremony, don’t you know, to commemorate the occasion. I
say, you really got the goods back, what do you suggest?”
“Why,” said the colonel, eyeing him with a certain sardonic approval, “I
should suggest that henceforward we wear green coats, instead of
black. One never knows what mistakes may arise when one looks so like a
waiter.”
“Oh, hang it all!” said the young man, “a gentleman never looks like a
waiter.”
“Nor a waiter like a gentleman, I suppose,” said Colonel Pound, with the
same lowering laughter on his face. “Reverend sir, your friend must have
been very smart to act the gentleman.”
Father Brown buttoned up his commonplace overcoat to the neck, for the
night was stormy, and took his commonplace umbrella from the stand.
“Yes,” he said; “it must be very hard work to be a gentleman; but, do
you know, I have sometimes thought that it may be almost as laborious to
be a waiter.”
And saying “Good evening,” he pushed open the heavy doors of that palace
of pleasures. The golden gates closed behind him, and he went at a brisk
walk through the damp, dark streets in search of a penny omnibus.

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Title: The Secret Garden A Fr Brown Mystery
Author: G. K. Chesterton
The Secret Garden
Aristide Valentin, Chief of the Paris Police, was late for his dinner,
and some of his guests began to arrive before him. These were, however,
reassured by his confidential servant, Ivan, the old man with a scar,
and a face almost as grey as his moustaches, who always sat at a table
in the entrance hall--a hall hung with weapons. Valentin’s house was
perhaps as peculiar and celebrated as its master. It was an old house,
with high walls and tall poplars almost overhanging the Seine; but the
oddity--and perhaps the police value--of its architecture was this: that
there was no ultimate exit at all except through this front door, which
was guarded by Ivan and the armoury. The garden was large and elaborate,
and there were many exits from the house into the garden. But there was
no exit from the garden into the world outside; all round it ran a tall,
smooth, unscalable wall with special spikes at the top; no bad garden,
perhaps, for a man to reflect in whom some hundred criminals had sworn
to kill.
As Ivan explained to the guests, their host had telephoned that he
was detained for ten minutes. He was, in truth, making some last
arrangements about executions and such ugly things; and though these
duties were rootedly repulsive to him, he always performed them with
precision. Ruthless in the pursuit of criminals, he was very mild about
their punishment. Since he had been supreme over French--and largely
over European--policial methods, his great influence had been honourably
used for the mitigation of sentences and the purification of prisons.
He was one of the great humanitarian French freethinkers; and the only
thing wrong with them is that they make mercy even colder than justice.
When Valentin arrived he was already dressed in black clothes and the
red rosette--an elegant figure, his dark beard already streaked with
grey. He went straight through his house to his study, which opened on
the grounds behind. The garden door of it was open, and after he had
carefully locked his box in its official place, he stood for a few
seconds at the open door looking out upon the garden. A sharp moon
was fighting with the flying rags and tatters of a storm, and Valentin
regarded it with a wistfulness unusual in such scientific natures as
his. Perhaps such scientific natures have some psychic prevision of the
most tremendous problem of their lives. From any such occult mood,
at least, he quickly recovered, for he knew he was late, and that his
guests had already begun to arrive. A glance at his drawing-room when he
entered it was enough to make certain that his principal guest was not
there, at any rate. He saw all the other pillars of the little party;
he saw Lord Galloway, the English Ambassador--a choleric old man with a
russet face like an apple, wearing the blue ribbon of the Garter. He
saw Lady Galloway, slim and threadlike, with silver hair and a face
sensitive and superior. He saw her daughter, Lady Margaret Graham, a
pale and pretty girl with an elfish face and copper-coloured hair. He
saw the Duchess of Mont St. Michel, black-eyed and opulent, and with
her her two daughters, black-eyed and opulent also. He saw Dr. Simon,
a typical French scientist, with glasses, a pointed brown beard, and a
forehead barred with those parallel wrinkles which are the penalty
of superciliousness, since they come through constantly elevating
the eyebrows. He saw Father Brown, of Cobhole, in Essex, whom he had
recently met in England. He saw--perhaps with more interest than any
of these--a tall man in uniform, who had bowed to the Galloways without
receiving any very hearty acknowledgment, and who now advanced alone to
pay his respects to his host. This was Commandant O’Brien, of the
French Foreign Legion. He was a slim yet somewhat swaggering figure,
clean-shaven, dark-haired, and blue-eyed, and, as seemed natural in an
officer of that famous regiment of victorious failures and successful
suicides, he had an air at once dashing and melancholy. He was by birth
an Irish gentleman, and in boyhood had known the Galloways--especially
Margaret Graham. He had left his country after some crash of debts, and
now expressed his complete freedom from British etiquette by swinging
about in uniform, sabre and spurs. When he bowed to the Ambassador’s
family, Lord and Lady Galloway bent stiffly, and Lady Margaret looked
away.
But for whatever old causes such people might be interested in each
other, their distinguished host was not specially interested in them. No
one of them at least was in his eyes the guest of the evening. Valentin
was expecting, for special reasons, a man of world-wide fame, whose
friendship he had secured during some of his great detective tours and
triumphs in the United States. He was expecting Julius K. Brayne, that
multi-millionaire whose colossal and even crushing endowments of small
religions have occasioned so much easy sport and easier solemnity for
the American and English papers. Nobody could quite make out whether Mr.
Brayne was an atheist or a Mormon or a Christian Scientist; but he was
ready to pour money into any intellectual vessel, so long as it was
an untried vessel. One of his hobbies was to wait for the American
Shakespeare--a hobby more patient than angling. He admired Walt Whitman,
but thought that Luke P. Tanner, of Paris, Pa., was more “progressive”
than Whitman any day. He liked anything that he thought “progressive.”
He thought Valentin “progressive,” thereby doing him a grave injustice.
The solid appearance of Julius K. Brayne in the room was as decisive
as a dinner bell. He had this great quality, which very few of us
can claim, that his presence was as big as his absence. He was a huge
fellow, as fat as he was tall, clad in complete evening black, without
so much relief as a watch-chain or a ring. His hair was white and well
brushed back like a German’s; his face was red, fierce and cherubic,
with one dark tuft under the lower lip that threw up that otherwise
infantile visage with an effect theatrical and even Mephistophelean. Not
long, however, did that salon merely stare at the celebrated American;
his lateness had already become a domestic problem, and he was sent with
all speed into the dining-room with Lady Galloway on his arm.
Except on one point the Galloways were genial and casual enough. So long
as Lady Margaret did not take the arm of that adventurer O’Brien, her
father was quite satisfied; and she had not done so, she had decorously
gone in with Dr. Simon. Nevertheless, old Lord Galloway was restless and
almost rude. He was diplomatic enough during dinner, but when, over the
cigars, three of the younger men--Simon the doctor, Brown the priest,
and the detrimental O’Brien, the exile in a foreign uniform--all melted
away to mix with the ladies or smoke in the conservatory, then the
English diplomatist grew very undiplomatic indeed. He was stung
every sixty seconds with the thought that the scamp O’Brien might be
signalling to Margaret somehow; he did not attempt to imagine how. He
was left over the coffee with Brayne, the hoary Yankee who believed
in all religions, and Valentin, the grizzled Frenchman who believed in
none. They could argue with each other, but neither could appeal to
him. After a time this “progressive” logomachy had reached a crisis of
tedium; Lord Galloway got up also and sought the drawing-room. He lost
his way in long passages for some six or eight minutes: till he heard
the high-pitched, didactic voice of the doctor, and then the dull voice
of the priest, followed by general laughter. They also, he thought with
a curse, were probably arguing about “science and religion.” But the
instant he opened the salon door he saw only one thing--he saw what
was not there. He saw that Commandant O’Brien was absent, and that Lady
Margaret was absent too.
