Cellar door

cellardoor

AT THE SHRINE OF ST. WAGNER

The Story Girl by L. M. Montgomery, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here . THE PROOF OF THE PUDDING CHAPTER XVII. THE PROOF OF THE PUDDING Felicity was cumbered with many cares the next morning. For one thing, the whole house must be put in apple pie order; and for another, an elaborate supper must be prepared for the expected return of the travellers that night. Felicity devoted her whole attention to this, and left the secondary preparation of the regular meals to Cecily and the Story Girl. It was agreed that the latter was to make a cornmeal pudding for dinner. In spite of her disaster with the bread, the Story Girl had been taking cooking lessons from Felicity all the week, and getting on tolerably well, although, mindful of her former mistake, she never ventured on anything without Felicity’s approval. But Felicity had no time to oversee her this morning. “You must attend to the pudding yourself,” she said. “The recipe’s so plain and simple even you can’t go astray, and if there’s anything you don’t understand you can ask me. But don’t bother me if you can help it.” The Story Girl did not bother her once. The pudding was concocted and baked, as the Story Girl proudly informed us when we came to the dinner-table, all on her own hook. She was very proud of it; and certainly as far as appearance went it justified her triumph. The slices were smooth and golden; and, smothered in the luscious maple sugar sauce which Cecily had compounded, were very fair to view. Nevertheless, although none of us, not even Uncle Roger or Felicity, said a word at the time, for fear of hurting the Story Girl’s feelings, the pudding did not taste exactly as it should. It was tough—decidedly tough—and lacked the richness of flavour which was customary in Aunt Janet’s cornmeal puddings. If it had not been for the abundant supply of sauce it would have been very dry eating indeed. Eaten it was, however, to the last crumb. If it were not just what a cornmeal pudding might be, the rest of the bill of fare had been extra good and our appetites matched it. “I wish I was twins so’s I could eat more,” said Dan, when he simply had to stop. “What good would being twins do you?” asked Peter. “People who squint can’t eat any more than people who don’t squint, can they?” We could not see any connection between Peter’s two questions. “What has squinting got to do with twins?” asked Dan. “Why, twins are just people that squint, aren’t they?” said Peter. We thought he was trying to be funny, until we found out that he was quite in earnest. Then we laughed until Peter got sulky. “I don’t care,” he said. “How’s a fellow to know? Tommy and Adam Cowan, over at Markdale, are twins; and they’re both cross-eyed. So I s’posed that was what being twins meant. It’s all very fine for you fellows to laugh. I never went to school half as much as you did; and you was brought up in Toronto, too. If you’d worked out ever since you was seven, and just got to school in the winter, there’d be lots of things you wouldn’t know, either.” “Never mind, Peter,” said Cecily. “You know lots of things they don’t.” But Peter was not to be conciliated, and took himself off in high dudgeon. To be laughed at before Felicity—to be laughed at BY Felicity—was something he could not endure. Let Cecily and the Story Girl cackle all they wanted to, and let those stuck-up Toronto boys grin like chessy-cats; but when Felicity laughed at him the iron entered into Peter’s soul. If the Story Girl laughed at Peter the mills of the gods ground out his revenge for him in mid-afternoon. Felicity, having used up all the available cooking materials in the house, had to stop perforce; and she now determined to stuff two new pincushions she had been making for her room. We heard her rummaging in the pantry as we sat on the cool, spruce-shadowed cellar door outside, where Uncle Roger was showing us how to make elderberry pop-guns. Presently she came out, frowning. “Cecily, do you know where mother put the sawdust she emptied out of that old beaded pincushion of Grandmother King’s, after she had sifted the needles out of it? I thought it was in the tin box.” “So it is,” said Cecily. “It isn’t. There isn’t a speck of sawdust in that box.” The Story Girl’s face wore a quite indescribable expression, compound of