Little Chandler sat in the room off the hall, holding a child in his arms. To save money they kept no servant, but Annie's young sister Monica came for an hour or so in the morning and an hour or So in the evening to help. But Monica had gone home long ago. It was a quarter to nine. Little Chandler had come home late for tea and, moreover, he had forgotten to bring Annie home the parcel of coffee from Bewley's. Of course she was in a bad humour and gave him short answers. She said she would do without any tea, but when it came near he time at which the shop at the corner closed she decided to go out herself for a quarter of a pound of tea and two pounds of sugar. She put the sleeping child deftly in his arms and said:
`Here. Don't waken him.'
A little lamp with a white china shade stood upon the table and its light fell over a photograph which was enclosed in a frame of crumpled horn. It was Annie's photograph. Little Chandler looked at it, pausing at the thin tight lips. She wore the pale blue summer blouse which he had brought her home as a present one Saturday. It had cost him ten and elevenpence; but what an agony of nervousness it had cost him! How he had suffered that day, waiting at the shop door until the shop was empty, standing at the counter and trying to appear at his ease while the girl piled ladies' blouses before him, paying at the desk and forgetting to take up the odd penny of his change, being called back by the cashier, and finally, striving to hide his blushes as he left the shop by examining the parcel to see if it was Securely tied. When he brought the blouse home Annie kissed him and said it was very pretty and stylish; but when she heard the price she threw the blouse on the table and said it was a regular swindle to charge ten and elevenpence for it. At first she wanted to take it back, but when she tried it on she was delighted with it, especially with the make of the sleeves, and kissed him and said he was very good to think of her.
Hm!...
He looked coldly into the eyes of the photograph and they answered coldly. Certainly they were pretty and the face itself was pretty. But he found something mean in it. Why was it so unconscious and ladylike? The composure of the eyes irritated him. They repelled him and defied him: there was no passion in them, no rapture. He thought of what Gallaher had said about rich Jewesses. Those dark Oriental eyes, he thought, how full they are of passion, of voluptuous longing!... Why had he married the eyes in the photograph?
He caught himself up at the question and glanced nervously round the room. He found something mean in the pretty furniture which he had bought for his house on the hire system. Annie had chosen it herself and it reminded him of her. It too was prim and pretty. A dull resentment against his life awoke within him. Could he not escape from his little house? Was it too late for him to try to live bravely like Gallaher? Could he go to London? There was the furniture still to be paid for. If he could only write a book and get it published, that might open the way for him.
A volume of Byron's poems lay before him on the table. He opened it cautiously with his left hand lest he should waken the child and began to read the first poem in the book:
Hushed are the winds and still the evening gloom, Not e'en a Zephyr wanders through the grove, Whilst I return to view my Margaret's tomb And scatter flowers on the dust I love.
He paused. He felt the rhythm of the verse about him in the room. How melancholy it was! Could he, too, write like that, express the melancholy of his soul in verse? There were so many things he wanted to describe: his sensation of a few hours before on Grattan Bridge, for example. If he could get back again into that mood...
The child awoke and began to cry. He turned from the page and tried to hush it: but it would not be hushed. He began to rock it to and fro in his arms, but its wailing cry grew keener. He rocked it faster while his eyes began to read the second stanza:
Within this narrow cell reclines her clay, That clay where once...
It was useless. He couldn't read. He couldn't do anything. The wailing of the child pierced the drum of his ear. It was useless, useless! He was a prisoner for life. His arms trembled with anger and suddenly bending to the child's face he shouted:
`Stop!'
The child stopped for an instant, had a spasm of fright and began to scream. He jumped up from his chair and walked hastily up and down the room with the child in his arms. it began to sob piteously, losing its breath for four or five seconds, and then bursting out anew. The thin walls of the room echoed the sound. He tried to soothe it, but it sobbed more convulsively. He looked at the contracted and quivering face of the child and began to be alarmed. He counted seven sobs without a break between them and caught the child to his breast in fright. If it died!...
The door was burst open and a young woman ran in, panting.
`What is it? What is it?' she cried.
The child, hearing its mother's voice, broke out into a paroxysm of sobbing.
`It's nothing, Annie... it's nothing... He began to cry... '
She flung her parcels on the floor and snatched the child from him.
`What have you done to him?' she cried, glaring into his face.
Little Chandler sustained for one moment the gaze of her eyes and his heart closed together as he met the hatred in them. He began to stammer:
`It's nothing... He... he... began to cry... I couldn't... I didn't do anything... What?'
Giving no heed to him she began to walk up and down the room, clasping the child tightly in her arms and murmuring:
`My little man! My little mannie! Was 'ou frightened, love?'... There now, love! There now!... Lambabaun! Mamma's little lamb of the world!... There now!'
Little Chandler felt his cheeks suffused with shame and he stood back out of the lamplight. He listened while the paroxysm of the child's sobbing grew less and less; and tears of remorse started to his eyes.
THE END......
Saturday, May 19, 2007
A Little Cloud by James Joyce (part4)
Little Chandler ordered the drinks. The blush which had risen to his face a few moments before was establishing itself. A trifle made him blush at any time: and now he felt warm and excited. Three small whiskies had gone to his head and Gallaher's strong cigar had confused his mind, for he was a delicate and abstinent person. The adventure of meeting Gallaher after eight years, of finding himself with Gallaher in Corless's surrounded by lights and noise, of listening to Gallaher's stories and of sharing for a brief space Gallaher's vagrant and triumphant life, upset the equipoise of his sensitive nature. He felt acutely the contrast between his own life and his friend's, and it seemed to him unjust. Gallaher was his inferior in birth and education. He was sure that he could do something better than his friend had ever done, or could ever do, something higher than mere tawdry journalism if he only got the chance. What was it that stood in his way? His unfortunate timidity! He wished to vindicate himself in some way, to assert his manhood. He saw behind Gallaher's refusal of his invitation. Gallaher was only patronizing him by his friendliness just as he was patronizing Ireland by his visit.
The barman brought their drinks. Little Chandler pushed one glass towards his friend and took up the other boldly.
`Who knows?' he said, as they lifted their glasses. `When you come next year I may have the pleasure of wishing long life and happiness to Mr and Mrs Ignatius Gallaher.'
Ignatius Gallaher in the act of drinking closed one eye expressively over the rim of his glass. When he had drunk he smacked his lips decisively, set down his glass and said:
`No blooming fear of that, my boy. I'm going to have my fling first and see a bit of life and the world before I put my head in the sack - if I ever do.'
`Some day you will,' said Little Chandler calmly.
Ignatius Gallaher turned his orange tie and slate-blue eyes full upon his friend.
`You think so?' he said.
`You'll put your head in the sack,' repeated Little Chandler stoutly, `like everyone else if you can find the girl.'
He had slightly emphasized his tone, and he was aware that he had betrayed himself; but, though the colour had heightened in his cheek, he did not flinch from his friends' gaze. Ignatius Gallaher watched him for a few moments and then said:
`If ever it occurs, you may bet your bottom dollar there'll be no mooning and spooning about it. I mean to marry money. She'll have a good fat account at the bank or she won't do for me.'
Little Chandler shook his head.
`Why, man alive,' said Ignatius Gallaher, vehemently, `do you know what it is? I've only to say the word and tomorrow I can have the woman and the cash. You don't believe it? Well, I know it. There are hundreds - what am I saying? - thousands of rich Germans and Jews, rotten with money, that'd only be too glad... You wait a while, my boy. See if I don't play my cards properly. When I go about a thing I mean business, I tell you. You just wait.'
He tossed his glass to his mouth, finished his drink and laughed loudly. Then he looked thoughtfully before him and said in a calmer tone:
`But I'm in no hurry. They can wait. I don't fancy tying myself up to one woman, you know.'
He imitated with his mouth the act of tasting and made a wry face.
`Must get a bit stale, I should think,' he said.
(continued)
The barman brought their drinks. Little Chandler pushed one glass towards his friend and took up the other boldly.
`Who knows?' he said, as they lifted their glasses. `When you come next year I may have the pleasure of wishing long life and happiness to Mr and Mrs Ignatius Gallaher.'
Ignatius Gallaher in the act of drinking closed one eye expressively over the rim of his glass. When he had drunk he smacked his lips decisively, set down his glass and said:
`No blooming fear of that, my boy. I'm going to have my fling first and see a bit of life and the world before I put my head in the sack - if I ever do.'
`Some day you will,' said Little Chandler calmly.
Ignatius Gallaher turned his orange tie and slate-blue eyes full upon his friend.
`You think so?' he said.
`You'll put your head in the sack,' repeated Little Chandler stoutly, `like everyone else if you can find the girl.'
He had slightly emphasized his tone, and he was aware that he had betrayed himself; but, though the colour had heightened in his cheek, he did not flinch from his friends' gaze. Ignatius Gallaher watched him for a few moments and then said:
`If ever it occurs, you may bet your bottom dollar there'll be no mooning and spooning about it. I mean to marry money. She'll have a good fat account at the bank or she won't do for me.'
Little Chandler shook his head.
`Why, man alive,' said Ignatius Gallaher, vehemently, `do you know what it is? I've only to say the word and tomorrow I can have the woman and the cash. You don't believe it? Well, I know it. There are hundreds - what am I saying? - thousands of rich Germans and Jews, rotten with money, that'd only be too glad... You wait a while, my boy. See if I don't play my cards properly. When I go about a thing I mean business, I tell you. You just wait.'
He tossed his glass to his mouth, finished his drink and laughed loudly. Then he looked thoughtfully before him and said in a calmer tone:
`But I'm in no hurry. They can wait. I don't fancy tying myself up to one woman, you know.'
He imitated with his mouth the act of tasting and made a wry face.
`Must get a bit stale, I should think,' he said.
(continued)
A Little Cloud by James Joyce (part3)
Little Chandler finished his whisky and, after some trouble, succeeded in catching the barman's eye. He ordered the same again.
`I've been to the Moulin Rouge,' Ignatius Gallaher continued when the barman had removed their glasses, `and I've been to all the Bohemian cafŽs. Hot stuff! Not for a pious chap like you, Tommy.'
Little Chandler said nothing until the barman returned with two glasses: then he touched his friend's glass lightly and reciprocated the former toast. He was beginning to feel somewhat disillusioned. Gallaher's accent and way of expressing himself did not please him. There was something vulgar in his friend which lie had not observed before. But perhaps it was only the result of living in London amid the bustle and competition of the Press. The old personal charm was still there under this new gaudy manner. And, after all, Gallaher had lived, he had seen the world. Little Chandler looked at his friend enviously.
