|
Main
- books.jibble.org
My Books
- IRC Hacks
Misc. Articles
- Meaning of Jibble
- M4 Su Doku
- Computer Scrapbooking
- Setting up Java
- Bootable Java
- Cookies in Java
- Dynamic Graphs
- Social Shakespeare
External Links
- Paul Mutton
- Jibble Photo Gallery
- Jibble Forums
- Google Landmarks
- Jibble Shop
- Free Books
- Intershot Ltd
|
books.jibble.org
Previous Page
| Next Page
Page 102
There is no news, or there are no news, either you like to tell. Lavaca
Street is very happy and quiet and enjoys life, for Jones was sat on by
his Uncle Wash and feels humble and don't sing any more, and the spirit
of peace and repose broods over its halls. Martha rings the matin bell,
it seems to me before cock crow or ere the first faint streaks of dawn
are limned in the eastern sky by the rosy fingers of Aurora. At noon the
foul ogre cribbage stalks rampant, and seven-up for dim, distant oysters
that only the eye of faith can see.
The hour grows late. The clock strikes! Another day has vanished. Gone
into the dim recesses of the past, leaving its record of misspent hours,
false hopes, and disappointed expectations. May a morrow dawn that will
bring recompense and requital for the sorrows of the days gone by, and a
new order of things when there will be more starch in cuff and collar,
and less in handkerchiefs.
Come with me out into the starlight night. So calm, so serene, ye lights
of heaven, so high above earth; so pure and majestic and mysterious;
looking down on the mad struggle of life here below, is there no pity in
your never closing eyes for us mortals on which you shine?
Come with me on to the bridge. Ah, see there, far below, the dark,
turbid stream. Rushing and whirling and eddying under the dark pillars
with ghostly murmur and siren whisper. What shall we find in your
depths? The stars do not reflect themselves in your waters, they are too
dark and troubled and swift! What shall we find in your depths?
Rest?--Peace?--catfish? Who knows? 'Tis but a moment. A leap! A
plunge!--and--then oblivion or another world? Who can tell? A man once
dived into your depths and brought up a horse collar and a hoop-skirt.
Ah! what do we know of the beyond? We know that death comes, and we
return no more to our world of trouble and care-but where do we go? Are
there lands where no traveler has been? A chaos-perhaps where no human
foot has trod--perhaps Bastrop--perhaps New Jersey! Who knows? Where do
people go who are in McDade? Do they go where they have to fare worse?
They cannot go where they have worse fare!
Let us leave the river. The night grows cold. We could not pierce the
future or pay the tell. Come, the ice factory is deserted! No one sees
us. My partner, W. I. Anderson, will never destroy himself. Why? His
credit is good. No one will sue a side-partner of mine! You have heard
of a brook murmuring, but you never knew a sewer sighed! But we digress!
We will no longer pursue a side issue like this. Au reevoir. I will see
you later. Yours truly,
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE INGOMAR JUNIUS
BRUTUS CALLIOPE SIX-HANDED EUCHRE
GROVER CLEVELAND HILL CITY QUARTETTE JOHNSON.
* * * *
AN EARLY PARABLE
In one of his early letters, written from Austin, O. Henry wrote a long
parable that was evidently to tell his correspondent some of the local
gossip. Here it is Once upon a time there was a maiden in a land not fax
away--a maiden of much beauty and rare accomplishments. She was beloved
by all on account of her goodness of heart, and her many charms of
disposition. Her father was a great lord, rich and powerful, and a
mighty man, and he loved his daughter with exceeding great love, and he
cared for her with jealous and loving watchfulness, lest any harm should
befall her, or even the least discomfort should mar her happiness and
cause any trouble in her smooth and peaceful life. The cunningest
masters were engaged to teach her from her youngest days; she played
upon the harpsichord the loveliest and sweetest music; she wrought fancy
work in divers strange and wonderful forms that might puzzle all
beholders as to what manner of things they might be; she sang; and all
listeners hearkened thereunto, as to the voice of an angel; she danced
stately minuets with the gay knights as graceful as a queen and as light
as the thistledown borne above the clover blossoms by the wind; she
could paint upon china, rare and unknown flowers the like unto which man
never saw in colors, crimson and blue and yellow, glorious to behold;
she conversed in unknown tongues whereof no man knew the meaning and
sense; and created wild admiration in all, by the ease and grace with
which she did play upon a new and strange instrument of wondrous sound
and structure which she called a banjo.
Previous Page
| Next Page
|
|