horror and shame. She need not have confessed. If she had but held her tongue the mystery of the sawdust’s disappearance might have forever remained a mystery. She WOULD have held her tongue, as she afterwards confided to me, if it had not been for a horrible fear which flashed into her mind that possibly sawdust puddings were not healthy for people to eat—especially if there might be needles in them—and that if any mischief had been done in that direction it was her duty to undo it if possible at any cost of ridicule to herself. “Oh, Felicity,” she said, her voice expressing a very anguish of humiliation, “I—I—thought that stuff in the box was cornmeal and used it to make the pudding.” Felicity and Cecily stared blankly at the Story Girl. We boys began to laugh, but were checked midway by Uncle Roger. He was rocking himself back and forth, with his hand pressed against his stomach. “Oh,” he groaned, “I’ve been wondering what these sharp pains I’ve been feeling ever since dinner meant. I know now. I must have swallowed a needle—several needles, perhaps. I’m done for!” The poor Story Girl went very white. “Oh, Uncle Roger, could it be possible? You COULDN’T have swallowed a needle without knowing it. It would have stuck in your tongue or teeth.” “I didn’t chew the pudding,” groaned Uncle Roger. “It was too tough—I just swallowed the chunks whole.” He groaned and twisted and doubled himself up. But he overdid it. He was not as good an actor as the Story Girl. Felicity looked scornfully at him. “Uncle Roger, you are not one bit sick,” she said deliberately. “You are just putting on.” “Felicity, if I die from the effects of eating sawdust pudding, flavoured with needles, you’ll be sorry you ever said such a thing to your poor old uncle,” said Uncle Roger reproachfully. “Even if there were no needles in it, sixty-year-old sawdust can’t be good for my tummy. I daresay it wasn’t even clean.” “Well, you know every one has to eat a peck of dirt in his life,” giggled Felicity. “But nobody has to eat it all at once,” retorted Uncle Roger, with another groan. “Oh, Sara Stanley, it’s a thankful man I am that your Aunt Olivia is to be home to-night. You’d have me kilt entirely by another day. I believe you did it on purpose to have a story to tell.” Uncle Roger hobbled off to the barn, still holding on to his stomach. “Do you think he really feels sick?” asked the Story Girl anxiously. “No, I don’t,” said Felicity. “You needn’t worry over him. There’s nothing the matter with him. I don’t believe there were any needles in that sawdust. Mother sifted it very carefully.” “I know a story about a man whose son swallowed a mouse,” said the Story Girl, who would probably have known a story and tried to tell it if she were being led to the stake. “And he ran and wakened up a very tired doctor just as he had got to sleep. “‘Oh, doctor, my son has swallowed a mouse,’ he cried. ‘What shall I do?’ “‘Tell him to swallow a cat,’ roared the poor doctor, and slammed his door. “Now, if Uncle Roger has swallowed any needles, maybe it would make it all right if he swallowed a pincushion.” We all laughed. But Felicity soon grew sober. “It seems awful to think of eating a sawdust pudding. How on earth did you make such a mistake?” “It looked just like cornmeal,” said the Story Girl, going from white to red in her shame. “Well, I’m going to give up trying to cook, and stick to things I can do. And if ever one of you mentions sawdust pudding to me I’ll never tell you another story as long as I live.” The threat was effectual. Never did we mention that unholy pudding. But the Story Girl could not so impose silence on the grown-ups, especially Uncle Roger. He tormented her for the rest of the summer. Never a breakfast did he sit down to, without gravely inquiring if they were sure there was no sawdust in the porridge. Not a tweak of rheumatism did he feel but he vowed it was due to a needle, travelling about his body. And Aunt Olivia was warned to label all the pincushions in the house. “Contents, sawdust; not intended for puddings.” About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. L. M. Montgomery (2004). The Story Girl. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/5342/pg5342-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org , located at https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html .