`Everything in Paris is gay,' said Ignatius Gallaher. `They believe in enjoying life - and don't you think they're right? If you want to enjoy yourself properly you must go to Paris. And, mind you, they've a great feeling for the Irish there. When they heard I was from Ireland they were ready to eat me, man.'
Little Chandler took four or five sips from his glass.
`Tell me,' he said, `is it true that Paris is so... immoral as they say?'
Ignatius Gallaher made a catholic gesture with his right arm.
`Every place is immoral,' he said. `Of course you do find spicy bits in Paris. Go to one of the students' balls, for instance. That's lively, if you like, when the cocottes begin to let themselves loose. You know what they are, I suppose?'
`I've heard of them,' said Little Chandler.
Ignatius Gallaher drank off his whisky and shook his head.
`Ah,' he said, `you may say what you like. There's no woman like the Parisienne - for style, for go.'
`Then it is an immoral city,' said Little Chandler, with timid insistence - `I mean, compared with London or Dublin?'
`London!' said Ignatius Gallaher. `It's six of one and half a dozen of the other. You ask Hogan, my boy. I showed him a bit about London when he was over there. He'd open your eye... I say, Tommy, don't make punch of that whisky: liquor up.'
`No, really.'
`O, come on, another one won't do you any harm. What is it? The same again, I suppose?'
`Well... all right.'
`Franois, the same again... Will you smoke, Tommy?'
Ignatius Gallaher produced his cigar-case. The two friends lit their cigars and puffed at them in silence until their drinks were served.
`I'll tell you my opinion,' said Ignatius Gallaher, emerging after some time from the clouds of smoke in which he had taken refuge, `it's a rum world. Talk of immorality! I've heard of cases - what am I saying? - I've known them: cases of... immorality... '
Ignatius Gallaher puffed thoughtfully at his cigar and then, in a calm historian's tone, he proceeded to sketch for his friend some pictures of the corruption which was rife abroad. He summarized the vices of many capitals and seemed inclined to award the palm to Berlin. Some things he could not vouch for (his friends had told him), but of others he had had personal experience. He spared neither rank nor caste. He revealed many of the secrets of religious houses on the Continent and described some of the practices which were fashionable in high society, and ended by telling, with details, a story about an English duchess - a story which he knew to be true. Little chandler was astonished.
`Ah, well,' said Ignatius Gallaher, `here we are in old jog-along Dublin where nothing is known of such things.'
`How dull you must find it,' said Little Chandler, `after all the other places you've seen!'
`Well,' said Ignatius Gallaher, `it's a relaxation to come over here, you know. And, after all, it's the old country, as they say, isn't it? You can't help having a certain feeling for it. That's human nature... But tell me something about yourself. Hogan told me you had... tasted the joys of connubial bliss. Two years ago, wasn't it?'
Little Chandler blushed and smiled.
`Yes,' he said. `I was married last May twelve months.'
`I hope it's not too late in the day to offer my best wishes,' said Ignatius Gallaher. `I didn't know your address or I'd have done so at the time.'
He extended his hand, which Little Chandler took.
`Well, Tommy,' he said, `I wish you and yours every joy in life, old chap, and tons of money, and may you never die till I shoot you. And that's the wish of a sincere friend, an old friend. You know that?'
`I know that,' said Little Chandler.
`Any youngsters?' said Ignatius Gallaher.
Little Chandler blushed again.
`We have one child,' he said.
`Son or daughter?'
`A little boy.'
Ignatius Gallaher slapped his friend sonorously on the back.
`Bravo,' he said, `I wouldn't doubt you, Tommy.'
Little Chandler smiled, looked confusedly at his glass and bit his lower lip with three childishly white front teeth.
`I hope you'll spend an evening with us,' he said, `before you go back. My wife will be delighted to meet you. We can have a little music and--'
`Thanks awfully, old chap,' said Ignatius Gallaher, `I'm sorry we didn't meet earlier. But I must leave tomorrow night.'
`Tonight, perhaps... ?`
`I'm awfully sorry, old man. You see I'm over here with another fellow, clever young chap he is too, and we arranged to go to a little card-party. Only for that... '
`O, in that case... '
`But who knows?' said Ignatius Gallaher considerately. `Next year I may take a little skip over here now that I've broken the ice. It's only a pleasure deferred.'
`Very well,' said Little Chandler, `the next time you come we must have an evening together. That's agreed now, isn't it?'
`Yes, that's agreed,' said Ignatius Gallaher. `Next year if I come, parole d'honneur.'
`And to clinch the bargain,' said Little Chandler, `we'll just have one more now.'
Ignatius Gallaher took out a large gold watch and looked at it.
`Is it to be the last?' he Said. `Because, you know, I have an a.p.'
`O, yes, positively,' said Little Chandler.
`Very well, then,' said Ignatius Gallaher, `let us have another one as a deoc an doirus - that's good vernacular for a small whisky, I believe.'
(continued)
`I've been to the Moulin Rouge,' Ignatius Gallaher continued when the barman had removed their glasses, `and I've been to all the Bohemian cafŽs. Hot stuff! Not for a pious chap like you, Tommy.'
Little Chandler said nothing until the barman returned with two glasses: then he touched his friend's glass lightly and reciprocated the former toast. He was beginning to feel somewhat disillusioned. Gallaher's accent and way of expressing himself did not please him. There was something vulgar in his friend which lie had not observed before. But perhaps it was only the result of living in London amid the bustle and competition of the Press. The old personal charm was still there under this new gaudy manner. And, after all, Gallaher had lived, he had seen the world. Little Chandler looked at his friend enviously.
`Everything in Paris is gay,' said Ignatius Gallaher. `They believe in enjoying life - and don't you think they're right? If you want to enjoy yourself properly you must go to Paris. And, mind you, they've a great feeling for the Irish there. When they heard I was from Ireland they were ready to eat me, man.'
Little Chandler took four or five sips from his glass.
`Tell me,' he said, `is it true that Paris is so... immoral as they say?'
Ignatius Gallaher made a catholic gesture with his right arm.
`Every place is immoral,' he said. `Of course you do find spicy bits in Paris. Go to one of the students' balls, for instance. That's lively, if you like, when the cocottes begin to let themselves loose. You know what they are, I suppose?'
`I've heard of them,' said Little Chandler.
Ignatius Gallaher drank off his whisky and shook his head.
`Ah,' he said, `you may say what you like. There's no woman like the Parisienne - for style, for go.'
`Then it is an immoral city,' said Little Chandler, with timid insistence - `I mean, compared with London or Dublin?'
`London!' said Ignatius Gallaher. `It's six of one and half a dozen of the other. You ask Hogan, my boy. I showed him a bit about London when he was over there. He'd open your eye... I say, Tommy, don't make punch of that whisky: liquor up.'
`No, really.'
`O, come on, another one won't do you any harm. What is it? The same again, I suppose?'
`Well... all right.'
`Franois, the same again... Will you smoke, Tommy?'
Ignatius Gallaher produced his cigar-case. The two friends lit their cigars and puffed at them in silence until their drinks were served.
`I'll tell you my opinion,' said Ignatius Gallaher, emerging after some time from the clouds of smoke in which he had taken refuge, `it's a rum world. Talk of immorality! I've heard of cases - what am I saying? - I've known them: cases of... immorality... '
Ignatius Gallaher puffed thoughtfully at his cigar and then, in a calm historian's tone, he proceeded to sketch for his friend some pictures of the corruption which was rife abroad. He summarized the vices of many capitals and seemed inclined to award the palm to Berlin. Some things he could not vouch for (his friends had told him), but of others he had had personal experience. He spared neither rank nor caste. He revealed many of the secrets of religious houses on the Continent and described some of the practices which were fashionable in high society, and ended by telling, with details, a story about an English duchess - a story which he knew to be true. Little chandler was astonished.
`Ah, well,' said Ignatius Gallaher, `here we are in old jog-along Dublin where nothing is known of such things.'
`How dull you must find it,' said Little Chandler, `after all the other places you've seen!'
`Well,' said Ignatius Gallaher, `it's a relaxation to come over here, you know. And, after all, it's the old country, as they say, isn't it? You can't help having a certain feeling for it. That's human nature... But tell me something about yourself. Hogan told me you had... tasted the joys of connubial bliss. Two years ago, wasn't it?'
Little Chandler blushed and smiled.
`Yes,' he said. `I was married last May twelve months.'
`I hope it's not too late in the day to offer my best wishes,' said Ignatius Gallaher. `I didn't know your address or I'd have done so at the time.'
He extended his hand, which Little Chandler took.
`Well, Tommy,' he said, `I wish you and yours every joy in life, old chap, and tons of money, and may you never die till I shoot you. And that's the wish of a sincere friend, an old friend. You know that?'
`I know that,' said Little Chandler.
`Any youngsters?' said Ignatius Gallaher.
Little Chandler blushed again.
`We have one child,' he said.
`Son or daughter?'
`A little boy.'
Ignatius Gallaher slapped his friend sonorously on the back.
`Bravo,' he said, `I wouldn't doubt you, Tommy.'
Little Chandler smiled, looked confusedly at his glass and bit his lower lip with three childishly white front teeth.
`I hope you'll spend an evening with us,' he said, `before you go back. My wife will be delighted to meet you. We can have a little music and--'
`Thanks awfully, old chap,' said Ignatius Gallaher, `I'm sorry we didn't meet earlier. But I must leave tomorrow night.'
`Tonight, perhaps... ?`
`I'm awfully sorry, old man. You see I'm over here with another fellow, clever young chap he is too, and we arranged to go to a little card-party. Only for that... '
`O, in that case... '
`But who knows?' said Ignatius Gallaher considerately. `Next year I may take a little skip over here now that I've broken the ice. It's only a pleasure deferred.'
`Very well,' said Little Chandler, `the next time you come we must have an evening together. That's agreed now, isn't it?'
`Yes, that's agreed,' said Ignatius Gallaher. `Next year if I come, parole d'honneur.'
`And to clinch the bargain,' said Little Chandler, `we'll just have one more now.'
Ignatius Gallaher took out a large gold watch and looked at it.
`Is it to be the last?' he Said. `Because, you know, I have an a.p.'
`O, yes, positively,' said Little Chandler.
`Very well, then,' said Ignatius Gallaher, `let us have another one as a deoc an doirus - that's good vernacular for a small whisky, I believe.'