Rising impatiently from the drawing-room, as he had from the
dining-room, he stamped along the passage once more. His notion of
protecting his daughter from the Irish-Algerian n’er-do-well had become
something central and even mad in his mind. As he went towards the back
of the house, where was Valentin’s study, he was surprised to meet his
daughter, who swept past with a white, scornful face, which was a second
enigma. If she had been with O’Brien, where was O’Brien! If she had
not been with O’Brien, where had she been? With a sort of senile and
passionate suspicion he groped his way to the dark back parts of the
mansion, and eventually found a servants’ entrance that opened on to the
garden. The moon with her scimitar had now ripped up and rolled away all
the storm-wrack. The argent light lit up all four corners of the garden.
A tall figure in blue was striding across the lawn towards the study
door; a glint of moonlit silver on his facings picked him out as
Commandant O’Brien.
He vanished through the French windows into the house, leaving Lord
Galloway in an indescribable temper, at once virulent and vague. The
blue-and-silver garden, like a scene in a theatre, seemed to taunt him
with all that tyrannic tenderness against which his worldly authority
was at war. The length and grace of the Irishman’s stride enraged him as
if he were a rival instead of a father; the moonlight maddened him.
He was trapped as if by magic into a garden of troubadours, a Watteau
fairyland; and, willing to shake off such amorous imbecilities by
speech, he stepped briskly after his enemy. As he did so he tripped over
some tree or stone in the grass; looked down at it first with irritation
and then a second time with curiosity. The next instant the moon and the
tall poplars looked at an unusual sight--an elderly English diplomatist
running hard and crying or bellowing as he ran.
His hoarse shouts brought a pale face to the study door, the beaming
glasses and worried brow of Dr. Simon, who heard the nobleman’s first
clear words. Lord Galloway was crying: “A corpse in the grass--a
blood-stained corpse.” O’Brien at last had gone utterly out of his mind.
“We must tell Valentin at once,” said the doctor, when the other had
brokenly described all that he had dared to examine. “It is fortunate
that he is here;” and even as he spoke the great detective entered the
study, attracted by the cry. It was almost amusing to note his typical
transformation; he had come with the common concern of a host and a
gentleman, fearing that some guest or servant was ill. When he was
told the gory fact, he turned with all his gravity instantly bright and
businesslike; for this, however abrupt and awful, was his business.
“Strange, gentlemen,” he said as they hurried out into the garden, “that
I should have hunted mysteries all over the earth, and now one comes and
settles in my own back-yard. But where is the place?” They crossed the
lawn less easily, as a slight mist had begun to rise from the river; but
under the guidance of the shaken Galloway they found the body sunken
in deep grass--the body of a very tall and broad-shouldered man. He lay
face downwards, so they could only see that his big shoulders were clad
in black cloth, and that his big head was bald, except for a wisp or
two of brown hair that clung to his skull like wet seaweed. A scarlet
serpent of blood crawled from under his fallen face.
“At least,” said Simon, with a deep and singular intonation, “he is none
of our party.”
“Examine him, doctor,” cried Valentin rather sharply. “He may not be
dead.”
The doctor bent down. “He is not quite cold, but I am afraid he is dead
enough,” he answered. “Just help me to lift him up.”
They lifted him carefully an inch from the ground, and all doubts as
to his being really dead were settled at once and frightfully. The head
fell away. It had been entirely sundered from the body; whoever had
cut his throat had managed to sever the neck as well. Even Valentin
was slightly shocked. “He must have been as strong as a gorilla,” he
muttered.
Not without a shiver, though he was used to anatomical abortions, Dr.
Simon lifted the head. It was slightly slashed about the neck and jaw,
but the face was substantially unhurt. It was a ponderous, yellow face,
at once sunken and swollen, with a hawk-like nose and heavy lids--a face
of a wicked Roman emperor, with, perhaps, a distant touch of a Chinese
emperor. All present seemed to look at it with the coldest eye of
ignorance. Nothing else could be noted about the man except that, as
they had lifted his body, they had seen underneath it the white gleam of
a shirt-front defaced with a red gleam of blood. As Dr. Simon said,
the man had never been of their party. But he might very well have been
trying to join it, for he had come dressed for such an occasion.
Valentin went down on his hands and knees and examined with his closest
professional attention the grass and ground for some twenty yards round
the body, in which he was assisted less skillfully by the doctor, and
quite vaguely by the English lord. Nothing rewarded their grovellings
except a few twigs, snapped or chopped into very small lengths, which
Valentin lifted for an instant’s examination and then tossed away.
“Twigs,” he said gravely; “twigs, and a total stranger with his head cut
off; that is all there is on this lawn.”
There was an almost creepy stillness, and then the unnerved Galloway
called out sharply:
“Who’s that! Who’s that over there by the garden wall!”
A small figure with a foolishly large head drew waveringly near them in
the moonlit haze; looked for an instant like a goblin, but turned out to
be the harmless little priest whom they had left in the drawing-room.
“I say,” he said meekly, “there are no gates to this garden, do you
know.”
Valentin’s black brows had come together somewhat crossly, as they did
on principle at the sight of the cassock. But he was far too just a man
to deny the relevance of the remark. “You are right,” he said. “Before
we find out how he came to be killed, we may have to find out how he
came to be here. Now listen to me, gentlemen. If it can be done without
prejudice to my position and duty, we shall all agree that certain
distinguished names might well be kept out of this. There are ladies,
gentlemen, and there is a foreign ambassador. If we must mark it down as
a crime, then it must be followed up as a crime. But till then I can use
my own discretion. I am the head of the police; I am so public that I
can afford to be private. Please Heaven, I will clear everyone of my own
guests before I call in my men to look for anybody else. Gentlemen, upon
your honour, you will none of you leave the house till tomorrow at noon;
there are bedrooms for all. Simon, I think you know where to find my
man, Ivan, in the front hall; he is a confidential man. Tell him to
leave another servant on guard and come to me at once. Lord Galloway,
you are certainly the best person to tell the ladies what has happened,
and prevent a panic. They also must stay. Father Brown and I will remain
with the body.”
When this spirit of the captain spoke in Valentin he was obeyed like a
bugle. Dr. Simon went through to the armoury and routed out Ivan, the
public detective’s private detective. Galloway went to the drawing-room
and told the terrible news tactfully enough, so that by the time the
company assembled there the ladies were already startled and already
soothed. Meanwhile the good priest and the good atheist stood at the
head and foot of the dead man motionless in the moonlight, like symbolic
statues of their two philosophies of death.
Ivan, the confidential man with the scar and the moustaches, came out
of the house like a cannon ball, and came racing across the lawn to
Valentin like a dog to his master. His livid face was quite lively
with the glow of this domestic detective story, and it was with almost
unpleasant eagerness that he asked his master’s permission to examine
the remains.
“Yes; look, if you like, Ivan,” said Valentin, “but don’t be long. We
must go in and thrash this out in the house.”
Ivan lifted the head, and then almost let it drop.
“Why,” he gasped, “it’s--no, it isn’t; it can’t be. Do you know this
man, sir?”
“No,” said Valentin indifferently; “we had better go inside.”
Between them they carried the corpse to a sofa in the study, and then
all made their way to the drawing-room.
The detective sat down at a desk quietly, and even without hesitation;
but his eye was the iron eye of a judge at assize. He made a few rapid
notes upon paper in front of him, and then said shortly: “Is everybody
here?”
“Not Mr. Brayne,” said the Duchess of Mont St. Michel, looking round.
“No,” said Lord Galloway in a hoarse, harsh voice. “And not Mr. Neil
O’Brien, I fancy. I saw that gentleman walking in the garden when the
corpse was still warm.”
“Ivan,” said the detective, “go and fetch Commandant O’Brien and Mr.