THE PROOF OF THE PUDDING

is part of HackerNoon’s Book Blog Post series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here: . Oliver Twist, by Charles Dickens [LINK TO TABLE OF LINK] CHAPTER VII. OLIVER CONTINUES REFRACTORY Noah Claypole ran along the streets at his swiftest pace, and paused not once for breath, until he reached the workhouse-gate. Having rested here, for a minute or so, to collect a good burst of sobs and an imposing show of tears and terror, he knocked loudly at the wicket; and presented such a rueful face to the aged pauper who opened it, that even he, who saw nothing but rueful faces about him at the best of times, started back in astonishment. “Why, what’s the matter with the boy!” said the old pauper. “Mr. Bumble! Mr. Bumble!” cried Noah, with well-affected dismay: and in tones so loud and agitated, that they not only caught the ear of Mr. Bumble himself, who happened to be hard by, but alarmed him so much that he rushed into the yard without his cocked hat,—which is a very curious and remarkable circumstance: as showing that even a beadle, acted upon a sudden and powerful impulse, may be afflicted with a momentary visitation of loss of self-possession, and forgetfulness of personal dignity. “Oh, Mr. Bumble, sir!” said Noah: “Oliver, sir,—Oliver has—” “What? What?” interposed Mr. Bumble: with a gleam of pleasure in his metallic eyes. “Not run away; he hasn’t run away, has he, Noah?” “No, sir, no. Not run away, sir, but he’s turned wicious,” replied Noah. “He tried to murder me, sir; and then he tried to murder Charlotte; and then missis. Oh! what dreadful pain it is! Such agony, please, sir!” And here, Noah writhed and twisted his body into an extensive variety of eel-like positions; thereby giving Mr. Bumble to understand that, from the violent and sanguinary onset of Oliver Twist, he had sustained severe internal injury and damage, from which he was at that moment suffering the acutest torture. When Noah saw that the intelligence he communicated perfectly paralysed Mr. Bumble, he imparted additional effect thereunto, by bewailing his dreadful wounds ten times louder than before; and when he observed a gentleman in a white waistcoat crossing the yard, he was more tragic in his lamentations than ever: rightly conceiving it highly expedient to attract the notice, and rouse the indignation, of the gentleman aforesaid. The gentleman’s notice was very soon attracted; for he had not walked three paces, when he turned angrily round, and inquired what that young cur was howling for, and why Mr. Bumble did not favour him with something which would render the series of vocular exclamations so designated, an involuntary process? “It’s a poor boy from the free-school, sir,” replied Mr. Bumble, “who has been nearly murdered—all but murdered, sir,—by young Twist.” “By Jove!” exclaimed the gentleman in the white waistcoat, stopping short. “I knew it! I felt a strange presentiment from the very first, that that audacious young savage would come to be hung!” “He has likewise attempted, sir, to murder the female servant,” said Mr. Bumble, with a face of ashy paleness. “And his missis,” interposed Mr. Claypole. “And his master, too, I think you said, Noah?” added Mr. Bumble. “No! he’s out, or he would have murdered him,” replied Noah. “He said he wanted to.” “Ah! Said he wanted to, did he, my boy?” inquired the gentleman in the white waistcoat. “Yes, sir,” replied Noah. “And please, sir, missis wants to know whether Mr. Bumble can spare time to step up there, directly, and flog him—’cause master’s out.” “Certainly, my boy; certainly,” said the gentleman in the white waistcoat: smiling benignly, and patting Noah’s head, which was about three inches higher than his own. “You’re a good boy—a very good boy. Here’s a penny for you. Bumble, just step up to Sowerberry’s with your cane, and see what’s best to be done. Don’t spare him, Bumble.” “No, I will not, sir,” replied the beadle. And the cocked hat and cane having been, by this time, adjusted to their owner’s satisfaction, Mr. Bumble and Noah Claypole betook themselves with all speed to the undertaker’s shop. Here the position of affairs had not at all improved. Sowerberry had not yet returned, and Oliver continued to kick, with undiminished vigour, at the cellar-door. The accounts of his ferocity as related by Mrs. Sowerberry and Charlotte, were of so startling a nature, that Mr. Bumble judged it prudent to parley, before opening the door. With this view he gave a kick at the outside, by way of prelude; and, then, applying