"Friends of my youth, always so good and true to me, I come to mingle my life with yours, and to grow strong with you in good and holy purposes. We of the upper air, do not live alone; we need your life, as well as you do ours. This communion is as ancient as time, and will endure throughout eternity. Volumes could not tell of the broken households united through this light. Search for its hidden treasures; they are worthy of untiring study. Its glory will not fall into your life; it must be worked out by your own efforts and found within your own experience. Thus it will become a part of your immortal self, and help you on your heavenly way. The skeptic cannot sit and call us who have thrown off the mortal, by words alone, for only in answer to deep and heartfelt desire do we come and hold communion with our earthly friends. They who seek shall find.
"Of the spiritual condition of those who enter this state of existence, I can only say to you now that it is identically the same after what you call 'death,' as before; neither higher nor lower,shox torch 2. Progress and happiness here, is as it is with you, dependent upon personal effort. We of the spirit-world have rest and unrest, hope and doubt, according as our states, conditions and surroundings vary. One of my strongest purposes has been to identify myself to you, my friends, to-night. I have succeeded beyond a doubt; none can exist in your minds of my identity-my self, for you have never breathed my name to this mortal. Again will I come to you and tell you of our lovely world which we enjoy, each according to individual development. I dwell in peace. Peace I leave with you. Farewell."
Dawn passed her hand over her brow, as though trying to recall a vanished thought, and slowly came to her normal condition, while her face shone with a light most beautiful to behold.
"Were you conscious of what has transpired?" asked Miss Bernard.
"Yes; and yet so absorbed in another life, that my own spirit seemed floating, yielding to another's will and heart pulsations. This is imperfect,fake montblanc pens, I know, as an explanation, but it is the best I can give."
"It is something which cannot be explained," said Basil, and she knew by these words that he fully comprehended her.
O, soul, how thou dost relieve the labor of the mind,homepage, seeing with finer vision into the centre of life, and there beholding the countless workings of the inner being. What an atom of our self do we exhibit in our little sojourn here. Those of limited sight say we are thus and so, and pass on. Others measure us by themselves, and call us dull, or lacking vital life, ignorant of the fact that they each take all they know how to appropriate, of our quality,Moncler Outlet. A lifetime would give them no more, if their receptive states did not change.
"This experience has given our life a new sweetness," said Basil, seating himself by Dawn. "We have long believed in these things, but have never had such proof of their truthfulness as to-night. We need not tell you how happy you have made us, or how much we shall always enjoy your coming; for we enjoy you personally, aside from this thrilling power which your organization embodies. I, too, have experienced this light, and know well the strange thrill which comes over us, when we meet those who are akin in soul, and assimilate with our mental and spiritual natures."
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
One day Ripley Givens rode over to the Double Elm Ranch to inquire about a bunch of strayed yearling
One day Ripley Givens rode over to the Double Elm Ranch to inquire about a bunch of strayed yearlings. He was late in setting out on his return trip, and it was sundown when he struck the White Horse Crossing of the Nueces. From there to his own camp it was sixteen miles. To the Espinosa ranch it was twelve. Givens was tired. He decided to pass the night at the Crossing.
There was a fine water hole in the river-bed. The banks were thickly covered with great trees, undergrown with brush. Back from the water hole fifty yards was a stretch of curly mesquite grass--supper for his horse and bed for himself. Givens staked his horse, and spread out his saddle blankets to dry. He sat down with his back against a tree and rolled a cigarette. From somewhere in the dense timber along the river came a sudden, rageful,nike shox torch 2, shivering wail. The pony danced at the end of his rope and blew a whistling snort of comprehending fear. Givens puffed at his cigarette, but he reached leisurely for his pistol-belt, which lay on the grass, and twirled the cylinder of his weapon tentatively. A great gar plunged with a loud splash into the water hole. A little brown rabbit skipped around a bunch of catclaw and sat twitching his whiskers and looking humorously at Givens. The pony went on eating grass.
