haunted snuffers, for they clung to me, and in spite of every effort
never left me free. It was in vain that I came home early and shifted
them into the Major's candlestick: they only came back. I threw them out
of the bedroom window once, and they were found by the maid in the area.
I threw them out again, and they were picked up by the policeman, and
they made him bring them back. Then I tried it at midday; but an old
woman brought them in, and made a row because they went through her
parasol, so that I had to pay ten shillings, besides being looked upon
by my landlady as a lunatic.
I thrust them into the fire one night, and held them there with the
tongs, lest they should leap out; but they would not burn, and my
landlady, finding them in the ashes, had them japanned, and they were in
their old place next day. I had no better luck when I thrust
them--buried them--deep in a scuttle of ashes; they only turned up out
of the dusthole when Mary sifted the cinders.
They always came off black on to my hands when they did not anoint my
fingers with soft tallow. If they fell out of the candlestick, it was
always on to oilcloth or paint, where they could make a noise jumping
about like a grasshopper, till they ended by standing upon the sharp
beak, with the spectacle-like holes in the air. If I went up to dress,
they would shoot into my collar-box, or amongst my clean shirts,
smutting them all over. If I tried to kill a wasp with them upon an
autumn evening, when the insect crept out of a plum at dessert, the
wretches only snipped him in two, as if rejoicing at the inflicted
torture. In short, they have worn me out--those snuffers; and, if it was
not from fear, I should take and drop them from the parapet of a bridge.
But, there! it would be in vain; they would be certain to turn up; and
they are not mortal, so what can you expect? Let this communication be a
secret, for it is written wholly by day, when the snuffers lie in the
lower regions.
A bright thought has occurred to me--the Major leaves this morning for
Berlin.
* * * * *
I have done it--his carpet bag stood in the hall, waiting for the cab.
The Major was in the drawing-room paying his bill. The maids were
upstairs making the beds. I stole down, like a thief, into the kitchen.
The snuffers were in my dirty candlestick upon the dresser. I seized the
grinning, tallow-anointed demons, flew up the stairs, and, as I heard
the drawing-room door open, tore the bag a little apart, and thrust them
in. The next minute they were on the roof of a cab, and on their way to
Berlin, where they will haunt the Major.
* * * * *
A month of uninterrupted joy has passed. On the day of the Major's
departure I seemed to wed pleasure; and this has been the honeymoon.
This morning, when I paid my bill, the landlady announced the coming
back of the Major to his old apartments. I have been in dread ever
since. But this is folly. I will be hopeful: my worst fears may not be
confirmed.
* * * * *
It's all over--he has brought them back!
They grin at me as I write.
(_By permission of the Author._)
THE WALRUS AND THE CARPENTER.
LEWIS CARROLL.
The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all his might;
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright--
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.
The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
After the day was done.
"It's very rude of him," she said,
"To come and spoil the fun."
The sea was wet as wet could be,
The sands were dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud, because
No cloud was in the sky:
No birds were flying over-head--
There were no birds to fly.
The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand;
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand:
"If this were only cleared away,"
They said, "It _would_ be grand!"
"If seven maids, with seven mops,
Swept it for half a year,
Do you suppose," the Walrus said,
"That they could get it clear?"
"I doubt it," said the Carpenter,
And shed a bitter tear.
"O, Oysters, come and walk with us!"
The Walrus did beseech.
"A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the briny beach:
We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each."
The eldest Oyster looked at him,
But never a word he said:
The eldest Oyster winked his eye,
And shook his heavy head--
Meaning to say he did not choose
To leave the oyster-bed.
But four young Oysters hurried up,
All eager for the treat:
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
Their shoes were clean and neat--
And this was odd, because, you know,
They hadn't any feet.
Four other Oysters followed them,
And yet another four;
And thick and fast they came at last,
And more, and more, and more--
All hopping through the frothy waves,
And scrambling to the shore.
The Walrus and the Carpenter
Walked on a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock
Conveniently low:
And all the little Oysters stood
And waited in a row.
"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--
Of cabbages--and kings--
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings."
"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried,
"Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!"
"No hurry," said the Carpenter:
They thanked him much for that.