(continued)
A Little Cloud by James Joyce (part2)
He turned to the right towards Capel Street. Ignatius Gallaher on the London Press! Who would have thought it possible eight years before? Still, now that he reviewed the past, Little Chandler could remember many signs of future greatness in his friend. People used to say that Ignatius Gallaher was wild. Of course, he did mix with a rakish set of fellows at that time; drank freely and borrowed money on all sides. In the end he had got mixed up in some shady affair, some money transaction: at least, that was one version of his flight. But nobody denied him talent. There was always a certain... something in Ignatius Gallaher that impressed you in spite of yourself. Even when he was out at elbows and at his wits' end for money he kept up a bold face. Little Chandler remembered (and the remembrance brought a slight flush of pride to his cheek) one of Ignatius Gallaher's sayings when he was in a tight corner:
`Half-time now, boys,' he used to say light-heartedly. `Where's my considering cap?'
That was Ignatius Gallaher all out; and, damn it, you couldn't but admire him for it.
Little Chandler quickened his pace. For the first time in his life he felt himself superior to the people he passed. For the first time his soul revolted against the dull inelegance of Capel Street. There was no doubt about it: if you wanted to succeed you had to go away. You could do nothing in Dublin. As he crossed Grattan Bridge he looked down the river towards the lower quays and pitied the poor stunted houses. They seemed to him a band of tramps, huddled together along the river-banks, their old coats covered with dust and soot, stupefied by the panorama of sunset and waiting for the first chill of night to bid them arise, shake themselves and begone. He wondered whether he could write a poem to express his idea. Perhaps Gallaher might be able to get it into some London paper for him. Could he write something original? He was not sure what idea he wished to express, but the thought that a poetic moment had touched him took life within him like an infant hope. He stepped onward bravely.
Every step brought him nearer to London, farther from his own sober inartistic life. A light began to tremble on the horizon of his mind. He was not so old - thirty-two. His temperament might be said to be just at the point of maturity. There were so many different moods and impressions that he wished to express in verse. He felt them within him. He tried to weigh his soul to see if it was a poet's soul. Melancholy was the dominant note of his temperament, he thought, but it was a melancholy tempered by recurrences of faith and resignation and simple joy. If he could give expression to it in a book of poems perhaps men would listen. He would never be popular: he saw that. He could not sway the crowd, but he might appeal to a little circle of kindred minds. The English critics, perhaps, would recognize him as one of the Celtic school by reason of the melancholy tone of his poems; besides that, he would put in allusions. He began to invent sentences and phrases from the notice which his book would get. `Mr Chandler has the gift of easy and graceful verse'... `A wistful sadness pervades these poems'... `The Celtic note'. It was a pity his name was not more Irish-looking. Perhaps it would be better to insert his mother's name before the surname: Thomas Malone Chandler; or better still: T. Malone Chandler. He would speak to Gallaher about it.
He pursued his reverie so ardently that he passed his street and had to turn back. As he came near Corless's his former agitation began to overmaster him and he halted before the door in indecision. Finally he opened the door and entered.
The light and noise of the bar held him at the doorway for a few moments. He looked about him, but his sight was confused by the shining of many red and green wine-glasses. The bar seemed to him to be full of people and he felt that the people were observing him curiously. He glanced quickly to right and left (frowning slightly to make his errand appear serious), but when his sight cleared a little he saw that nobody had turned to look at him: and there, Sure enough, was Ignatius Gallaher leaning with his back against the counter and his feet planted far apart.
`Hallo, Tommy, old hero, here you are! What is it to be? What will you have? I'm taking whisky: better stuff than we get across the water. Soda? Lithia? No mineral? I'm the same. Spoils the flavour... Here, garon, bring us two halves of malt whisky, like a good fellow... Well, and how have you been pulling along since I saw you last? Dear God, how old we're getting! Do you see any signs of ageing in me - eh, what? A little grey and thin on the top - what?'
Ignatius Gallaher took off his hat and displayed a large closely-cropped head. His face was heavy, pale, and clean-shaven. His eyes, which were of bluish slate-colour, relieved his unhealthy pallor and shone out plainly above the vivid orange tie he wore. Between these rival features the lips appeared very long and shapeless and colourless. He bent his head and felt with two sympathetic fingers the thin hair at the crown. Little Chandler shook his head as a denial. Ignatius Gallaher put on his hat again.
`It pulls you down,' he said. `Press life. Always hurry and scurry, looking for copy and sometimes not finding it: and then, always to have something new in your stuff. Damn proofs and printers, I say, for a few days. I'm deuced glad, I can tell you, to get back to the old country. Does a fellow good, a bit of a holiday. I feel a ton better since I landed again in dear, dirty Dublin... Here you are, Tommy. Water? Say when.'
Little Chandler allowed his whisky to be very much diluted.
`You don't know what's good for you, my boy,' said Ignatius Gallaher. `I drink mine neat.'
`I drink very little as a rule,' said Little Chandler modestly. `An odd half-one or so when I meet any of the old crowd: that's all.'
`Ah well,' said Ignatius Gallaher cheerfully, `here's to us and to old times and old acquaintance.'
They clinked glasses and drank the toast.
`I met some of the old gang today,' said Ignatius Gallaher. `O'Hara seems to be in a bad way. What's he doing?'
`Nothing,' said Little Chandler. `He's gone to the dogs.'
`But Hogan has a good sit, hasn't he?'
`Yes, be's in the Land Commission.'
`I met him one night in London and he seemed to be very flush... Poor O'Hara! Booze, I suppose?'
`Other things, too,' said Little Chandler shortly.
Ignatius Gallaher laughed.
`Tommy,' he said, `I see you haven't changed an atom. You're the very same serious person that used to lecture me on Sunday mornings when I had a sore head and a fur on my tongue. You'd want to knock about a bit in the world. Have you never been anywhere even for a trip?'
`I've been to the Isle of Man,' said Little Chandler.
Ignatius Gallaher laughed.
`The Isle of Man!' he said. `Go to London or Paris: Paris, for choice. That'd do you good.'
`Have you seen Paris?'
`I should think I have! I've knocked about there a little.'
`And is it really so beautiful as they say?' asked Little Chandler.
He sipped a little of his drink while Ignatius Gallaher finished his boldly.
`Beautiful?' said Ignatius Gallaher, pausing on the word and on the flavour of his drink. `It's not so beautiful, you know. Of course it is beautiful... But it's the life of Paris; that's the thing. Ah, there's no city like Paris for gaiety, movement, excitement... '
`Half-time now, boys,' he used to say light-heartedly. `Where's my considering cap?'
That was Ignatius Gallaher all out; and, damn it, you couldn't but admire him for it.
Little Chandler quickened his pace. For the first time in his life he felt himself superior to the people he passed. For the first time his soul revolted against the dull inelegance of Capel Street. There was no doubt about it: if you wanted to succeed you had to go away. You could do nothing in Dublin. As he crossed Grattan Bridge he looked down the river towards the lower quays and pitied the poor stunted houses. They seemed to him a band of tramps, huddled together along the river-banks, their old coats covered with dust and soot, stupefied by the panorama of sunset and waiting for the first chill of night to bid them arise, shake themselves and begone. He wondered whether he could write a poem to express his idea. Perhaps Gallaher might be able to get it into some London paper for him. Could he write something original? He was not sure what idea he wished to express, but the thought that a poetic moment had touched him took life within him like an infant hope. He stepped onward bravely.
Every step brought him nearer to London, farther from his own sober inartistic life. A light began to tremble on the horizon of his mind. He was not so old - thirty-two. His temperament might be said to be just at the point of maturity. There were so many different moods and impressions that he wished to express in verse. He felt them within him. He tried to weigh his soul to see if it was a poet's soul. Melancholy was the dominant note of his temperament, he thought, but it was a melancholy tempered by recurrences of faith and resignation and simple joy. If he could give expression to it in a book of poems perhaps men would listen. He would never be popular: he saw that. He could not sway the crowd, but he might appeal to a little circle of kindred minds. The English critics, perhaps, would recognize him as one of the Celtic school by reason of the melancholy tone of his poems; besides that, he would put in allusions. He began to invent sentences and phrases from the notice which his book would get. `Mr Chandler has the gift of easy and graceful verse'... `A wistful sadness pervades these poems'... `The Celtic note'. It was a pity his name was not more Irish-looking. Perhaps it would be better to insert his mother's name before the surname: Thomas Malone Chandler; or better still: T. Malone Chandler. He would speak to Gallaher about it.
He pursued his reverie so ardently that he passed his street and had to turn back. As he came near Corless's his former agitation began to overmaster him and he halted before the door in indecision. Finally he opened the door and entered.
The light and noise of the bar held him at the doorway for a few moments. He looked about him, but his sight was confused by the shining of many red and green wine-glasses. The bar seemed to him to be full of people and he felt that the people were observing him curiously. He glanced quickly to right and left (frowning slightly to make his errand appear serious), but when his sight cleared a little he saw that nobody had turned to look at him: and there, Sure enough, was Ignatius Gallaher leaning with his back against the counter and his feet planted far apart.
`Hallo, Tommy, old hero, here you are! What is it to be? What will you have? I'm taking whisky: better stuff than we get across the water. Soda? Lithia? No mineral? I'm the same. Spoils the flavour... Here, garon, bring us two halves of malt whisky, like a good fellow... Well, and how have you been pulling along since I saw you last? Dear God, how old we're getting! Do you see any signs of ageing in me - eh, what? A little grey and thin on the top - what?'
Ignatius Gallaher took off his hat and displayed a large closely-cropped head. His face was heavy, pale, and clean-shaven. His eyes, which were of bluish slate-colour, relieved his unhealthy pallor and shone out plainly above the vivid orange tie he wore. Between these rival features the lips appeared very long and shapeless and colourless. He bent his head and felt with two sympathetic fingers the thin hair at the crown. Little Chandler shook his head as a denial. Ignatius Gallaher put on his hat again.
`It pulls you down,' he said. `Press life. Always hurry and scurry, looking for copy and sometimes not finding it: and then, always to have something new in your stuff. Damn proofs and printers, I say, for a few days. I'm deuced glad, I can tell you, to get back to the old country. Does a fellow good, a bit of a holiday. I feel a ton better since I landed again in dear, dirty Dublin... Here you are, Tommy. Water? Say when.'
Little Chandler allowed his whisky to be very much diluted.
`You don't know what's good for you, my boy,' said Ignatius Gallaher. `I drink mine neat.'
`I drink very little as a rule,' said Little Chandler modestly. `An odd half-one or so when I meet any of the old crowd: that's all.'