It is well to be reasonably watchful when a Mexican lion sings soprano along the arroyos at sundown. The burden of his song may be that young calves and fat lambs are scarce, and that he has a carnivorous desire for your acquaintance.
In the grass lay an empty fruit can, cast there by some former sojourner. Givens caught sight of it with a grunt of satisfaction. In his coat pocket tied behind his saddle was a handful or two of ground coffee. Black coffee and cigarettes! What ranchero could desire more?
In two minutes he had a little fire going clearly. He started,mont blanc pens, with his can, for the water hole. When within fifteen yards of its edge he saw, between the bushes, a side-saddled pony with down-dropped reins cropping grass a little distance to his left. Just rising from her hands and knees on the brink of the water hole was Josefa O'Donnell. She had been drinking water, and she brushed the sand from the palms of her hands. Ten yards away, to her right, half concealed by a clump of sacuista, Givens saw the crouching form of the Mexican lion. His amber eyeballs glared hungrily; six feet from them was the tip of the tail stretched straight, like a pointer's. His hind-quarters rocked with the motion of the cat tribe preliminary to leaping.
Givens did what he could. His six-shooter was thirty-five yards away lying on the grass. He gave a loud yell, and dashed between the lion and the princess.
The "rucus," as Givens called it afterward,replica louis vuitton handbags, was brief and somewhat confused. When he arrived on the line of attack he saw a dim streak in the air,shox torch 2, and heard a couple of faint cracks. Then a hundred pounds of Mexican lion plumped down upon his head and flattened him, with a heavy jar, to the ground. He remembered calling out: "Let up, now--no fair gouging!" and then he crawled from under the lion like a worm, with his mouth full of grass and dirt, and a big lump on the back of his head where it had struck the root of a water-elm. The lion lay motionless. Givens, feeling aggrieved, and suspicious of fouls, shook his fist at the lion, and shouted: "I'll rastle you again for twenty--" and then he got back to himself.
There was a fine water hole in the river-bed. The banks were thickly covered with great trees, undergrown with brush. Back from the water hole fifty yards was a stretch of curly mesquite grass--supper for his horse and bed for himself. Givens staked his horse, and spread out his saddle blankets to dry. He sat down with his back against a tree and rolled a cigarette. From somewhere in the dense timber along the river came a sudden, rageful,nike shox torch 2, shivering wail. The pony danced at the end of his rope and blew a whistling snort of comprehending fear. Givens puffed at his cigarette, but he reached leisurely for his pistol-belt, which lay on the grass, and twirled the cylinder of his weapon tentatively. A great gar plunged with a loud splash into the water hole. A little brown rabbit skipped around a bunch of catclaw and sat twitching his whiskers and looking humorously at Givens. The pony went on eating grass.
It is well to be reasonably watchful when a Mexican lion sings soprano along the arroyos at sundown. The burden of his song may be that young calves and fat lambs are scarce, and that he has a carnivorous desire for your acquaintance.
In the grass lay an empty fruit can, cast there by some former sojourner. Givens caught sight of it with a grunt of satisfaction. In his coat pocket tied behind his saddle was a handful or two of ground coffee. Black coffee and cigarettes! What ranchero could desire more?
In two minutes he had a little fire going clearly. He started,mont blanc pens, with his can, for the water hole. When within fifteen yards of its edge he saw, between the bushes, a side-saddled pony with down-dropped reins cropping grass a little distance to his left. Just rising from her hands and knees on the brink of the water hole was Josefa O'Donnell. She had been drinking water, and she brushed the sand from the palms of her hands. Ten yards away, to her right, half concealed by a clump of sacuista, Givens saw the crouching form of the Mexican lion. His amber eyeballs glared hungrily; six feet from them was the tip of the tail stretched straight, like a pointer's. His hind-quarters rocked with the motion of the cat tribe preliminary to leaping.
