Taking the Vale. by Catherine Mansfield. It seemed impossible that anyone should be unhappy on such a beautiful morning. Nobody was, decided, Adna, accept herself. The windows were flung wide in the houses. From within there came the sound of pianos. Little hands chased after each other and ran away from each other, practising scales. The trees fluttered in the sunny gardens, all bright with spring flowers. Street boys whistled.  People passed by. Walking so lightly, so swiftly, they looked as though they wanted to break into a run. Now she actually saw in the distance a parasol, peach-coloured, the first parasol of the year. Perhaps even Adna did not look quite as unhappy as she felt. It is not easy to look tragic at eighteen, when you are extremely pretty with the cheeks and lips and shining eyes of perfect health. Above all, when you are wearing a French blue frock and your new spring hat trimmed with cornflowers. True, she carried under her arm a book bound in horrid black leather. Perhaps the book provided a gloomy note, but only by accident. It was the ordinary library binding. For Adna had made going to the library an excuse for getting out of the house to think, to realise what had happened, to decide somehow what was to be done now. An awful thing had happened. Quite suddenly, at the theatre last night, when she and Jimmy were seated side by side in the dress-circle, without a moment's warning, in fact she had just finished a chocolate almond and passed the box to him again, she had fallen in love with an actor, but fallen in love. The feeling was unlike anything she had ever imagined before. It wasn't in the least pleasant. It was hardly thrilling. Unless you can call the most dreadful sensation of hopeless misery, despair, agony and wretchedness thrilling. Combined with the certainty that if that actor met her on the pavement after, while Jimmy was fetching her cab, she would follow him to the ends of the earth, at a nod, at a sign, without giving another thought to Jimmy or her father and mother, or her happy home and countless friends again. The play had begun fairly cheerfully. That was at the chocolate almond stage. Then the hero had gone blind. Terrible moment. Adna had cried so much she had to borrow Jimmy's folded, smooth-feeling handkerchief as well. Not that crying mattered. Whole rows were in tears. Even the men blew their noses with a loud trumpeting noise, and tried to peer at the programme instead of looking at the stage. Jimmy, most mercifully dry-eyed, for what would she have done without his handkerchief, squeezed her free hand and whispered, Cheer up, darling girl! And it was then she had taken a last chocolate almond to please him, and passed the box again. Then there had been that ghastly scene with the hero alone on the stage in a deserted room at twilight, with a band playing outside, and the sound of cheering coming from the street. He had tried, ah, how painfully, how pitifully, to grope his way to the window. He had succeeded at last. There he stood, holding the curtain, while one beam of light, just one beam, shone full on his raised, sightless face, and the band faded away into the distance. It was... really, it was absolutely... oh, the most... it was simply... in fact, from that moment, Edna knew that life could never be the same.  This at last was love. Edna and Jimmy were engaged. She had had her hair up for a year and a half. They had been publicly engaged for a year. But they had known they were going to marry each other ever since they walked into the botanical gardens with their nurses, and sat on the grass with a wine biscuit and a piece of barley sugar each for their tea. It was so much an accepted thing that Edna had worn a wonderfully good imitation of an engagement ring out of a cracker all the time she was at school, and up till now they had been devoted to each other. But now it was over. It was so completely over that Edna found it difficult to believe that Jimmy did not realize it too. She smiled wisely, sadly, as she turned into the gardens of the convent of the Sacred Heart, and mounted the path that led them to Hill Street. How much better to know it now than to wait until after they were married? Now it was possible that Jimmy would get over it. No, it was no use deceiving herself. He would never get over it. His life was wrecked. Was ruined. That was inevitable. But he was young. Time, people said, time might make a little, just a little difference. In forty years when he was an old man he might be able to think of her calmly, perhaps. But she, what did the future hold for her? Edna had reached the top of the path. There under a new leafed tree hung with little bunches of white flowers she sat down on a green bench and looked over the convent flowerbeds. In the one nearest to her there grew tender stalks, with a border of blue, shell-like pansies, with at one corner a clump of creamy freezers, their light spares of green criss-crossed over the flowers. The convent pigeons were tumbling high in the air, and she could hear the voice of Sister Agnes who was giving a singing lesson. Ami sounded the deep tones of the nun, and ami they were echoed. If she did not marry Jimmy, of course she would marry nobody. The man she was in love with, the famous actor. Edna had far too much common sense not to realise that would never be. It was very odd, she didn't even want it to be. Her love was too intense for that. It had to be endured silently. It had to torment her. It was, she supposed, simply that kind of love. But Edna, cried Jimmy, can you never change? Can I never hope again? Oh, what sorrow to have to say it! But it must be said. No, Jimmy, I will never change.  