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Cerrion

THROUGH THE CARRION CAVES

A lone boy stood, staring at the star-speckled sky, his mind drawn to the girl just a few feet from where he lay. She was a beauty, that one. He couldn’t believe she was his. Every single thing she did screamed Art. The way she linked her fingers together, the way she smiled. The one girl who knew so much about him, yet… she didn’t shy away from his questionable past. As the emotions threatened to pull him under, he shook his head to clear his thoughts and face what was before him. “A shooting star!” She screamed in excitement as she pointed at that far-off speck in the sky, becoming larger and larger by the second. “That is no shooting star.” He managed to say, fear clogging his throat. He took in the lush grass swaying in the night wind, the beauty of the stars that more or less blotted out the sky. Then, he turned to look at the girl on the ground a few feet away. She was sitting up by then, fear morphing her once beautiful features into something unspeakable. “What is that?” Her voice quaked as she asked, and he closed his eyes momentarily to stop the bile from going up his throat. “Our death.” He said, not mincing words. His throat bobbed with unspoken words and something else underlying. “I’ve always loved you. I just- I just wanted you to know. This once.” He squeezed the words out of his mouth, wrangling them like one would do to a piece of wet cloth. “You? I’ve always seen you as just a friend.” She turned towards him then, his eyes red from tears. But he was grateful for that moment. He got her to look at him finally. And her eyes shone with regret. The screams came first as the she saw earlier was big enough to blot out the stars in the sky. And the heat. God, the heat. He felt as though he was being cooked from the inside out. shooting star The sky boiled like a cauldron; giant drops of fire rained down from the clouds, turning the lush green grass into something out of Hades’s fantasy. Blades of grass crumbled before his eyes. Withering without as much as a touch from him and fizzing out of existence, flames taking its place. The greenery is overtaken by the force that darkened the universe and turned rivers into lakes of fire. She screamed the most. He didn’t. He just watched the shooting star fall and gave a small smile. She was never his to own anyway. * Darren. That was his name. The man-boy with the power to manipulate space at his whims. He was a prodigy even among his peers in Earth 75. They had hoverboards to trapeze through space. That’s right, hoverboards. Fuelled with nothing more than gravel and sand. “Gloating again? That’s not very of you.” He rolled his eyes at the voice that came from just behind him. Glenna. His childhood friend. If you can count a hundred years as childhood. Before they settled—before the metamorphosis, they never grew older than the teenage age. But, after settling for five years and being a pain in the butt for half of those he called his cadre, he realized that he was ready for metamorphosis. But then, Glenna wasn’t. Hence, he had to stop halfway and wait for her to be. ladylike “I’m not a lady, for crying out loud. This is argument number what? Five thousand and seven?” He groaned, using flawless fingers to massage his forehead. Glenna just laughed as she walked towards him. Or, more like, she glided. She had more interest in the hoverboards than he did. The room was no larger than two children’s playroom, yet it had enough space due to his meticulousness. Not a strand of space is out of place, exactly how he wanted it to be. “Number five thousand and eight. You missed one.” She laughed, planting a wet kiss on his skin. He would have gone as red as beetroot if she didn’t deftly move the conversation elsewhere. “So, I need to weave a new dress. You’ve been called a genius for so long that it has become music to my ears. I need a strand of space to weave into a cloak I’m almost done making.” She tendered her request before him, and he took in her presence. She was young, after refusing the metamorphosis for the third time. Yet.. she had eyes of peace. The brown of her irises reminded him of worlds he hadn’t dared to touch for fear of breaking them apart. He’d seen them in his wakings. They were peaceful and oh, so beautiful. The serenity in them was what drew him to them at first. “Okay, I will. But why just a strand? Why not a whole chunk?” He asked as she raised her eyebrows at him, and he almost melted into the chair he sat on. If you can call it sitting. It was a haphazard view, an upturned table, yet he was upright. The world he’d come to know extended universes and eternities. It was a world of madness, but at least it was his. “One sec.” He said, raising his hand in mock surrender. Then, everything stopped. As his concentration cleared the level of the primordial beings, he tore a portal through the world. It was a red wiggly thing struggling to close, but he held it open with sheer willpower alone. When he found out that portals were alive, he decided to lord over them one way or