"A loaf of bread," the Walrus said,
"Is what we chiefly need:
Pepper and vinegar besides
Are very good indeed--
Now, if you're ready, Oysters dear,
We can begin to feed."
"But not on us," the Oysters cried,
Turning a little blue.
"After such kindness, that would be
A dismal thing to do!"
"The night is fine," the Walrus said.
"Do you admire the view?
"It was so kind of you to come,
And you are very nice!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"Cut us another slice:
I wish you were not quite so deaf--
I've had to ask you twice!"
"It seems a shame," the Walrus said,
"To play them such a trick,
After we've brought them out so far,
And made them trot so quick!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"The butter's spread too thick!"
"I weep for you," the Walrus said:
"I deeply sympathize."
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket-handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.
"O, Oysters," said the Carpenter,
"You've had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?"
But answer came there none--
And this was scarcely odd, because
They'd eaten every one.
(_By permission of the Author._)
MY BROTHER HENRY.
J. M. BARRIE.
At first sight it may not, perhaps, seem quite the thing that I should
be hilarious because I have at last had the courage to kill my brother
Henry. For some time, however, Henry had been annoying me. Strictly
speaking, I never had a brother Henry. It is just fifteen months since I
began to acknowledge that there was such a person. It came about in this
way:--I have a friend of the name of Fenton, who, like myself, lives in
London. His house is so conveniently situated that I can go there and
back in one day. About a year and a half ago I was at Fenton's, and he
remarked that he had met a man the day before who knew my brother Henry.
Not having a brother Henry, I felt that there must be a mistake
somewhere; so I suggested that Fenton's friend had gone wrong in the
name. My only brother, I pointed out with the suavity of manner that
makes me a general favourite, was called Alexander. "Yes," said Fenton,
"but he spoke of Alexander also." Even this did not convince me that I
had a brother Henry, and I asked Fenton the name of his friend.
Scudamour was the name, and the gentleman had met my brothers Alexander
and Henry some six years previously in Paris. When I heard this I
probably frowned; for then I knew who my brother Henry was. Strange
though it may seem, I was my own brother Henry. I distinctly remembered
meeting this man Scudamour at Paris during the time that Alexander and I
were there for a week's pleasure, and quarrelled every day. I explained
this to Fenton; and there, for the time being, the matter rested. I had,
however, by no means heard the last of Henry. Several times afterwards I
heard from various persons that Scudamour wanted to meet me because he
knew my brother Henry. At last we did meet, at a Bohemian supper-party
in Furnival's Inn; and, almost as soon as he saw me, Scudamour asked
where Henry was now. This was precisely what I feared. I am a man who
always looks like a boy. There are few persons of my age in London who
retain their boyish appearance as long as I have done; indeed, this is
the curse of my life. Though I am approaching the age of thirty, I pass
for twenty; and I have observed old gentlemen frown at my precocity when
I said a good thing or helped myself to a second glass of wine. There
was, therefore, nothing surprising in Scudamour's remark that, when he
had the pleasure of meeting Henry, Henry must have been about the age
that I had now reached. All would have been well had I explained the
real state of affairs to this annoying man; but, unfortunately for
myself, I loathe entering upon explanations to anybody about anything.
When I ring for my boots and my servant thinks I want a glass of water,
I drink the water and remain indoors. Much, then, did I dread a
discussion with Scudamour, his surprise when he heard that I was Henry
(my Christian name is Thomas), and his comments on my youthful
appearance. Besides, I was at that moment carving a tough fowl; and, as
I learned to carve from a handbook, I can make no progress unless I keep
muttering to myself, "Cut from A to B, taking care to pass along the
line C D, and sever the wing K from the body at the point F." There was
no likelihood of my meeting Scudamour again, so the easiest way to get
rid of him seemed to be to humour him. I therefore told him that Henry
was in India, married, and doing well. "Remember me to Henry when you
write to him," was Scudamour's last remark to me that evening. A few
weeks later someone tapped me on the shoulder in Oxford Street. It was
Scudamour. "Heard from Henry?" he asked. I said I had heard by the last
mail. "Anything particular in the letter?" I felt it would not do to say
there was nothing particular in a letter which had come all the way from
India, so I hinted that Henry had had trouble with his wife. By this I
meant that her health was bad; but he took it up in another way, and I
did not set him right. "Ah, ah!" he said, shaking his head sagaciously,
"I'm sorry to hear that. Poor Henry!" "Poor old boy!" was all I could
think of replying. "How about the children?" Scudamour asked. "Oh, the
children," I said, with what I thought presence of mind, "are coming to
England." "To stay with Alexander?" he asked; for Alexander is a married
man. My answer was that Alexander was expecting them by the middle of
next month; and eventually Scudamour went away muttering "Poor Henry!"