his mouth to the keyhole, said, in a deep and impressive tone: “Oliver!” “Come; you let me out!” replied Oliver, from the inside. “Do you know this here voice, Oliver?” said Mr. Bumble. “Yes,” replied Oliver. “Ain’t you afraid of it, sir? Ain’t you a-trembling while I speak, sir?” said Mr. Bumble. “No!” replied Oliver, boldly. An answer so different from the one he had expected to elicit, and was in the habit of receiving, staggered Mr. Bumble not a little. He stepped back from the keyhole; drew himself up to his full height; and looked from one to another of the three bystanders, in mute astonishment. “Oh, you know, Mr. Bumble, he must be mad,” said Mrs. Sowerberry. “No boy in half his senses could venture to speak so to you.” “It’s not Madness, ma’am,” replied Mr. Bumble, after a few moments of deep meditation. “It’s Meat.” “What?” exclaimed Mrs. Sowerberry. “Meat, ma’am, meat,” replied Bumble, with stern emphasis. “You’ve over-fed him, ma’am. You’ve raised a artificial soul and spirit in him, ma’am unbecoming a person of his condition: as the board, Mrs. Sowerberry, who are practical philosophers, will tell you. What have paupers to do with soul or spirit? It’s quite enough that we let ’em have live bodies. If you had kept the boy on gruel, ma’am, this would never have happened.” “Dear, dear!” ejaculated Mrs. Sowerberry, piously raising her eyes to the kitchen ceiling: “this comes of being liberal!” The liberality of Mrs. Sowerberry to Oliver, had consisted of a profuse bestowal upon him of all the dirty odds and ends which nobody else would eat; so there was a great deal of meekness and self-devotion in her voluntarily remaining under Mr. Bumble’s heavy accusation. Of which, to do her justice, she was wholly innocent, in thought, word, or deed. “Ah!” said Mr. Bumble, when the lady brought her eyes down to earth again; “the only thing that can be done now, that I know of, is to leave him in the cellar for a day or so, till he’s a little starved down; and then to take him out, and keep him on gruel all through the apprenticeship. He comes of a bad family. Excitable natures, Mrs. Sowerberry! Both the nurse and doctor said, that that mother of his made her way here, against difficulties and pain that would have killed any well-disposed woman, weeks before.” At this point of Mr. Bumble’s discourse, Oliver, just hearing enough to know that some allusion was being made to his mother, recommenced kicking, with a violence that rendered every other sound inaudible. Sowerberry returned at this juncture. Oliver’s offence having been explained to him, with such exaggerations as the ladies thought best calculated to rouse his ire, he unlocked the cellar-door in a twinkling, and dragged his rebellious apprentice out, by the collar. Oliver’s clothes had been torn in the beating he had received; his face was bruised and scratched; and his hair scattered over his forehead. The angry flush had not disappeared, however; and when he was pulled out of his prison, he scowled boldly on Noah, and looked quite undismayed. “Now, you are a nice young fellow, ain’t you?” said Sowerberry; giving Oliver a shake, and a box on the ear. “He called my mother names,” replied Oliver. “Well, and what if he did, you little ungrateful wretch?” said Mrs. Sowerberry. “She deserved what he said, and worse.” “She didn’t” said Oliver. “She did,” said Mrs. Sowerberry. “It’s a lie!” said Oliver. Mrs. Sowerberry burst into a flood of tears. This flood of tears left Mr. Sowerberry no alternative. If he had hesitated for one instant to punish Oliver most severely, it must be quite clear to every experienced reader that he would have been, according to all precedents in disputes of matrimony established, a brute, an unnatural husband, an insulting creature, a base imitation of a man, and various other agreeable characters too numerous for recital within the limits of this chapter. To do him justice, he was, as far as his power went—it was not very extensive—kindly disposed towards the boy; perhaps, because it was his interest to be so; perhaps, because his wife disliked him. The flood of tears, however, left him no resource; so he at once gave him a drubbing, which satisfied even Mrs. Sowerberry herself, and rendered Mr. Bumble’s subsequent application of the parochial cane, rather unnecessary. For the rest of the day, he was shut up in the back kitchen, in company with a pump and a slice of bread; and at night, Mrs. Sowerberry, after making various remarks outside the door, by no means complimentary to the memory of