another. They didn’t make it easy for him, though. While it wiggled, he stretched a hand into the portal and drew a strand out of that limitless vastness, loping it through his fingers like a struggling worm. It shimmered in and out of existence, blue like the untold skies, red as fiery dragons and demons of worlds he’d only read about. “Got you.” He smiled as he held a strand. Then, the world went to hell. Before he could remove his hand from the portal, it yawned like a gaping chasm and swallowed him whole. He was screaming, but Glenna was still in timeless mode. She wouldn’t know what happened. That is mercy. That has to be. Then, the world shut itself as the portal consumed the world he’d known all of his existence and winked out of reality. The screams didn’t come. Nothing did. * Carrion. That was his name. His name. His name. He tried to hold on to it, but it slipped out of his grasp like an eel, and he followed after it, crawling after his name with it on the tip of his tongue. What was his name again? Ca.. Ca what? What was his name? The man with scars lining his body like the universe's stars was lost. He tried to think. He tried to remember where he was. Yes. He was fighting Archanoid—the mother of spiders. One could even call her a deity. He dodged an incoming web made of madness and silk, woven with anger and hate. She was large, towering above him like he was a pesky fly. He hated that. He was the warrior who battled nightmares and abominations. He had to win. But then, what was his name? His name.. what was it again? He flew out of the way as an incubator shattered where he stood one second earlier. She wasn’t playing. “Foolish mortal. Do you think you can harm me? It doesn’t matter who you are, World Walker. You can’t escape from me.” She spoke, venom dripping out of those pincer-like things. They made a clanging sound as he swallowed, looking into those red eyes that had intelligence to them, something beyond the years. “One last chance. I will give it to you. Remember, pride and ego cannot win this war. Maybe you and the others can.” And then, before he could ask what she meant.. a scary sharp finger elongated from her finger, and she him out like a fly. flicked There was screaming. And then, there was nothing. * He woke up with a groan. There were several groans across him, and he was shocked to realize that he wasn’t dead. He wasn’t scorched. But he didn’t remember what his name was. He remembered her, recognized the girl who took him as a friend before the world became a sea of fire. Why, then, was he unhurt? The others stood on shaky feet, an otherworldly feel to them. There was something he just couldn’t place. They wore things he’d never heard of, or perhaps the dark skins rippling with fire and the darkness of the deep. Maybe it was the blades of darkness in the place where teeth were meant to be, but there was something.. out of place. One of them wore nightmares on his skin; he could see death. Death rippled with muscles and scars that seemed to blot out the skin. But strangely, he didn’t feel fear. “So, an explanation is in order?” He said to no one in particular. Even the being who looked as though he was 25 and 15 at the same time. As though the world couldn’t decide on his age and let him be both instead. He noticed that this being wasn’t standing on his two feet. He was.. hovering. “We’ll see soon enough.” A boy his age spoke, and he stared at him in wonderment, wondering how alike they were. The way the boy squinted made it glaring that he used glasses to see. Same with him. Even though he didn’t even know their names, they were about ten. Some had hands for feet, and others weren’t even walking on the bare ground. They just.. existed. There was no way to explain their existence, so he didn’t bother. “An explanation.. for this. All of this.” Another boy spoke, and he didn’t balk this time. He just waited. “Here it comes.” The boy who spoke was already running. “Here, what comes? What?” He asked, but everybody else had cleared out of that barren field. The world he was in was empty. There is no sign of green. No sign of brown either. It was as though the world was drained out of colour, and no matter where he looked, despair loomed. He felt them before he saw them. He knew who they were before they spoke. And even without an introduction, he knew everything about them. The Destroyers Of Worlds. They smiled; one hovered just like that man-boy. One had skin with uncountable scars. And then, he saw himself. That cruel smile, that deadly presence. He felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. Someone dragged him by the scruff of his hood, and he felt.. everything. There was no other way to describe what happened. Then, he turned to stare at the other him with a cruel smile as that being let out an inferno where he was standing a moment before. It was… hot. But strangely, he wasn’t burning. He wasn’t even singed. He was.. okay. The man-boy dropped him on the ground unceremoniously, and he muttered his thanks, but the others just raised their eyebrows, staring at the beings beyond them. Beings with