At that moment the future was revealed. Edna saw it all. She was astonished. It took her breath away at first. But, after all, what could be more natural? She would go into a convent. Her father and mother do everything to dissuade her in vain. As for Jimmy, his state of mind hardly bears thinking about, why can't they understand? How can they add to her suffering like this? The world is cruel, terribly cruel. For a last scene, when she gives away her jewellery and so on to her best friends, she so calm, they so broken-hearted, into a convent she goes. No, one moment. The very evening of her going is the actor's last evening at Port Wilin. He receives, by a strange messenger, a box.  But there is no name, no card. Nothing? Yes, under the roses, wrapped in a white handkerchief, Edna's last photograph with, written underneath, the world forgetting by the world forgot. Edna sat very still under the trees. She clasped the black book in her fingers as though it were her missile. She takes the name of Sister Angela. Snip, snip!  Will she be allowed to send one curl to Jimmy? It is contrived, somehow. And in a blue gown with a white headband, Sister Angela goes from the convent to the chapel, from the chapel to the convent, with something unearthly in her look, in her sorrowful eyes, and in the gentle smile with which they greet the little children who run to her. A saint! She hears it whispered as she paces the chill, wax-smelling corridors. A saint! And visitors to the chapel are told of the nun whose voice is heard above the other voices, of her youth, her beauty, of her tragic, tragic love. There is a man in this town whose life is ruined! A big bee, a golden furry fellow, crept into a freezer, and the delicate flower leaned over, swung, shook, and when the bee flew away, it fluttered still as though it were laughing. Happy careless flower! Sister Angela looked at it and said, Now it is winter. One night, lying in her icy cell, she hears a cry. Some stray animal is out there in the garden, a kitten, or a lamb, or—well, whatever little animal might be there. Up rises the sleepless nun, all in white, shivering but fearless, she goes and brings it in. But next morning, when the bell rings for matins, she is found tossing in high fever, in delirium, and she never recovers. In three days, all is over. The service has been said in the chapel, and she is buried in the corner of the cemetery reserved for the nuns, where there are plain little crosses of wood. Rest in peace, Sister Angela. Now it is evening. Two old people, leaning on each other, come slowly to the grave and kneel down sobbing. Our daughter, our only daughter! Now there comes another. He is all in black. He comes slowly. But when he is there and lifts his black hat, Edna sees to her horror, his hair is snow-white. Jimmy! Too late, too late! The tears are running down his face. He's crying now. Too late, too late! The wind shakes the leafless trees in the churchyard. He gives one awful bitter cry. Edna's black book fell with a thud to the garden path. She jumped up, her heart beating. My darling! No, it's not too late. It's all been a mistake, a terrible dream. Oh, that white hair! How could she have done it? She has not done it. Oh, heavens! Oh, what happiness! She is free, young, and nobody knows her secret. Everything is still possible for her and Jimmy. The house they have planned may still be built. The little solemn boy with his hands behind his back, watching them plant the standard roses, may still be born, his baby sister. But when Edna got as far as his baby sister, she stretched out her arms as though the little love came flying through the air to her, and gazing at the garden, at the white sprays on the tree, at those darling pigeons blue against the blue and the convent with its narrow windows, she realised that now, at last, for the first time in her life, she had never imagined any feeling like it before. She knew what it was like to be in love, but in love. End of Taking the Vale by Catherine Mansfield Recording by Rob Marland Transition From Day and Night Stories by Elgin on Blackwood This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Dale Grossman Transition by Elgin on Blackwood John Mudbury was on his way home from the shops, his arms full of Christmas presents. It was after six