The Actress, by Oscar Wilde, as told to Amy Louther. 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 Rob Marland. The Actress There was once a great actress, a woman who had achieved such triumphs that the whole world of art worshipped at her feet.  The day came, however, when she met a man whom she loved with all her soul. Then, all her art, and all her triumphs, and the clouds of incense were as nothing to her. Love was her whole life, but even though this was so, the man she loved grew jealous, jealous of the public that the woman no longer cared for. He asked her to give up her career, and to leave the stage forever. She did so easily, for she said, Love is better than art, better than fame, better than life itself. And so she left the stage, and all its triumphs, gladly, and gave up her whole life to the man whom she loved. Time rushed by, and the man's love grew steadily less and less, and the woman who had given up everything for it knew it, and the knowledge of it fell on her like a chill mist at evening, and wrapped her from head to foot in a grey shroud of despair. But she was a brave woman, and strong, and she looked the horror full in the face without flinching. She knew that she had reached the crisis of her life, the crisis on the issue of which her whole fate hung. She saw the situation with a cruel, sharp clearness, which cut into her heart. She had sacrificed her career to her love, and now that love was failing her. If she could not find means of reviving that light which was now fading away, it would soon burn out altogether. She would be desolate in the midst of the ruins of her spoiled life. And now the woman who had been a great actress realized that her art, instead of being a help and an inspiration to her in this darkest straight of her life, proved, on the contrary, a drawback and a hindrance. She missed the stage manager's directions, and the author's ideas and words. Hitherto she had never done ought without them. Every thought, every intonation, and well-nigh every gesture had been indicated to her, for such is the actor's art. And now, when called upon to think and originate and act for herself, she felt helpless and without resource, like a child might who was suddenly confronted with a great problem. But with every day that passed, the necessity for action, prompt and strong, imposed itself on her more and more. One day, whilst she was pacing to and fro with the feelings of wild despair which was within her, increasing with every minute that passed, a man came to see her. He had been the manager of the theatre where she had acted in former days. He came to ask her to act apart at short notice in a new play. She refused. What had she to do with the stage, and with that false art which turned those who practiced it into puppets, helpless puppets moved by strings which were in the hands of the stage managers and the author. Today she was face to face with a tragedy of real life, beside which all the mock sufferings of the stage were but as so much tinsel and cardboard. But the manager persisted. It meant money to him, and he was a Jew, and so he buzzed round her with the perseverance of a fly in autumn, who will not be beaten off. Would she not at least read the play? To be rid of him she read it, and she found that the tragedy of the play was the tragedy of her life. The situation was the same, and a solution of the problem was given. Fate had come to the actress's help in a stage play. She would act it so as to master entirely every detail of the situation. And so she studied the part, and soon played it to a large audience. She acted with a fervour of genius which she had never surpassed during the whole of her career, and the applause that thundered from all sides was the irresistible homage paid by the hearts and souls of men to all conquering genius. When it was all over she returned home weary and half stupefied, with the cries and shouts of the multitude ringing in her ears. She had given them her best, had poured the power and wonder of her soul at their feet. All that was left to her now was a sense of powerlessness and weakness. She arrived at her house weary and flower-laden. Suddenly she noticed the two places that were prepared at the supper table, and then remembered that tonight was to decide her fate. She had forgotten it till then. At that moment the man she had loved came in, and he said, Am I in time?  End of the Actress by Oscar Wilde, as told to Amy Louther. The Appletree Table, or Original Spiritual Manifestations, by Herman Melville. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Appletree Table, or Original Spiritual Manifestations. When I first saw the table, dingy and dusty in the furthest corner of the old hopper-shaped garret, and set out with broken, becrusted old purple vials and flasks and a ghostly, dismantled old quarto. It seemed just such a necromantic little old table as might have belonged to Friar Bacon. Two plain features it had, significant of conjurations and charms, the circle and tripod. The slab being round, supported by a twisted little pillar, which, about a foot from the bottom, sprawled out into three crooked legs, terminating in three cloven feet, a very satanic-looking little old table indeed. In order to convey a better idea of it, some account may as well be given of the place it came from. A very old garret of a very old house, in an old-fashioned quarter of one of the oldest towns in America. This garret had been closed for years. It was thought to be haunted. A rumour I confess, which, however absurd in my opinion, I did not at the time of purchasing very vehemently contradict, since, not improbably, it tended to place the property the more conveniently within my means. It was therefore from no dread of the reputed goblin's aloft, that for five years after first taking up my residence in the house, I never entered the garret. There was no special inducement. The roof was well slated and thoroughly tight. The company that ensured the house waved all visitation of the garret. Why then should the owner be over-anxious about it? Particularly as he had no use for it, the house having ample room below. Then the key to the stair door leading to it was lost. The lock was a huge old-fashioned one. To open it, a smith would have to be called. An unnecessary trouble, I thought. Besides, though I had taken some care to keep my two daughters in ignorance of the rumour above mentioned, still they had by some means got an inkling of it, and were well enough pleased to see the entrance to the haunted ground closed. It might have remained so for a still longer time had it not been for my accidentally discovering, in a corner of our glen-like old terraced garden, a large and curious key, very old and rusty, which I had once concluded must belong to the garret door, a supposition which, upon trial, proved correct. Now, the possession of a key to anything at once provokes a desire to unlock and explore, and this too from a mere instinct of gratification, irrespective of any particular benefit to a crew. Behold me, then, turning the rusty old key and going up alone into the haunted garret. It embraced the entire area of the mansion. Its ceiling was formed by the roof, showing the rafters and boards on which the slates were laid. The roof shedding the water four ways from a high point in the center. The space beneath was much like that of a general's marquee, only midway broken by a labyrinth of timbers for braces, from which waved innumerable cobwebs that, of a summer's noon, shone like Baghdad tissues and gauzes. On every hand, some strange insect was seen, flying, or running, or creeping. On rafter and floor. Under the apex of the roof was a rude, narrow, decrepit stepladder, something like a gothic pulpit stairway, leading to a pulpit-like platform from which a still-narrow-ware ladder, a sort of Jacob's ladder, led somewhat higher to the lofty scuttle. The slide of this scuttle was about two feet square, all in one piece, furnishing a massive frame for a single small pane of glass, inserted into it like a bullseye. The light of the garret came from this sole source, filtrated through a dense curtain of cobwebs. Indeed, the whole stairs and platform and ladder were festooned and carpeted and canopied with cobwebs, which, in funerial accumulations, hung too from the groined murky ceiling like the Carolina moss in the cypress forest. In these cobwebs swung, as in aerial catacombs, myriads of all tribes of mummied insects. Climbing the stairs to the platform and pausing there to recover my breath, a curious scene was presented. The sun was about halfway up. Piercing the little skylight, it slopingly bore a rainbowed tunnel clear across the darkness of the garret. Here millions of butterfly moles were swarming, against the skylight itself with a symbol-like buzzing thousands of insects clustered in a golden mob. Pushing to shed a clearer light through the place, I sought to withdraw the scuttle slide. But no sign of latch or hasp was visible. Only after long peering did I discover a little padlock embedded like an oyster at the bottom of the sea, amid matted masses of weedy webs, chrysalids, and insectivorous eggs. Brushing these away, I found it locked. With a crooked nail, I tried to pick the lock when scores of small ants and flies, half torpid, crawled forth from the keyhole, and, feeling the warmth of the sun in the pain, began frisking about me. Others appeared. Presently I was overrun by them. As if incensed at this invasion of their retreat, countless bands darted up from below, beating about my head like hornets. As last with a sudden jerk, I burst open the scuttle, and, ah, what a change! As from the gloom of the grave and the companionship of worms, men shall at last rapturously rise into the living greenness and glory immortal. So from my cobwebbed old garret, I thrust forth my head into the balmy air, and found myself hailed by the verdant tops of great trees, growing in the little garden below, trees whose leaves soared high above my topmost slate. Refreshed by this outlook, I turned inward to behold the garret, now unwontedly lit up, such humped masses of obsolete furniture. An old escritoir from whose pigeonholes sprang mice, and from whose secret drawers came subterranean squeakings as from chipmunks' holes in the woods. And broken down old chairs with strange carvings, which seemed fit to seat a conclave of conjurers. And a rusty iron-bound chest, lidless and packed full of mildewed old documents, one of which, with a faded red ink blot at the end, looked as if it might have been the original bond that Dr. Faust gave to Mephistopheles. And finally, in the least, lighted corner of all, where was a profuse litter of indescribable old rubbish, among which was a broken telescope and a celestial globe staved in, stood the little old table one hoofed foot like that of the evil one dimly revealed through the cobwebs.  