their faces. Beings with enough power to destroy universes. It was them. Ageless. Timeless. With a snap of a finger, they were gone like they didn’t just lay waste to a large expanse of space. “I think I know what’s going on…” A tenacious finger went up, and the squinted boy was allowed to speak. “That is us. Timeless us. And.. we destroyed our universes. Now.. we have to fight against the us that are world destroyers.” “We don’t have a choice to decline?” The man-boy asked. “We have doomed worlds. This.. is penance.” The boy spoke again, his eyes filled with trepidation and resignation. “So, we were summoned here to kill our future selves? That’s a sick sense of humor.” “This world is sick, and when the Arachnoid told me, I didn’t believe it.” The man with the scars spoke, and his scars seemed alive, melding with his body. “Can you tell us what an Arachnoid is?” Another asked. So, he told them. Everything. “Pride and ego, huh?” A guy spoke, and they finally understood what they had to do. “This is depraved. All of this. Depraved. What the hell?” He spoke, shaking with anger. “Hell doesn’t exist, apparently. Future us made sure the world became it.” A brittle laughter from the man-boy. “This is it, then? We die in a land of no name? Our names were stolen from us. I can’t dredge up a single memory.” The scarred man said, eyes smouldering. I could tell he was pissed off. “This is our penance.” The squinting boy said again, and I was tempted to throw him out of the universe. Such a goody two shoes. “I don’t care. Whatever I have to do, I will do it. And it doesn’t matter who’s on the line. I have to go back home. Also, you can’t fight fire with water. Not in my world, anyway. It takes a monster to kill another. We will take the unorthodox approach. Did they want to seclude us and destroy us? World Walkers, indeed. Bastards more likely. I won’t take that. Neither should any of you. We have the power. Can’t you feel it? We can change things.” The man-boy spoke fervently, his eyes filled with loss, anger, and something else. “That’s right. We won’t let them decide for us. If we have to die, we might as well raise hell before we do. Now, we need a name.” The hooded boy spoke, and the others nodded in approval. “How does sound?” There were hoots of approval, some going as far as clapping. Then, they stared at the sky at once. Drained of colour. But then, the World between Worlds had always been a resting place for World Walkers. The Restorer of Worlds They had to fight. And this time, they had to fight themselves. Their memories returned, and they could see themselves in the past, present, and future—the Destroyer of Worlds. No more. They decided not to make the same mistakes. Not again. This time, they’d restore all they destroyed. As the squinty-eyed kid said, it was penance.

PENANCE 

Doctor Thorne by Anthony Trollope, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book . The Proposal here The Proposal And now the departures from Courcy Castle came rapidly one after another, and there remained but one more evening before Miss Dunstable's carriage was to be packed. The countess, in the early moments of Frank's courtship, had controlled his ardour and checked the rapidity of his amorous professions; but as days, and at last weeks, wore away, she found that it was necessary to stir the fire which she had before endeavoured to slacken. "There will be nobody here to-night but our own circle," said she to him, "and I really think you should tell Miss Dunstable what your intentions are. She will have fair ground to complain of you if you do not." Frank began to feel that he was in a dilemma. He had commenced making love to Miss Dunstable partly because he liked the amusement, and partly from a satirical propensity to quiz his aunt by appearing to fall into her scheme. But he had overshot the mark, and did not know what answer to give when he was thus called upon to make a downright proposal. And then, although he did not care two rushes about Miss Dunstable in the way of love, he nevertheless experienced a sort of jealousy when he found that she appeared to be indifferent to him, and that she corresponded the meanwhile with his cousin George. Though all their flirtations had been carried on on both sides palpably by way of fun, though Frank had told himself ten times a day that his heart was true to Mary Thorne, yet he had an undefined feeling that it behoved Miss Dunstable to be a little in love with him. He was not quite at ease in that she was not a little melancholy now that his departure was so nigh; and, above all, he was anxious to know what were the real facts about that letter. He had in his own breast threatened Miss Dunstable with a heartache; and now, when the time for their separation came, he found that his own heart was the more likely to ache of the two. "I suppose I must say something to her, or my aunt will never be satisfied," said he to himself as he sauntered into the little drawing-room on that last evening. But at the very time he was ashamed of himself, for he knew he was going to ask badly. His sister and one of