his mother, looked into the room, and, amidst the jeers and pointings of Noah and Charlotte, ordered him upstairs to his dismal bed. It was not until he was left alone in the silence and stillness of the gloomy workshop of the undertaker, that Oliver gave way to the feelings which the day’s treatment may be supposed likely to have awakened in a mere child. He had listened to their taunts with a look of contempt; he had borne the lash without a cry: for he felt that pride swelling in his heart which would have kept down a shriek to the last, though they had roasted him alive. But now, when there were none to see or hear him, he fell upon his knees on the floor; and, hiding his face in his hands, wept such tears as, God send for the credit of our nature, few so young may ever have cause to pour out before him! For a long time, Oliver remained motionless in this attitude. The candle was burning low in the socket when he rose to his feet. Having gazed cautiously round him, and listened intently, he gently undid the fastenings of the door, and looked abroad. It was a cold, dark night. The stars seemed, to the boy’s eyes, farther from the earth than he had ever seen them before; there was no wind; and the sombre shadows thrown by the trees upon the ground, looked sepulchral and death-like, from being so still. He softly reclosed the door. Having availed himself of the expiring light of the candle to tie up in a handkerchief the few articles of wearing apparel he had, sat himself down upon a bench, to wait for morning. With the first ray of light that struggled through the crevices in the shutters, Oliver arose, and again unbarred the door. One timid look around—one moment’s pause of hesitation—he had closed it behind him, and was in the open street. He looked to the right and to the left, uncertain whither to fly. He remembered to have seen the waggons, as they went out, toiling up the hill. He took the same route; and arriving at a footpath across the fields: which he knew, after some distance, led out again into the road; struck into it, and walked quickly on. Along this same footpath, Oliver well-remembered he had trotted beside Mr. Bumble, when he first carried him to the workhouse from the farm. His way lay directly in front of the cottage. His heart beat quickly when he bethought himself of this; and he half resolved to turn back. He had come a long way though, and should lose a great deal of time by doing so. Besides, it was so early that there was very little fear of his being seen; so he walked on. He reached the house. There was no appearance of its inmates stirring at that early hour. Oliver stopped, and peeped into the garden. A child was weeding one of the little beds; as he stopped, he raised his pale face and disclosed the features of one of his former companions. Oliver felt glad to see him, before he went; for, though younger than himself, he had been his little friend and playmate. They had been beaten, and starved, and shut up together, many and many a time. “Hush, Dick!” said Oliver, as the boy ran to the gate, and thrust his thin arm between the rails to greet him. “Is any one up?” “Nobody but me,” replied the child. “You musn’t say you saw me, Dick,” said Oliver. “I am running away. They beat and ill-use me, Dick; and I am going to seek my fortune, some long way off. I don’t know where. How pale you are!” “I heard the doctor tell them I was dying,” replied the child with a faint smile. “I am very glad to see you, dear; but don’t stop, don’t stop!” “Yes, yes, I will, to say good-b’ye to you,” replied Oliver. “I shall see you again, Dick. I know I shall! You will be well and happy!” “I hope so,” replied the child. “After I am dead, but not before. I know the doctor must be right, Oliver, because I dream so much of Heaven, and Angels, and kind faces that I never see when I am awake. Kiss me,” said the child, climbing up the low gate, and flinging his little arms round Oliver’s neck. “Good-b’ye, dear! God bless you!” The blessing was from a young child’s lips, but it was the first that Oliver had ever heard invoked upon his head; and through the struggles and sufferings, and troubles and changes, of his after life, he never once forgot it. About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved April 2022 from Dickens, Charles,1996. Oliver Twist. https://www.gutenberg.org/files/730/730-h/730-h.htm#chap07 This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at , located at . www.gutenberg.org https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html