o'clock, and the streets were very crowded. He was an ordinary man, lived in an ordinary suburban flat, with an ordinary wife and four ordinary children. He did not think of them as ordinary, but everybody else did. He had ordinary presents for each one, a cheap blotter for his wife, a cheap air-gun for his eldest boy, and so forth. He was over fifty, bald, in an office, decent in mind and habits, of uncertain opinions, uncertain politics, and uncertain religion. Yet he considered himself a decided, positive gentleman, quite unaware that the morning newspaper determined his opinions for the day. He just lived, from day to day. Physically he was fit enough, except for a weak heart, which never troubled him, and his summer holiday was bad golf, while the children bathed, and his wife read Garvas on the sands. Like the majority of men, he dreamed idly of the past, muddled away the present, and guessed vaguely after the imaginative reading on occasions at the future. I'd like to survive all right, he said, provided it's better than this, surveying his wife and children, and thinking of his daily toil. Otherwise, and he shrugged his shoulders as a brave man should. He went to church regularly, but nothing in church convinced him that he did survive, just as nothing in church enticed him into hoping that he would. On the other hand, nothing in life persuaded him that he didn't, wouldn't, or couldn't. I'm an evolutionist, he loved to say to thoughtful cronies over a glass, having never heard that Darwinism had been questioned.  The night before he had taken the wife to see magic at a select London theatre, where the intellectuals went, and had been extraordinarily stirred, he had gone questioningly, yet expected something out of the common. It's not musical, he warned her, nor farce, nor comedy, so to speak, and in answer to her question as to what the critics had said, he wriggled, sighed, and put his gaudy necktie straight four times in quick succession. For no man in the street, with any claim to self-respect, could be expected to understand what the critics had said, even if he understood the play. And John had answered truthfully. Oh, they just said things, but the theatre's always full, and that's the only test.  For it had thrilled him, unexpectedly, with its marvellous speculative hint, its big audacity, its alert and spiritual beauty. Thought plunged to find something, plunged after this bizarre suggestion of a bigger universe, after this quasi-jocular suggestion that man is not the only, then dashed full tilt against the sentence that memory thrust beneath his nose. Science does not exhaust the universe. And at the same time dashed full tilt against the destruction of another kind as well. How it happened, he never exactly knew. He saw a monster glaring at him, with eyes of blazing fire. It was horrible. It rushed upon him. He dodged. Another monster met him round the corner. Both came at him simultaneously. He dodged again, a leap that might have cleared a hurdle easily, but it was too late. Between the pair of them, his heart literally in his gullet, he was mercilessly caught. Bones crunched. There was a soft sensation, icy cold and hottest fire, horns and voices roared, battering rams he saw and a carapace of iron. Then dazzling light. Always faced the traffic, he remembered with a frantic yell, and, by some extraordinary luck, escaped miraculously on the opposite pavement. There was no doubt about it.  First, he felt for his presence. All were safe. And then, instead of congratulating himself and taking breath, he hurried homewards, on foot, which proved that his mind had lost control a bit, thinking only how disappointed the wife and children would have been if—if anything had happened. Another thing he realized, oddly enough, was that he no longer really loved his wife, but had only great affection for her. What made him think of that heaven only knows, but he did think of it. He was an honest man without pretense. This came as a discovery somewhat. He turned a moment and saw the crowd gathering about the entangled taxicabs, the policeman's helmets gleaming in the lights of the shop windows, then hurrying away, his thoughts full of the joy his presence would give, of the scampering children, of his wife, bless her silly heart, eyeing the mysterious parcels. And though he could never explain how, he presently stood at the door of the jail-like building that contained his flat, having walked the whole three miles. His thoughts had been so busy and absorbed that he had hardly noticed the length of the weary drudge. Besides, he reflected, thinking of the narrow escape. I had a nasty shock. It was a den near thing. Now I come to think of it. He did a bit of shaking and bewildering, yet at the same time he felt extraordinarily jolly and light-hearted. He counted his Christmas parcels, hugged himself in anticipatory joy, and let himself in, swiftly, with his latch-key. I am late, he realized, but when she sees the brown paper parcels, she'll forget to say a word. God bless the old faithful soul. And he softly used the key a second time, and entered his flat on tiptoe. In his mind was the master impulse of that afternoon, the pleasure these Christmas presents would give his wife and children. He heard a noise. He hung up hat and coat in the pokey vestibule. They never called it hall. And moved softly towards the parlor door, holding the packages behind him. Only of them, he thought, not of himself, of his family, that is, not of the packages. Pushing the door cunningly ajar, he peeped in slightly. To his amazement the room was full of people. He withdrew quickly, wondering what it meant. A party? But without his knowing about it? Extraordinary! Keen disappointment came over him.  