his cousins were in the room, but his aunt, who was quite on the alert, soon got them out of it, and Frank and Miss Dunstable were alone. "So all our fun and all our laughter is come to an end," said she, beginning the conversation. "I don't know how you feel, but for myself I really am a little melancholy at the idea of parting;" and she looked up at him with her laughing black eyes, as though she never had, and never could have a care in the world. "Melancholy! oh, yes; you look so," said Frank, who really did feel somewhat lackadaisically sentimental. "But how thoroughly glad the countess must be that we are both going," continued she. "I declare we have treated her most infamously. Ever since we've been here we've had all the amusement to ourselves. I've sometimes thought she would turn me out of the house." "I wish with all my heart she had." "Oh, you cruel barbarian! why on earth should you wish that?" "That I might have joined you in your exile. I hate Courcy Castle, and should have rejoiced to leave—and—and—" "And what?" "And I love Miss Dunstable, and should have doubly, trebly rejoiced to leave it with her." Frank's voice quivered a little as he made this gallant profession; but still Miss Dunstable only laughed the louder. "Upon my word, of all my knights you are by far the best behaved," said she, "and say much the prettiest things." Frank became rather red in the face, and felt that he did so. Miss Dunstable was treating him like a boy. While she pretended to be so fond of him she was only laughing at him, and corresponding the while with his cousin George. Now Frank Gresham already entertained a sort of contempt for his cousin, which increased the bitterness of his feelings. Could it really be possible that George had succeeded while he had utterly failed; that his stupid cousin had touched the heart of the heiress while she was playing with him as with a boy? "Of all your knights! Is that the way you talk to me when we are going to part? When was it, Miss Dunstable, that George de Courcy became one of them?" Miss Dunstable for a while looked serious enough. "What makes you ask that?" said she. "What makes you inquire about Mr de Courcy?" "Oh, I have eyes, you know, and can't help seeing. Not that I see, or have seen anything that I could possibly help." "And what have you seen, Mr Gresham?" "Why, I know you have been writing to him." "Did he tell you so?" "No; he did not tell me; but I know it." For a moment she sat silent, and then her face again resumed its usual happy smile. "Come, Mr Gresham, you are not going to quarrel with me, I hope, even if I did write a letter to your cousin. Why should I not write to him? I correspond with all manner of people. I'll write to you some of these days if you'll let me, and will promise to answer my letters." Frank threw himself back on the sofa on which he was sitting, and, in doing so, brought himself somewhat nearer to his companion than he had been; he then drew his hand slowly across his forehead, pushing back his thick hair, and as he did so he sighed somewhat plaintively. "I do not care," said he, "for the privilege of correspondence on such terms. If my cousin George is to be a correspondent of yours also, I will give up my claim." And then he sighed again, so that it was piteous to hear him. He was certainly an arrant puppy, and an egregious ass into the bargain; but then, it must be remembered in his favour that he was only twenty-one, and that much had been done to spoil him. Miss Dunstable did remember this, and therefore abstained from laughing at him. "Why, Mr Gresham, what on earth do you mean? In all human probability I shall never write another line to Mr de Courcy; but, if I did, what possible harm could it do you?" "Oh, Miss Dunstable! you do not in the least understand what my feelings are." "Don't I? Then I hope I never shall. I thought I did. I thought they were the feelings of a good, true-hearted friend; feelings that I could sometimes look back upon with pleasure as being honest when so much that one meets is false. I have become very fond of you, Mr Gresham, and I should be sorry to think that I did not understand your feelings." This was almost worse and worse. Young ladies like Miss Dunstable—for she was still to be numbered in the category of young ladies—do not usually tell young gentlemen that they are very fond of them. To boys and girls they may make such a declaration. Now Frank Gresham regarded himself as one who had already fought his battles, and fought them not without glory; he could not therefore endure to be thus openly told by Miss Dunstable that she was very fond of him. "Fond of me, Miss Dunstable! I wish you were." "So I am—very." "You little know how fond I am of you, Miss Dunstable," and he put out his hand to take hold of hers. She then lifted up her own, and slapped him lightly on the knuckles. "And what can you have to say to Miss Dunstable that can make it necessary that you should pinch her hand? I tell you fairly, Mr Gresham, if you make a fool of yourself, I shall come to a conclusion that you are all fools, and that it is