Brayne. Mr. Brayne, I know, is finishing a cigar in the dining-room;
Commandant O’Brien, I think, is walking up and down the conservatory. I
am not sure.”
The faithful attendant flashed from the room, and before anyone could
stir or speak Valentin went on with the same soldierly swiftness of
exposition.
“Everyone here knows that a dead man has been found in the garden, his
head cut clean from his body. Dr. Simon, you have examined it. Do you
think that to cut a man’s throat like that would need great force? Or,
perhaps, only a very sharp knife?”
“I should say that it could not be done with a knife at all,” said the
pale doctor.
“Have you any thought,” resumed Valentin, “of a tool with which it could
be done?”
“Speaking within modern probabilities, I really haven’t,” said the
doctor, arching his painful brows. “It’s not easy to hack a neck through
even clumsily, and this was a very clean cut. It could be done with a
battle-axe or an old headsman’s axe, or an old two-handed sword.”
“But, good heavens!” cried the Duchess, almost in hysterics, “there
aren’t any two-handed swords and battle-axes round here.”
Valentin was still busy with the paper in front of him. “Tell me,” he
said, still writing rapidly, “could it have been done with a long French
cavalry sabre?”
A low knocking came at the door, which, for some unreasonable reason,
curdled everyone’s blood like the knocking in Macbeth. Amid that frozen
silence Dr. Simon managed to say: “A sabre--yes, I suppose it could.”
“Thank you,” said Valentin. “Come in, Ivan.”
The confidential Ivan opened the door and ushered in Commandant Neil
O’Brien, whom he had found at last pacing the garden again.
The Irish officer stood up disordered and defiant on the threshold.
“What do you want with me?” he cried.
“Please sit down,” said Valentin in pleasant, level tones. “Why, you
aren’t wearing your sword. Where is it?”
“I left it on the library table,” said O’Brien, his brogue deepening in
his disturbed mood. “It was a nuisance, it was getting--”
“Ivan,” said Valentin, “please go and get the Commandant’s sword from
the library.” Then, as the servant vanished, “Lord Galloway says he saw
you leaving the garden just before he found the corpse. What were you
doing in the garden?”
The Commandant flung himself recklessly into a chair. “Oh,” he cried in
pure Irish, “admirin’ the moon. Communing with Nature, me bhoy.”
A heavy silence sank and endured, and at the end of it came again that
trivial and terrible knocking. Ivan reappeared, carrying an empty steel
scabbard. “This is all I can find,” he said.
“Put it on the table,” said Valentin, without looking up.
There was an inhuman silence in the room, like that sea of inhuman
silence round the dock of the condemned murderer. The Duchess’s weak
exclamations had long ago died away. Lord Galloway’s swollen hatred was
satisfied and even sobered. The voice that came was quite unexpected.
“I think I can tell you,” cried Lady Margaret, in that clear, quivering
voice with which a courageous woman speaks publicly. “I can tell you
what Mr. O’Brien was doing in the garden, since he is bound to
silence. He was asking me to marry him. I refused; I said in my family
circumstances I could give him nothing but my respect. He was a little
angry at that; he did not seem to think much of my respect. I wonder,”
she added, with rather a wan smile, “if he will care at all for it now.
For I offer it him now. I will swear anywhere that he never did a thing
like this.”
Lord Galloway had edged up to his daughter, and was intimidating her in
what he imagined to be an undertone. “Hold your tongue, Maggie,” he said
in a thunderous whisper. “Why should you shield the fellow? Where’s his
sword? Where’s his confounded cavalry--”
He stopped because of the singular stare with which his daughter was
regarding him, a look that was indeed a lurid magnet for the whole
group.
“You old fool!” she said in a low voice without pretence of piety, “what
do you suppose you are trying to prove? I tell you this man was innocent
while with me. But if he wasn’t innocent, he was still with me. If he
murdered a man in the garden, who was it who must have seen--who must
at least have known? Do you hate Neil so much as to put your own
daughter--”
Lady Galloway screamed. Everyone else sat tingling at the touch of those
satanic tragedies that have been between lovers before now. They saw
the proud, white face of the Scotch aristocrat and her lover, the Irish
adventurer, like old portraits in a dark house. The long silence was
full of formless historical memories of murdered husbands and poisonous
paramours.
In the centre of this morbid silence an innocent voice said: “Was it a
very long cigar?”
The change of thought was so sharp that they had to look round to see
who had spoken.
“I mean,” said little Father Brown, from the corner of the room, “I
mean that cigar Mr. Brayne is finishing. It seems nearly as long as a
walking-stick.”
Despite the irrelevance there was assent as well as irritation in
Valentin’s face as he lifted his head.
“Quite right,” he remarked sharply. “Ivan, go and see about Mr. Brayne
again, and bring him here at once.”
The instant the factotum had closed the door, Valentin addressed the
girl with an entirely new earnestness.
“Lady Margaret,” he said, “we all feel, I am sure, both gratitude
and admiration for your act in rising above your lower dignity and
explaining the Commandant’s conduct. But there is a hiatus still.
Lord Galloway, I understand, met you passing from the study to the
drawing-room, and it was only some minutes afterwards that he found the
garden and the Commandant still walking there.”
“You have to remember,” replied Margaret, with a faint irony in her
voice, “that I had just refused him, so we should scarcely have come
back arm in arm. He is a gentleman, anyhow; and he loitered behind--and
so got charged with murder.”
“In those few moments,” said Valentin gravely, “he might really--”
The knock came again, and Ivan put in his scarred face.
“Beg pardon, sir,” he said, “but Mr. Brayne has left the house.”
“Left!” cried Valentin, and rose for the first time to his feet.
“Gone. Scooted. Evaporated,” replied Ivan in humorous French. “His hat
and coat are gone, too, and I’ll tell you something to cap it all. I ran
outside the house to find any traces of him, and I found one, and a big
trace, too.”
“What do you mean?” asked Valentin.
“I’ll show you,” said his servant, and reappeared with a flashing naked
cavalry sabre, streaked with blood about the point and edge. Everyone in
the room eyed it as if it were a thunderbolt; but the experienced Ivan
went on quite quietly:
“I found this,” he said, “flung among the bushes fifty yards up the road
to Paris. In other words, I found it just where your respectable Mr.
Brayne threw it when he ran away.”
There was again a silence, but of a new sort. Valentin took the sabre,
examined it, reflected with unaffected concentration of thought, and
then turned a respectful face to O’Brien. “Commandant,” he said, “we
trust you will always produce this weapon if it is wanted for police
examination. Meanwhile,” he added, slapping the steel back in the
ringing scabbard, “let me return you your sword.”
At the military symbolism of the action the audience could hardly
refrain from applause.
For Neil O’Brien, indeed, that gesture was the turning-point of
existence. By the time he was wandering in the mysterious garden again
in the colours of the morning the tragic futility of his ordinary mien
had fallen from him; he was a man with many reasons for happiness. Lord
Galloway was a gentleman, and had offered him an apology. Lady Margaret
was something better than a lady, a woman at least, and had perhaps
given him something better than an apology, as they drifted among the
old flowerbeds before breakfast. The whole company was more lighthearted
and humane, for though the riddle of the death remained, the load of
suspicion was lifted off them all, and sent flying off to Paris with the
strange millionaire--a man they hardly knew. The devil was cast out of
the house--he had cast himself out.
Still, the riddle remained; and when O’Brien threw himself on a garden
seat beside Dr. Simon, that keenly scientific person at once resumed
it. He did not get much talk out of O’Brien, whose thoughts were on
pleasanter things.
“I can’t say it interests me much,” said the Irishman frankly,
“especially as it seems pretty plain now. Apparently Brayne hated this
stranger for some reason; lured him into the garden, and killed him with
my sword. Then he fled to the city, tossing the sword away as he went.