How their once liquid contents had caked, and how strangely looked the moldy old book in the middle, Cottonmather's Magnalia. All in book I removed below, and had the dislocations of the one and the tatters of the other repaired. I resolved to surround this sad little hermit of a table so long banished from genial neighborhood, with all the kindly influences of warm urns, warm fires, and warm hearts, little dreaming what all this warm nursing would hatch. I was pleased by the discovery that the table was not of the ordinary mahogany, but of apple-tree wood, which age had darkened nearly to walnut. It struck me as being an appropriate piece of furniture for our cedar parlor, so called from its being, after the old fashion, wainscoded with that wood. The table's round slab, or orb, was so contrived as to be readily changed from a horizontal to a perpendicular position, so that, when not in use, it could be snugly placed in a corner. For myself, wife, and two daughters, I thought it would make a nice little breakfast and tea table. It was just the thing for a wist table, too, and I also pleased myself with the idea that it would make a famous reading table. In these fancies, my wife, for one, took a little interest. She disrelished the idea of so unfashionable and indigent looking a stranger as the table, intruding into the polished society of more prosperous furniture. But when, after seeking its fortune at the cabinet makers, the table came home, varnished over, bright as a guinea, no one exceeded my wife in a gracious reception of it. It was advanced to an honorable position in the cedar parlor. But as for my daughter, Julia, she never got over her strange emotions upon first accidentally encountering the table. Unfortunately, it was just as I was in the act of bringing it down from the garret. Holding it by the slab, I was carrying it before me, one cobwebbed hoof thrust out, which weird object, at a turn of the stairs, suddenly touched my girl as she was ascending, bare upon, turning, and seeing no living creature, for I was quite hidden behind my shield, seeing nothing indeed but the apparition of the evil one's foot as it seemed, she cried out, and there is no knowing what might have followed had I not immediately spoken. From the impression thus produced, my poor girl, of a very nervous temperament, was long recovering. Superstitiously grieved at my violating the forbidden solitude above, she associated in her mind the cloven-footed table with the reputed goblins there. She besought me to give up the idea of domesticating the table, nor did her sister fail to add her in treaties. Between my girls, there was a constitutional sympathy. But my matter-of-fact wife had now declared, in the table's favor, she was not wanting in firmness and energy. To her, the prejudices of Julia and Anna were simply ridiculous. It was her maternal duty, she thought, to drive such weakness away. By degrees, the girls, at breakfast and tea, were induced to sit down with us at the table. No proximity was not without effect. By and by, they would sit pretty tranquilly, though Julia as much as possible avoided glancing at the hoofed feet. And when at this I smiled, she would look at me seriously, as much as to say, Ah, Papa, you too may yet do the same. She prophesied that, in connection with the table, something strange would yet happen. But I would only smile the more, while my wife indignantly chided. Meantime, I took particular satisfaction in my table as a night reading table. At a lady's fair, I bought me a beautifully worked reading cushion, and with elbow leaning thereon, and hand shading my eyes from the light, spent many a long hour, nobody by but the queer old book I had brought down from the garret. All went well, till the incident now about to be given. An incident, be it remembered, which, like every other in this narration, happened long before the time of the fox girls. It was late on a Saturday night in December. In the little old cedar parlor before the little old apple tree table, I was sitting up, as usual, alone. I had made more than one effort to get up and go to bed, but I could not. I was, in fact, under a sort of fascination. Somehow, too, certain reasonable opinions of mine seemed not so reasonable as before. I felt nervous. The truth was, that though in my previous night readings Cotton Mather had but amused me, upon this particular night, he terrified me. A thousand times I had laughed at such stories. Good wives fables, I thought, however entertaining. But now, how different? They began to put on the aspect of reality. Now for the first time, it struck me that this was no romantic Mrs. Radcliffe who had written the magnalia, but a practical, hard-working, earnest, upright man, a learned doctor too, as well as a good Christian, and orthodox clergyman. What possible motive could such a man have to deceive? His style had all the plainness and unpoetic boldness of truth. In the most straightforward way he laid before me detailed accounts of New England witchcraft, each important item corroborated by respectable townsfolk, and, of not a few of the most surprising, he himself had been eyewitness. Cotton Mather testified himself whereof he had seen, but is it possible, I asked myself. Then I remembered that Dr. Johnson, the matter-of-fact compiler of a dictionary, had been a believer in ghosts, besides many others sound worthy men, yielding to the fascination I read deeper and deeper into the night. At last I found myself starting, at the least chance sound, and yet wishing that it were not so very still. A tumbler of warm punch stood by my side, with which beverage, in a moderate way, I was accustomed to treat myself every Saturday night. A habit, however, against which my good wife had long remonstrated, predicting that unless I gave it up, I would yet die a miserable sot. Indeed, I may hear mention that on the Sunday mornings, following my Saturday nights, I had to be exceedingly cautious how I gave way to the slightest impatience at any accidental annoyance, because such impatience was sure to be quoted against me as evidence of the melancholy consequences of overnight indulgence. As for my wife, she, never sipping punch, could yield to any little passing peevishness as much as she pleased. But upon the night in question, I found myself wishing that, instead of my usual mild mixture, I had concocted some potent draft. I felt the need of stimulus. I wanted something to hearten me against cotton-mather, dullful, ghostly, ghastly cotton-mather. I grew more and more nervous. Nothing but fascination kept me from fleeing the room. The candles burnt low, with long snuffs and huge winding sheets. But I durst not raise the snuffers to them. It would make too much noise. And yet previously I had been wishing for noise. I read on and on. My hair began to have a sensation. My eyes felt strained. They pained me. I was conscious of it. I knew I was injuring them. I knew I should rue this abuse of them next day. But I read on and on. I could not help it. The skinny hand was upon me. All at once, hark! My hair felt like growing grass. A faint sort of inward wrapping, or rasping. A strange, inexplicable sound, mixed with a slight kind of woodpecking, or ticking. Tick, tick. Yes, it was a faint sort of ticking. I looked up at my great Strausberg clock in one corner. It was not that. The clock had stopped. Tick, tick. Was it my watch? According to her usual practice at night, my wife had, upon retiring, carried my watch off to our chamber to hang it up on its nail. I listened with all my ears. Tick, tick. Was it a death tick in the wane-scot? With a tremulous step I went all round the room holding my ear to the wane-scot. No, it came not from the wane-scot. Tick, tick. I shook myself. I was ashamed of my fright. Tick, tick. It grew in precision and oddableness. I retreated from the wane-scot. It seemed advancing to meet me. I looked round and round, but saw nothing, only one cloven foot of the little apple-tree table. Bless me, said I to myself, with a sudden revulsion. It must be very late. Ain't that my wife calling me? Yes, yes, I must, to bed. I suppose all was locked up. No need to go the rounds. The fascination had departed, though the fear had increased. With trembling hands, putting cotton-mather out of sight, I soon found myself candlestick in hand in my chamber, with a peculiar rearward feeling, such as some truant dog may feel. In my eagerness to get well into the chamber, I stumbled against a chair. Do try and make less noise, my dear, said my wife, from the bed. You have been taking too much of that punch, I fear. That sad habit grows on you, that I should ever see you thus staggering at night into your chamber. Wife, hoarsely whispered I, there is, is something tick-ticking in the cedar parlor. Poor old man, quite out of his mind, I knew it would be so. Come to bed, come and sleep it off. Wife, wife! Do, do come to bed, I forgive you, I won't remind you of it tomorrow, but you must give up the punch-drinking, my dear. It quite gets the better of you. Don't exasperate me! I cried now, truly beside myself. I will quit the house. No, no, not in that state. Come to bed, my dear, I won't say another word. The next morning, upon waking, my wife said nothing about the past night's affair, and, feeling no little embarrassment myself, especially at having been thrown into such a panic, I also was silent. Consequently, my wife must still have ascribed my singular conduct to a mind disordered, not by ghosts, but by punch. For my own part, as I lay in bed, watching the sun in the panes, I began to think that much midnight reading of cotton-mather was not good for man, that it had a morbid influence upon the nerves, and gave rise to hallucinations. I resolved to put cotton-mather permanently aside. That done, I had no fear of any return of the ticking.  