Givens did what he could. His six-shooter was thirty-five yards away lying on the grass. He gave a loud yell, and dashed between the lion and the princess.
The "rucus," as Givens called it afterward,replica louis vuitton handbags, was brief and somewhat confused. When he arrived on the line of attack he saw a dim streak in the air,shox torch 2, and heard a couple of faint cracks. Then a hundred pounds of Mexican lion plumped down upon his head and flattened him, with a heavy jar, to the ground. He remembered calling out: "Let up, now--no fair gouging!" and then he crawled from under the lion like a worm, with his mouth full of grass and dirt, and a big lump on the back of his head where it had struck the root of a water-elm. The lion lay motionless. Givens, feeling aggrieved, and suspicious of fouls, shook his fist at the lion, and shouted: "I'll rastle you again for twenty--" and then he got back to himself.
Sunday, November 25, 2012
Indeed I believe that it is settled
"Indeed I believe that it is settled," ended Felicite. "He seems to place no obstacle in the way, and she seems only to wish not to act hastily, like a girl who desires to examine her heart closely, before engaging herself for life. I will give her a week more for reflection."
Martine, sitting on her heels, was looking fixedly on the ground with a clouded face.
"Yes, yes," she murmured, in a low voice, "mademoiselle has been reflecting a great deal of late. I am always meeting her in some corner. You speak to her, and she does not answer you. That is the way people are when they are breeding a disease, or when they have a secret on their mind. There is something going on; she is no longer the same, no longer the same."
And she took the dibble again and planted a leek, in her rage for work; while old Mme. Rougon went away, somewhat tranquillized; certain, she said, that the marriage would take place.
Pascal, in effect, seemed to accept Clotilde's marriage as a thing settled, inevitable. He had not spoken with her about it again, the rare allusions which they made to it between themselves, in their hourly conversations, left them undisturbed; and it was simply as if the two months which they still had to live together were to be without end, an eternity stretching beyond their view,homepage.
She, especially, would look at him smiling, putting off to a future day troubles and decisions with a pretty vague gesture, as if to leave everything to beneficent life,Replica Designer Handbags. He, now well and gaining strength daily, grew melancholy only when he returned to the solitude of his chamber at night, after she had retired. He shuddered and turned cold at the thought that a time would come when he would be always alone. Was it the beginning of old age that made him shiver in this way? He seemed to see it stretching before him, like a shadowy region in which he already began to feel all his energy melting away. And then the regret of having neither wife nor child filled him with rebelliousness, and wrung his heart with intolerable anguish.
Ah, why had he not lived,moncler jackets women! There were times when he cursed science, accusing it of having taken from him the best part of his manhood. He had let himself be devoured by work; work had consumed his brain, consumed his heart,Moncler outlet online store, consumed his flesh. All this solitary, passionate labor had produced only books, blackened paper, that would be scattered to the winds, whose cold leaves chilled his hands as he turned them over. And no living woman's breast to lean upon, no child's warm locks to kiss! He had lived the cold, solitary life of a selfish scientist, and he would die in cold solitude. Was he indeed going to die thus? Would he never taste the happiness enjoyed by even the common porters, by the carters who cracked their whips, passing by under his windows? But he must hasten, if he would; soon, no doubt, it would be too late. All his unemployed youth, all his pent-up desires, surged tumultuously through his veins. He swore that he would yet love, that he would live a new life, that he would drain the cup of every passion that he had not yet tasted, before he should be an old man. He would knock at the doors, he would stop the passers-by, he would scour the fields and town.
Be careful
"Be careful," Mathieu suddenly said to Charlotte; "hide your drawings, here are Gervais and Claire coming about the table."