By the way, Ivan tells me the dead man had a Yankee dollar in his
pocket. So he was a countryman of Brayne’s, and that seems to clinch it.
I don’t see any difficulties about the business.”
“There are five colossal difficulties,” said the doctor quietly; “like
high walls within walls. Don’t mistake me. I don’t doubt that Brayne
did it; his flight, I fancy, proves that. But as to how he did it.
First difficulty: Why should a man kill another man with a great hulking
sabre, when he can almost kill him with a pocket knife and put it back
in his pocket? Second difficulty: Why was there no noise or outcry?
Does a man commonly see another come up waving a scimitar and offer
no remarks? Third difficulty: A servant watched the front door all the
evening; and a rat cannot get into Valentin’s garden anywhere. How did
the dead man get into the garden? Fourth difficulty: Given the same
conditions, how did Brayne get out of the garden?”
“And the fifth,” said Neil, with eyes fixed on the English priest who
was coming slowly up the path.
“Is a trifle, I suppose,” said the doctor, “but I think an odd one. When
I first saw how the head had been slashed, I supposed the assassin had
struck more than once. But on examination I found many cuts across the
truncated section; in other words, they were struck after the head was
off. Did Brayne hate his foe so fiendishly that he stood sabring his
body in the moonlight?”
“Horrible!” said O’Brien, and shuddered.
The little priest, Brown, had arrived while they were talking, and had
waited, with characteristic shyness, till they had finished. Then he
said awkwardly:
“I say, I’m sorry to interrupt. But I was sent to tell you the news!”
“News?” repeated Simon, and stared at him rather painfully through his
glasses.
“Yes, I’m sorry,” said Father Brown mildly. “There’s been another
murder, you know.”
Both men on the seat sprang up, leaving it rocking.
“And, what’s stranger still,” continued the priest, with his dull eye
on the rhododendrons, “it’s the same disgusting sort; it’s another
beheading. They found the second head actually bleeding into the river,
a few yards along Brayne’s road to Paris; so they suppose that he--”
“Great Heaven!” cried O’Brien. “Is Brayne a monomaniac?”
“There are American vendettas,” said the priest impassively. Then he
added: “They want you to come to the library and see it.”
Commandant O’Brien followed the others towards the inquest, feeling
decidedly sick. As a soldier, he loathed all this secretive carnage;
where were these extravagant amputations going to stop? First one
head was hacked off, and then another; in this case (he told himself
bitterly) it was not true that two heads were better than one. As he
crossed the study he almost staggered at a shocking coincidence. Upon
Valentin’s table lay the coloured picture of yet a third bleeding head;
and it was the head of Valentin himself. A second glance showed him it
was only a Nationalist paper, called The Guillotine, which every week
showed one of its political opponents with rolling eyes and writhing
features just after execution; for Valentin was an anti-clerical of some
note. But O’Brien was an Irishman, with a kind of chastity even in his
sins; and his gorge rose against that great brutality of the intellect
which belongs only to France. He felt Paris as a whole, from the
grotesques on the Gothic churches to the gross caricatures in the
newspapers. He remembered the gigantic jests of the Revolution. He saw
the whole city as one ugly energy, from the sanguinary sketch lying on
Valentin’s table up to where, above a mountain and forest of gargoyles,
the great devil grins on Notre Dame.
The library was long, low, and dark; what light entered it shot from
under low blinds and had still some of the ruddy tinge of morning.
Valentin and his servant Ivan were waiting for them at the upper end of
a long, slightly-sloping desk, on which lay the mortal remains, looking
enormous in the twilight. The big black figure and yellow face of the
man found in the garden confronted them essentially unchanged. The
second head, which had been fished from among the river reeds that
morning, lay streaming and dripping beside it; Valentin’s men were still
seeking to recover the rest of this second corpse, which was supposed
to be afloat. Father Brown, who did not seem to share O’Brien’s
sensibilities in the least, went up to the second head and examined it
with his blinking care. It was little more than a mop of wet white hair,
fringed with silver fire in the red and level morning light; the face,
which seemed of an ugly, empurpled and perhaps criminal type, had been
much battered against trees or stones as it tossed in the water.
“Good morning, Commandant O’Brien,” said Valentin, with quiet
cordiality. “You have heard of Brayne’s last experiment in butchery, I
suppose?”
Father Brown was still bending over the head with white hair, and he
said, without looking up:
“I suppose it is quite certain that Brayne cut off this head, too.”
“Well, it seems common sense,” said Valentin, with his hands in his
pockets. “Killed in the same way as the other. Found within a few yards
of the other. And sliced by the same weapon which we know he carried
away.”
“Yes, yes; I know,” replied Father Brown submissively. “Yet, you know, I
doubt whether Brayne could have cut off this head.”
“Why not?” inquired Dr. Simon, with a rational stare.
“Well, doctor,” said the priest, looking up blinking, “can a man cut off
his own head? I don’t know.”
O’Brien felt an insane universe crashing about his ears; but the doctor
sprang forward with impetuous practicality and pushed back the wet white
hair.
“Oh, there’s no doubt it’s Brayne,” said the priest quietly. “He had
exactly that chip in the left ear.”
The detective, who had been regarding the priest with steady and
glittering eyes, opened his clenched mouth and said sharply: “You seem
to know a lot about him, Father Brown.”
“I do,” said the little man simply. “I’ve been about with him for some
weeks. He was thinking of joining our church.”
The star of the fanatic sprang into Valentin’s eyes; he strode towards
the priest with clenched hands. “And, perhaps,” he cried, with a
blasting sneer, “perhaps he was also thinking of leaving all his money
to your church.”
“Perhaps he was,” said Brown stolidly; “it is possible.”
“In that case,” cried Valentin, with a dreadful smile, “you may indeed
know a great deal about him. About his life and about his--”
Commandant O’Brien laid a hand on Valentin’s arm. “Drop that slanderous
rubbish, Valentin,” he said, “or there may be more swords yet.”
But Valentin (under the steady, humble gaze of the priest) had already
recovered himself. “Well,” he said shortly, “people’s private opinions
can wait. You gentlemen are still bound by your promise to stay; you
must enforce it on yourselves--and on each other. Ivan here will tell
you anything more you want to know; I must get to business and write to
the authorities. We can’t keep this quiet any longer. I shall be writing
in my study if there is any more news.”
“Is there any more news, Ivan?” asked Dr. Simon, as the chief of police
strode out of the room.
“Only one more thing, I think, sir,” said Ivan, wrinkling up his grey
old face, “but that’s important, too, in its way. There’s that old
buffer you found on the lawn,” and he pointed without pretence of
reverence at the big black body with the yellow head. “We’ve found out
who he is, anyhow.”
“Indeed!” cried the astonished doctor, “and who is he?”
“His name was Arnold Becker,” said the under-detective, “though he went
by many aliases. He was a wandering sort of scamp, and is known to have
been in America; so that was where Brayne got his knife into him. We
didn’t have much to do with him ourselves, for he worked mostly in
Germany. We’ve communicated, of course, with the German police. But,
oddly enough, there was a twin brother of his, named Louis Becker,
whom we had a great deal to do with. In fact, we found it necessary to
guillotine him only yesterday. Well, it’s a rum thing, gentlemen, but
when I saw that fellow flat on the lawn I had the greatest jump of my
life. If I hadn’t seen Louis Becker guillotined with my own eyes,
I’d have sworn it was Louis Becker lying there in the grass. Then, of
course, I remembered his twin brother in Germany, and following up the
clue--”
The explanatory Ivan stopped, for the excellent reason that nobody was
listening to him. The Commandant and the doctor were both staring at
Father Brown, who had sprung stiffly to his feet, and was holding his
temples tight like a man in sudden and violent pain.
“Stop, stop, stop!” he cried; “stop talking a minute, for I see half.
Will God give me strength? Will my brain make the one jump and see all?