`Ah well,' said Ignatius Gallaher cheerfully, `here's to us and to old times and old acquaintance.'
They clinked glasses and drank the toast.
`I met some of the old gang today,' said Ignatius Gallaher. `O'Hara seems to be in a bad way. What's he doing?'
`Nothing,' said Little Chandler. `He's gone to the dogs.'
`But Hogan has a good sit, hasn't he?'
`Yes, be's in the Land Commission.'
`I met him one night in London and he seemed to be very flush... Poor O'Hara! Booze, I suppose?'
`Other things, too,' said Little Chandler shortly.
Ignatius Gallaher laughed.
`Tommy,' he said, `I see you haven't changed an atom. You're the very same serious person that used to lecture me on Sunday mornings when I had a sore head and a fur on my tongue. You'd want to knock about a bit in the world. Have you never been anywhere even for a trip?'
`I've been to the Isle of Man,' said Little Chandler.
Ignatius Gallaher laughed.
`The Isle of Man!' he said. `Go to London or Paris: Paris, for choice. That'd do you good.'
`Have you seen Paris?'
`I should think I have! I've knocked about there a little.'
`And is it really so beautiful as they say?' asked Little Chandler.
He sipped a little of his drink while Ignatius Gallaher finished his boldly.
`Beautiful?' said Ignatius Gallaher, pausing on the word and on the flavour of his drink. `It's not so beautiful, you know. Of course it is beautiful... But it's the life of Paris; that's the thing. Ah, there's no city like Paris for gaiety, movement, excitement... '
A Little Cloud by James Joyce (part1)
Eight years before he had seen his friend off at the North Wall and wished him God-speed. Gallaher had got on. You could tell that at once by his travelled air, his well-cut tweed suit, and fearless accent. Few fellows had talents like his, and fewer still could remain unspoiled by such success. Gallaher's heart was in the right place and he had deserved to win. It was something to have a friend like that.
Little Chandler's thoughts ever since lunch-time had been of his meeting with Gallaher, of Gallaher's invitation, and of the great city London where Gallaher lived. He was called Little Chandler because, though he was but slightly under the average stature, he gave one the idea of being a little man. His hands were white and small, his frame was fragile, his voice was quiet and his manners were refined. He took the greatest care of his fair silken hair and moustache, and used perfume discreetly on his handkerchief. The half-moons of his nails were perfect, and when he smiled you caught a glimpse of a row of childish white teeth.
As he sat at his desk in the King's Inns he thought what changes those eight years had brought. The friend whom he had known under a shabby and necessitous guise had become a brilliant figure on the London Press. He turned often from his tiresome writing to gaze out of the office window. The glow of a late autumn sunset covered the grass plots and walks. It cast a shower of kindly golden dust on the untidy nurses and decrepit old men who drowsed on the benches; it flickered upon all the moving figures - on the children who ran screaming along the gravel paths and on everyone who passed through the gardens. He watched the scene and thought of life; and (as always happened when he thought of life) he became sad. A gentle melancholy took possession of him. He felt how useless it was to struggle against fortune, this being the burden of wisdom which the ages had bequeathed to him.
He remembered the books of poetry upon his shelves at home. He had bought them in his bachelor days and many an evening, as he sat in the little room off the hall, he had been tempted to take one down from the bookshelf and read out something to his wife. But shyness had always held him back; and so the books had remained on their shelves. At times he repeated lines to himself and this consoled him.
When his hour had struck he stood up and took leave of his desk and of his fellow-clerks punctiliously. He emerged from under the feudal arch of the King's Inns, a neat modest figure, and walked swiftly down Henrietta Street. The golden sunset was waning and the air had grown sharp. A horde of grimy children populated the street. They stood or ran in the roadway, or crawled up the steps before the gaping doors, or squatted like mice upon the thresholds. Little Chandler gave them no thought. He picked his way deftly through all that minute vermin-like life and under the shadow of the gaunt spectral mansions in which the old nobility of Dublin had roistered. No memory of the past touched him, for his mind was full of a present joy.
He had never been in Corless's, but he knew the value of the name. He knew that people went there after the theatre to eat oysters and drink liqueurs; and he had heard that the waiters there spoke French and German. Walking swiftly by at night he had seen cabs drawn up before the door and richly-dressed ladies, escorted by cavaliers, alight and enter quickly. They wore noisy dresses and many wraps. Their faces were powdered and they caught up their dresses, when they touched earth, like alarmed Atalantas. He had always passed without turning his head to look. It was his habit to walk swiftly in the street even by day, and whenever he found himself in the city late at night he hurried on his way apprehensively and excitedly. Sometimes, however, he courted the causes of his fear. He chose the darkest and narrowest streets and, as he walked boldly forward, the silence that was spread about his footsteps troubled him; the wandering, silent figures troubled him; and at times a sound of low fugitive laughter made him tremble like a leaf.(continued)
Little Chandler's thoughts ever since lunch-time had been of his meeting with Gallaher, of Gallaher's invitation, and of the great city London where Gallaher lived. He was called Little Chandler because, though he was but slightly under the average stature, he gave one the idea of being a little man. His hands were white and small, his frame was fragile, his voice was quiet and his manners were refined. He took the greatest care of his fair silken hair and moustache, and used perfume discreetly on his handkerchief. The half-moons of his nails were perfect, and when he smiled you caught a glimpse of a row of childish white teeth.
As he sat at his desk in the King's Inns he thought what changes those eight years had brought. The friend whom he had known under a shabby and necessitous guise had become a brilliant figure on the London Press. He turned often from his tiresome writing to gaze out of the office window. The glow of a late autumn sunset covered the grass plots and walks. It cast a shower of kindly golden dust on the untidy nurses and decrepit old men who drowsed on the benches; it flickered upon all the moving figures - on the children who ran screaming along the gravel paths and on everyone who passed through the gardens. He watched the scene and thought of life; and (as always happened when he thought of life) he became sad. A gentle melancholy took possession of him. He felt how useless it was to struggle against fortune, this being the burden of wisdom which the ages had bequeathed to him.
He remembered the books of poetry upon his shelves at home. He had bought them in his bachelor days and many an evening, as he sat in the little room off the hall, he had been tempted to take one down from the bookshelf and read out something to his wife. But shyness had always held him back; and so the books had remained on their shelves. At times he repeated lines to himself and this consoled him.
When his hour had struck he stood up and took leave of his desk and of his fellow-clerks punctiliously. He emerged from under the feudal arch of the King's Inns, a neat modest figure, and walked swiftly down Henrietta Street. The golden sunset was waning and the air had grown sharp. A horde of grimy children populated the street. They stood or ran in the roadway, or crawled up the steps before the gaping doors, or squatted like mice upon the thresholds. Little Chandler gave them no thought. He picked his way deftly through all that minute vermin-like life and under the shadow of the gaunt spectral mansions in which the old nobility of Dublin had roistered. No memory of the past touched him, for his mind was full of a present joy.
He had never been in Corless's, but he knew the value of the name. He knew that people went there after the theatre to eat oysters and drink liqueurs; and he had heard that the waiters there spoke French and German. Walking swiftly by at night he had seen cabs drawn up before the door and richly-dressed ladies, escorted by cavaliers, alight and enter quickly. They wore noisy dresses and many wraps. Their faces were powdered and they caught up their dresses, when they touched earth, like alarmed Atalantas. He had always passed without turning his head to look. It was his habit to walk swiftly in the street even by day, and whenever he found himself in the city late at night he hurried on his way apprehensively and excitedly. Sometimes, however, he courted the causes of his fear. He chose the darkest and narrowest streets and, as he walked boldly forward, the silence that was spread about his footsteps troubled him; the wandering, silent figures troubled him; and at times a sound of low fugitive laughter made him tremble like a leaf.(continued)
A School Story by M. R. James (part2)
'Why, did you show him up some rot?' 'No fear,' he said. 'It was all right
as far as I could see: it was like this: Memento - that's right enough for
remember, and it takes a genitive, - memento putei inter quatuor taxos.'
'What silly rot!' I said. 'What made you shove that down? What does it
mean?' 'That's the funny part,' said McLeod. 'I'm not quite sure what it
does mean. All I know is, it just came into my head and I corked it down. I
know what I think it means, because just before I wrote it down I had a sort
of picture of it in my head: I believe it means "Remember the well among the
four" - what are those dark sort of trees that have red berries on them?'
'Mountain ashes, I s'pose you mean.' 'I never heard of them,' said McLeod;
'no, I'll tell you - yews.' 'Well, and what did Sampson say?' 'Why, he was
jolly odd about it. When he read it he got up and went to the mantel-piece
and stopped quite a long time without saying anything, with his back to me.
And then he said, without turning round, and rather quiet, "What do you
suppose that means?" I told him what I thought; only I couldn't remember the
name of the silly tree: and then he wanted to know why I put it down, and I
had to say something or other. And after that he left off talking about it,
and asked me how long I'd been here, and where my people lived, and things
like that: and then I came away: but he wasn't looking a bit well.'
"I don't remember any more that was said by either of us about this. Next
day McLeod took to his bed with a chill or something of the kind, and it was
a week or more before he was in school again. And as much as a month went by
without anything happening that was noticeable. Whether or not Mr. Sampson
was really startled, as McLeod had thought, he didn't show it. I am pretty
sure, of course, now, that there was something very curious in his past
history, but I'm not going to pretend that we boys were sharp enough to
guess any such thing.
"There was one other incident of the same kind as the last which I told
you. Several times since that day we had had to make up examples in school
to illustrate different rules, but there had never been any row except when
we did them wrong. At last there came a day when we were going through those
dismal things which people call Conditional Sentences, and we were told to
make a conditional sentence, expressing a future consequence. We did it,
right or wrong, and showed up our bits of paper, and Sampson began looking
through them. All at once he got up, made some odd sort of noise in his
throat, and rushed out by a door that was just by his desk. We sat there for
a minute or two, and then - I suppose it was incorrect - but we went up, I
and one or two others, to look at the papers on his desk. Of course I
thought someone must have put down some nonsense or other, and Sampson had
gone off to report him. All the same, I noticed that he hadn't taken any of
the papers with him when he ran out. Well, the top paper on the desk was
written in red ink - which no one used - and it wasn't in anyone's hand who
was in the class. They all looked at it - McLeod and all - and took their
dying oaths that it wasn't theirs. Then I thought of counting the bits of
paper. And of this I made quite certain: that there were seventeen bits of
paper on the desk, and sixteen boys in the form. Well, I bagged the extra
paper, and kept it, and I believe I have it now. And now you will want to
know what was written on it. It was simple enough, and harmless enough, I
should have said.