As is her want, my wife having preceded me in rising, I made a deliberate and agreeable toilet, aware that most disorders of the mind have their origin in the state of the body. I made vigorous use of the flesh brush, and bathed my head with New England rum, a specific once recommended to me as good for buzzing in the ear. Wrapped in my dressing gown, with cravat nicely adjusted and fingernails neatly trimmed, I complacently descended to the little cedar parlor to breakfast. What was my amazement to find my wife on her knees, rummaging about the carpet nigh the little apple-tree table on which the morning meal was laid, while my daughters, Julia and Anna were running about the apartment, distracted. Oh, Papa, Papa! cried Julia, hurrying up to me. I knew it would be so, the table, the table! Spirits, spirits! cried Anna, standing far away from it with pointed finger. Silence! cried my wife. How can I hear it if you make such a noise? Be still. Come here, husband. Was this the ticking you spoke of? Why don't you move? Was this it? Here, kneel down and listen to it. Tick, tick, tick. Don't you hear it now? I do, I do! cried I, while my daughters besought us both to come away from the spot. Tick, tick, tick. Right from under the snowy cloth and the cheerful urn and the smoking milk toast, the unaccountable ticking was heard. Ain't there a fire in the next room, Julia? said I. Let us breakfast there, my dear. Turning to my wife, let us go, leave the table, tell Biddy to remove the things. And so, saying, I was moving towards the door in high self-possession when my wife interrupted me. Before I quit this room, I will see into this ticking. She said with energy, it is something that can be found out, depend upon it. I don't believe in spirits, especially at breakfast time. Biddy, Biddy, here, carry these things back to the kitchen. Handing the urn, then, sweeping off the cloth, the little table lay bare to the eye. It's the table, the table! cried Julia. Nonsense, said my wife. Whoever heard of a ticking table, it's on the floor. Biddy, Julia, Anna, move everything out of the room, table and all. Where are the tack hammers? Heaven's mama, you are not going to take up the carpet! screamed Julia. Here's the hammers, Marm, said Biddy, advancing tremblingly. Hand them to me, then, cried my wife. For poor Biddy was at long gun distance, holding them out as if her mistress had the plague. Now, husband, do you take up that side of the carpet, and I will this. Down on her knees she then dropped while I followed suit. The carpet being removed and the ear applied to the naked floor, not the slightest ticking could be heard. The table, after all it is the table, cried my wife. Biddy, bring it back. Oh, no, Marm, not I, please, Marm! sobbed Biddy. Foolish creature. Husband, do you bring it? My dear, said I, we have plenty of other tables, why be so particular? Where is that table? cried my wife contemptuously, regardless of my gentle remonstrance. In the woodhouse, Marm, I put it way as far as ever I could, Marm. sobbed Biddy. Shall I go to the woodhouse for it, or will you? said my wife, addressing me in a frightful, business-like manner. Immediately I darted out of the door, and found the little apple tree table upside down in one of my chip bins. I hurriedly returned with it, and once more my wife examined it attentively. Tick, tick, tick, yes, it was the table. Please, Marm, said Biddy, now entering the room with hat and shawl. Please, Marm, will you pay me my wages?  Set this table again. Set it, Lord I in a passion. Set it, or I'll go for the police. Heavens, heavens! cried my daughters in one breath. What will become of us? Spirits, spirits! Will you set the table? cried I, advancing upon Biddy. I will, I will, yes, Marm, yes, master. I will, I will, spirits. Holy Virgin! Now, husband, said my wife, I am convinced that whatever it is that causes this ticking, neither the ticking nor the table can hurt us, for we are all good Christians, I hope. I am determined to find out the cause of it too, which time and patience will bring to light. I shall breakfast on no other table but this, so long as we live in this house. So sit down, know that all things are ready again, and let us quietly breakfast. My dears. Turning to Julia and Anna.  Let me have no more of this childishness. Upon occasion, my wife was mistress in her house. During the meal, in vain was conversation started again and again. In vain my wife said something brisk to infuse into others an animation akin to her own. Julia and Anna, with heads bowed over their tea cups, were still listening for the tick. I confess too that their example was catching. But for the time nothing was heard, either the ticking had died quite away, or else, slight as it was, the increasing uproar of the street, with the general hum of day so contrasted with the repose of night and early morning, smothered the sound. At the lurking inquietude of her companions, my wife was indignant, the more so as she seemed to glory in her own exemption from panic. When breakfast was cleared away, she took my watch and placing it on the table addressed the supposed spirits in it with a jacosly defiant air. There, tick away, let us see who can tick loudest. All that day while abroad I thought of the mysterious table. Could Cotton Mather speak true? Were there spirits? And would spirits haunt a tea table? Would the evil one dare show his cloven foot in the bosom of an innocent family? I shuddered when I thought that I myself against the solemn warnings of my daughters had willfully introduced the cloven foot there. Yay three cloven feet! But towards noon this sort of feeling began to wear off. The continual rubbing against so many practical people in the street brushed such chimeras away from me. I remembered that I had not acquitted myself very intrepidly, either on the previous night or in the morning. I resolved to regain the good opinion of my wife. To evince my heartyhood the more signally, when tea was dismissed and the three rubbers of whisked had been played and no ticking had been heard, which the more encouraged me, I took my pipe and, saying that bedtime had arrived for the rest, drew my chair towards the fire. And, removing my slippers, placed my feet on the fender, looking as calm and composed as old democratists in the tombs of Abderra, when one midnight the mischievous little boys of the town tried to frighten that sturdy philosopher with spurious ghosts. And I thought to myself that the worthy old gentleman had set a good example to all times in his conduct on that occasion. For, when at the dead hour intent on his studies he heard the strange sounds, he did not so much as move his eyes from his page, only simply said, boys, little boys, go home, this is no place for you, you will catch cold here. The philosophy of which words lies here, that they imply the foregone conclusion that any possible investigation of any possible spiritual phenomena was absurd, that upon the first face of such things the mind of a sane man instinctively affirmed them a humbug, unworthy the least attention, more especially if such phenomena appear in tombs, since tombs are peculiarly the place of silence, lifelessness, and solitude, for which cause by the way the old man as upon the occasion in question made the tombs of Abderra his place of study. Presently I was alone and all was hushed. I laid down my pipe, not feeling exactly tranquil enough now thoroughly to enjoy it. Taking up one of the newspapers I began in a nervous hurried sort of way to read by the light of a candle placed on a small stand drawn close to the fire. As for the apple tree table, having lately concluded that it was rather too low for a reading table, I thought best not to use it as such that night, but it stood not very distant in the middle of the room. Try as I would I could not succeed much at reading, somehow I seemed all ear and no eye a condition of intense auricular suspense, but ere long it was broken. Tick, tick, tick, though it was not the first time I had heard that sound nay, though I had made it my particular business on this occasion to wait for that sound. Nevertheless when it came it seemed unexpected as if a cannon had boomed through the window, tick, tick, tick. I sat stock still for a time, thoroughly to master if possible my first discomposure. Then rising I looked pretty steadily at the table, went up to it pretty steadily, took hold of it pretty steadily but let it go pretty quickly, then paced up and down stopping every moment or two with ear pricked to listen. Meantime within me the contest between panic