In a month or so we met again. "No word of Henry's getting leave of
absence?" asked Scudamour. I replied shortly that Henry had gone to live
in Bombay, and would not be home for years. He saw that I was brusque,
so what does he do but draw me aside for a quiet explanation. "I
suppose," he said, "you are annoyed because I told Fenton that Henry's
wife had run away from him. The fact is I did it for your good. You see
I happened to make a remark to Fenton about your brother Henry, and he
said that there was no such person. Of course I laughed at that, and
pointed out not only that I had the pleasure of Henry's acquaintance,
but that you and I had a talk about the old fellow every time we met.
'Well,' Fenton said, 'this is a most remarkable thing; for Tom,' meaning
you, 'said to me in this very room, sitting in that very chair, that
Alexander was his only brother.' I saw that Fenton resented your
concealing the existence of your brother Henry from him, so I thought
the most friendly thing I could do was to tell him that your reticence
was doubtless due to the fact that Henry's private affairs were
troubling you. Naturally, in the circumstances, you did not want to
talk about Henry." I shook Scudamour by the hand, telling him that he
had acted judiciously; but if I could have stabbed him quietly at that
moment I dare say I should have done it. I did not see Scudamour again
for a long time, for I took care to keep out of his way; but I heard
first from him and then of him. One day he wrote to me saying that his
nephew was going to Bombay, and would I be so good as to give the youth
an introduction to my brother Henry? He also asked me to dine with him
and his nephew. I declined the dinner, but I sent the nephew the
required note of introduction to Henry. The next I heard of Scudamour
was from Fenton. "By the way," said Fenton, "Scudamour is in Edinburgh
at present." I trembled, for Edinburgh is where Alexander lives. "What
has taken him there?" I asked, with assumed carelessness. Fenton
believed it was business; "but," he added, "Scudamour asked me to tell
you that he meant to call on Alexander, as he was anxious to see Henry's
children." A few days afterwards I had a telegram from Alexander, who
generally uses this means of communication when he corresponds with me.
"Do you know a man Scudamour? reply," was what Alexander said. I thought
of answering that we had met a man of that name when we were in Paris;
but, on the whole, replied boldly: "Know no one of the name of
Scudamour." About two months ago I passed Scudamour in Regent Street,
and he did not recognise me. This I could have borne if there had been
no more of Henry; but I knew that Scudamour was now telling everybody
about Henry's wife. By-and-by I got a letter from an old friend of
Alexander's, asking me if there was any truth in a report that Alexander
was going to Bombay. Soon afterwards Alexander wrote to me to say that
he had been told by several persons that I was going to Bombay. In
short, I saw that the time had come for killing Henry. So I told Fenton
that Henry had died of fever, deeply regretted; and asked him to be sure
to tell Scudamour, who had always been interested in the deceased's
welfare. The other day Fenton told me that he had communicated the sad
intelligence to Scudamour. "How did he take it?" I asked. "Well," Fenton
said, reluctantly, "he told me that when he was up in Edinburgh he did
not get on well with Alexander; but he expressed great curiosity as to
Henry's children." "Ah," I said, "the children were both drowned in the
Forth; a sad affair--we can't bear to talk of it." I am not likely to
see much of Scudamour again, nor is Alexander. Scudamour now goes about
saying that Henry was the only one of us he really liked.
(_By permission of the Author._)
A NIGHT WITH A STORK.