"'Si tu non veneris ad me, ego veniam ad te,' which means, I suppose, 'If
you don't come to me, I'll come to you.'"
"Could you show me the paper?" interrupted the listener.
"Yes, I could: but there's another odd thing about it. That same
afternoon I took it out of my locker - I know for certain it was the same
bit, for I made a finger-mark on it and no single trace of writing of any
kind was there on it. I kept it, as I said, and since that time I have tried
various experiments to see whether sympathetic ink had been used, but
absolutely without result.
"So much for that. After about half an hour Sampson looked in again: said
he had felt very unwell, and told us we might go. He came rather gingerly to
his desk, and gave just one look at the uppermost paper: and I suppose he
thought he must have been dreaming: anyhow, he asked no questions.
"That day was a half-holiday, and next day Sampson was in school again,
much as usual. That night the third and last incident in my story happened.
"We - McLeod and I - slept in a dormitory at right angles to the main
building. Sampson slept in the main building on the first floor. There was a
very bright full moon. At an hour which I can't tell exactly, but some time
between one and two, I was woken up by somebody shaking me. It was McLeod,
and a nice state of mind he seemed to be in. 'Come,' he said, - 'come
there's a burglar getting in through Sampson's window.' As soon as I could
speak, I said, 'Well, why not call out and wake everybody up? 'No, no,' he
said, 'I'm not sure who it is: don't make a row: come and look.' Naturally I
came and looked, and naturally there was no one there. I was cross enough,
and should have called McLeod plenty of names: only - I couldn't tell why -
it seemed to me that there was something wrong - something that made me very
glad I wasn't alone to face it. We were still at the window looking out, and
as soon as I could, I asked him what he had heard or seen. 'I didn't hear
anything at all,' he said, 'but about five minutes before I woke you, I
found myself looking out of this window here, and there was a man sitting or
kneeling on Sampson's window-sill, and looking in, and I thought he was
beckoning.' 'What sort of man?' McLeod wriggled. 'I don't know,' he said,
'but I can tell you one thing - he was beastly thin: and he looked as if he
was wet all over: and,' he said, looking round and whispering as if he
hardly liked to hear himself, 'I'm not at all sure that he was alive.'
"We went on talking in whispers some time longer, and eventually crept
back to bed. No one else in the room woke or stirred the whole time. I
believe we did sleep a bit afterwards, but we were very cheap next day.
"And next day Mr. Sampson was gone: not to be found: and I believe no
trace of him has ever come to light since. In thinking it over, one of the
oddest things about it all has seemed to me to be the fact that neither
McLeod nor I ever mentioned what we had seen to any third person whatever.
Of course no questions were asked on the subject, and if they had been, I am
inclined to believe that we could not have made any answer: we seemed unable
to speak about it.
"That is my story," said the narrator. "The only approach to a ghost
story connected with a school that I know, but still, I think, an approach
to such a thing."
* * * * *
The sequel to this may perhaps be reckoned highly conventional; but a
sequel there is, and so it must be produced. There had been more than one
listener to the story, and, in the latter part of that same year, or of the
next, one such listener was staying at a country house in Ireland.
One evening his host was turning over a drawer full of odds and ends in
the smoking-room. Suddenly he put his hand upon a little box. "Now," he
said, "you know about old things; tell me what that is." My friend opened
the little box, and found in it a thin gold chain with an object attached to
it. He glanced at the object and then took off his spectacles to examine it
more narrowly. "What's the history of this?" he asked. "Odd enough," was the
answer. "You know the yew thicket in the shrubbery: well, a year or two back
we were cleaning out the old well that used to be in the clearing here, and
what do you suppose we found?"
"Is it possible that you found a body?" said the visitor, with an odd
feeling of nervousness.
"We did that: but what's more, in every sense of the word, we found two."
"Good Heavens! Two? Was there anything to show how they got there? Was
this thing found with them?"
"It was. Amongst the rags of the clothes that were on one of the bodies.
A bad business, whatever the story of it may have been. One body had the
arms tight round the other. They must have been there thirty years or more -
long enough before we came to this place. You may judge we filled the well
up fast enough. Do you make anything of what's cut on that gold coin you
have there?"
"I think I can," said my friend, holding it to the light (but he read it
without much difficulty); "it seems to be G.W.S., 24 July, 1865."
THE END...........(BACK)
as far as I could see: it was like this: Memento - that's right enough for
remember, and it takes a genitive, - memento putei inter quatuor taxos.'
'What silly rot!' I said. 'What made you shove that down? What does it
mean?' 'That's the funny part,' said McLeod. 'I'm not quite sure what it
does mean. All I know is, it just came into my head and I corked it down. I
know what I think it means, because just before I wrote it down I had a sort
of picture of it in my head: I believe it means "Remember the well among the
four" - what are those dark sort of trees that have red berries on them?'
'Mountain ashes, I s'pose you mean.' 'I never heard of them,' said McLeod;
'no, I'll tell you - yews.' 'Well, and what did Sampson say?' 'Why, he was
jolly odd about it. When he read it he got up and went to the mantel-piece
and stopped quite a long time without saying anything, with his back to me.
And then he said, without turning round, and rather quiet, "What do you
suppose that means?" I told him what I thought; only I couldn't remember the
name of the silly tree: and then he wanted to know why I put it down, and I
had to say something or other. And after that he left off talking about it,
and asked me how long I'd been here, and where my people lived, and things
like that: and then I came away: but he wasn't looking a bit well.'
"I don't remember any more that was said by either of us about this. Next
day McLeod took to his bed with a chill or something of the kind, and it was
a week or more before he was in school again. And as much as a month went by
without anything happening that was noticeable. Whether or not Mr. Sampson
was really startled, as McLeod had thought, he didn't show it. I am pretty
sure, of course, now, that there was something very curious in his past
history, but I'm not going to pretend that we boys were sharp enough to
guess any such thing.
"There was one other incident of the same kind as the last which I told
you. Several times since that day we had had to make up examples in school
to illustrate different rules, but there had never been any row except when
we did them wrong. At last there came a day when we were going through those
dismal things which people call Conditional Sentences, and we were told to
make a conditional sentence, expressing a future consequence. We did it,
right or wrong, and showed up our bits of paper, and Sampson began looking
through them. All at once he got up, made some odd sort of noise in his
throat, and rushed out by a door that was just by his desk. We sat there for
a minute or two, and then - I suppose it was incorrect - but we went up, I
and one or two others, to look at the papers on his desk. Of course I
thought someone must have put down some nonsense or other, and Sampson had
gone off to report him. All the same, I noticed that he hadn't taken any of
the papers with him when he ran out. Well, the top paper on the desk was
written in red ink - which no one used - and it wasn't in anyone's hand who
was in the class. They all looked at it - McLeod and all - and took their
dying oaths that it wasn't theirs. Then I thought of counting the bits of
paper. And of this I made quite certain: that there were seventeen bits of
paper on the desk, and sixteen boys in the form. Well, I bagged the extra
paper, and kept it, and I believe I have it now. And now you will want to
know what was written on it. It was simple enough, and harmless enough, I
should have said.
"'Si tu non veneris ad me, ego veniam ad te,' which means, I suppose, 'If
you don't come to me, I'll come to you.'"
"Could you show me the paper?" interrupted the listener.
"Yes, I could: but there's another odd thing about it. That same
afternoon I took it out of my locker - I know for certain it was the same
bit, for I made a finger-mark on it and no single trace of writing of any
kind was there on it. I kept it, as I said, and since that time I have tried
various experiments to see whether sympathetic ink had been used, but
absolutely without result.
"So much for that. After about half an hour Sampson looked in again: said
he had felt very unwell, and told us we might go. He came rather gingerly to
his desk, and gave just one look at the uppermost paper: and I suppose he
thought he must have been dreaming: anyhow, he asked no questions.
"That day was a half-holiday, and next day Sampson was in school again,
much as usual. That night the third and last incident in my story happened.
"We - McLeod and I - slept in a dormitory at right angles to the main
building. Sampson slept in the main building on the first floor. There was a
very bright full moon. At an hour which I can't tell exactly, but some time
between one and two, I was woken up by somebody shaking me. It was McLeod,
and a nice state of mind he seemed to be in. 'Come,' he said, - 'come
there's a burglar getting in through Sampson's window.' As soon as I could
speak, I said, 'Well, why not call out and wake everybody up? 'No, no,' he
said, 'I'm not sure who it is: don't make a row: come and look.' Naturally I
came and looked, and naturally there was no one there. I was cross enough,
and should have called McLeod plenty of names: only - I couldn't tell why -
it seemed to me that there was something wrong - something that made me very
glad I wasn't alone to face it. We were still at the window looking out, and
as soon as I could, I asked him what he had heard or seen. 'I didn't hear
anything at all,' he said, 'but about five minutes before I woke you, I
found myself looking out of this window here, and there was a man sitting or
kneeling on Sampson's window-sill, and looking in, and I thought he was
beckoning.' 'What sort of man?' McLeod wriggled. 'I don't know,' he said,
'but I can tell you one thing - he was beastly thin: and he looked as if he
was wet all over: and,' he said, looking round and whispering as if he
hardly liked to hear himself, 'I'm not at all sure that he was alive.'
"We went on talking in whispers some time longer, and eventually crept
back to bed. No one else in the room woke or stirred the whole time. I
believe we did sleep a bit afterwards, but we were very cheap next day.
"And next day Mr. Sampson was gone: not to be found: and I believe no
trace of him has ever come to light since. In thinking it over, one of the
oddest things about it all has seemed to me to be the fact that neither
McLeod nor I ever mentioned what we had seen to any third person whatever.
Of course no questions were asked on the subject, and if they had been, I am
inclined to believe that we could not have made any answer: we seemed unable
to speak about it.
"That is my story," said the narrator. "The only approach to a ghost
story connected with a school that I know, but still, I think, an approach
to such a thing."
* * * * *
The sequel to this may perhaps be reckoned highly conventional; but a
sequel there is, and so it must be produced. There had been more than one
listener to the story, and, in the latter part of that same year, or of the
next, one such listener was staying at a country house in Ireland.