Oliver Twist: Chapter VII

"CellarDAO Uncorks a Unique Investment Opportunity: NFT-Enabled Fine Wine and Spirits Investments on the Blockchain" In the fast-paced world of investment, a new player is emerging that gives you a taste of the finer things in life. Introducing CellarDAO Society, a groundbreaking blockchain-powered wine and spirits investment community and NFT marketplace, that's shaking up the market and raising a glass to the future. Diversify Your Portfolio With Liquid Luxury In the words of Forbes, "Wine & Spirits are an excellent source of portfolio diversification," and CellarDAO is here to make it happen. Tired of the volatile cycles of traditional stocks and bonds? CellarDAO brings you a sophisticated alternative: investing in real-world, investment-grade alcohol with remarkable returns. A Marketplace Like No Other What sets CellarDAO apart is its mission to create a dynamic and liquid marketplace for fine wine and spirits investments. 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Cask Tokenization Revolution How does CellarDAO turn barrels of fine wine and spirits into a lucrative investment? They purchase casks and barrels at producer prices and securely store these assets. Then, they tokenize and fractionalize these valuable assets, selling them at two to four times their original value. About CellarDAO Society CellarDAO is a blockchain-powered fine wine & spirits investment platform. It allows members to invest in real-world, investment-grade alcohol and enjoy healthy returns. CellarDAO society’s products include: Wine and spirits RWA casks: https://cellardao.io invests in investment-grade wine and spirits casks on behalf of its community members. $CASK governance token holders will enjoy steady returns, projected between 10% - 18% APY, and participate in the governance of CellarDAO. CellarDAO a Wine and spirits NFTs marketplace: VINTAG3 fractionalizes wine and spirits casks into NFTs, which can be bought and sold on the secondary market. This allows members to invest in wine and spirits even if they cannot afford to buy a whole cask. VINTAG3 CellarDAO Society is a community of wine and spirits enthusiasts who are passionate about learning and investing in this exciting asset class. We believe that wine and spirits are the world's oldest and most enduring alternative investment, and we are committed to making it accessible to everyone. CellarDAO Society is a place where people can come to learn from experts, network with other investors, and gain access to exclusive investment opportunities. We are excited to see what the future holds for our community. Glenn Huybrecht - cofounder The Future Awaits CellarDAO is aiming high, with a target of $25 million in Assets Under Management (AUM) by the end of 2025. As the first movers in the realm of NFT-enabled fine wine and spirits investments, they're setting the stage for a revolution in the way we think about portfolio diversification. 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Cellardao Society on a Mission to Disrupts a Century-Old Industry With On-Chain Real-World Assets

সেলারদাও সোসাইটি অন-চেইন রিয়েল-ওয়ার্ল্ড অ্যাসেট সহ শতাব্দী-পুরাতন শিল্পকে ব্যাহত করার লক্ষ্যে

Die Cellardao Society hat es sich zur Aufgabe gemacht, eine jahrhundertealte Branche mit realen Vermögenswerten in der Kette aufzurütteln

La Sociedad Cellardao tiene la misión de revolucionar una industria centenaria con activos del mundo real en cadena

La société Cellardao a pour mission de perturber une industrie centenaire avec des actifs du monde réel en chaîne

सेलार्डाओ सोसाइटी ऑन-चेन वास्तविक-विश्व संपत्तियों के साथ एक सदी पुराने उद्योग को बाधित करने के मिशन पर है

Cellardao Society は、オンチェーンの現実世界の資産で 100 年続く業界を破壊するという使命を担っています

온체인 실제 자산으로 100년 된 산업을 혁신하려는 사명을 갖고 있는 Cellardao Society

Sociedade Cellardao tem a missão de revolucionar uma indústria centenária com ativos do mundo real na rede

Общество Cellardao стремится разрушить вековую индустрию с помощью реальных активов в цепочке

Cellardao Topluluğu, Zincir İçi Gerçek Dünya Varlıklarıyla Asırlık Bir Endüstriyi Altüst Etme Misyonunda

Hiệp hội Cellardao thực hiện sứ mệnh đột phá một ngành công nghiệp có tuổi đời hàng thế kỷ bằng tài sản trong thế giới thực trên chuỗi

Cellardao Society 的使命是利用链上现实世界资产颠覆百年行业

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