He was uncommonly surprised, yet somehow not surprised at all. People were congratulating him. There was a perfect mob of them. Moreover, he knew them all, vaguely remembering them, at least, and they all knew him. Isn't it a game, laughed someone, patting him on the back? They hadn't the least idea. And the speaker, it was old John Palmer, the bookkeeper at the office, emphasized the they. Not in the least, he answered with a smile, saying something he didn't understand, yet knew was right. His face apparently showed the utter bewilderment he felt. The shock of the collision had been greater than he realized, evidently. His mind was wondering. Possible? Only the odd thing was he had never felt so clear-headed in his life. Ten thousand things grew simple suddenly. But how thickly these people pressed around him, and how familiarly. My parcels, he said, joyously pushing his way across the throng. These are Christmas presents I bought for them. He nodded toward the room. I've saved for weeks, stopped cigars and billiards, and several other good things to buy them. Good man, said Palmer, with a happy laugh. It's the heart that counts. Mudbury looked at him. Palmer had said an amazing truth, only people would hardly understand and believe him, would they?  If you please, Mr. Mudbury, step aside.  And, turning sharply, he met the gentle, foolish eyes of Sir James Epiphany, the director of the bank where he worked. The effect of the voice was instantaneous from long habit. They are, he smiled from his heart, and advanced as from the custom of many years. Oh, how happy and gay he felt. His affection for his wife was real. Romance, indeed, had gone, but he needed her, and she needed him, and the children, Millie, Bill and Jean. He deeply loved them. Life was worth living indeed. In the room was a crowd, but an astonishing silence. John Mudbury looked around him. He advanced toward his wife, who sat in the corner armchair with Millie on her knee. A lot of people talked and moved about. Momentarily, the crowd increased.  It's Christmas Eve, he whispered, shyly, and I've brought you something, something for everybody. Look! He held the packages before their eyes. Of course, of course, said a voice behind him, but you may hold them out like that for a century. They'll never see them. Of course they won't, but I love to do the old sweet thing, replied John Mudbury, then wondering with a gasp of stark amazement why he'd said it. I think, whispered Millie, staring round her.  You're always thinking something, queer. I think, the child continued Dreamily, that Daddy's already here. She paused, then added a child's impossible conviction. I'm sure he is. I feel him. There was an extraordinary laugh. Sir James Epiphany laughed. The others, the whole crowd of them, also turned their heads and smiled. But the mother, thrusting the child away from her, rose up suddenly with a violent start. Her face had turned to chalk. She stretched her arms out into the air before her. She gasped and shivered.  Look! repeated John. These are the presents that I bought. But his voice was apparently soundless, and with a spasm of icy pain he remembered that Palmer and Sir James, some years ago, had died. It's magic, he cried. But I love you, Ginny. I love you. And I have always been true to you, as true as steel. We need each other. Oh, can't you see? We go on together, you and I, forever and ever. Think! interrupted an exquisitely tender voice. Don't shout! They can't hear you now. And turning John Mudbury met the eyes of Edvard Mintern, their president of the year before. Mintern had gone down with the Titanic. He dropped his parcels then. His heart gave an enormous leap of joy. He saw her face, the face of his wife, look through him. But the child gazed straight into his eyes. She saw him. The next thing he knew was that he heard something tinkling, far, far away. It sounded miles below him, inside him. He was sounding himself. All utterly bewildering, like a bell. It was a bell.  