One evening his host was turning over a drawer full of odds and ends in
the smoking-room. Suddenly he put his hand upon a little box. "Now," he
said, "you know about old things; tell me what that is." My friend opened
the little box, and found in it a thin gold chain with an object attached to
it. He glanced at the object and then took off his spectacles to examine it
more narrowly. "What's the history of this?" he asked. "Odd enough," was the
answer. "You know the yew thicket in the shrubbery: well, a year or two back
we were cleaning out the old well that used to be in the clearing here, and
what do you suppose we found?"
"Is it possible that you found a body?" said the visitor, with an odd
feeling of nervousness.
"We did that: but what's more, in every sense of the word, we found two."
"Good Heavens! Two? Was there anything to show how they got there? Was
this thing found with them?"
"It was. Amongst the rags of the clothes that were on one of the bodies.
A bad business, whatever the story of it may have been. One body had the
arms tight round the other. They must have been there thirty years or more -
long enough before we came to this place. You may judge we filled the well
up fast enough. Do you make anything of what's cut on that gold coin you
have there?"
"I think I can," said my friend, holding it to the light (but he read it
without much difficulty); "it seems to be G.W.S., 24 July, 1865."
THE END...........(BACK)
A School Story by M. R. James (part1)
Two men in a smoking-room were talking of their private-school days. "At our
school," said A., "we had a ghost's footmark on the staircase. "
" What was it like?"
"Oh, very unconvincing. Just the shape of a shoe, with a square toe, if I
remember right. The staircase was a stone one. I never heard any story about
the thing. That seems odd, when you come to think of it. Why didn't somebody
invent one, I wonder?"
"You never can tell with little boys. They have a mythology of their own.
There's a subject for you, by the way - "The Folklore of Private Schools."
"Yes; the crop is rather scanty, though. I imagine, if you were to
investigate the cycle of ghost stories, for instance, which the boys at
private schools tell each other, they would all turn out to be
highly-compressed versions of stories out of books."
"Nowadays the Strand and Pearson's, and so on, would be extensively drawn
upon."
"No doubt: they weren't born or thought of in my time. Let's see. I
wonder if I can remember the staple ones that I was told. First, there was
the house with a room in which a series of people insisted on passing a
night; and each of them in the morning was found kneeling in a corner, and
had just time to say, 'I've seen it,' and died."
"Wasn't that the house in Berkeley Square?"
"I dare say it was. Then there was the man who heard a noise in the
passage at night, opened his door, and saw someone crawling towards him on
all fours with his eye hanging out on his cheek. There was besides, let me
think - Yes! the room where a man was found dead in bed with a horseshoe
mark on his forehead, and the floor under the bed was covered with marks of
horseshoes also; I don't know why. Also there was the lady who, on locking
her bedroom door in a strange house, heard a thin voice among the
bed-curtains say, 'Now we're shut in for the night.' None of those had any
explanation or sequel. I wonder if they go on still, those stories."
"Oh, likely enough - with additions from the magazines, as I said. You
never heard, did you, of a real ghost at a private school? I thought not,
nobody has that ever I came across."
"From the way in which you said that, I gather that you have."
"I really don't know, but this is what was in my mind. It happened at my
private school thirty odd years ago, and I haven't any explanation of it.
"The school I mean was near London. It was established in a large and
fairly old house - a great white building with very fine grounds about it;
there were large cedars in the garden, as there are in so many of the older
gardens in the Thames valley, and ancient elms in the three or four fields
which we used for our games. I think probably it was quite an attractive
place, but boys seldom allow that their schools possess any tolerable
features.
"I came to the school in a September, soon after the year 1870; and among
the boys who arrived on the same day was one whom I took to: a Highland boy,
whom I will call McLeod. I needn't spend time in describing him: the main
thing is that I got to know him very well. He was not an exceptional boy in
any way - not particularly good at books or games - but he suited me.
"The school was a large one: there must have been from 120 to 130 boys
there as a rule, and so a considerable staff of masters was required, and
there were rather frequent changes among them.
"One term - perhaps it was my third or fourth - a new master made his
appearance. His name was Sampson. He was a tallish, stoutish, pale,
black-bearded man. I think we liked him: he had travelled a good deal, and
had stories which amused us on our school walks, so that there was some
competition among us to get within earshot of him. I remember too - dear me,
I have hardly thought of it since then - that he had a charm on his
watch-chain that attracted my attention one day, and he let me examine it.
It was, I now suppose, a gold Byzantine coin; there was an effigy of some
absurd emperor on one side; the other side had been worn practically smooth,
and he had had cut on it - rather barbarously - his own initials, G.W.S.,
and a date, 24 July, 1865. Yes, I can see it now: he told me he had picked
it up in Constantinople: it was about the size of a florin, perhaps rather
smaller.
"Well, the first odd thing that happened was this. Sampson was doing
Latin grammar with us. One of his favourite methods - perhaps it is rather a
good one - was to make us construct sentences out of our own heads to
illustrate the rules he was trying to make us learn. Of course that is a
thing which gives a silly boy a chance of being impertinent: there are lots
of school stories in which that happens - or any-how there might be. But
Sampson was too good a disciplinarian for us to think of trying that on with
him. Now, on this occasion he was telling us how to express remembering in
Latin: and he ordered us each to make a sentence bringing in the verb
memini, 'I remember.' Well, most of us made up some ordinary sentence such
as 'I remember my father,' or 'He remembers his book,' or something equally
uninteresting: and I dare say a good many put down memino librum meum, and
so forth: but the boy I mentioned - McLeod - was evidently thinking of
something more elaborate than that. The rest of us wanted to have our
sentences passed, and get on to something else, so some kicked him under the
desk, and I, who was next to him, poked him and whispered to him to look
sharp. But he didn't seem to attend. I looked at his paper and saw he had
put down nothing at all. So I jogged him again harder than before and
upbraided him sharply for keeping us all waiting. That did have some effect.
He started and seemed to wake up, and then very quickly he scribbled about a
couple of lines on his paper, and showed it up with the rest. As it was the
last, or nearly the last, to come in, and as Sampson had a good deal to say
to the boys who had written meminiscimus patri meo and the rest of it, it
turned out that the clock struck twelve before he had got to McLeod, and
McLeod had to wait afterwards to have his sentence corrected. There was
nothing much going on outside when I got out, so I waited for him to come.
He came very slowly when he did arrive, and I guessed there had been some
sort of trouble. 'Well,' I said, 'what did you get?' 'Oh, I don't know,'
said McLeod, 'nothing much: but I think Sampson's rather sick with me.'
(continued)
school," said A., "we had a ghost's footmark on the staircase. "
" What was it like?"
"Oh, very unconvincing. Just the shape of a shoe, with a square toe, if I
remember right. The staircase was a stone one. I never heard any story about
the thing. That seems odd, when you come to think of it. Why didn't somebody
invent one, I wonder?"
"You never can tell with little boys. They have a mythology of their own.
There's a subject for you, by the way - "The Folklore of Private Schools."
"Yes; the crop is rather scanty, though. I imagine, if you were to
investigate the cycle of ghost stories, for instance, which the boys at
private schools tell each other, they would all turn out to be
highly-compressed versions of stories out of books."
"Nowadays the Strand and Pearson's, and so on, would be extensively drawn
upon."
"No doubt: they weren't born or thought of in my time. Let's see. I
wonder if I can remember the staple ones that I was told. First, there was
the house with a room in which a series of people insisted on passing a
night; and each of them in the morning was found kneeling in a corner, and
had just time to say, 'I've seen it,' and died."
"Wasn't that the house in Berkeley Square?"
"I dare say it was. Then there was the man who heard a noise in the
passage at night, opened his door, and saw someone crawling towards him on
all fours with his eye hanging out on his cheek. There was besides, let me
think - Yes! the room where a man was found dead in bed with a horseshoe
mark on his forehead, and the floor under the bed was covered with marks of
horseshoes also; I don't know why. Also there was the lady who, on locking
her bedroom door in a strange house, heard a thin voice among the
bed-curtains say, 'Now we're shut in for the night.' None of those had any
explanation or sequel. I wonder if they go on still, those stories."
"Oh, likely enough - with additions from the magazines, as I said. You
never heard, did you, of a real ghost at a private school? I thought not,
nobody has that ever I came across."
"From the way in which you said that, I gather that you have."
"I really don't know, but this is what was in my mind. It happened at my
private school thirty odd years ago, and I haven't any explanation of it.
"The school I mean was near London. It was established in a large and
fairly old house - a great white building with very fine grounds about it;
there were large cedars in the garden, as there are in so many of the older
gardens in the Thames valley, and ancient elms in the three or four fields
which we used for our games. I think probably it was quite an attractive
place, but boys seldom allow that their schools possess any tolerable
features.
"I came to the school in a September, soon after the year 1870; and among
the boys who arrived on the same day was one whom I took to: a Highland boy,
whom I will call McLeod. I needn't spend time in describing him: the main
thing is that I got to know him very well. He was not an exceptional boy in
any way - not particularly good at books or games - but he suited me.
"The school was a large one: there must have been from 120 to 130 boys
there as a rule, and so a considerable staff of masters was required, and
there were rather frequent changes among them.
"One term - perhaps it was my third or fourth - a new master made his
appearance. His name was Sampson. He was a tallish, stoutish, pale,
black-bearded man. I think we liked him: he had travelled a good deal, and
had stories which amused us on our school walks, so that there was some
competition among us to get within earshot of him. I remember too - dear me,
I have hardly thought of it since then - that he had a charm on his
watch-chain that attracted my attention one day, and he let me examine it.
It was, I now suppose, a gold Byzantine coin; there was an effigy of some
absurd emperor on one side; the other side had been worn practically smooth,
and he had had cut on it - rather barbarously - his own initials, G.W.S.,
and a date, 24 July, 1865. Yes, I can see it now: he told me he had picked
it up in Constantinople: it was about the size of a florin, perhaps rather
smaller.
"Well, the first odd thing that happened was this. Sampson was doing
Latin grammar with us. One of his favourite methods - perhaps it is rather a
good one - was to make us construct sentences out of our own heads to
illustrate the rules he was trying to make us learn. Of course that is a
thing which gives a silly boy a chance of being impertinent: there are lots
of school stories in which that happens - or any-how there might be. But
Sampson was too good a disciplinarian for us to think of trying that on with
him. Now, on this occasion he was telling us how to express remembering in
Latin: and he ordered us each to make a sentence bringing in the verb
memini, 'I remember.' Well, most of us made up some ordinary sentence such
as 'I remember my father,' or 'He remembers his book,' or something equally
uninteresting: and I dare say a good many put down memino librum meum, and
so forth: but the boy I mentioned - McLeod - was evidently thinking of
something more elaborate than that. The rest of us wanted to have our
sentences passed, and get on to something else, so some kicked him under the
desk, and I, who was next to him, poked him and whispered to him to look
sharp. But he didn't seem to attend. I looked at his paper and saw he had
put down nothing at all. So I jogged him again harder than before and
upbraided him sharply for keeping us all waiting. That did have some effect.