Heaven help me! I used to be fairly good at thinking. I could paraphrase
any page in Aquinas once. Will my head split--or will it see? I see
half--I only see half.”
He buried his head in his hands, and stood in a sort of rigid torture
of thought or prayer, while the other three could only go on staring at
this last prodigy of their wild twelve hours.
When Father Brown’s hands fell they showed a face quite fresh and
serious, like a child’s. He heaved a huge sigh, and said: “Let us get
this said and done with as quickly as possible. Look here, this will
be the quickest way to convince you all of the truth.” He turned to the
doctor. “Dr. Simon,” he said, “you have a strong head-piece, and I heard
you this morning asking the five hardest questions about this business.
Well, if you will ask them again, I will answer them.”
Simon’s pince-nez dropped from his nose in his doubt and wonder, but
he answered at once. “Well, the first question, you know, is why a man
should kill another with a clumsy sabre at all when a man can kill with
a bodkin?”
“A man cannot behead with a bodkin,” said Brown calmly, “and for this
murder beheading was absolutely necessary.”
“Why?” asked O’Brien, with interest.
“And the next question?” asked Father Brown.
“Well, why didn’t the man cry out or anything?” asked the doctor;
“sabres in gardens are certainly unusual.”
“Twigs,” said the priest gloomily, and turned to the window which looked
on the scene of death. “No one saw the point of the twigs. Why should
they lie on that lawn (look at it) so far from any tree? They were not
snapped off; they were chopped off. The murderer occupied his enemy
with some tricks with the sabre, showing how he could cut a branch in
mid-air, or what-not. Then, while his enemy bent down to see the result,
a silent slash, and the head fell.”
“Well,” said the doctor slowly, “that seems plausible enough. But my
next two questions will stump anyone.”
The priest still stood looking critically out of the window and waited.
“You know how all the garden was sealed up like an air-tight chamber,”
went on the doctor. “Well, how did the strange man get into the garden?”
Without turning round, the little priest answered: “There never was any
strange man in the garden.”
There was a silence, and then a sudden cackle of almost childish
laughter relieved the strain. The absurdity of Brown’s remark moved Ivan
to open taunts.
“Oh!” he cried; “then we didn’t lug a great fat corpse on to a sofa last
night? He hadn’t got into the garden, I suppose?”
“Got into the garden?” repeated Brown reflectively. “No, not entirely.”
“Hang it all,” cried Simon, “a man gets into a garden, or he doesn’t.”
“Not necessarily,” said the priest, with a faint smile. “What is the
nest question, doctor?”
“I fancy you’re ill,” exclaimed Dr. Simon sharply; “but I’ll ask the
next question if you like. How did Brayne get out of the garden?”
“He didn’t get out of the garden,” said the priest, still looking out of
the window.
“Didn’t get out of the garden?” exploded Simon.
“Not completely,” said Father Brown.
Simon shook his fists in a frenzy of French logic. “A man gets out of a
garden, or he doesn’t,” he cried.
“Not always,” said Father Brown.
Dr. Simon sprang to his feet impatiently. “I have no time to spare on
such senseless talk,” he cried angrily. “If you can’t understand a man
being on one side of a wall or the other, I won’t trouble you further.”
“Doctor,” said the cleric very gently, “we have always got on very
pleasantly together. If only for the sake of old friendship, stop and
tell me your fifth question.”
The impatient Simon sank into a chair by the door and said briefly: “The
head and shoulders were cut about in a queer way. It seemed to be done
after death.”
“Yes,” said the motionless priest, “it was done so as to make you assume
exactly the one simple falsehood that you did assume. It was done to
make you take for granted that the head belonged to the body.”
The borderland of the brain, where all the monsters are made, moved
horribly in the Gaelic O’Brien. He felt the chaotic presence of all
the horse-men and fish-women that man’s unnatural fancy has begotten. A
voice older than his first fathers seemed saying in his ear: “Keep out
of the monstrous garden where grows the tree with double fruit. Avoid
the evil garden where died the man with two heads.” Yet, while these
shameful symbolic shapes passed across the ancient mirror of his Irish
soul, his Frenchified intellect was quite alert, and was watching the
odd priest as closely and incredulously as all the rest.
Father Brown had turned round at last, and stood against the window,
with his face in dense shadow; but even in that shadow they could see
it was pale as ashes. Nevertheless, he spoke quite sensibly, as if there
were no Gaelic souls on earth.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “you did not find the strange body of Becker in
the garden. You did not find any strange body in the garden. In face
of Dr. Simon’s rationalism, I still affirm that Becker was only partly
present. Look here!” (pointing to the black bulk of the mysterious
corpse) “you never saw that man in your lives. Did you ever see this
man?”
He rapidly rolled away the bald, yellow head of the unknown, and put in
its place the white-maned head beside it. And there, complete, unified,
unmistakable, lay Julius K. Brayne.
“The murderer,” went on Brown quietly, “hacked off his enemy’s head and
flung the sword far over the wall. But he was too clever to fling the
sword only. He flung the head over the wall also. Then he had only to
clap on another head to the corpse, and (as he insisted on a private
inquest) you all imagined a totally new man.”
“Clap on another head!” said O’Brien staring. “What other head? Heads
don’t grow on garden bushes, do they?”
“No,” said Father Brown huskily, and looking at his boots; “there
is only one place where they grow. They grow in the basket of the
guillotine, beside which the chief of police, Aristide Valentin, was
standing not an hour before the murder. Oh, my friends, hear me a minute
more before you tear me in pieces. Valentin is an honest man, if being
mad for an arguable cause is honesty. But did you never see in that
cold, grey eye of his that he is mad! He would do anything, anything, to
break what he calls the superstition of the Cross. He has fought for
it and starved for it, and now he has murdered for it. Brayne’s crazy
millions had hitherto been scattered among so many sects that they did
little to alter the balance of things. But Valentin heard a whisper that
Brayne, like so many scatter-brained sceptics, was drifting to us; and
that was quite a different thing. Brayne would pour supplies into the
impoverished and pugnacious Church of France; he would support six
Nationalist newspapers like The Guillotine. The battle was already
balanced on a point, and the fanatic took flame at the risk. He resolved
to destroy the millionaire, and he did it as one would expect the
greatest of detectives to commit his only crime. He abstracted the
severed head of Becker on some criminological excuse, and took it home
in his official box. He had that last argument with Brayne, that Lord
Galloway did not hear the end of; that failing, he led him out into the
sealed garden, talked about swordsmanship, used twigs and a sabre for
illustration, and--”
Ivan of the Scar sprang up. “You lunatic,” he yelled; “you’ll go to my
master now, if I take you by--”
“Why, I was going there,” said Brown heavily; “I must ask him to
confess, and all that.”
Driving the unhappy Brown before them like a hostage or sacrifice, they
rushed together into the sudden stillness of Valentin’s study.
The great detective sat at his desk apparently too occupied to hear
their turbulent entrance. They paused a moment, and then something in
the look of that upright and elegant back made the doctor run forward
suddenly. A touch and a glance showed him that there was a small box of
pills at Valentin’s elbow, and that Valentin was dead in his chair; and
on the blind face of the suicide was more than the pride of Cato.

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Title: THE SING-SONG OF OLD MAN KANGAROO
Author: Rudyard Kipling
By Rudyard Kipling
THE SING-SONG OF OLD MAN KANGAROO
NOT always was the Kangaroo as now we do behold him, but a Different
Animal with four short legs. He was grey and he was woolly, and
his pride was inordinate: he danced on an outcrop in the middle of
Australia, and he went to the Little God Nqa.
He went to Nqa at six before breakfast, saying, ‘Make me different from
all other animals by five this afternoon.’
Up jumped Nqa from his seat on the sandflat and shouted, ‘Go away!’