W. E. WILCOX.
Four individuals--namely, my wife, my infant son, my maid-of-all work,
and myself--occupy one of a row of very small houses in the suburbs of
London. I am a thoroughly domestic man, and notwithstanding that my
occupation necessitates absence from my mansion between the hours of
9 a.m. and 5 p.m., my heart is generally at home, with my diminutive
household. My wife, and I, love regularity and quiet above all things;
and although, since the arrival of my son, and heir, we had not enjoyed
that peace which we did during the first year of our married life, yet
his juvenile, though somewhat powerful, little lungs, had as yet failed
in making ours a noisy house. Our regularity had, moreover, remained
undisturbed, and we got up, went to bed, dined, breakfasted, and took
tea at the same time, day after day.
We had been going on in this clockwork fashion for a year and a half,
when one morning the postman brought to our door a letter of ominous
appearance, and on looking at the direction, I found that it came from
an old, rich, and very eccentric uncle of mine, with whom, for certain
reasons, we wished to remain on the best of terms. "What can uncle
Martin have to write about?" was our simultaneous exclamation, and I
opened it with considerable curiosity.
"MARTIN HOUSE, HERTS, _Oct._ 17, 18--.
"DEAR NEPHEW,--
"You may perhaps have heard that I am forming an aviary here. A friend
in Rotterdam has written to me to say that he has sent by the boat,
which will arrive in London to-morrow afternoon, a very intelligent
parrot and a fine stork. As the vessel arrives too late for them to be
sent on the same night, I shall be obliged by your taking the birds
home, and forwarding them to me the next morning.--With my respects to
your good lady,
"I remain your affectionate uncle,
"RALPH MARTIN."
I said nothing, but got a book on natural history, and turned to
"Stork." With trembling fingers I passed over the fact of "his hind toe
being short, the middle too long, and joined to the outer one by a large
membrane, and by a smaller one to the inner toe," because that would not
matter much for one night; but I groaned out to my wife the pleasant
intelligence that "his height is four feet, his appetite extremely
voracious," and "his food--frogs, mice, worms, snails, and eels." Where
were we to provide a supper and breakfast of this description for him?
I went to my office, and passed anything but a pleasant day, my thoughts
constantly reverting to our expected visitors. At four o'clock I took a
cab to the docks, and on arriving there, inquired for the ship, which
was pointed out to me as "the one with the crowd upon the quay." On
driving up, I discovered why there was a crowd, and the discovery did
not bring comfort with it. On the deck, on one leg, stood the stork.
Whether it was the sea-voyage, or the leaving his home, or, being a
stork of high moral principle, he was grieving at the continual, and
rather joyous and exulting swearing of the parrot, I do not know, but I
never saw a more melancholy looking object in my life.
I went down on the deck, and did not like the expression of relief that
came over the captain's face when he found what I had come for. The
transmission of the parrot from the ship to the cab was an easy matter,
as he was in a cage, but the stork was merely tethered by one leg; and
although he did his best, when brought to the foot of the ladder, in
trying to get up, he failed utterly, and had to be half-shoved,
half-hauled, all the way--which, as he got astride, after the manner of
equestrians, on every other bar, was a work of some difficulty. I
hurried him into the cab, and ordering the man to drive as quickly as
possible, got in with my guests. At first, I had to keep dodging my head
about, to keep my face away from his bill as he turned round; but all of
a sudden he broke the little window at the back of the cab, thrust his
head through, and would keep it there, notwithstanding I kept pulling
him back. Consequently, when we drew up at my door, there was a mob of
about a thousand strong around us. I got him in as well as I could, and
shut the door.
How can I describe the spending of that evening? how can I get
sufficient power out of the English language to let you know what a
nuisance that bird was to us? How can I tell you the cool manner in
which he inspected our domestic arrangements?--walking slowly into
rooms, and standing on one leg until his curiosity was satisfied; the
expression of wretchedness that he threw over his entire person when he
was tethered to the banisters, and had found out that, owing to our
limited accommodation, he was to remain in the hall all night; the way
in which he ate the snails specially provided for him, verifying to the
letter the naturalist's description of his appetite. How can you, who
have not had a stork staying with you, have any idea of the change which
came over his temper after his supper--how he pecked at everybody who
came near him; how he stood sentinel at the foot of the stairs; how my
wife and I made fruitless attempts to get past, followed by ignominious
retreats how; at last we outmanoeuvred him by throwing a table-cloth
over his head, and then rushing by him, gaining the top of the stairs
before he could disentangle himself.