Her face shone with happiness and laughter. But a man came in soon after. A man with a ridiculous, solemn face. A pencil and a notebook. He wore a dark blue helmet. Behind him came a string of other men. They carried something, something. He could not see exactly what it was. But when he pressed forward through the laughing throng to gaze upon it, he dimly made out two eyes, a nose, a chin, a deep red smear, and a pair of folded hands upon an overcoat. A woman's form fell down upon them then, and he heard soft sounds of children weeping strangely, and other sounds, sounds as of familiar voices, laughing, laughing gaily. They'll join us presently. It goes like a flash. And with a turn of great happiness in his heart, he saw that Sir James had said it, holding Palmer by the arm, as with some natural yet unexpected love of sympathetic friendship. Come on, said Palmer, smiling like a man who accepts a gift in universal fellowship. Let's help them. They'll never understand. Still, we can always try. The entire throng moved up with laughter and amusement. It was a moment of hearty, genuine life at last. Delight and joy and peace were everywhere. Then John Mudbury realized the truth. That he was dead. The End of Transition by Alginon Blackwood The Two Brothers by Carolyn Wells From the Wind and Humor of America in Ten Volumes, Volume Two This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Dale Grossman The Two Brothers by Carolyn Wells Once on a time there were two brothers who set out to make their way in the world. One was of a roving disposition and no sooner had he settled down to live in one place than he would gather up all his goods and chattels and move to another place. From here again he would depart and make him a fresh home, and so on until he became an old man and had gained neither fortune nor friends. The other, being disinclined to change or diversity of scene, remained all his life in one place. He therefore became narrow-minded and provincial, and gained none of the culture and liberality of nature, which comes from contact with various scenes of life. Morals. This fable teaches that a rolling stone gathers no moss, and a setting hand never grows fat. The End of Two Brothers by Carolyn Wells Sandy behind the plough again? Uncle Invalidid, moping at the house with a heavy thick muffler around his neck, coughing and complaining of cold and a sore lip. He had complained of a sore lip on and off for months. The pain was getting unbearable, he said, and declared he would have to go to the hospital or see a doctor about it. Kate wished the heavens he would go anywhere so long as he didn't return anymore. She had come to regard Uncle as a nuisance and a serious hindrance to Sandy. Women are so changeable, not so Sandy himself. He had no desire to lose Uncle. The bonds of kinship were still strong. Besides Sandy was forgiving and sympathetic. He took Uncle in hand and patched him up, bathed and polters the afflicted part, and sat up late in the night, humoring and keeping him company. One evening Sandy applied a little farmer's friend to Uncle's lip to relieve the pain, and for five or six minutes you would have thought a snake was called round Uncle's leg. He danced about the room with his hand over his mouth, only removing it to swear and shout for water. Both kerosene tins were empty, and Uncle kicked one against the slabs, and the other he sent flying close to Kate's head. Then he bolted out the door and made for the gully. Sandy stared aghast for several moments, his big heart heaving with concern and compassion. Then he turned to Kate and, with pathos in his voice, asked her not to laugh. Uncle got worse every day, till, at last, there was scarcely any living in the house with him. One evening Sandy heard that Dr. Anderson was setting a limb for Morrissey, three miles down the creek. He jumped on one of the old mares and rode down to Morrissey's. On his way home Dr. Anderson called at Sandy's selection an overhauled Uncle. A nice man was Dr. Anderson, or Kate reckoned he was, anyway. He shook hands with Kate. He had the name of being clever, too. Everyone on the creek said he was, and there must have been eight or nine living there all together. Counselor! he said, after a careful examination of Uncle's lip. After have it caught hold! And his big sympathetic eyes looked steadily into Uncle's little grey ones, through a pair of gold rim specks. Uncle never flinched. It'll be rather painful, the doctor exclaimed, and I'll have to put you on the chloroform. Uncle flinched then and became apprehensive. Couldn't you do it without chloroform? He stammered. The doctor said he could, would rather do it so in fact, if Uncle thought he could stand it. Uncle never displayed such nerve before. Stand it all right! He said, seating himself on a box, and inviting the doctor to begin at once. The latter smiled. I'll be here tomorrow, he said. Meanwhile your son here, meaning Sandy, who stood gloomily by, if he has a razor, might shave your lip. Sandy had a razor, an heirloom. It was frequently used for shaving green hide. And when the doctor came again, Uncle's top lip, a long thin one that hung like a board in a calf's nose, was scraped as bare as a boot. Everything was ready for the operation. Kate provided warm water and cloths.  