He was grey and he was woolly, and his pride was inordinate: he danced
on a rock-ledge in the middle of Australia, and he went to the Middle
God Nquing.
He went to Nquing at eight after breakfast, saying, ‘Make me different
from all other animals; make me, also, wonderfully popular by five this
afternoon.’
Up jumped Nquing from his burrow in the spinifex and shouted, ‘Go away!’
He was grey and he was woolly, and his pride was inordinate: he danced
on a sandbank in the middle of Australia, and he went to the Big God
Nqong.
He went to Nqong at ten before dinner-time, saying, ‘Make me different
from all other animals; make me popular and wonderfully run after by
five this afternoon.’
Up jumped Nqong from his bath in the salt-pan and shouted, ‘Yes, I
will!’
Nqong called Dingo--Yellow-Dog Dingo--always hungry, dusty in the
sunshine, and showed him Kangaroo. Nqong said, ‘Dingo! Wake up, Dingo!
Do you see that gentleman dancing on an ashpit? He wants to be popular
and very truly run after. Dingo, make him SO!’
Up jumped Dingo--Yellow-Dog Dingo--and said, ‘What, that cat-rabbit?’
Off ran Dingo--Yellow-Dog Dingo--always hungry, grinning like a
coal-scuttle,--ran after Kangaroo.
Off went the proud Kangaroo on his four little legs like a bunny.
This, O Beloved of mine, ends the first part of the tale!
He ran through the desert; he ran through the mountains; he ran through
the salt-pans; he ran through the reed-beds; he ran through the blue
gums; he ran through the spinifex; he ran till his front legs ached.
He had to!
Still ran Dingo--Yellow-Dog Dingo--always hungry, grinning like a
rat-trap, never getting nearer, never getting farther,--ran after
Kangaroo.
He had to!
Still ran Kangaroo--Old Man Kangaroo. He ran through the ti-trees; he
ran through the mulga; he ran through the long grass; he ran through the
short grass; he ran through the Tropics of Capricorn and Cancer; he ran
till his hind legs ached.
He had to!
Still ran Dingo--Yellow-Dog Dingo--hungrier and hungrier, grinning like
a horse-collar, never getting nearer, never getting farther; and they
came to the Wollgong River.
Now, there wasn’t any bridge, and there wasn’t any ferry-boat, and
Kangaroo didn’t know how to get over; so he stood on his legs and
hopped.
He had to!
He hopped through the Flinders; he hopped through the Cinders; he
hopped through the deserts in the middle of Australia. He hopped like a
Kangaroo.
First he hopped one yard; then he hopped three yards; then he hopped
five yards; his legs growing stronger; his legs growing longer. He
hadn’t any time for rest or refreshment, and he wanted them very much.
Still ran Dingo--Yellow-Dog Dingo--very much bewildered, very much
hungry, and wondering what in the world or out of it made Old Man
Kangaroo hop.
For he hopped like a cricket; like a pea in a saucepan; or a new rubber
ball on a nursery floor.
He had to!
He tucked up his front legs; he hopped on his hind legs; he stuck out
his tail for a balance-weight behind him; and he hopped through the
Darling Downs.
He had to!
Still ran Dingo--Tired-Dog Dingo--hungrier and hungrier, very much
bewildered, and wondering when in the world or out of it would Old Man
Kangaroo stop.
Then came Nqong from his bath in the salt-pans, and said, ‘It’s five
o’clock.’
Down sat Dingo--Poor Dog Dingo--always hungry, dusky in the sunshine;
hung out his tongue and howled.
Down sat Kangaroo--Old Man Kangaroo--stuck out his tail like a
milking-stool behind him, and said, ‘Thank goodness that’s finished!’
Then said Nqong, who is always a gentleman, ‘Why aren’t you grateful to
Yellow-Dog Dingo? Why don’t you thank him for all he has done for you?’
Then said Kangaroo--Tired Old Kangaroo--He’s chased me out of the homes
of my childhood; he’s chased me out of my regular meal-times; he’s
altered my shape so I’ll never get it back; and he’s played Old Scratch
with my legs.’
Then said Nqong, ‘Perhaps I’m mistaken, but didn’t you ask me to make
you different from all other animals, as well as to make you very truly
sought after? And now it is five o’clock.’
‘Yes,’ said Kangaroo. ‘I wish that I hadn’t. I thought you would do it
by charms and incantations, but this is a practical joke.’
‘Joke!’ said Nqong from his bath in the blue gums. ‘Say that again and
I’ll whistle up Dingo and run your hind legs off.’
‘No,’ said the Kangaroo. ‘I must apologise. Legs are legs, and you
needn’t alter ‘em so far as I am concerned. I only meant to explain to
Your Lordliness that I’ve had nothing to eat since morning, and I’m very
empty indeed.’
‘Yes,’ said Dingo--Yellow-Dog Dingo,--‘I am just in the same situation.
I’ve made him different from all other animals; but what may I have for
my tea?’
Then said Nqong from his bath in the salt-pan, ‘Come and ask me about it
tomorrow, because I’m going to wash.’
So they were left in the middle of Australia, Old Man Kangaroo and
Yellow-Dog Dingo, and each said, ‘That’s your fault.’
THIS is the mouth-filling song
Of the race that was run by a Boomer,
Run in a single burst--only event of its kind--
Started by big God Nqong from Warrigaborrigarooma,
Old Man Kangaroo first: Yellow-Dog Dingo behind.
Kangaroo bounded away,
His back-legs working like pistons--
Bounded from morning till dark,
Twenty-five feet to a bound.
Yellow-Dog Dingo lay
Like a yellow cloud in the distance--
Much too busy to bark.
My! but they covered the ground!
Nobody knows where they went,
Or followed the track that they flew in,
For that Continent
Hadn’t been given a name.
They ran thirty degrees,
From Torres Straits to the Leeuwin
(Look at the Atlas, please),
And they ran back as they came.
S’posing you could trot
From Adelaide to the Pacific,
For an afternoon’s run
Half what these gentlemen did
You would feel rather hot,
But your legs would develop terrific--
Yes, my importunate son,
You’d be a Marvellous Kid!

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Title: THREE QUESTIONS
Author: Leo Tolstoy
It once occurred to a certain king, that if he always knew the right
time to begin everything; if he knew who were the right people to listen
to, and whom to avoid; and, above all, if he always knew what was the
most important thing to do, he would never fail in anything he might
undertake.
And this thought having occurred to him, he had it proclaimed throughout
his kingdom that he would give a great reward to any one who would teach
him what was the right time for every action, and who were the most
necessary people, and how he might know what was the most important
thing to do.
And learned men came to the King, but they all answered his questions
differently.
In reply to the first question, some said that to know the right time
for every action, one must draw up in advance, a table of days, months
and years, and must live strictly according to it. Only thus, said they,
could everything be done at its proper time. Others declared that it
was impossible to decide beforehand the right time for every action;
but that, not letting oneself be absorbed in idle pastimes, one should
always attend to all that was going on, and then do what was most
needful. Others, again, said that however attentive the King might be to
what was going on, it was impossible for one man to decide correctly the
right time for every action, but that he should have a Council of wise
men, who would help him to fix the proper time for everything.
But then again others said there were some things which could not wait
to be laid before a Council, but about which one had at once to decide
whether to undertake them or not. But in order to decide that, one must
know beforehand what was going to happen. It is only magicians who know
that; and, therefore, in order to know the right time for every action,
one must consult magicians.
Equally various were the answers to the second question. Some said, the
people the King most needed were his councillors; others, the priests;
others, the doctors; while some said the warriors were the most
necessary.
To the third question, as to what was the most important occupation:
some replied that the most important thing in the world was science.
Others said it was skill in warfare; and others, again, that it was
religious worship.
All the answers being different, the King agreed with none of them, and
gave the reward to none. But still wishing to find the right answers to
his questions, he decided to consult a hermit, widely renowned for his
wisdom.