He started and seemed to wake up, and then very quickly he scribbled about a
couple of lines on his paper, and showed it up with the rest. As it was the
last, or nearly the last, to come in, and as Sampson had a good deal to say
to the boys who had written meminiscimus patri meo and the rest of it, it
turned out that the clock struck twelve before he had got to McLeod, and
McLeod had to wait afterwards to have his sentence corrected. There was
nothing much going on outside when I got out, so I waited for him to come.
He came very slowly when he did arrive, and I guessed there had been some
sort of trouble. 'Well,' I said, 'what did you get?' 'Oh, I don't know,'
said McLeod, 'nothing much: but I think Sampson's rather sick with me.'
(continued)
proverb
We learn something by doing it. There is no other way.
-- JHolt
The main hope of a nation lies in the proper
education of its youth
--Erasmus
Never be afraid to sit awhile and think.
--Lorraine Hansberry
Our minds are lazier than our bodies
--Francois, Duc de la Rochefoucauld
Reason is the guide and light of life.
--English Proverb
Wisdom is only found in truth.
--Goethe
The greatest friend of truth is time, her
greatest enemy is prejudice, and her constant
companion is humility.
--Colton
Knowledge is power.
--F.Bacon
-- JHolt
The main hope of a nation lies in the proper
education of its youth
--Erasmus
Never be afraid to sit awhile and think.
--Lorraine Hansberry
Our minds are lazier than our bodies
--Francois, Duc de la Rochefoucauld
Reason is the guide and light of life.
--English Proverb
Wisdom is only found in truth.
--Goethe
The greatest friend of truth is time, her
greatest enemy is prejudice, and her constant
companion is humility.
--Colton
Knowledge is power.
--F.Bacon
poem (5)
ARE YOU MY FRIEND?
Will you be there when I'm down,
And catch me when I fall?
Will you hold me when I need
To feel the warmth of your touch?
Will you laugh when I laugh,
And cry when I cry?
Will you let me rant and rave,
When I need to let off steam?
Will you discuss those painful things,
That you'd rather not think about?
Like the times we've hurt each other,
And promised would never do so again?
Will you say the right thing,
When all I've heard is the wrong?
And tell me soothing words,
That make the pain I feel subside?
Will you understand me when I say,
"I can't see you now, go away"?
Will you come back when I call,
As if nothing happened at all?
If you'll do these things for me,
And keep smiling all the way.
If you'll be with me through the bad times,
As well as the good.
Then truly you are my friend,
My pal, my mate and my confidante.
And that means so much to me.
I thank you dearly, for being there,
You, My Friend.
by : Sudhir
Will you be there when I'm down,
And catch me when I fall?
Will you hold me when I need
To feel the warmth of your touch?
Will you laugh when I laugh,
And cry when I cry?
Will you let me rant and rave,
When I need to let off steam?
Will you discuss those painful things,
That you'd rather not think about?
Like the times we've hurt each other,
And promised would never do so again?
Will you say the right thing,
When all I've heard is the wrong?
And tell me soothing words,
That make the pain I feel subside?
Will you understand me when I say,
"I can't see you now, go away"?
Will you come back when I call,
As if nothing happened at all?
If you'll do these things for me,
And keep smiling all the way.
If you'll be with me through the bad times,
As well as the good.
Then truly you are my friend,
My pal, my mate and my confidante.
And that means so much to me.
I thank you dearly, for being there,
You, My Friend.
by : Sudhir
poem (4)
A FRIEND FOR ME
As time moves forward,
I look back and see
one true friend,
Standing, waving and smiling
in the distance.
Never failing,
Always there,
Her smile, a ray of light
in the lonely darkness
I call life.
I call out to her,
she answers,
her words so full
of truth,
I look closely and I see
in her heart,
a true friend,
A friend for me.
As time moves forward,
I look back and see
one true friend,
Standing, waving and smiling
in the distance.
Never failing,
Always there,
Her smile, a ray of light
in the lonely darkness
I call life.
I call out to her,
she answers,
her words so full
of truth,
I look closely and I see
in her heart,
a true friend,
A friend for me.
poem (3)
Friendship Is Like A Rose
A flower is but a flower
But a rose is a rose
Fragile and beautiful upon it's stems
Like the friendship that we hold
Being a part of anothers life
Sharing what is in the heart
Never to be judged or critisied
Concerned for feelings from the start
A friend offers words of wisdom
If ever the need may arise
When in doubt and no-way out
They'll be right at your side
A friend can hold a secret
And never will they be untrue
They hold your heart deep inside
Because they are devoted to you
A friend can bring you smiles
Even when things seem so blue
Just able to recognize your feelings
By things you say or do
Distance has no meaning at all
In the heart you are placed
You have proven loyal and true
A friendship not to be erased
Having a true friend like this
Is a great honor to bestow
Friendship is a precious gift
Friendship is as precious as the rose
*Thank-you For Being My Friend*
*Bambi*
A flower is but a flower
But a rose is a rose
Fragile and beautiful upon it's stems
Like the friendship that we hold
Being a part of anothers life
Sharing what is in the heart
Never to be judged or critisied
Concerned for feelings from the start
A friend offers words of wisdom
If ever the need may arise
When in doubt and no-way out
They'll be right at your side
A friend can hold a secret
And never will they be untrue
They hold your heart deep inside
Because they are devoted to you
A friend can bring you smiles
Even when things seem so blue
Just able to recognize your feelings
By things you say or do
Distance has no meaning at all
In the heart you are placed
You have proven loyal and true
A friendship not to be erased
Having a true friend like this
Is a great honor to bestow
Friendship is a precious gift
Friendship is as precious as the rose
*Thank-you For Being My Friend*
*Bambi*
poem (2)
I Hope
My friend, my pal through good times and bad,
We witnessed a lot of things, being happy and sad.
It's been three year since the beginning or start,
If it's ok with you, I hope we never part.
Guys will come and go, but hopefully our friendship will stay,
Unlike old friends and problems, it will never stray.
I just hope you will never give up and leave me,
you have always veen there, the best you will always be.
When I think of life without your face,
I wonder what I'd ever do to replace.
I try my best to help you through,
I try to show how much I really care about you.
But right now I hope you get the message,
From now on our friendship has no passage.
Whether you like it or not, I will always be here,
to remember, to dream, to shed a tear.
So whenever you are down, or feeling any sorrow,
Remember I am here to talk. There will always be tomorrow.
by : Burger Queen
(To all my REAL friends)
My friend, my pal through good times and bad,
We witnessed a lot of things, being happy and sad.
It's been three year since the beginning or start,
If it's ok with you, I hope we never part.
Guys will come and go, but hopefully our friendship will stay,
Unlike old friends and problems, it will never stray.
I just hope you will never give up and leave me,
you have always veen there, the best you will always be.
When I think of life without your face,
I wonder what I'd ever do to replace.
I try my best to help you through,
I try to show how much I really care about you.
But right now I hope you get the message,
From now on our friendship has no passage.
Whether you like it or not, I will always be here,
to remember, to dream, to shed a tear.
So whenever you are down, or feeling any sorrow,
Remember I am here to talk. There will always be tomorrow.
by : Burger Queen
(To all my REAL friends)
poem (1)
New Friend
When You are sad
I will dry your tears
When U are scared
I will comfort your fears
When U are worried
I will give U hope
When U are confused
I will help U cope
and when U are lost
and can't see the light
I shall be your beacon
shining ever so bright
This is my oath
I pledge till the end
Why U may ask
because You're a friend .
Your new friend
Sender: Quang Tran
PS: Please email 4 me at : Quangtr@aol.com
When You are sad
I will dry your tears
When U are scared
I will comfort your fears
When U are worried
I will give U hope
When U are confused
I will help U cope
and when U are lost
and can't see the light
I shall be your beacon
shining ever so bright
This is my oath
I pledge till the end
Why U may ask
because You're a friend .
Your new friend
Sender: Quang Tran
PS: Please email 4 me at : Quangtr@aol.com
funny stories(10)
KISS-a-me
A man and his wife were driving their RV across the country and were nearing a town spelled Kissimee. They noted the strange spelling and tried to figure how to pronounce it - KISS-a-me; kis-A-me; kis-a-ME. They grew more perplexed as they
drove into the town.
Since they were hungry, they pulled into a place to get something to eat. At the counter, the man said to the waitress:
"My wife and I can't seem to be able to figure out how to pronounce this place. Will you tell me where we are and say it very slowly so that I can understand."
The waitress looked at him and said: "Buuurrrgerrr Kiiiinnnng."
A man and his wife were driving their RV across the country and were nearing a town spelled Kissimee. They noted the strange spelling and tried to figure how to pronounce it - KISS-a-me; kis-A-me; kis-a-ME. They grew more perplexed as they
drove into the town.
Since they were hungry, they pulled into a place to get something to eat. At the counter, the man said to the waitress:
"My wife and I can't seem to be able to figure out how to pronounce this place. Will you tell me where we are and say it very slowly so that I can understand."
The waitress looked at him and said: "Buuurrrgerrr Kiiiinnnng."
funny stories(9)
Good advice
Soldiers are trained to jump from areoplanes. They have parachutes that open in the air so that they can fall safely to the ground.
A sergeant was once instructing his soldiers. One of them ask him: "What must I do if the parachute does not open when I jump out?"
"Oh, that's all right. You just bring it back and you'' get another one," said the sergeant.
Soldiers are trained to jump from areoplanes. They have parachutes that open in the air so that they can fall safely to the ground.
A sergeant was once instructing his soldiers. One of them ask him: "What must I do if the parachute does not open when I jump out?"
"Oh, that's all right. You just bring it back and you'' get another one," said the sergeant.
funny stories(8)
Liars
A soldier went to his C.O., a colonel, and askd leave to go home because his wife was ill.
"I don't like to refuse, John," said the CO, "but as a matter of fact, I've just had a letter from your wife saying she was allright now and, therefore, leave is not necessary".
The man saluted and turned to go. At the door he stopped, turned and remarked: "Colonel, there are two whopping liars in this regiment, and I'm one of them. I'm not married".
A soldier went to his C.O., a colonel, and askd leave to go home because his wife was ill.