Gervais at nineteen years of age was quite a colossus, the tallest and the strongest of the family, with short, curly black hair,ugg bailey button triplet 1873 boots, large bright eyes, and a full broad-featured face. He had remained his father's favorite son, the son of the fertile earth, the one in whom Mathieu fostered a love for the estate, a passion for skilful agriculture, in order that later on the young man might continue the good work which had been begun. Mathieu already disburdened himself on Gervais of a part of his duties, and was only waiting to see him married to give him the control of the whole farm. And he often thought of adjoining to him Claire when she found a husband in some worthy, sturdy fellow who would assume part of the labor. Two men agreeing well would be none too many for an enterprise which was increasing in importance every day. Since Marianne had again been nursing, Claire had been attending to her work. Though she had no beauty, she was of vigorous health and quite strong for her seventeen years. She busied herself more particularly with cookery and household affairs,LINK, but she also kept the accounts, being shrewd-witted and very economically inclined, on which account the prodigals of the family often made fun of her.
"And so it's here that the table is to be set," said Gervais; "I shall have to see that the lawn is mowed then."
On her side Claire inquired what number of people there would be at table and how she had better place them. Then, Gervais having called to Frederic to bring a scythe, the three of them went on discussing the arrangements. After Rose's death, Frederic, her betrothed, had continued working beside Gervais, becoming his most active and intelligent comrade and helper. For some months, too, Marianne and Mathieu had noticed that he was revolving around Claire, as though, since he had lost the elder girl, he were willing to content himself with the younger one, who was far less beautiful no doubt, but withal a good and sturdy housewife. This had at first saddened the parents. Was it possible to forget their dear daughter? Then, however, they felt moved, for the thought came to them that the family ties would be drawn yet closer, that the young fellow's heart would not roam in search of love elsewhere, but would remain with them. So closing their eyes to what went on, they smiled, for in Frederic, when Claire should be old enough to marry, Gervais would find the brother-in-law and partner that he needed.
The question of the table had just been settled when a sudden invasion burst through the tall grass around the oak tree; skirts flew about, and loose hair waved in the sunshine.
"Oh!" cried Louise, "there are no roses."
"No," repeated Madeleine, "not a single white rose."
"And," added Marguerite, "we have inspected all the bushes. There are no white roses, only red ones."
Thirteen, eleven,Moncler outlet online store, and nine, such were their respective ages. Louise, plump and gay, already looked a little woman; Madeleine, slim and pretty, spent hours at her piano, her eyes full of dreaminess; Marguerite,replica gucci wallets, whose nose was rather too large and whose lips were thick, had beautiful golden hair. She would pick up little birds at winter time and warm them with her hands. And the three of, them, after scouring the back garden, where flowers mingled with vegetables, had now rushed up in despair at their vain search. No white roses for a wedding! That was the end of everything! What could they offer to the bride? And what could they set upon the table?
Thursday, November 22, 2012
“How nice
“How nice!” I cut in. “Well, look, I really must go. Lovely to see you. And love to Tom!”
And I turn into the house so quickly, I bump my knee on thedoor frame. Then I feel a bit bad, and wish I’d said good-bye nicely. But honestly! If I hear one more word about bloody Tom and his bloody kitchen, I’ll go mad.
By the time I sit down in front of the National Lottery, how-ever, I’ve forgotten all about them. We’ve had a nice supper—chicken Proven?ale from Marks and Spencer, and a nice bottle of Pinot Grigio, which I brought. I know the chicken Proven?ale comes from Marks and Spencer because I’ve bought it myself, quite a few times. I recognized the sun-dried tomatoes and the olives, and everything. Mum, of course, still acted like she’d made it from scratch, from her own recipe.
I don’t know why she bothers. It isn’t like anyone would care—especially when it’s just me and Dad. And I mean, it’s pretty obvious that there are never any raw ingredients in our kitchen. There are lots of empty cardboard boxes and lots of fully prepared meals—and nothing in between. But still Mum never ever admits she’s bought a ready-made meal, not even when it’s a pie in a foil container. My dad will eat one of those pies, full of plastic mushrooms and gloopy sauce, and then say, with a per-fectly straight face, “Delicious, my love.” And my mum will smile back, looking all pleased with herself.