The doctor took off his coat, and Sandy groaned. The doctor faucced in a leather bag, and produced a pair of bright scissors, which he carefully wiped. Uncle turned very white, but kept calm. Now put your lip out, said the doctor. Uncle contorted his features till his lip projected like the peak of a policeman's cap.  Uncle clenched his fists and quivered all over.  Da-da-da! Not much! Uncle answered, large tears rushing from his eyes. The wound was bathed and patched with sticking plaster, and the rest of the day Uncle lay on the sofa, reflecting on his fate and the uselessness of light generally. In four days, Dr. Anderson called Gaine and cheerfully examined the patient. The sticking plaster he found had mostly left the lip, poked off by the stubble that had grown. You must have another shave, he said, or the plaster will never stick. I'll be back again in about two hours. And he prepared to depart. Tears came into Uncle's eyes, as he shifted restlessly on the sofa. Who's going to shave me? he asked. I can do it again, the doctor replied, nodding towards Sandy.  Well, then, he said in a firm voice, I want chloroform! A glorious day. There had been heavy rain on the creek, and the air was crisp and clear. No haze hung round the mountains, everything bright and cheerful. The bush was at its best. Uncle was about, quite recovered, quite himself again. All his uselessness and inactivity had returned. Sandy was opening the last land. He had just erected a stake with paper fasten to the head of it, a mark to go by, and was jumping the plough into line, when his eye rested on a flag in the shape of a white skirt flying at the humpy. Sandy flung the plough down, and, regardless of the horses, tore over the ploughed ground and was at the humpy in a few bounds. He rushed from it again, and raced wildly round in search of Uncle. Uncle was in his nest. Uncle only caught the first words of what Sandy said, but he heard enough. He raced himself quickly and stared in amazement. Here, here, no! Send me! Send me! Let me go! He shouted after Sandy as the latter raced back to the plough. Sandy threw the harness from the horses, dragged the mare after him, and shoved her into an old spring cart, housed under a tree at the back of the humpy, then jumping in, recklessly rattled down the creek at the risk of bragging his neck. Uncle stared after Sandy, till he became restless, then walked about, now and again, pausing to glance at the deserted humpy where the white skirt was still flying. Uncle was agitated. An hour passed, still Uncle walked up and down. Confounded, he muttered, what the devil did he want leaving me here for? He thought he heard his name called. My God! And he looked up and listened, but it was only his imagination. Another hour nearly spent, Uncle became remorseful. He reproached himself. What the devil did I want coming back here at all for? He whined, then lost himself in reverie. When he woke up and looked round again, the horse and cart were standing before the humpy. Sandy was there too, hurrying big Mrs. Mcnever and a calico bundle indoors. Uncle was relieved. Presently Sandy sauntered towards Uncle. When halfway he stood and leaned on the fence, he looked lost. Uncle approached him. Well, he whispered apprehensively. Sandy didn't answer, his face was grave, a heavy load seemed to be on his mind. He sighed audibly. Then Uncle too leaned on the fence and both were silent, motionless till Mrs. Mcnever showed herself. Come, Sunday-man, she called lustily. Come and see your Baron, do you now hear the squales of it? Sandy gave a bound and could scarcely keep his feet in the hasty mate to reach the humpy. Uncle left next day. He wouldn't stay any longer on Sandy's selection. Uncle couldn't stand excitement or a baby in the house. That's why never got married. So he told Sandy and Mrs. Mcnever. End of Two Cases for the Doctor from Sandy's selection by Steele Rudd. Recording by Son of the Exiles Two Thanksgiving Day Gentlemen by O. Henry. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Cy Young Jr. Two Thanksgiving Day Gentlemen There is one day that is ours. There is one day when all we Americans who are not self-made go back to the old home to eat Saleratus Biscuits and Marvel, how much nearer to the porch the old pump looks than it used to. Bless the day. President Roosevelt gives it to us. We hear some talk of the Puritans, but don't just remember who they were. I bet we can lick them anyhow if they try to land again. Plymouth Rocks? Well, that sounds more familiar. Lots of us have had to come down to Hens since the Turkey Trust got its work in, but somebody in Washington is leaking out advance information to them about these Thanksgiving proclamations. The big city east of the Cranberry Bogs has made Thanksgiving Day an institution. The last Thursday in November is the only day in the year on which it recognizes the part of America lying across the fairies. It is the one day that is purely