hopeless to look out for any one worth caring for." Such advice as this, so kindly given, so wisely meant, so clearly intelligible, he should have taken and understood, young as he was. But even yet he did not do so. "A fool of myself! Yes; I suppose I must be a fool if I have so much regard for Miss Dunstable as to make it painful for me to know that I am to see her no more: a fool: yes, of course I am a fool—a man is always a fool when he loves." Miss Dunstable could not pretend to doubt his meaning any longer; and was determined to stop him, let it cost what it would. She now put out her hand, not over white, and, as Frank soon perceived, gifted with a very fair allowance of strength. "Now, Mr Gresham," said she, "before you go any further you shall listen to me. Will you listen to me for a moment without interrupting me?" Frank was of course obliged to promise that he would do so. "You are going—or rather you were going, for I shall stop you—to make a profession of love." "A profession!" said Frank making a slight unsuccessful effort to get his hand free. "Yes; a profession—a false profession, Mr Gresham,—a false profession—a false profession. Look into your heart—into your heart of hearts. I know you at any rate have a heart; look into it closely. Mr Gresham, you know you do not love me; not as a man should love the woman whom he swears to love." Frank was taken aback. So appealed to he found that he could not any longer say that he did love her. He could only look into her face with all his eyes, and sit there listening to her. "How is it possible that you should love me? I am Heaven knows how many years your senior. I am neither young nor beautiful, nor have I been brought up as she should be whom you in time will really love and make your wife. I have nothing that should make you love me; but—but I am rich." "It is not that," said Frank, stoutly, feeling himself imperatively called upon to utter something in his own defence. "Ah, Mr Gresham, I fear it is that. For what other reason can you have laid your plans to talk in this way to such a woman as I am?" "I have laid no plans," said Frank, now getting his hand to himself. "At any rate, you wrong me there, Miss Dunstable." "I like you so well—nay, love you, if a woman may talk of love in the way of friendship—that if money, money alone would make you happy, you should have it heaped on you. If you want it, Mr Gresham, you shall have it." "I have never thought of your money," said Frank, surlily. "But it grieves me," continued she, "it does grieve me, to think that you, you, you—so young, so gay, so bright—that you should have looked for it in this way. From others I have taken it just as the wind that whistles;" and now two big slow tears escaped from her eyes, and would have rolled down her rosy cheeks were it not that she brushed them off with the back of her hand. "You have utterly mistaken me, Miss Dunstable," said Frank. "If I have, I will humbly beg your pardon," said she. "But—but—but—" "You have; indeed you have." "How can I have mistaken you? Were you not about to say that you loved me; to talk absolute nonsense; to make me an offer? If you were not, if I have mistaken you indeed, I will beg your pardon." Frank had nothing further to say in his own defence. He had not wanted Miss Dunstable's money—that was true; but he could not deny that he had been about to talk that absolute nonsense of which she spoke with so much scorn. "You would almost make me think that there are none honest in this fashionable world of yours. I well know why Lady de Courcy has had me here: how could I help knowing it? She has been so foolish in her plans that ten times a day she has told her own secret. But I have said to myself twenty times, that if she were crafty, you were honest." "And am I dishonest?" "I have laughed in my sleeve to see how she played her game, and to hear others around playing theirs; all of them thinking that they could get the money of the poor fool who had come at their beck and call; but I was able to laugh at them as long as I thought that I had one true friend to laugh with me. But one cannot laugh with all the world against one." "I am not against you, Miss Dunstable." "Sell yourself for money! why, if I were a man I would not sell one jot of liberty for mountains of gold. What! tie myself in the heyday of my youth to a person I could never love, for a price! perjure myself, destroy myself—and not only myself, but her also, in order that I might live idly! Oh, heavens! Mr Gresham! can it be that the words of such a woman as your aunt have sunk so deeply in your heart; have blackened you so foully as to make you think of such vile folly as this? Have you forgotten your soul, your spirit, your man's energy, the treasure of your heart? And you, so young! For shame, Mr Gresham! for shame—for shame." Frank found the task before him by no means an easy one. He had to make Miss Dunstable understand that he had never had the slightest idea of marrying her, and that he had made love to her merely with the object of keeping his hand in for the work as it were; with that