But tonight it’s not foil pie, it’s chicken Proven?ale. (To be fair, I suppose it almost does look homemade—except no one would ever cut a red pepper up that small for themselves, would they? People have more important things to do.) So anyway, we’ve eaten it and we’ve drunk a fair amount of the Pinot Grigio, and there’s an apple crumble in the oven—and I’ve suggested, casu-ally, that we all go and watch telly. Because I know from looking at the clock that the National Lottery program has already started. In a matter of minutes, it’s all going to happen. I cannot wait.
Luckily, my parents aren’t the sort who want to make conver-sation about politics or talk about books. We’ve already caught up with all the family news, and I’ve told them how my work’sgoing, and they’ve told me about their holiday in Corsica—so by now, we’re grinding to a bit of a halt. We need the telly on, if only as a conversational sounding board.
So we all troop into the sitting room, and my dad lights the gas flame-effect fire and turns on the telly. And there it is! The National Lottery, in glorious Technicolor. The lights are shining, and Dale Winton is joshing with Tiffany fromEastEnders, and every so often the audience gives an excited whoop. My stomach’s getting tighter and tighter, and my heart’s going thump-thump-thump. Because in a few minutes those balls are going to fall. In a few minutes I’m going to be a millionaire. I justknow I am.
I lean calmly back on the sofa and think what I’ll do when I win. At the very instant that I win, I mean. Do I scream? Do I keep quiet? Maybe I shouldn’t tell anyone for twenty-four hours. Maybe I shouldn’t tell anyoneat all.
And I turn into the house so quickly, I bump my knee on thedoor frame. Then I feel a bit bad, and wish I’d said good-bye nicely. But honestly! If I hear one more word about bloody Tom and his bloody kitchen, I’ll go mad.
By the time I sit down in front of the National Lottery, how-ever, I’ve forgotten all about them. We’ve had a nice supper—chicken Proven?ale from Marks and Spencer, and a nice bottle of Pinot Grigio, which I brought. I know the chicken Proven?ale comes from Marks and Spencer because I’ve bought it myself, quite a few times. I recognized the sun-dried tomatoes and the olives, and everything. Mum, of course, still acted like she’d made it from scratch, from her own recipe.
I don’t know why she bothers. It isn’t like anyone would care—especially when it’s just me and Dad. And I mean, it’s pretty obvious that there are never any raw ingredients in our kitchen. There are lots of empty cardboard boxes and lots of fully prepared meals—and nothing in between. But still Mum never ever admits she’s bought a ready-made meal, not even when it’s a pie in a foil container. My dad will eat one of those pies, full of plastic mushrooms and gloopy sauce, and then say, with a per-fectly straight face, “Delicious, my love.” And my mum will smile back, looking all pleased with herself.
But tonight it’s not foil pie, it’s chicken Proven?ale. (To be fair, I suppose it almost does look homemade—except no one would ever cut a red pepper up that small for themselves, would they? People have more important things to do.) So anyway, we’ve eaten it and we’ve drunk a fair amount of the Pinot Grigio, and there’s an apple crumble in the oven—and I’ve suggested, casu-ally, that we all go and watch telly. Because I know from looking at the clock that the National Lottery program has already started. In a matter of minutes, it’s all going to happen. I cannot wait.
Luckily, my parents aren’t the sort who want to make conver-sation about politics or talk about books. We’ve already caught up with all the family news, and I’ve told them how my work’sgoing, and they’ve told me about their holiday in Corsica—so by now, we’re grinding to a bit of a halt. We need the telly on, if only as a conversational sounding board.
So we all troop into the sitting room, and my dad lights the gas flame-effect fire and turns on the telly. And there it is! The National Lottery, in glorious Technicolor. The lights are shining, and Dale Winton is joshing with Tiffany fromEastEnders, and every so often the audience gives an excited whoop. My stomach’s getting tighter and tighter, and my heart’s going thump-thump-thump. Because in a few minutes those balls are going to fall. In a few minutes I’m going to be a millionaire. I justknow I am.