and philosophy remained not wholly decided. Tick, tick, tick, with appalling distinctness the ticking now rose on the night. My pulse fluttered, my heart beat, I hardly know what might not have followed, had not democratist just then come to the rescue. For shame said I to myself what is the use of so fine an example of philosophy if it cannot be followed. Straightway I resolved to imitate it even to the old sage's occupation and attitude. Resuming my chair and paper with back presented to the table I remained thus for a time as if buried in study. When the ticking still continuing I drawled out in as indifferent and dryly joke hosts away as I could. Come, come, tick my boy, fun enough for tonight. Tick, tick, tick. There seemed a sort of jeering defiance in the ticking now. It seemed to exult over the poor affected part I was playing. But much as the taunt stung me, it only stung me into persistence. I resolved not to abate one wit in my mode of address. Come, come, you make more and more noise, tick my boy. Too much of a joke, time to have done. No sooner said than the ticking ceased. Never was responsive obedience more exact. For the life of me I could not help turning round upon the table as one would upon some reasonable being when, could I believe my senses? I saw something moving or wriggling or squirming upon the slab of the table. It shone like a glow worm. Unconsciously I grasped the poker that stood at hand. But, befinking me how absurd to attack a glow worm with a poker, I put it down. How long I sat spellbound and staring there with my body presented one way and my face another I cannot say. But at length I rose and, budding in my coat, up and down, made a sudden and trepid forced march full upon the table. And there, near the center of the slab, as I live, I saw an irregular little hole, or rather short nibbled sort of crack, from which, like a butterfly escaping its chrysalis, the sparkling object, whatever it might be, was struggling. Its motion was the motion of life. I stood be charmed. Are there indeed spirits, thought I, and is this one? No, I must be dreaming. I turned my glance off to the red fire on the hearth, then back to the pale luster on the table. What I saw was no optical illusion, but a real marvel. The tremor was increasing, when, once again, democratists befriended me. Supernatural coruscation as it appeared, I strove to look at the strange object in a purely scientific way. Thus viewed, it appeared some new sort of small shining beetle or bug, and I thought, not without something of a hum to it, too. I still watched it, and with still increasing self-possession, sparkling and wriggling, it still continued its throws. In another moment, it was just on the point of escaping its prison. A thought struck me. Running for a tumbler, I clapped it over the insect, just in time to secure it. After watching it a while longer under the tumbler, I left all as it was, and, tolerably composed, retired. Now, for the soul of me, I could not at that time comprehend the phenomenon.   For one knows not how many years stored away in an old garret? Was ever such a thing heard of or even dreamed of? How got the bug there? Never mind. I be thought me of democratist and resolved to keep cool. At all events, the mystery of the ticking was explained. It was simply the sound of the gnawing and filing and tapping of the bug in eating its way out. It was satisfactory to think that there was an end forever to the ticking. I resolved not to let the occasion pass without reaping some credit from it. Wife said I next morning, you will not be troubled with any more ticking in our table. I have put a stop to all that. Indeed, husband? Said she, with some incredulity. Yes, wife, returned I, perhaps a little vangloriously. I have put a quietess upon that ticking. Depend upon it, the ticking will trouble you no more. In vain she be sought me to explain myself. I would not gratify her. Being willing to balance any previous trepidation I might have betrayed, by leaving room now for the imputation of some heroic feat whereby I had silenced the ticking. It was a sort of innocent deceit by implication, quite harmless and, I thought, of utility. But when I went to breakfast I saw my wife kneeling at the table again and my girls looking ten times more frightened than ever. Why did you tell me that boastful tale? Said my wife indignantly. You might have known how easily it would be found out. See this crack too? And here is the ticking again, plainer than ever. Impossible, I explained. But upon applying my ear, sure enough, tick, tick, tick, the ticking was there. Recovering myself the best way I might, I demanded the bug. Bug! Screamed Julia. Good heavens, Papa! I hope, sir, you have been bringing no bugs into this house. Said my wife severely. The bug, the bug, I cried, the bug under the tumbler. Bugs? In tumblers? Cried the girls. Not our tumblers, Papa. You have not been putting bugs into our tumblers? What does it all mean? Do you see this hole, this crack here? Said I, putting my finger on the spot. That I do. Said my wife with high displeasure. And how did it come there? What have you been doing to the table? Do you see this crack, repeated I, intensely? Yes, yes! Said Julia. That was what frightened me so. It looked so like witch work. Spirits! Cried Anna. Silence! Said my wife. Come on, sir, and tell us what you know of the crack. Wife and daughters, said I solemnly. Out of that crack, or hole, while I was sitting all alone here last night, a wonderful... Here, involuntarily, I paused, fascinated by the expectant attitudes and bursting eyes of Julia and Anna. What? What? Cried Julia. A bug, Julia. Bug? Cried my wife. A bug, come out of this table. And what did you do with it? Clapped it under a tumbler. Bitty, bitty! Cried my wife, going to the door. Did you see a tumbler here on this table when you swept the room? Sure I did, Marm. And a bombable bug under it. And what did you do with it? Demanded I. Put the bug in the fire, sir. And rinsed out the tumbler ever so many times, Marm. Where is that tumbler? Cried Anna. I hope you scratched it. Marked it some way. I'll never drink out of that tumbler. Never put it before me, Bitty. A bug, a bug. Oh, Julia. Oh, Mama. I feel it crawling all over me. Even now, on to the table. Spirits, spirits! Cried Julia. My daughters. Said their mother, with authority in her eyes. Go to your chamber till you can behave more like reasonable creatures. Is it a bug?  Leave the room. I am astonished. I am pained by such childish conduct. Now tell me. Said she, addressing me as soon as they had withdrawn. Now tell me truly. Did a bug really come out of this crack in the table? Wife, it is even so. Did you see it come out? I did. She looked earnestly at the crack, leaning over it. Are you sure? Said she, looking up, but still bent over. Sure. Sure. She was silent. I began to think that the mystery of the thing began to tell even upon her. Yes, thought I, I shall presently see my wife shaking and shuddering, and, who knows, calling in some old dominey to exorcise the table and drive out the spirits. I'll tell you what we'll do. Said she, suddenly, and not without excitement. What wife? Said I, all eagerness, expecting some mystical proposition. What wife? We will rub this table all over with that celebrated roach powder I've heard of. Good gracious. Then you don't think it's spirits? Spirits. The emphasis of scornful incredulity was worthy of Democritus himself. But this ticking, this ticking, said I. I'll whip that out of it. Come, come, wife. Said I, you are going too far the other way now. Neither roach powder nor whipping will cure this table.  There's no blinking it. I'll have it rubbed, though. She replied. Well rubbed. And calling Biddy, she bade her get wax and brush, and give the table a vigorous manipulation. That done, the cloth was again laid, and we sat down to our morning meal. But my daughters did not make their appearance. Julia and Anna took no breakfast that day. When the cloth was removed, in a business-like way, my wife went to work with a dark-colored cement and hermetically closed the little hole in the table. My daughters looking pale, I insisted upon taking them out for a walk that morning, but following conversation ensued. My worst presentiments about that table are being verified, Papa. Said Julia. Not for nothing was that intimation of the cloven foot on my shoulder. Nonsense, said I. Let us go into Mrs. Brown's and have an ice cream. The spirit of Democritus was stronger on me now. By a curious coincidence, it strengthened with the strength of the sunlight. But is it not miraculous? said Anna. How a bug should come out of a table? Not at all, my daughter. It is a very common thing for bugs to come out of wood. You yourself must have seen them coming out of the ends of the billets on the hearth. Ah, but that wood is almost fresh from the woodland. But the table is at least a hundred years old. What of that, said I gaily? Have not live toads been found in the hearts of dead rocks as old as creation? Say what you will, Papa. I feel it is spirits. Said Julia. Do now, my dear Papa, have that haunted table removed from the house. Nonsense, said I. By another curious coincidence, the more they felt frightened, the more I felt brave. Evening came. This ticking, said my wife. Do you think that another bug will come of this continued ticking? Curiously enough, that had not occurred to me before. I had not thought of there being twins of bugs. But now, who knew? There might be even triplets. I resolved to take precautions, and if there was to be a second bug, infallibly secure it. During the evening, the ticking was again heard. About ten o'clock, I clapped a tumbler over the spot, as near as I could judge of it by my ear. Then we all