Added to all this, we had to endure language from that parrot which
would have disgraced a pothouse; indeed, so scurrilous did he become,
that we had to take him and lock him up in the coal-hole, where, from
fatigue, or the darkness of his bedroom, he soon swore himself to sleep.
We were quite ready for rest, and the forgetfulness which, we hoped,
sleep, that "balm of hurt minds," would bring with it; but our peace was
not to last long. About 2 a.m., I was awakened by my wife, and told to
listen; I did so, and heard a sort of scrambling noise outside the door.
"What can that be?" thought I. "He has broken his string, and is coming
up stairs," said my wife; and then, remembering that the nursery door
was generally left open, she urged my immediately stopping his further
progress. "But, my dear," said I, "what am I to do in my present
defenceless state of clothing, if he should take to pecking?" My wife's
expression of the idea of my considering myself before the baby,
determined me at once, come what might, to go and do him battle. Out I
went, and sure enough there he was on the landing, resting himself,
after his unusual exertion, by tucking one leg up. He looked so subdued,
that I was about to take him by the string and lead him downstairs, when
he drew back his head, and in less time than it takes to relate, I was
back in my room, bleeding profusely from a very severe wound in my leg.
I shouted out to the nurse to shut the door, and determined to let the
infamous bird go where he liked. I bound up my leg and went to bed
again; but the thought that there was a stork wandering about the house,
prevented me from getting any more sleep. From certain sounds that we
heard, we had little doubt but that he was passing some of his time in
the cupboard where we kept our spare crockery, and an inspection the
next day confirmed this.
In the morning I ventured cautiously out, and finding he was in our
spare bedroom, I shut the door upon him. I then went for a large sack,
and with the help of the table-cloth, and the boy who cleans our shoes,
we got him into it without any personal damage. I took him off in this
way to the station, and sent him and the parrot off to my uncle by the
first train.
We have determined that, taking our chance about a place in my uncle's
will or not, we will never again have anything to do with any foreign
animals, however much he may ask and desire it.
(_By permission of_ MESSRS. W. & R. CHAMBERS.)
THE FAITHFUL LOVERS.
F. C. BURNAND.
I'd been away from her three years--about that--
And I returned to find my Mary true,
And though I'd question her, I did not doubt that
It was unnecessary so to do.
'Twas by the chimney corner we were sitting,
"Mary," said I, "have you been always true?"
"Frankly," says she, just pausing in her knitting,
"I _don't_ think I've unfaithful been to you;
But for the three years past I'll tell you what
I've done; then say if I've been true or not.
"When first you left, my grief was uncontrollable,
Alone I mourned my miserable lot,
And all who saw me thought me inconsolable,
Till Captain Clifford came from Aldershot;
To flirt with him amused me while 'twas new,
I don't count _that_ unfaithfulness. Do you?
"The next--oh! let me see--was Frankie Phipps,
I met him at my uncle's Christmas-tide;
And 'neath the mistletoe, where lips met lips,
He gave me his first kiss"--and here she sighed;
"We stayed six weeks at uncle's--how time flew!
I don't count _that_ unfaithfulness. Do you?
"Lord Cecil Fossmote, only twenty-one,
Lent me his horse. Oh, how we rode and raced!
We scoured the downs--we rode to hounds--such fun!
And often was his arm around my waist--
That was to lift me up or down. But who
Would count _that_ as unfaithfulness? Do you?
"Do you know Reggy Vere? Ah, how he sings!
We met--'twas at a picnic. Ah, such weather!
He gave me, look, the first of these two rings,
When we were lost in Cliefden Woods together.
Ah, what a happy time we spent, we two!
I don't count _that_ unfaithfulness to you.
"I've yet another ring from him. D'you see
The plain gold circlet that is shining here?"
I took her hand: "Oh, Mary! Can it be
That you"--Quoth she, "that I am Mrs. Vere.
I don't count _that_ unfaithfulness. Do you?"
"_No," I replied, "for I am married, too._"
(_By permission of the Author._)
THE WAIL OF A BANNER-BEARER.
ARTHUR MATTHISON.