I lean calmly back on the sofa and think what I’ll do when I win. At the very instant that I win, I mean. Do I scream? Do I keep quiet? Maybe I shouldn’t tell anyone for twenty-four hours. Maybe I shouldn’t tell anyoneat all.
Olga persisted
Olga persisted. "But he's the one who has come closest to destroying the family."
"Fuck you, Olga," Kit said.
"Easy," Stanley said firmly. "We can have a passionate discussion without descending to insults and obscenity."
"Come on, Daddy," Olga said. She was furious, because she had been called mercenary, and she needed to counterattack. "What could be more threatening to the family than one of us who steals from another?"
Kit was red with shame and fury. "I'll tell you," he said.
Miranda knew what was coming. Terrified, she stretched out her arm toward Kit with her hand upright in a Halt sign. "Kit, calm down, please," she said frantically.
He was not listening. "I'll tell you what could be more threatening to the family."
Miranda shouted at him: "Just shut up!"
Stanley realized there was a subtext of which he was ignorant, and he frowned with puzzlement. "What are you two talking about?"
Kit said, "I'm talking about someone—"
Miranda stood up. "No!" —someone who sleeps—"
Miranda snatched up a glass of water and threw it in Kit's face.
There was a sudden hush.
Kit wiped his face with his napkin. With everyone watching him in shocked silence, he said, "... sleeps with her sister's husband."
Olga was bewildered. "This makes no sense. I never slept with Jasper—or Ned."
Miranda held her head in her h?nds.
"I didn't mean you," Kit said.
Olga looked at Miranda. Miranda looked away.
Lori, still standing there with the coffeepot, gave a gasp of sudden, shocked comprehension.
Stanley said, "Good God! I never imagined that."
Miranda looked at Ned. He was horrified. He said, "Did you?"
She did not reply.
Olga turned to Hugo. "You and my sister?"
He tried his bad-boy grin. Olga swung her arm and slapped his face. The blow had a solid sound, more like a punch. "Ow!" he cried, and rocked back in his chair.
Olga said, "You lousy, lying . . ." She searched for words. "You worm. You pig. You bloody bastard, you rotten sod." She turned to Miranda. "And you!"
Miranda could not meet her eye. She looked down at the table. A small cup of coffee was in front of her. The cup was fine white china with a blue stripe, Mamma's favorite set.
"How could you?" Olga said to her. "How could you?"
Miranda would try to explain, one day; but anything she said now would sound like an excuse. So she just shook her head.
Olga stood up and walked out of the room.
Hugo looked sheepish. "I'd better . . ." He followed her.
Stanley suddenly realized that Lori was standing there listening to every word. Belatedly, he said, "Lori, you'd better help Luke in the kitchen."
She started as if awakened. "Yes, Professor Oxenford."
Stanley looked at Kit. "That was brutal." Anger made his voice shake.
"Oh, that's right, blame me," Kit said petulantly. "I didn't sleep with Hugo, did I?" He threw down his napkin and left.
Ned was mortified. "Um, excuse me," he said, and he went out.
Only Miranda and her father were left in the room. Stanley got up and came to her side. He put his h?nd on her shoulder. "They'll all calm down about it, eventually," he said. "This is bad, but it will pass."
"Fuck you, Olga," Kit said.
"Easy," Stanley said firmly. "We can have a passionate discussion without descending to insults and obscenity."
"Come on, Daddy," Olga said. She was furious, because she had been called mercenary, and she needed to counterattack. "What could be more threatening to the family than one of us who steals from another?"
Kit was red with shame and fury. "I'll tell you," he said.
Miranda knew what was coming. Terrified, she stretched out her arm toward Kit with her hand upright in a Halt sign. "Kit, calm down, please," she said frantically.