American. Yes, a day of celebration exclusively American. And now for the story which is to prove to you that we have traditions on this side of the ocean that are becoming older at a much rapider rate than those of England are, thanks to our get up and enterprise. Stuffy Pete took his seat on the third bench to the right as you enter Union Square from the east at the walk opposite the fountain. Everything's giving day for nine years. He'd taken his seat there promptly at one o'clock. For every time he had done so, things had happened to him. Charles Dickensy things that swelled his waistcoat above his heart and equally on the other side. But today Stuffy Pete's appearance at the annual tristing place seemed to have been rather the result of habit than of the yearly hunger which as the philanthropists seem to think afflicts the poor at such extended intervals. Certainly Pete was not hungry. He'd just come from a feast that had left him of his powers barely those of respiration and locomotion. His eyes were like two pale gooseberries firmly embedded in a swollen and gravy smeared mask of putty. His breath came in short wheezes. A senatorial roll of adipose tissue denied a fashionable set to his upturned coat collar. Buttons that had been sewed on his clothes by kind salvation fingers a week before flew like popcorn strewing the earth around him. Raggedy was with a split shirt front open to the wishbone. But the November breeze carrying fine snowflakes brought him only a grateful coolness. For Stuffy Pete was overcharged with the caloric produced by a superpountiful dinner beginning with oysters and ending with plum pudding and including it seemed to him all the roast turkey and baked potatoes and chicken salad and squash pie and ice cream in the world. Wherefore he sat gorged and gazed upon the world with after dinner contempt. The meal had been an unexpected one. He was passing a red brick mansion near the beginning of Fifth Avenue in which lived two old ladies of ancient family and a reverence for traditions. They even denied the existence of New York and believed that Thanksgiving Day was declared solely for Washington Square. One of their traditional habits was to station a servant at the Pustern Gate with orders to admit the first hungry wayfare that came along after the hour of noon is struck and banquet him to a finish. Stuffy Pete happened to pass by on his way to the park and the Cynicals gathered him in and upheld the custom of the castle. After Stuffy Pete had gazed straight before him for ten minutes he was conscious of a desire for a more varied field of vision. With a tremendous effort he moved his head slowly to the left and then his eyes bulged out fearfully and his breath ceased and the rough shot ends of his short legs wriggled and rustled on the gravel for the old gentleman was coming across Fourth Avenue toward his bench. Every Thanksgiving Day for nine years the old gentleman had come there and found Stuffy Pete on his bench. That was a thing the old gentleman was trying to make a tradition of. Every Thanksgiving Day for nine years he had found Stuffy there and had led him to a restaurant and watched him eat a big dinner. They do those things in England unconsciously but this is a young country in nine years is not so bad. The old gentleman was a staunch American patriot and considered himself a pioneer in American tradition. In order to become picturesque we must keep on doing one thing for a long time without ever letting it get away from us something like collecting the weekly dimes in industrial insurance or cleaning the streets. The old gentleman moved straight and stately toward the institution that he was rearing. Truly the annual feeding of Stuffy Pete was nothing national in his character such as the magnet Charta or Jam for breakfast was in England but it was a step. He was almost feudal. It showed at least that a custom was not impossible to New York America. The old gentleman was thin and tall and 60. He was dressed all in black and wore the old-fashioned kind of glasses that won't stay on your nose. His hair was whiter and thinner than it had been last year and he seemed to make more use of his big knobby cane with the crooked handle. As his established benefactor came up Stuffy wheezed and shuddered like some woman's overfat pug when a street dog bristles up at him. He would have flown but all the skill of Santa's de Mont could not have separated him from his bench. Well had the mermiduns of the two old ladies done their work. Good morning said the old gentleman. I am glad to perceive that the vicissitudes of another year have spared you to move in health about the beautiful world. For that blessing alone this day of Thanksgiving is well proclaimed to each of us. If you will come with me my man I will provide you with a dinner that should make your physical being accord with the mental. That is what the old gentleman said every time. Every Thanksgiving day for nine years the words themselves almost formed an