retired, and locking the door of the cedar parlor, I put the key in my pocket. In the morning, nothing was to be seen, but the ticking was heard. The trepidation of my daughters returned. They wanted to call in the neighbors, but to this my wife was vigorously opposed. We should be the laughing stock of the whole town. So it was agreed that nothing should be disclosed. Biddy received strict charges, and to make sure was not allowed that week to go to confession lest she should tell the priest. I stayed home all that day, every hour or two, bending over the table, both eye and ear. Towards night, I thought the ticking grew more distinct, and seemed divided from my ear by a thinner and thinner partition of the wood. I thought too that I perceived a faint heaving up or bulging of the wood in the place where I had placed the tumbler. To put an end to the suspense, my wife proposed taking a knife and cutting into the wood there. But I had a less impatient plan, namely that she and I should sit up with the table that night, as from present symptoms the bug would probably make its appearance before morning. For myself, I was curious to see the first advent of the thing, the first dazzle of the chick as it chipped the shell. The ideas struck my wife not unfavorably. She insisted that both Julia and Anna should be of the party in order that the evidence of their senses should disabuse their minds of all nursery nonsense. For that spirits should tick, and that spirits should take unto themselves the form of bugs was to my wife the most foolish of all foolish imaginations. True, she could not account for the thing, but she had all confidence that it could be and would yet be somehow explained and that to her entire satisfaction. Without knowing it herself, my wife was a female democratess. For my part, my present feelings were of a mixed sort. In a strange and not unpleasing way, I gently oscillated between democratess and cotton-mather. But to my wife and daughters I assumed to be pure democratess, a jeerer at all tea table spirits, whatever. So laying in a good supply of candles and crackers, all four of us sat up with the table and at the same time sat round it. For a while my wife and I carried on an animated conversation, but my daughters were silent. Then my wife and I would have had a rubber of wist, but my daughters could not be prevailed upon to join. So we played wist with two dummies literally. My wife won the rubber and, fatigued with victory, put away the cards. Half past eleven o'clock, no sign of the bug, the candles began to burn dim. My wife was just in the act of snuffing them when a sudden, violent, hollow, resounding, rumbling thumping was heard. Julia and Anna sprang to their feet. All well! cried a voice from the street. It was the watchman, first ringing down his club on the pavement, and then following it up with this highly satisfactory verbal announcement. All well! Do you hear that, my girls? said I, gaily. Indeed it was astonishing how brave as Bruce I felt in company with three women and two of them half frightened out of their wits. I rose from my pipe and took a philosophic smoke. Democratists forever thought I. In profound silence I sat smoking, when low, pop, pop, pop, right under the table, a terrible popping. This time we all four sprang up, and my pipe was broken. Good heavens! What's that? Spirits! Spirits! cried Julia. Oh, oh, oh! cried Anna. Shame, said my wife. It's that new bottled cider in the cellar going off. I told Bitty to wire the bottles today. I shall hear transcribe from Memorenda, kept during part of the night. One o'clock, no sign of the bug, ticking continues, wife getting sleepy. Two o'clock, no sign of the bug, ticking intermittent, wife fast asleep. Three o'clock, no sign of the bug, ticking pretty steady. Julia and Anna getting sleepy. Four o'clock, no sign of the bug, ticking regular but not spirited. Wife, Julia and Anna all fast asleep in their chairs. Five o'clock, no sign of the bug, ticking faint, myself feeling drowsy. The rest, still asleep. So far the journal. Wrap, wrap, wrap, a terrific, portentious wrapping against a door. Startled from our dreams we started to our feet. Wrap, wrap, wrap. Julia and Anna shrieked. I cowered in the corner. You fools! cried my wife. It's the baker with a bread. Six o'clock. She went to throw back the shutters, but ere it was done a cry came from Julia. There, half in and half out of its crack, there wriggled the bug, flashing in the room's general dimness like a fiery opal.  In truth, it was a beautiful bug, a Jew-Jewler's bug, a bug like a sparkle of a glorious sunset. Julia and Anna had never dreamed of such a bug. To them, bug had been a word synonymous with hideousness. But this was a seraphical bug, or rather, all it had of the bug was the bee, for it was beautiful as a butterfly. Julia and Anna gazed and gazed. They were no more alarmed. They were delighted. But how got this strange pretty creature into the table? cried Julia. Spirits can get anywhere. replied Anna. Sure. said my wife. Do you hear any more ticking, said I? They all applied their ears, but heard nothing. Well then, wife and daughters, now that it is all over, this very morning I will go and make inquiries about it. Oh, do, Papa. cried Julia. Do go and consult Madam Patsy, the Conjurus. Better go and consult Professor Johnson, the naturalist. said my wife. Bravo, Mrs. Democritus, said I. Professor Johnson is the man. By good fortune, I found the Professor in. Informing him briefly of the incident, he manifested a cool, collected sort of interest and gravely accompanied me home. The table was produced, the two openings pointed out, the bug displayed, and the details of the affair set forth, my wife and daughters being present. And now Professor said I, what do you think of it? Putting on his spectacles, the learned professor looked hard at the table and gently scraped with his pen knife into the holes, but said nothing. Is it not an unusual thing, this? anxiously asked Anna. Very unusualness. At which Julia and Anna exchanged significant glances. But is it not wonderful, very wonderful? demanded Julia. Very wonderfulness. My daughters exchanged still more significant glances and Julia emboldened, again spoke. Must you not admit, sir, that it is the work of, of, of, speak. Spirits, no. Was the crusty rejoinder. My daughters said I mildly, you should remember that this is not Madame Patsy, the conjurious you put your questions to, but the eminent naturalist, Professor Johnson. And now Professor, I added, be pleased to explain, enlighten our ignorance. Without repeating all the learned gentlemen said for indeed though lucid he was a little prosy, let the following summary of his explication suffice. The incident was not holy without example. The wood of the table was apple tree, a sort of tree much fancied by various insects. The bugs had come from eggs laid inside the bark of the living tree in the orchard by careful examination of the position of the hole from which the last bug had emerged in relation to the cortical layers of the slab and then allowing for the inch and a half along the grain ere the bug had eaten its way entirely out and then computing the whole number of cortical layers in the slab with a reasonable conjecture for the number cut off from the outside. It appeared that the egg must have been laid in the tree some ninety years more or less before the tree could have been felled. But between the felling of the tree and the present time how long might that be? It was a very old fashioned table. Allow eighty years for the age of the table which would make one hundred and fifty years that the bug had laid in the egg. Such at least was Professor Johnson's computation. Now Julia said I after that scientific statement of the case though I confess I don't exactly understand it where are your spirits? It is very wonderful as it is but where are your spirits? Where indeed? said my wife. Why now she did not really associate this purely natural phenomenon with any crude spiritual hypothesis did she observed the learned professor with a slight sneer. Say what you will. said Julia holding up in the covered tumbler the glorious lustrous flashing live opal. Say what you will. If this beauteous creature be not a spirit it yet teaches a spiritual lesson for if after one hundred and fifty years entombment a mere insect comes forth at last into light itself in effulgence shall there be no glorified resurrection for the spirit of man? Spirits! Spirits! She exclaimed with rapture I still believe in them with delight when before I but thought of them with terror. The mysterious insect did not long enjoy its radiant life it expired the next day but my girls have preserved it embalmed in a silver vinaigrette it lies on the little apple tree table in the pier of the cedar parlor and whatever lady doubts this story my daughters will be happy to show her both the bug and the table and point out to her in the repaired slab of the latter the two ceiling wax drops designating the exact place of the two holes made by the two bugs something in the same way in which are marked the spots where the cannonballs struck Brattle Street Church end of the apple tree table or original spiritual manifestations by Herman Melville recording by Dan and Asia Giannola Norris The Blue Stocking by Epps Sargent This is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org When Madame Dostal asked Napoleon who he thought was the greatest woman ever to have lived he promptly replied she who has borne the greatest number of children my friend Mrs. Flutter differed in opinion from the first consul it would seem to have been her conviction that the greatest woman was she who had written the greatest number of stances no matter what might be their quality from this