He was not listening. "I'll tell you what could be more threatening to the family."
Miranda shouted at him: "Just shut up!"
Stanley realized there was a subtext of which he was ignorant, and he frowned with puzzlement. "What are you two talking about?"
Kit said, "I'm talking about someone—"
Miranda stood up. "No!" —someone who sleeps—"
Miranda snatched up a glass of water and threw it in Kit's face.
There was a sudden hush.
Kit wiped his face with his napkin. With everyone watching him in shocked silence, he said, "... sleeps with her sister's husband."
Olga was bewildered. "This makes no sense. I never slept with Jasper—or Ned."
Miranda held her head in her h?nds.
"I didn't mean you," Kit said.
Olga looked at Miranda. Miranda looked away.
Lori, still standing there with the coffeepot, gave a gasp of sudden, shocked comprehension.
Stanley said, "Good God! I never imagined that."
Miranda looked at Ned. He was horrified. He said, "Did you?"
She did not reply.
Olga turned to Hugo. "You and my sister?"
He tried his bad-boy grin. Olga swung her arm and slapped his face. The blow had a solid sound, more like a punch. "Ow!" he cried, and rocked back in his chair.
Olga said, "You lousy, lying . . ." She searched for words. "You worm. You pig. You bloody bastard, you rotten sod." She turned to Miranda. "And you!"
Miranda could not meet her eye. She looked down at the table. A small cup of coffee was in front of her. The cup was fine white china with a blue stripe, Mamma's favorite set.
"How could you?" Olga said to her. "How could you?"
Miranda would try to explain, one day; but anything she said now would sound like an excuse. So she just shook her head.
Olga stood up and walked out of the room.
Hugo looked sheepish. "I'd better . . ." He followed her.
Stanley suddenly realized that Lori was standing there listening to every word. Belatedly, he said, "Lori, you'd better help Luke in the kitchen."
She started as if awakened. "Yes, Professor Oxenford."
Stanley looked at Kit. "That was brutal." Anger made his voice shake.
"Oh, that's right, blame me," Kit said petulantly. "I didn't sleep with Hugo, did I?" He threw down his napkin and left.
Ned was mortified. "Um, excuse me," he said, and he went out.
Only Miranda and her father were left in the room. Stanley got up and came to her side. He put his h?nd on her shoulder. "They'll all calm down about it, eventually," he said. "This is bad, but it will pass."
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
'If you are not too busy
"'If you are not too busy, I'd like for you to find him a place to board where they have white-meal corn-bread, and try to keep him from taking his shoes off in your office or on the street. His right foot swells a little, and he likes to be comfortable.
"'If you can spare the time, count his handkerchiefs when they come back from the wash. I bought him a dozen new ones before he left. He should be there about the time this letter reaches you. I told him to go straight to your office when he arrives.'"
As soon as Blandford had finished the reading of this, something happened (as there should happen in stories and must happen on the stage).
Percival, the office boy, with his air of despising the world's output of mill supplies and leather belting, came in to announce that a colored gentleman was outside to see Mr. Blandford Carteret.
"Bring him in," said Blandford, rising.
John Carteret swung around in his chair and said to Percival: "Ask him to wait a few minutes outside. We'll let you know when to bring him in."
Then he turned to his cousin with one of those broad, slow smiles that was an inheritance of all the Carterets, and said:
"Bland, I've always had a consuming curiosity to understand the differences that you haughty Southerners believe to exist between 'you all ' and the people of the North. Of course, I know that you consider yourselves made out of finer clay and look upon Adam as only a collateral branch of your ancestry; but I don't know why. I never could understand the differences between us."
"Well, John," said Blandford, laughing, "what you don't understand about it is just the difference, of course. I suppose it was the feudal way in which we lived that gave us our lordly baronial airs and feeling of superiority."