institution. Nothing could be compared with him except the Declaration of Independence. Always before they had been music in Stuffy's ears. But now he looked up at the old gentleman's face with tearful agony in his own. The fine snow almost sizzled when it fell upon his perspiring brow. But the old gentleman shivered a little and turned his back to the wind. Stuffy had always wondered why the old gentleman spoke his speech rather sadly. He did not know that it was because he was wishing every time that he had a son to succeed him. A son who would come there after he was gone. A son who would stand proud and strong before some subsequent Stuffy and say in memory of my father then it would be an institution. But the old gentleman had no relatives. He lived in rented rooms in one of the decade old family brownstone mansions in one of the quiet streets east of the park. In the weather he raised fuges in a little conservatory the size of a steamer trunk. In the spring he walked in the east of parade. In the summer he lived in a farmhouse in the New Jersey Hills and sat in a wicker armchair speaking of a butterfly, the ornithoptera amphysius that he hoped to find some day. In the autumn he fed Stuffy a dinner. These were the old gentleman's occupations. Stuffy Pete looked up at him for a half minute stewing and helpless in his own self-pity. The old gentleman's eyes were bright with the giving pleasure. His face was getting more lined each year but his little black necktie was in as jaunty a bow as ever and his linen was beautiful and white and his gray mustache was curled carefully at the ends.  Speech was intended and as the old gentleman had heard the sounds nine times before he rightly construed them into Stuffy's old formula of acceptance. Thank ye, sir, I'll go with ye and much obliged. I'm very hungry, sir. The coma of repletion had not prevented from entering Stuffy's mind the conviction that he was the basis of an institution. His Thanksgiving appetite was not his own. It belonged by all the sacred rights of established custom if not by the actual statute of limitations to this kind old gentleman who had preempted it. True, America is free, but in order to establish tradition someone must be a repotent, a repeating decibel. The heroes are not all heroes of steel and gold. See one here that wielded only weapons of iron, badly silvered and tin. The old gentleman led his annual protégé southward to the restaurant and to the table where the feast had always occurred. They were recognized. Here comes the old guy, said a waiter that blows that same bump to a meal. Everything's giving. The old gentleman sat across the table glowing like a smoked pearl at his cornerstone of future ancient tradition. The waiters heaped the table with holiday food and Stuffy with the sigh that was mistaken for hunger's expression raised knife and fork and carved for himself a crown of imperishable bay. No more valiant hero ever fought his way through the ranks of an enemy. Turkey, chops, soups, vegetables, pies disappeared before him as fast as they could be served. Gorge nearly to the uttermost when he entered the restaurant the smell of food had almost caused him to lose his honor as a gentleman but he ratted like a true knight. He saw the look of beneficent happiness on the old gentleman's face. A happier look than even the fuchsias and the ornithoptera amphricius had ever brought to it and he had not the heart to see it wane. In an hour Stuffy leaned back with a battle won. Thank ye kindly sir. He puffed like a leaky steam pipe. A thank ye kindly for a hearty meal. Then he arose heavily with glazed eyes and started toward the kitchen. A waiter turned him about like a top and pointed him toward the door. The old gentleman carefully counted out $1.30 in silver change leaving three nickels for the waiter. They parted as they did each year at the door. The old gentleman going south, Stuffy north. Around the first corner Stuffy turned and stood for one minute. Then he seemed to puff out his rags as an owl puffs out his feathers and fell to the sidewalk like a sun-stricken horse. When the ambulance came the young surgeon and the driver cursed softly at his weight. There was no smell of whiskey to justify a transfer to the patrol wagon so Stuffy and his two dinners went to the hospital. There they stretched him on a bed and began to test him for strange diseases with the hope of getting a chance at some problem with the bare steel. And lo, an hour later another ambulance brought the old gentleman and they laid him on another bed and spoke of appendicitis for he looked good for the bill. But pretty soon one of the young doctors met one of the young nurses whose eyes he lied and stopped to chat with her about the cases. That nice old gentleman over there now he said he wouldn't think that was a case of almost starvation. Proud old family I guess. He told me he hadn't eaten a thing for three days. End of Two Thanksgiving Day Gentlemen by O'Henry Recording by Cy Young Jr.