you will perceive that Mrs. Flutter was a blue stocking I feel a certain delicacy in approaching the subject for to let the reader into a secret it was in my editorial capacity that I first became acquainted with the heroine of my narrative which by the way is every word true she would send to me large rolls of manuscript tied with blue ribbons accompanied by a triangular note which contained a request that I would read and inwardly digest her effusions and publish them with such corrections in punctuation as I thought proper hard and perplexing is the fate of an editor while gallantry urges him to admire how often will discrimination compel to condemn professional confidence should be especially sacred but it is my foible when I have hit upon a good thing to be reluctant to keep it to myself I must, I will tell you all about the fair flutters for it will laugh at the time as a diner out of my acquaintance is in the habit of saying when is jest misfire the shortest way of arriving at a competent knowledge of the domestic history and position of the Flutter family at the period to which I refer is to listen to a conversation between Flutter himself and Captain Plugg you know Plugg which took a place at the house of the former while he and his friend were waiting for the appearance of dinner and Mrs. Epp while Flutter my boy said Plugg as he seated himself in an arm chair before a comfortable wood fire and drew both from his ankles over his knees as if he were encouraging them to get warm well Flutter you are the most enviable dog of my acquaintance a snug property safe business fine home pretty wife nice baby good health troops of friends what in creation do you want more to make you happy ah Flutter I wish I had got married twenty years ago nothing like matrimony I am convinced to smooth the downhill path of life nothing like a sweet tempered cheerful attentive domestic affectionate wife to fit a man for heaven's sounds if it wasn't for this confounded wig these gray whiskers I would propose for somebody tomorrow Flutter suddenly placed his hand on his friend's shoulder and heaved aside then pat him him gently he said in a mysterious tone plug take my advice and keep as you are keep as I am you are the last man in the world Dick from whom I would expect such counsel are you not the happiest of husbands Colonel said Flutter lowering his voice and casting a furtive glance about him I doubt if there is such a thing as a happy husband depend upon it it is all a fable you know more exist than the phoenix or the merman when a poor devil is once caught in the cannubial noose pride policy and a thousand obvious inducements prevent his letting the world see his disappointment and discontent but oh believe me there is not one who doesn't sigh bitterly and often for his free gay careless bachelor life I speak confidentially for we are old friends and you are not so quite poorly offered subject for merriment as to make a jest of what I am telling you in sincerity of heart to be sure not my dear boy you amazed me however by what you say I hope to be saved I have looked upon you until this moment as one of the most fortunate of men ah Colonel if you could but take a look behind the domestic curtain you would see that all is not as it should be plug I cannot well imagine a woman more unfitted to be a wife and mother than Mrs. Flutter good gracious you confound me what can have happened what is the matter you may possibly remember that when I was an unmarried young man about the town I was afflicted like many other worthy young men with a sort of rhyming mania which like hooping cough and the measles attacks a certain juvenile constitutions some with more and some with less virulence I had it very badly for a time as many an album and many a country newspaper will yet witness in the height of my complaint I encountered my present wife then Miss Myrtle a pretty romantic girl in short a congenial spirit who admired my poetry poetry indeed and played Eloise to my Abelard I married her wretched blunder fatal error explain yourself do you not see my wife was a blue stocking and a blue stocking she is still pray what is a blue stocking alas I can give you a whole vocabulary of definitions she is a woman plug who wears a blue stocking instead of a white because they do not show dirt so soon whereby she is saved the trouble of changing them as often as cleanliness would suggest she is a literary character and precious litter she keeps about her to be sure she is an individual who is too much absorbed in her own sublime imaginings to attend to the vulgar details of a household she is careless and slightly in her attire because she has heard that indifference to dress is a mark of genius she neglects her children because she better loves the offspring of her brain she prefers the venal praise of some dunce of a critic to her husband's affection she would rather have you call her a bad wife than find fault with her owed to despair she bores her visitors by reading her productions allowed and is too lost in her own complacency to witness their impatience and sneers in short, she is a sort of lady Macbeth who instead of plotting against the life of Duncan murders the Queen's English and is it possible Dick that your wife is such a woman as you describe without exaggeration she is plug it was no later than last night that she woke me from my first dose saying a fine idea had entered her head and she must note it down she rose from the bed and lit the lamp not, however, before she had knocked down a book or two and waked the baby by the noise without taking the slightest notice of his crying she sat down at a writing table and was soon in a fine frenzy over some trashy production which she calls an ode there I was sitting upright and shivering on the bed with the baby screaming in my arms while Mrs. Flutter was jotting down her fine ideas by the foolery by George it is too bad so it is Dick we must find some way of reforming it I really believe your wife at heart is all correct as the politicians say I can't help but laughing when I think of what a ridiculous figure I cut rocking the baby to and fro in my night clothes while the mother was writing poetry piling up the agony as the western theatrical critic said a florist it was a rich scene for a painter what I think Crushank would have made of it ha ha ha I see you can extract some fun from your misery what a subtle chemist is a sunny temper any other man but myself will go mad I am sure with such a wife my dear friend it was but the other day the day of the Croton celebration that on coming home fatigued and sleepy I learnt that all the servants in the house had been permitted to go to the theatre entering my chamber I found the bed unmade and will you believe it Mrs. Flutter insisted on my making it myself because she was just in the midst of a story which she promised to complete for some sickly magazine you made the bed of course what could I do but submit every day I am subjected to similar impositions if a washerwoman is to be hired or a bubble bought for the baby I have to execute the commission my wife's genius soars above such paltry domestic arrangements she will have to take but one more step to set me to mending stockings or washing dishes but dick who encourages your wife in these preposterous practices a few seedy gentlemen in black hangers on upon newspapers and periodicals whom she invites to dinner who pay for their grub in puffs one of them called her the other day the madam the stall of America and they all make her out the greatest literary phenomenon of the century what hardy laughs they must be having among themselves at her infatuation and credulity by the way she is invited some of them to suffer this evening the poor devils are willing to swallow her poetry for the sake of the augements it which accompany it stewed oysters chicken salad and champagne is there no way of unmasking the parasites I can think of none can you yes suppose we hear the entrance of Mrs. Flutter check the conversation the lady's manner was abstracted as she entered the room and it was not until her husband said colonel plug my dear that she abruptly started as if from a reverie looking at her guest with lackluster eyes and exclaimed in a tone that would have done no discredit to Mrs. Siddonce how fair you sir then without waiting to hear his reply walk towards the window and folding her arms gazed up at the clouds the colonel in the meantime took a survey of her person her dress was costly but carelessly arranged an elegant lace cape was parted at her right shoulder instead of on her bosom a rich handkerchief which she held was soiled with ink spots and her shoes were so worn as to exhibit the whole of the heels of her stockings affectation the grossest affectation muttered the colonel as he finished his inspection and turned away the colonel was sincerely attached to his friend Flutter and seriously revolved in his mind various projects for curing the blue stocking of her infatuation with this intent he took particular pains to make himself agreeable to her at table and the dinner passed off cheerfully and acceptably to all plug to whom no topic came amiss amused his friends with the anecdotes of their mutual acquaintances discussed the latest new novel he had never read a word of it by the way with Mrs. Flutter and finally entered upon a disquisition in regard to the merits of Professor Cobb Webb and Mr. J. Dolefold Rivel whose contribution to the magazine seemed to excite the special admiration of the blue stocking although the colonel, ignorant fellow had never before been aware of the existence of these tremendous luminaries it was amazing to see with what spirit he entered into a controversy in regard to their writings Cobb Webb seemed to be the lady's favorite