"But you are not feudal, now," went on John. "Since we licked you and stole your cotton and mules you've had to go to work just as we 'damyankees,' as you call us, have always been doing. And you're just as proud and exclusive and upper-classy as you were before the war. So it wasn't your money that caused it."
"Maybe it was the climate," said Blandford, lightly, "or maybe our negroes spoiled us. I'll call old Jake in, now. I'll be glad to see the old villain again."
"Wait just a moment," said John. "I've got a little theory I want to test. You and I are pretty much alike in our general appearance. Old Jake hasn't seen you since you were fifteen. Let's have him in and play fair and see which of us gets the watch. The old darky surrey ought to be able to pick out his 'young marster' without any trouble. The alleged aristocratic superiority of a 'reb' ought to be visible to him at once. He couldn't make the mistake of handing over the timepiece to a Yankee, of course. The loser buys the dinner this evening and two dozen 15 1/2 collars for Jake. Is it a go?"
Blandford agreed heartily. Percival was summoned, and told to usher the "colored gentleman" in.
Uncle Jake stepped inside the private office cautiously. He was a little old man, as black as soot, wrinkled and bald except for a fringe of white wool, cut decorously short, that ran over his ears and around his head. There was nothing of the stage "uncle" about him: his black suit nearly fitted him; his shoes shone, and his straw hat was banded with a gaudy ribbon. In his right hand he carried something carefully concealed by his closed fingers.
"'If you can spare the time, count his handkerchiefs when they come back from the wash. I bought him a dozen new ones before he left. He should be there about the time this letter reaches you. I told him to go straight to your office when he arrives.'"
As soon as Blandford had finished the reading of this, something happened (as there should happen in stories and must happen on the stage).
Percival, the office boy, with his air of despising the world's output of mill supplies and leather belting, came in to announce that a colored gentleman was outside to see Mr. Blandford Carteret.
"Bring him in," said Blandford, rising.
John Carteret swung around in his chair and said to Percival: "Ask him to wait a few minutes outside. We'll let you know when to bring him in."
Then he turned to his cousin with one of those broad, slow smiles that was an inheritance of all the Carterets, and said:
"Bland, I've always had a consuming curiosity to understand the differences that you haughty Southerners believe to exist between 'you all ' and the people of the North. Of course, I know that you consider yourselves made out of finer clay and look upon Adam as only a collateral branch of your ancestry; but I don't know why. I never could understand the differences between us."
"Well, John," said Blandford, laughing, "what you don't understand about it is just the difference, of course. I suppose it was the feudal way in which we lived that gave us our lordly baronial airs and feeling of superiority."
"But you are not feudal, now," went on John. "Since we licked you and stole your cotton and mules you've had to go to work just as we 'damyankees,' as you call us, have always been doing. And you're just as proud and exclusive and upper-classy as you were before the war. So it wasn't your money that caused it."
"Maybe it was the climate," said Blandford, lightly, "or maybe our negroes spoiled us. I'll call old Jake in, now. I'll be glad to see the old villain again."
"Wait just a moment," said John. "I've got a little theory I want to test. You and I are pretty much alike in our general appearance. Old Jake hasn't seen you since you were fifteen. Let's have him in and play fair and see which of us gets the watch. The old darky surrey ought to be able to pick out his 'young marster' without any trouble. The alleged aristocratic superiority of a 'reb' ought to be visible to him at once. He couldn't make the mistake of handing over the timepiece to a Yankee, of course. The loser buys the dinner this evening and two dozen 15 1/2 collars for Jake. Is it a go?"
Blandford agreed heartily. Percival was summoned, and told to usher the "colored gentleman" in.
Uncle Jake stepped inside the private office cautiously. He was a little old man, as black as soot, wrinkled and bald except for a fringe of white wool, cut decorously short, that ran over his ears and around his head. There was nothing of the stage "uncle" about him: his black suit nearly fitted him; his shoes shone, and his straw hat was banded with a gaudy ribbon. In his right hand he carried something carefully concealed by his closed fingers.
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