The hermit lived in a wood which he never quitted, and he received none
but common folk. So the King put on simple clothes, and before reaching
the hermit's cell dismounted from his horse, and, leaving his body-guard
behind, went on alone.
When the King approached, the hermit was digging the ground in front of
his hut. Seeing the King, he greeted him and went on digging. The hermit
was frail and weak, and each time he stuck his spade into the ground and
turned a little earth, he breathed heavily.
The King went up to him and said: "I have come to you, wise hermit, to
ask you to answer three questions: How can I learn to do the right thing
at the right time? Who are the people I most need, and to whom should
I, therefore, pay more attention than to the rest? And, what affairs are
the most important, and need my first attention?"
The hermit listened to the King, but answered nothing. He just spat on
his hand and recommenced digging.
"You are tired," said the King, "let me take the spade and work awhile
for you."
"Thanks!" said the hermit, and, giving the spade to the King, he sat
down on the ground.
When he had dug two beds, the King stopped and repeated his questions.
The hermit again gave no answer, but rose, stretched out his hand for
the spade, and said:
"Now rest awhile-and let me work a bit."
But the King did not give him the spade, and continued to dig. One hour
passed, and another. The sun began to sink behind the trees, and the
King at last stuck the spade into the ground, and said:
"I came to you, wise man, for an answer to my questions. If you can give
me none, tell me so, and I will return home."
"Here comes some one running," said the hermit, "let us see who it is."
The King turned round, and saw a bearded man come running out of the
wood. The man held his hands pressed against his stomach, and blood was
flowing from under them. When he reached the King, he fell fainting on
the ground moaning feebly. The King and the hermit unfastened the man's
clothing. There was a large wound in his stomach. The King washed it as
best he could, and bandaged it with his handkerchief and with a towel
the hermit had. But the blood would not stop flowing, and the King again
and again removed the bandage soaked with warm blood, and washed and
rebandaged the wound. When at last the blood ceased flowing, the man
revived and asked for something to drink. The King brought fresh water
and gave it to him. Meanwhile the sun had set, and it had become cool.
So the King, with the hermit's help, carried the wounded man into the
hut and laid him on the bed. Lying on the bed the man closed his eyes
and was quiet; but the King was so tired with his walk and with the
work he had done, that he crouched down on the threshold, and also fell
asleep--so soundly that he slept all through the short summer night.
When he awoke in the morning, it was long before he could remember where
he was, or who was the strange bearded man lying on the bed and gazing
intently at him with shining eyes.
"Forgive me!" said the bearded man in a weak voice, when he saw that the
King was awake and was looking at him.
"I do not know you, and have nothing to forgive you for," said the King.
"You do not know me, but I know you. I am that enemy of yours who swore
to revenge himself on you, because you executed his brother and seized
his property. I knew you had gone alone to see the hermit, and I
resolved to kill you on your way back. But the day passed and you did
not return. So I came out from my ambush to find you, and I came upon
your bodyguard, and they recognized me, and wounded me. I escaped from
them, but should have bled to death had you not dressed my wound. I
wished to kill you, and you have saved my life. Now, if I live, and if
you wish it, I will serve you as your most faithful slave, and will bid
my sons do the same. Forgive me!"
The King was very glad to have made peace with his enemy so easily, and
to have gained him for a friend, and he not only forgave him, but said
he would send his servants and his own physician to attend him, and
promised to restore his property.
Having taken leave of the wounded man, the King went out into the porch
and looked around for the hermit. Before going away he wished once more
to beg an answer to the questions he had put. The hermit was outside, on
his knees, sowing seeds in the beds that had been dug the day before.
The King approached him, and said:
"For the last time, I pray you to answer my questions, wise man."
"You have already been answered!" said the hermit, still crouching on
his thin legs, and looking up at the King, who stood before him.
"How answered? What do you mean?" asked the King.
"Do you not see," replied the hermit. "If you had not pitied my weakness
yesterday, and had not dug those beds for me, but had gone your way,
that man would have attacked you, and you would have repented of not
having stayed with me. So the most important time was when you were
digging the beds; and I was the most important man; and to do me good
was your most important business. Afterwards when that man ran to us,
the most important time was when you were attending to him, for if you
had not bound up his wounds he would have died without having made peace
with you. So he was the most important man, and what you did for him was
your most important business. Remember then: there is only one time that
is important--Now! It is the most important time because it is the only
time when we have any power. The most necessary man is he with whom you
are, for no man knows whether he will ever have dealings with any one
else: and the most important affair is, to do him good, because for that
purpose alone was man sent into this life!"

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Title: The Tale of Two Bad Mice
Author: Beatrix Potter
THE TALE OF TWO BAD MICE
ONCE upon a time there was a very beautiful doll's-house; it was red
brick with white windows, and it had real muslin curtains and a front
door and a chimney.
IT belonged to two Dolls called Lucinda and Jane; at least it belonged
to Lucinda, but she never ordered meals.
Jane was the Cook; but she never did any cooking, because the dinner
had been bought ready-made, in a box full of shavings.
THERE were two red lobsters and a ham, a fish, a pudding, and some
pears and oranges.
They would not come off the plates, but they were extremely beautiful.
ONE morning Lucinda and Jane had gone out for a drive in the doll's
perambulator. There was no one in the nursery, and it was very quiet.
Presently there was a little scuffling, scratching noise in a corner
near the fire-place, where there was a hole under the skirting-board.
Tom Thumb put out his head for a moment, and then popped it in again.
Tom Thumb was a mouse.
A MINUTE afterwards, Hunca Munca, his wife, put her head out, too; and
when she saw that there was no one in the nursery, she ventured out on
the oilcloth under the coal-box.
THE doll's-house stood at the other side of the fire-place. Tom Thumb
and Hunca Munca went cautiously across the hearthrug. They pushed the
front door--it was not fast.
TOM THUMB and Hunca Munca went upstairs and peeped into the
dining-room. Then they squeaked with joy!
Such a lovely dinner was laid out upon the table! There were tin
spoons, and lead knives and forks, and two dolly-chairs--all _so_
convenient!
TOM THUMB set to work at once to carve the ham. It was a beautiful
shiny yellow, streaked with red.
The knife crumpled up and hurt him; he put his finger in his mouth.
"It is not boiled enough; it is hard. You have a try, Hunca Munca."
HUNCA MUNCA stood up in her chair, and chopped at the ham with another
lead knife.
"It's as hard as the hams at the cheesemonger's," said Hunca Munca.
THE ham broke off the plate with a jerk, and rolled under the table.
"Let it alone," said Tom Thumb; "give me some fish, Hunca Munca!"
HUNCA MUNCA tried every tin spoon in turn; the fish was glued to the
dish.
Then Tom Thumb lost his temper. He put the ham in the middle of the
floor, and hit it with the tongs and with the shovel--bang, bang,
smash, smash!
The ham flew all into pieces, for underneath the shiny paint it was
made of nothing but plaster!
THEN there was no end to the rage and disappointment of Tom Thumb and
Hunca Munca. They broke up the pudding, the lobsters, the pears and the
oranges.
As the fish would not come off the plate, they put it into the red-hot
crinkly paper fire in the kitchen; but it would not burn either.
TOM THUMB went up the kitchen chimney and looked out at the top--there
was no soot.
WHILE Tom Thumb was up the chimney, Hunca Munca had another
disappointment. She found some tiny canisters upon the dresser,
labelled--Rice--Coffee--Sago--but when she turned them upside down,
there was nothing inside except red and blue beads.
THEN those mice set to work to do all the mischief they
could--especially Tom Thumb! He took Jane's clothes out of the chest of
drawers in her bedroom, and he threw them out of the top floor window.