but her guests took up the cudgels for drivel and maintained the superiority of that prolific author in the most animated terms at length the colonel adroitly broached the subject of Mrs. Flutter's own delectable productions you expect some literary friends to see you this evening I believe, ask he yes, some gentlemen connected with the press who are anxious to read some new pieces of mine I have a plan for putting their good taste and critical honesty to the test will you hear it? certainly, what may it be? the colonel drew a shabby looking newspaper from his pocket and said here is a copy of the Chunkville Clarion a smart little paper published in a town out west which I bought at auction the other day the poet's corner is filled with productions of the Chunkville Bards now I wish you to give me one of your poems and allow me to read them out loud as if coming from Chunkville while the Chunkville poems shall be attributed to you you may try it said Mrs. Flutter after a pause but I am sure that Dobster and Dot will know my style they have often told me they could detect it among a thousand we shall see rejoined the colonel struggling to repress a smile eight o'clock brought with it Mrs. Dobster and Dot accompanied by a gentleman and a rusty suit of black with a rather suspicious tinge of crimson to his face whom they introduced as Reverend Mr. Drone the author of Virgin's Val and other poems Mrs. Flutter received her new acquaintances very graciously but was obliged candidly to confess she had never before heard of Virgin's Val whereupon the Reverend gentlemen solemnly informed her that it had been printed merely for private distribution as he said this Mr. Dot was seen to puff out his cheek with his tongue and tread upon Mr. Dobster's toes the literary gentleman being all seated the colonel said I will first read to you a little poem called The Forsaken One the authorship of which you of course recognize and here he glanced significantly at the blue stocking and bound then placing the manuscript behind the newspaper so as to conceal his design he recited some stanzas written by a young miss of 13 for the Chunkville Clarion it was difficult to describe the ecstasy into which Messers, Dobster, Dot, and Drone were thrown by this effusion no term seemed adequate for the expression of their admiration they clapped their hands and cried beautiful superb sublime and seemed almost disposed to roll on the carpet in the excess of their transport Mr. Drone whose eyes had been adoringly fixed upon some champagne bottles and decanters on a side table suddenly looked up towards the ceiling shook his head and heaved a deep sigh his enthusiasm was obviously too deep for word pantomime could alone interpret it a contemptuous smile began to settle upon Mrs. Flutter's lips it was unnoticed by all except the colonel who resumed his elocutionary task by saying now gentlemen, I will, with your permission redo some lines which I think extremely clever by a young female friend of mine I do not consider them unworthy to follow even the polished stanzas of our fair hostess the blue stockings heart beat high as the colonel commenced reading her own elaborate Ode to Despair she could not but admit he did perfect justice to it in the recitation but notwithstanding this he had not half completed it when the Reverend Mr. Drone gave a yawn and said in an audible whisper to Dot sad stuff, sad stuff Dot nodded in acquiescence Dovster played impatiently with his watch key and catching Mrs. Flutter's eye shrugged his shoulders and made a writhe face the colonel continued to read Mr. Drone himmed, laughed sneeringly and suddenly interrupted him with Stop there, if you please, sir What does the writer say? With frenzied eye he lifts his sphere and calls the listening spheres to hear Allow me to expose the absurdity of those lines the writer after making Despair go through a variety of absurd antics represents him as lifting a spear with a frenzied eye now it strikes me that a brawny arm would be much more useful to lift with and calls the listening spheres to hear if spheres are listening they must of course hear, tautology that then why have the two words so nearly allied in sound as spear and sphere I think so if the author is a friend of yours your friendship should induce you not to expose her frailties any farther it is too sickening exclaimed Dot Why dose us with such stuff after feasting our ears with the forsaken one asked Mr. Dobster Here the blue stocking whose color during the last ten minutes has been rapidly varying from white to red from red to white rose, put her handkerchief to her eyes and rushed from the room she did not appear there again during the evening it is not difficult to anticipate the denouement of our story we found Mrs. Flutter a blue stocking but we do not leave her one her husband called upon Colonel Plugg and said my dear friend I can never sufficiently express to you my obligation for your lesson to my wife it has entirely cured her of metromania under which she labored she thoroughly abhors the sight of pen, ink and paper and never wears her shoes down at the hill she is now the best, most attentive full of wives and I am the happiest dog that ever trod through Broadway come and dine with us this afternoon and you shall see how effectual has been your prescription is the Reverend Mr. Drone to be present no more of that Hal why do you ask because if you want to find him I may be able to inform you to his whereabouts the last time I saw him he was standing at the corner of Chamber Street in the capacity of a peripatetic advertisement all over behind and before with placards announcing the place of exhibition of the premium ox well anything for an honest living will you come? yes with all my heart end of The Blue Stocking by Epps Sargent read by Kelly Taylor The Conjurer's Revenge from Literary Lapses by Stephen Leacock this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org read by Dale Grossman The Conjurer's Revenge by Stephen Leacock now ladies and gentlemen said the Conjurer having shown you that the cloth is absolutely empty I will proceed to take from it a bowl of goldfish presto all around the hall the people were saying oh how wonderful how does he do it but the quick man on the front seat said in a big whisper to the people near him he had it up his sleeve then the people nodded brightly at the quick man and said oh of course and everybody whispered around the hall he had it up his sleeve my next trick said the Conjurer is the famous Hindustani rings you will notice that the rings are apparently separate at a blow they will join clang clang clang presto there was a general buzz of stupefication until the quick man was heard to whisper he must have had another lot up his sleeve again everybody nodded and whispered the rings were up his sleeve the brow of the Conjurer was clouded with a gathering frown I will now he continued show you the most amusing trick by which I am enabled to take any number of eggs from a hat will some gentleman kindly lend me his hat ah thank you presto he extracted seventeen eggs and for thirty five seconds the audience began to think that he was wonderful then the quick man whispered along the front bench he has a hen up his sleeve and all the people whispered it on he has a hen up his sleeve the egg trick was ruined it went on like this all through it transpired from the whispers of the quick man that the Conjurer must have concealed up his sleeve in addition to the rings hens and fish several packs of cards a loaf of bread a doll's cradle a live guinea pig a fifty cent piece and a rocking chair the reputation of the Conjurer was rapidly sinking below zero at the close of the evening he rallied for a final effort ladies and gentlemen he said I will present to you in conclusion the famous Japanese trick recently invented by the natives of Tipperary will you sir he continued turning toward the quick man will you kindly hand me your gold watch it was passed to him have I your permission to put it into this mortar and pound it to pieces he asked savagely the quick man nodded and smiled the Conjurer threw the watch into the mortar and grasped a sledgehammer from the table there was a sound of violent smashing he slipped it up his sleeve whispered the quick man now sir continued the Conjurer will you allow me to take your handkerchief and punch holes in it thank you you see ladies and gentlemen there is no deception the holes are visible to the eye the face of the quick man beamed this time the real mystery of the thing fascinated him and now sir will you kindly pass me your silk hat and allow me to dance on it thank you the Conjurer made a few rapid passes with his feet and exhibited the hat crushed beyond recognition and will you now sir take off your celluloid collar and permit me to burn it in a candle thank you sir and will you allow me to smash your spectacles for you with my hammer thank you by this time the features of the quick man were assuming a puzzled expression this thing beats me he whispered I don't see through it a bit there was a great hush upon the audience then the Conjurer drew himself up to his full height and with a withering look at the quick man he concluded ladies and gentlemen you will observe that I have with this man's permission broken his watch burnt his collar smashed his spectacles and danced on his hat if he will give me further permission to paint green stripes on his overcoat or tie his suspenders in a knot I shall be delighted to entertain you if not the performance is at an end and amid a glorious burst of music from the orchestra the curtain fell and the audience dispersed convinced that there were some tricks at any rate that were not done up the Conjurer's sleeve the end of The Conjurer's Revenge by Stephen