"I don't like to refuse, John," said the CO, "but as a matter of fact, I've just had a letter from your wife saying she was allright now and, therefore, leave is not necessary".
The man saluted and turned to go. At the door he stopped, turned and remarked: "Colonel, there are two whopping liars in this regiment, and I'm one of them. I'm not married".
funny stories(7)
Cow Case
A big-city lawyer was representing the railroad in
a lawsuit filed by an old rancher. The rancher's
prize bull was missing from the section through
which the railroad passed. The rancher only wanted
to be paid the fair value of the bull.
The case was scheduled to be tried before the justice
of the peace in the back room of the general store.
The attorney for the railroad immediately cornered
the rancher and tried to get him to settle out of
court. The lawyer did his best selling job, and
finally the rancher agreed to take half of what he
was asking.
After the rancher had signed the release and took
the check, the young lawyer couldn't resist gloating
a little over his success, telling the rancher, "You
know, I hate to tell you this, old man, but I put one
over on you in there. I couldn't have won the case.
The engineer was asleep and the fireman was in the
caboose when the train went through your ranch that
morning. I didn't have one witness to put on the stand.
I bluffed you!"
The old rancher replied, "Well, I'll tell you, young
feller, I was a little worried about winning that case
myself, because that durned bull came home this morning."
A big-city lawyer was representing the railroad in
a lawsuit filed by an old rancher. The rancher's
prize bull was missing from the section through
which the railroad passed. The rancher only wanted
to be paid the fair value of the bull.
The case was scheduled to be tried before the justice
of the peace in the back room of the general store.
The attorney for the railroad immediately cornered
the rancher and tried to get him to settle out of
court. The lawyer did his best selling job, and
finally the rancher agreed to take half of what he
was asking.
After the rancher had signed the release and took
the check, the young lawyer couldn't resist gloating
a little over his success, telling the rancher, "You
know, I hate to tell you this, old man, but I put one
over on you in there. I couldn't have won the case.
The engineer was asleep and the fireman was in the
caboose when the train went through your ranch that
morning. I didn't have one witness to put on the stand.
I bluffed you!"
The old rancher replied, "Well, I'll tell you, young
feller, I was a little worried about winning that case
myself, because that durned bull came home this morning."
funny stories(6)
Serving the public
A police officer, though scheduled for all-night duty at the
station, was relieved of duty early and arrived home four hours
ahead of schedule, at 2 in the morning.
Not wanting to wake his wife, he undressed in the dark, crept
into the bedroom and started to climb into bed. Just then, his
wife sleepily sat up and said, "Honey, would you go down to the
all-night drug store on the next block and get me some aspirin?
I've got a splitting headache."
"Certainly, honey," he said. Feeling his way across the dark
room, he got dressed and walked over to the drug store.
As he arrived, the pharmacist looked up in surprise, "Say," said
the pharmacist, "I know you - aren't you a policeman? Officer
Fenwick, right?"
"Yeah, sure. So?" said the officer.
"Well what the heck are you doing all dressed up like the Fire
Chief?"
A police officer, though scheduled for all-night duty at the
station, was relieved of duty early and arrived home four hours
ahead of schedule, at 2 in the morning.
Not wanting to wake his wife, he undressed in the dark, crept
into the bedroom and started to climb into bed. Just then, his
wife sleepily sat up and said, "Honey, would you go down to the
all-night drug store on the next block and get me some aspirin?
I've got a splitting headache."
"Certainly, honey," he said. Feeling his way across the dark
room, he got dressed and walked over to the drug store.
As he arrived, the pharmacist looked up in surprise, "Say," said
the pharmacist, "I know you - aren't you a policeman? Officer
Fenwick, right?"
"Yeah, sure. So?" said the officer.
"Well what the heck are you doing all dressed up like the Fire
Chief?"
funny stories(5)
Why Can't We All Just Get Along?
Two physicians boarded a flight out of Seattle. One sat in the
window seat, the other sat in the middle seat. Just before
takeoff, an attorney got on and took the aisle seat next to the
two physicians.
The attorney kicked off his shoes, wiggled his toes and was
settling in when the physician in the window seat said," I think
I'll get up and get a coke."
"No problem," said the attorney, "I'll get it for you."
While he was gone, one of the physicians picked up the attorney's
shoe and spat in it.
When he returned with the coke, the other physician said, "That
looks good, I think I'll have one too."
Again, the attorney obligingly went to fetch it and while he was
gone, the other physician picked up the other shoe and spat in
it. The attorney returned and they all sat back and enjoyed the
flight. As the plane was landing, the attorney slipped his feet
into his shoes and knew immediately what had happened.
"How long must this go on?" he asked. "This fighting between our
professions? This hatred? This animosity? This spitting in
shoes and pissing in cokes?"
Two physicians boarded a flight out of Seattle. One sat in the
window seat, the other sat in the middle seat. Just before
takeoff, an attorney got on and took the aisle seat next to the
two physicians.
The attorney kicked off his shoes, wiggled his toes and was
settling in when the physician in the window seat said," I think
I'll get up and get a coke."
"No problem," said the attorney, "I'll get it for you."
While he was gone, one of the physicians picked up the attorney's
shoe and spat in it.
When he returned with the coke, the other physician said, "That
looks good, I think I'll have one too."
Again, the attorney obligingly went to fetch it and while he was
gone, the other physician picked up the other shoe and spat in
it. The attorney returned and they all sat back and enjoyed the
flight. As the plane was landing, the attorney slipped his feet
into his shoes and knew immediately what had happened.
"How long must this go on?" he asked. "This fighting between our
professions? This hatred? This animosity? This spitting in
shoes and pissing in cokes?"
funny stories(4)
My Sister Is In The Army
A man was bragging to his friends about how his sister disguised
herself as a man and was able to join the army.
"But, wait a minute," said one listener, "She'll have to dress
with the boys and shower with them too. Won't she?"
"Sure," replied the man.
"Well, won't they find out?"
The man shrugged, "But who'll tell?"
A man was bragging to his friends about how his sister disguised
herself as a man and was able to join the army.
"But, wait a minute," said one listener, "She'll have to dress
with the boys and shower with them too. Won't she?"
"Sure," replied the man.
"Well, won't they find out?"
The man shrugged, "But who'll tell?"
funny stories(3)
RoboTeacher
A school teacher injured his back and had to wear a plaster cast around the upper part of his body. It fit under his shirt and was not noticeable at all.
On the first day of the term, still with the cast under his shirt, he found himself assigned to the toughest students in school. Walking confidently into the rowdy classroom, he opened the window as wide as possible and then busied himself with desk work. When a strong breeze made his tie flap, he took the desk stapler and stapled the tie to his chest.
He had no trouble with discipline that term.
A school teacher injured his back and had to wear a plaster cast around the upper part of his body. It fit under his shirt and was not noticeable at all.
On the first day of the term, still with the cast under his shirt, he found himself assigned to the toughest students in school. Walking confidently into the rowdy classroom, he opened the window as wide as possible and then busied himself with desk work. When a strong breeze made his tie flap, he took the desk stapler and stapled the tie to his chest.
He had no trouble with discipline that term.
funny stories(2)
Fast as Lightning
A snail got mugged by two tortoises. When he went to the police, they questioned him as to what happened.
He said, "I don't know, it all happened so fast!"
A snail got mugged by two tortoises. When he went to the police, they questioned him as to what happened.
He said, "I don't know, it all happened so fast!"
funny stories(1)
"ADJUSTING TO MARRIED LIFE"
This couple has only been married for two weeks. The husband, although very much in love, can't wait to go out into town and party with his old buddies.
He says to his new wife, "Honey, I'll be right back..."
"Where are you going coochy coo...?" asked the wife.
"I'm going to the bar, pretty face. I'm going to have a
beer."
The wife says to him, "You want a beer, my love?" Then she opens the door to the refrigerator and shows him 25 different kinds of beer brands from 12 different countries: Germany, Holland, Japan, India, etc.
The husband doesn't know what to do, and the only thing that he can think of saying is, "Yes, loolie loolie... but the bar... you know... the frozen glass..."
He doesn't get to finish the sentence, when thewife interrupts him by saying, "You want a frozen glass, puppy face?"
She takes a huge beer mug out of the freezer so frozen that she is getting the chills holding it.
The husband, looking a bit pale, says, "Yes, tootsie roll, but at
the bar they have those hors d'oeuvres that are really delicious... I won't be long. I'll be right back. I promise. OK?"
"You want hors d'oeuvres, poochi pooh?" She opens the oven and takes out 15 dishes of different hors d'oeuvres: buffalo wings, nachos mushroom caps, chicken strips, etc.
"But sweet honey... at the bar... you know... the swearing, the
dirty words and all that..."
"You want dirty words, cutie pie?...
DRINK YOUR FUCKING BEER IN YOUR FROZEN FUCKING MUG AND EAT YOUR FUCKING DAMN SNACKS BECAUSE YOU AREN'T GOING ANYWHERE!! GOT IT ASSHOLE?!!"
This couple has only been married for two weeks. The husband, although very much in love, can't wait to go out into town and party with his old buddies.
He says to his new wife, "Honey, I'll be right back..."
"Where are you going coochy coo...?" asked the wife.
"I'm going to the bar, pretty face. I'm going to have a
beer."
The wife says to him, "You want a beer, my love?" Then she opens the door to the refrigerator and shows him 25 different kinds of beer brands from 12 different countries: Germany, Holland, Japan, India, etc.
The husband doesn't know what to do, and the only thing that he can think of saying is, "Yes, loolie loolie... but the bar... you know... the frozen glass..."
He doesn't get to finish the sentence, when thewife interrupts him by saying, "You want a frozen glass, puppy face?"
She takes a huge beer mug out of the freezer so frozen that she is getting the chills holding it.
The husband, looking a bit pale, says, "Yes, tootsie roll, but at
the bar they have those hors d'oeuvres that are really delicious... I won't be long. I'll be right back. I promise. OK?"
"You want hors d'oeuvres, poochi pooh?" She opens the oven and takes out 15 dishes of different hors d'oeuvres: buffalo wings, nachos mushroom caps, chicken strips, etc.
"But sweet honey... at the bar... you know... the swearing, the
dirty words and all that..."
"You want dirty words, cutie pie?...
DRINK YOUR FUCKING BEER IN YOUR FROZEN FUCKING MUG AND EAT YOUR FUCKING DAMN SNACKS BECAUSE YOU AREN'T GOING ANYWHERE!! GOT IT ASSHOLE?!!"
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