object, and the other equally laudable one of interfering with his cousin George. And yet there was nothing for him but to get through this task as best he might. He was goaded to it by the accusations which Miss Dunstable brought against him; and he began to feel, that though her invective against him might be bitter when he had told the truth, they could not be so bitter as those she now kept hinting at under her mistaken impression as to his views. He had never had any strong propensity for money-hunting; but now that offence appeared in his eyes abominable, unmanly, and disgusting. Any imputation would be better than that. "Miss Dunstable, I never for a moment thought of doing what you accuse me of; on my honour, I never did. I have been very foolish—very wrong—idiotic, I believe; but I have never intended that." "Then, Mr Gresham, what did you intend?" This was rather a difficult question to answer; and Frank was not very quick in attempting it. "I know you will not forgive me," he said at last; "and, indeed, I do not see how you can. I don't know how it came about; but this is certain, Miss Dunstable; I have never for a moment thought about your fortune; that is, thought about it in the way of coveting it." "You never thought of making me your wife, then?" "Never," said Frank, looking boldly into her face. "You never intended really to propose to go with me to the altar, and then make yourself rich by one great perjury?" "Never for a moment," said he. "You have never gloated over me as the bird of prey gloats over the poor beast that is soon to become carrion beneath its claws? You have not counted me out as equal to so much land, and calculated on me as a balance at your banker's? Ah, Mr Gresham," she continued, seeing that he stared as though struck almost with awe by her strong language; "you little guess what a woman situated as I am has to suffer." "I have behaved badly to you, Miss Dunstable, and I beg your pardon; but I have never thought of your money." "Then we will be friends again, Mr Gresham, won't we? It is so nice to have a friend like you. There, I think I understand it now; you need not tell me." "It was half by way of making a fool of my aunt," said Frank, in an apologetic tone. "There is merit in that, at any rate," said Miss Dunstable. "I understand it all now; you thought to make a fool of me in real earnest. Well, I can forgive that; at any rate it is not mean." It may be, that Miss Dunstable did not feel much acute anger at finding that this young man had addressed her with words of love in the course of an ordinary flirtation, although that flirtation had been unmeaning and silly. This was not the offence against which her heart and breast had found peculiar cause to arm itself; this was not the injury from which she had hitherto experienced suffering. At any rate, she and Frank again became friends, and, before the evening was over, they perfectly understood each other. Twice during this long Lady de Courcy came into the room to see how things were going on, and twice she went out almost unnoticed. It was quite clear to her that something uncommon had taken place, was taking place, or would take place; and that should this be for weal or for woe, no good could now come from her interference. On each occasion, therefore, she smiled sweetly on the pair of turtle-doves, and glided out of the room as quietly as she had glided into it. tête-à-tête But at last it became necessary to remove them; for the world had gone to bed. Frank, in the meantime, had told to Miss Dunstable all his love for Mary Thorne, and Miss Dunstable had enjoined him to be true to his vows. To her eyes there was something of heavenly beauty in young, true love—of beauty that was heavenly because it had been unknown to her. "Mind you let me hear, Mr Gresham," said she. "Mind you do; and, Mr Gresham, never, never forget her for one moment; not for one moment, Mr Gresham." Frank was about to swear that he never would—again, when the countess, for the third time, sailed into the room. "Young people," said she, "do you know what o'clock it is?" "Dear me, Lady de Courcy, I declare it is past twelve; I really am ashamed of myself. How glad you will be to get rid of me to-morrow!" "No, no, indeed we shan't; shall we, Frank?" and so Miss Dunstable passed out. Then once again the aunt tapped her nephew with her fan. It was the last time in her life that she did so. He looked up in her face, and his look was enough to tell her that the acres of Greshamsbury were not to be reclaimed by the ointment of Lebanon. Nothing further on the subject was said. On the following morning Miss Dunstable took her departure, not much heeding the rather cold words of farewell which her hostess gave her; and on the following day Frank started for Greshamsbury. 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. Anthony Trollope (2002). Doctor Thorne. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/3166/pg3166-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 , located at www.gutenberg.org https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html.