Leacock The Fish by Anton Chekhov 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 Phil Shemp The Fish a summer morning the air is still there is no sound but the cheering of a grasshopper on the riverbank and somewhere the timid cooing of a turtle dove feathery clouds stand motionless in the sky looking like snow scattered about garassum the carpenter a tall gaunt peasant with a curly red head and a face overgrown with air is floundering about in the water under the green willow branches near an unfinished bathing shed he puffs and pants and blinking furiously is trying to get hold of something under the roots of the willows his face is covered with perspiration a couple of yards from him Lubim the carpenter a young hunchback with a triangular face and narrow Chinese looking eyes is standing up to his neck in water both garassum and Lubim are in shirts and linen breeches both are blue with cold for they have been more than an hour already in the water but why do you keep poking with your hand cries the hunchback Lubim shivering as though in a fever you blockhead hold him hold him or else he'll get away the anathema hold him I tell you he won't get away where can he get to he's under a root says garassum in a horse hollow base which seems to come not from his throat but from the depths of his stomach he's slippery the beggar there's nothing to catch hold of get him by the gills by the gills there's no seeing his gills stay I've got hold of something I've got him by the lip he's biting the brute don't pull him out by the lip don't or you'll let him go take him by the gills take him by the gills you've begun poking with your hand again you are a senseless man the queen of heaven forgive me catch hold catch hold you're a fine one to give orders you'd better come and catch hold of him yourself you hunchback devil what are you standing there for I would catch hold of him if it were possible but can I stand by the bank and me as short as I am it's deep there it doesn't matter if it's deep you must swim the hunchback waves his arms swims up to garassum and catches hold of the twigs the first attempt to stand up he goes into the water over his head and begins blowing up bubbles I told you it to as deep he said rolling his eyes angrily you might just sit on your neck or what stand on the root there are a lot of roots like a ladder the hunchback gropes for a root with his heel and tightly gripping several twigs stands on it having got his balance and established himself in his new position he bends down and trying not to get the water into his mouth begins fumbling with his right hand among the roots getting entangled among the weeds and slipping on the mossy roots he finds his hand in contact with the sharp pinchers of a crayfish as though he wanted to see you you demon said luvam and he angrily flings the crayfish on the bank at last his hand feels garassum's arm and groping its way along it comes to something cold and slimy here he is says luvam with a grin a fine fellow move your fingers I'll get him directly by the gills stop don't prod me with your elbow I'll have him in a minute in a minute only to let me get hold of him the beggar has got a long way under the roots there is nothing to get hold of one can't get to the head one can only feel its belly kill that gnat on my neck it's stinging I'll get him by the gills directly come to one side and give him a push poke him with your finger the hunchback puffs out his cheeks holds his breath opens his eyes wide and apparently has already got his finger in the gills but at that moment the twigs to which he is holding on with his left hand break and losing his balance he pops into the water and breaks away from the bank as though frightened and little bubbles come up from the spot where he has fallen in the hunchback swims out and snorting clutches at the twigs he'll be down next you stupid I shall have him to answer for you wheezes garasm clamber out the devil take you I'll get him out to myself I words follow the sun is baking hot grow shorter and to draw in on themselves like horns of a snail high grass warmed by the sun begins to give out a strong heavy smell of honey it will soon be midday and garassum and lubum are still floundering under the willow tree the husky base and the shrill frozen tenor persistently disturb the stillness of the summer day pull him out by the gills pull him out he'll push him out where are you shoving your great ugly fist poke him with your finger you pigs face get round by the side get to the left there's a big hole on the right you'll be a supper for the water devil pull it up by the lip there is the sound of the flick of a whip a herd of cattle driven by yefum saunter lazily down the sloping bank to drink a crepit old man with one eye and a crooked mouth walks with his head bowed looking at his feet the first to reach the water are the shape then come the horses and last of all the cows push him from below he hears lubum's voice stick your finger in are you deaf fellow or what what do you lads after shouts yefum and the eel pout he's hidden under the roots get round to the side to the side for a minute yefum screws up his eye at the fisherman then he takes off his bark shoes throws his sack off his shoulders and takes off his shirt he has not the patience to take off his breeches but making the sign of the cross he steps into the water holding out his thin dark arms to balance himself for fifty paces he walks along to the bottom then he takes to swimming wait a minute lads he shouts wait don't be in a hurry to pull him out you lose him you must do it properly yefum joins the carpenters and all three shoving each other with their knees and their elbows puffing and swearing at one another bustle about the same spot lubum the hunchback gets a mouth full of water and the air rings with his hard where's the shepherd comes a shout from the bank yefum shepherd where are you the cattle are in the garden drive them out, drive them out of the garden where is he the old brigand the first men's voices are heard then a woman's the master himself Andrei Andreiich wearing a dressing gown made of the Persian shawl and carrying a newspaper in his hand appears from behind the garden fence he looks inquiringly towards the shouts which come from the river and then trips rapidly toward the bathing shed what's this who's shouting he asked certainly seeing through the branches of the willow the three wet heads of the fisherman what are you so busy about there catching a fish butters yefum without raising his head I'll give it to you the beaser in the garden and he is fishing when will that bathing shed be done you devils you've been at work two days and what is there to show for it it will be soon done grunts garrasm summer is long you'll have plenty of time to wash your honor we can't manage this eel pout here anyhow he's got under a root and sits there as if he were in a hole and won't budge one way or another an eel pout says the master and his eyes began to glisten get him out quickly then you'll give us half a ruble for it presently if we oblige you a huge eel pout as fat as a merchant's wife it's worth half a ruble your honor for the trouble don't squeeze him lovin' don't squeeze him you'll spoil him push him up from below pull the root upwards my good man what's your name upwards not downwards you brute don't swing your legs five minutes pass ten the master loses all patience vassily he shouts turning towards the garden vaska call vassily to me the coachman vassily runs up he is chewing something and breathing hard go into the water and the master orders him help them to pull out that eel pout they can't get him out vassily rapidly undresses and gets into the water in a minute I'll get him in a minute he mutters where's the eel pout we'll have him out in a trice you better go yef'em an old man like you ought to be minding his own business instead of being here where's that eel pout I'll have him in a minute here he is let go what's the good of saying that we know all about that you get it out but there is no getting it out like this one must get hold of it by the head and the head is under the root we know that you fool now then don't talk you'll catch it you dirty cur by far the master uses such language in mutters yef'em you won't get him out lads he's fixed himself much too cleverly wait a minute I'll come directly says the master and he begins hurriedly undressing four fools and can't get an eel pout when he is undressed Andre Andrej gives himself time to cool and gets into the water but even his interference leads to nothing we must chop off the root Lubim decides at last grasp him go and get an axe give me an axe don't chop your fingers off says the master when the pose of the axe on the root underwater are heard yef'em get out of this stay I'll get the eel pout you'll never do it the root is hacked a little they partly break it off and Andre Andrej to his immense satisfaction feels his fingers under the gills of the fish I'm pulling him out lads don't crowd round it stand still I'm pulling him out the head of the big eel pout and behind it it's long black body nearly a yard long appears on the surface of the water the big fish flaps its tail heavily and tries to tear itself away none of your nonsense my boy fiddle sticks I've got you a honeyed smile overspreads all the faces a minute passes in silent contemplation a famous eel pout mutters yef'em scratching under his shoulder blades I'll be bound it weighs ten pounds yes the master ascents the liver is fairly swollen it seems to stand out the fish makes a sudden unexpected upward movement with its tail and the fisherman hear a loud splash they all put out their hands but it is too late they have seen the last of the eel pout end of the fish by Anton Chekhov