But Hunca Munca had a frugal mind. After pulling half the feathers out
of Lucinda's bolster, she remembered that she herself was in want of a
feather bed.
WITH Tom Thumb's assistance she carried the bolster downstairs, and
across the hearth-rug. It was difficult to squeeze the bolster into the
mouse-hole; but they managed it somehow.
THEN Hunca Munca went back and fetched a chair, a book-case, a
bird-cage, and several small odds and ends. The book-case and the
bird-cage refused to go into the mouse-hole.
HUNCA MUNCA left them behind the coal-box, and went to fetch a cradle.
HUNCA MUNCA was just returning with another chair, when suddenly there
was a noise of talking outside upon the landing. The mice rushed back
to their hole, and the dolls came into the nursery.
WHAT a sight met the eyes of Jane and Lucinda!
Lucinda sat upon the upset kitchen stove and stared; and Jane leant
against the kitchen dresser and smiled--but neither of them made any
remark.
THE book-case and the bird-cage were rescued from under the
coal-box--but Hunca Munca has got the cradle, and some of Lucinda's
clothes.
SHE also has some useful pots and pans, and several other things.
THE little girl that the doll's-house belonged to, said,--"I will get
a doll dressed like a policeman!"
BUT the nurse said,--"I will set a mouse-trap!"
SO that is the story of the two Bad Mice,--but they were not so very
very naughty after all, because Tom Thumb paid for everything he broke.
He found a crooked sixpence under the hearthrug; and upon Christmas
Eve, he and Hunca Munca stuffed it into one of the stockings of Lucinda
and Jane.
AND very early every morning--before anybody is awake--Hunca Munca
comes with her dust-pan and her broom to sweep the Dollies' house!
THE END.

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depends.txt Normal file
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default

205
init.lua Normal file
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-- Gutenberg init.lua
-- Copyright Duane Robertson (duane@duanerobertson.com), 2017
-- Distributed under the LGPLv2.1 (https://www.gnu.org/licenses/old-licenses/lgpl-2.1.en.html)
gutenberg = {}
gutenberg.path = minetest.get_modpath(minetest.get_current_modname())
local world_path = minetest.get_worldpath()
gutenberg.cache_path = world_path .. '/book_cache/'
local files = {}
for _, filename in pairs(minetest.get_dir_list(gutenberg.path.."/books/")) do
if filename:find('%.txt$') then
files[#files+1] = filename
end
end
--local lpp = 21 -- Lines per book's page
local lpp = 18 -- Lines per book's page
local function book_on_use(itemstack, user)
local player_name = user:get_player_name()
local data = minetest.deserialize(itemstack:get_metadata())
local item_name = itemstack:get_name()
local book = gutenberg.books[item_name]
if not book then
return
end
local page = 1
if data and data.page then
page = data.page
end
local formspec = ""
local lines, string = {}, ""
local file = item_name:gsub('gutenberg:book_', '') .. string.format('%04d', page) .. '.txt'
local f = io.open(gutenberg.cache_path..'/'..file, 'r')
if not f then
return
end
local text = f:read('*a')
f:close()
for str in (text .. "\n"):gmatch("([^\n]*)[\n]") do
lines[#lines+1] = str
end
formspec = "size[11,10]" .. default.gui_bg ..
--formspec = "size[9,8]" .. default.gui_bg ..
default.gui_bg_img ..
"label[0.5,0.5;by " .. book.author .. "]" ..
"tablecolumns[color;text]" ..
"tableoptions[background=#00000000;highlight=#00000000;border=false]" ..
"table[0.4,0;7,0.5;title;#FFFF00," .. minetest.formspec_escape(book.title) .. "]" ..
"textarea[0.5,1.5;10.5,9;;" ..
--"textarea[0.5,1.5;8.5,7;;" ..
minetest.formspec_escape(string ~= "" and string or text) .. ";]" ..
"button[2.4,9.6;0.8,0.8;book_prev;<]" ..
"label[3.2,9.7;Page " .. page .. " of " .. book.page_max .. "]" ..
"button[5.9,9.6;0.8,0.8;book_next;>]"
--"button[2.4,7.6;0.8,0.8;book_prev;<]" ..
--"label[3.2,7.7;Page " .. page .. " of " .. book.page_max .. "]" ..
--"button[4.9,7.6;0.8,0.8;book_next;>]"
minetest.show_formspec(player_name, "gutenberg:book_gutenberg", formspec)
end
minetest.register_on_player_receive_fields(function(player, formname, fields)
if formname ~= "gutenberg:book_gutenberg" then return end
local stack = player:get_wielded_item()
if fields.book_next or fields.book_prev then
local book = gutenberg.books[stack:get_name()]
if not book then
return
end
local data = minetest.deserialize(stack:get_metadata())
if not data or not data.page then
data = {}
data.page = 1
data.page_max = book.page_max
end
if fields.book_next then
data.page = data.page + 1
if data.page > data.page_max then
data.page = 1
end
else
data.page = data.page - 1
if data.page == 0 then
data.page = data.page_max
end
end
local data_str = minetest.serialize(data)
stack:set_metadata(data_str)
book_on_use(stack, player)
end
player:set_wielded_item(stack)
end)
gutenberg.books = {}
local titles = {}
for _, file in pairs(files) do
if file:find('^[a-zA-Z0-9%._]+$') then
local f = io.open(gutenberg.path..'/books/'..file, 'r')
if f then
for non = 1, 1 do
local book = {}
local text = f:read('*a')
f:seek('set')
text = text:gsub('\r', '')
for tit in text:gmatch('Title: ([^\n]+)') do
book.title = tit
end
for aut in text:gmatch('Author: ([^\n]+)') do
book.author = aut
end
if not (book.title and book.author) then
book.title = file:gsub('%.txt$', '')
book.author = 'Unknown'
end
local page_max = 0
local line = 1
local page = 1
local page_text = {}
for str in (text .. "\n"):gmatch("([^\n]*)[\n]") do
if page > lpp then
line = 1
local cache_file = file:gsub('%.txt$', '') .. string.format('%04d', page_max) .. '.txt'
local full_cache_file = gutenberg.cache_path..'/'..cache_file
local fo = io.open(full_cache_file, 'w')
if not fo then
gutenberg.cache_path = world_path
full_cache_file = gutenberg.cache_path..'/'..cache_file
fo = io.open(full_cache_file, 'w')
end
if fo then
fo:write(table.concat(page_text, '\n'))
fo:close()
else
break
end
page_text = {}
page_max = page_max + 1
page = 1
end
page_text[#page_text+1] = str
page = page + 1
end
book.page_max = page_max
local node = 'gutenberg:book_'..file:gsub('%.txt', '')
gutenberg.books[node] = book
titles[#titles+1] = node
minetest.register_craftitem(node, {
description = book.title..' by '..book.author,
inventory_image = "default_book_written.png",
groups = {book = 1, not_in_creative_inventory = 1},
stack_max = 1,
on_use = book_on_use,
})
end
f:close()
end
end
end
minetest.register_craftitem('gutenberg:book_gutenberg', {
description = '??? A book ???',
inventory_image = "default_book_written.png",
groups = {book = 1, not_in_creative_inventory = 1},
stack_max = 1,
})
minetest.register_craft({
output = 'gutenberg:book_gutenberg',
recipe = {
{'default:paper', '', ''},
{'', 'default:paper', ''},
{'', '', 'default:paper'},
}
})
minetest.register_on_craft(function(itemstack, player, old_craft_grid, craft_inv)
if #titles < 1 or itemstack:get_name() ~= "gutenberg:book_gutenberg" then
return
end
itemstack:replace(titles[math.random(#titles)])
end)

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name = gutenberg
depends = default

9207
unmodified_books/heart of the west.txt Normal file
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unmodified_books/options.txt Normal file
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unmodified_books/selected frost.txt Normal file
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