The Proposal

In a moment we were in a French village

Rilla of Ingleside by L. M. Montgomery, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here . NORMAN DOUGLAS SPEAKS OUT IN MEETING CHAPTER XX. NORMAN DOUGLAS SPEAKS OUT IN MEETING "Where are you wandering, Anne o' mine?" asked the doctor, who even yet, after twenty-four years of marriage, occasionally addressed his wife thus when nobody was about. Anne was sitting on the veranda steps, gazing absently over the wonderful bridal world of spring blossom, Beyond the white orchard was a copse of dark young firs and creamy wild cherries, where the robins were whistling madly; for it was evening and the fire of early stars was burning over the maple grove. Anne came back with a little sigh. "I was just taking relief from intolerable realities in a dream, Gilbert—a dream that all our children were home again—and all small again—playing in Rainbow Valley. It is always so silent now—but I was imagining I heard clear voices and gay, childish sounds coming up as I used to. I could hear Jem's whistle and Walter's yodel, and the twins' laughter, and for just a few blessed minutes I forgot about the guns on the Western front, and had a little false, sweet happiness." The doctor did not answer. Sometimes his work tricked him into forgetting for a few moments the Western front, but not often. There was a good deal of grey now in his still thick curls that had not been there two years ago. Yet he smiled down into the starry eyes he loved—the eyes that had once been so full of laughter, and now seemed always full of unshed tears. Susan wandered by with a hoe in her hand and her second best bonnet on her head. "I have just finished reading a piece in the Enterprise which told of a couple being married in an aeroplane. Do you think it would be legal, doctor dear?" she inquired anxiously. "I think so," said the doctor gravely. "Well," said Susan dubiously, "it seems to me that a wedding is too solemn for anything so giddy as an aeroplane. But nothing is the same as it used to be. Well, it is half an hour yet before prayer-meeting time, so I am going around to the kitchen garden to have a little evening hate with the weeds. But all the time I am strafing them I will be thinking about this new worry in the Trentino. I do not like this Austrian caper, Mrs. Dr. dear." "Nor I," said Mrs. Blythe ruefully. "All the forenoon I preserved rhubarb with my hands and waited for the war news with my soul. When it came I shrivelled. Well, I suppose I must go and get ready for the prayer-meeting, too." Every village has its own little unwritten history, handed down from lip to lip through the generations, of tragic, comic, and dramatic events. They are told at weddings and festivals, and rehearsed around winter firesides. And in these oral annals of Glen St. Mary the tale of the union prayer-meeting held that night in the Methodist Church was destined to fill an imperishable place. The union prayer-meeting was Mr. Arnold's idea. The county battalion, which had been training all winter in Charlottetown, was to leave shortly for overseas. The Four Winds Harbour boys belonging to it from the Glen and over-harbour and Harbour Head and Upper Glen were all home on their last leave, and Mr. Arnold thought, properly enough, that it would be a fitting thing to hold a union prayer-meeting for them before they went away. Mr. Meredith having agreed, the meeting was announced to be held in the Methodist Church. Glen prayer-meetings were not apt to be too well attended, but on this particular evening the Methodist Church was crowded. Everybody who could go was there. Even Miss Cornelia came—and it was the first time in her life that Miss Cornelia had ever set foot inside a Methodist Church. It took no less than a world conflict to bring that about. "I used to hate Methodists," said Miss Cornelia calmly, when her husband expressed surprise over her going, "but I don't hate them now. There is no sense in hating Methodists when there is a Kaiser or a Hindenburg in the world." So Miss Cornelia went. Norman Douglas and his wife went too. And Whiskers-on-the-moon strutted up the aisle to a front pew, as if he fully realized what a distinction he conferred upon the building. People were somewhat surprised that he should be there, since he usually avoided all assemblages connected in any way with the war. But Mr. Meredith had said that he hoped his session would be well represented, and Mr. Pryor had evidently taken the request to heart. He wore his best black suit and white tie, his thick, tight, iron-grey curls were neatly arranged, and his broad, red round face looked, as Susan most uncharitably thought, more "sanctimonious" than ever. "The minute I saw that man coming into the Church, looking like that, I felt that mischief was brewing, Mrs. Dr. dear," she said afterwards. "What form it would take I could not tell, but I knew from face of him that he had come there for no good." The prayer-meeting opened conventionally and continued quietly. Mr. Meredith spoke first with his usual eloquence and feeling. Mr. Arnold followed with an address which even Miss Cornelia had to confess was irreproachable in taste and subject-matter. And then Mr. Arnold asked Mr. Pryor to lead in prayer. Miss Cornelia had always averred that Mr. Arnold had no gumption. Miss Cornelia was not apt to err on the side of charity in her judgment of Methodist ministers, but in this case she did not greatly overshoot the mark. The Rev. Mr. Arnold certainly did not have much of that desirable, indefinable quality known as gumption, or he would never have asked Whiskers-on-the-moon to lead in prayer at a khaki prayer-meeting. He thought he was returning the compliment to Mr. Meredith, who, at the conclusion of his address, had asked a Methodist deacon to lead. Some people expected Mr. Pryor to refuse grumpily—and that would have made enough scandal. But Mr. Pryor bounded briskly to his feet, unctuously said, "Let us pray," and forthwith prayed. In a sonorous voice which penetrated to every corner of the crowded building Mr. Pryor poured forth a flood of fluent words, and was well on in his prayer before his dazed and horrified audience awakened to the fact that they were listening to a pacifist appeal of the rankest sort. Mr. Pryor had at least the courage of his convictions; or perhaps, as people afterwards said, he thought he was safe in a church and that it was an excellent chance to air certain opinions he dared not voice elsewhere, for fear of being mobbed. He prayed that the unholy war might cease—that the deluded armies being driven to slaughter on the Western front might have their eyes opened to their iniquity and repent while yet there was time—that the poor young men present in khaki, who had been hounded into a path of murder and militarism, should yet be rescued— Mr. Pryor had got this far without let or hindrance; and so paralysed were his hearers, and so deeply imbued with their born-and-bred conviction that no disturbance must ever be made in a church, no matter what the provocation, that it seemed likely that he would continue unchecked to the end. But one man at least in that audience was not hampered by inherited or acquired reverence for the sacred edifice. Norman Douglas was, as Susan had often vowed crisply, nothing more or less than a "pagan." But he was a rampantly patriotic pagan, and when the significance of what Mr. Pryor was saying fully dawned on him, Norman Douglas suddenly went berserk. With a positive roar he bounded to his feet in his side pew, facing the audience, and shouted in tones of thunder: "Stop—stop—STOP that abominable prayer! What an abominable prayer!" Every head in the church flew up. A boy in khaki at the back gave a faint cheer. Mr. Meredith raised a deprecating hand, but Norman was past caring for anything like that. Eluding his wife's restraining grasp, he gave one mad spring over the front of the pew and caught the unfortunate Whiskers-on-the-moon by his coat collar. Mr. Pryor had not "stopped" when so bidden, but he stopped now, perforce, for Norman, his long red beard literally bristling with fury, was shaking him until his bones fairly rattled, and punctuating his shakes with a lurid assortment of abusive epithets. "You blatant beast!"—shake—"You malignant carrion"—shake—"You pig-headed varmint!"—shake—"you putrid pup"—shake—"you pestilential parasite"—shake—"you—Hunnish scum"—shake—"you indecent reptile—you—you—" Norman choked for a moment. Everybody believed that the next thing he would say, church or no church, would be something that would have to be spelt with asterisks; but at that moment Norman encountered his wife's eye and he fell back with a thud on Holy Writ. "You whited sepulchre!" he bellowed, with a final shake, and cast Whiskers-on-the-moon from him with a vigour which impelled that unhappy pacifist to the very verge of the choir entrance door. Mr. Pryor's once ruddy face was ashen. But he turned at bay. "I'll have the law on you for this," he gasped. "Do—do," roared Norman, making another rush. But Mr. Pryor was gone. He had no desire to fall a second time into the hands of an avenging militarist. Norman turned to the platform for one graceless, triumphant moment. "Don't look so flabbergasted, parsons," he boomed. "You couldn't do it—nobody would expect it of the cloth—but somebody had to do it. You know you're glad I threw him out—he couldn't be let go on yammering and yodelling and yawping sedition and treason. Sedition and treason—somebody had to deal with it. I was born for this hour—I've had my innings in church at last. I can sit quiet for another sixty years now! Go ahead with your meeting, parsons. I reckon you won't be troubled with any more pacifist prayers." But the spirit of devotion and reverence had fled. Both ministers realized it and realized that the only thing to do was to close the meeting quietly and let the excited people go. Mr. Meredith addressed a few earnest words to the boys in khaki—which probably saved Mr. Pryor's windows from a second onslaught—and Mr. Arnold pronounced an incongruous benediction, at least he felt it was incongruous, for he could not at once banish from his memory the sight of gigantic Norman Douglas shaking the fat, pompous little Whiskers-on-the-moon as a huge mastiff might shake an overgrown puppy. And he knew that the same picture was in everybody's mind. Altogether the union prayer-meeting could hardly be called an unqualified success. But it was remembered in Glen St. Mary when scores of orthodox and undisturbed assemblies were totally forgotten. "You will never, no, never, Mrs. Dr. dear, hear me call Norman Douglas a pagan again," said Susan when she reached home. "If Ellen Douglas is not a proud woman this night she should be." "Norman Douglas did a wholly indefensible thing," said the doctor. "Pryor should have been let severely alone until the meeting was over. Then later on, his own minister and session should deal with him. That would have been the proper procedure. Norman's performance was utterly improper and scandalous and outrageous; but, by George,"—the doctor threw back his head and chuckled, "by George, Anne-girl, it was satisfying." 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 (2003). Rilla of Ingleside. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/3796/pg3796-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.

NORMAN DOUGLAS SPEAKS OUT IN MEETING

Footpath in April lies the Mole

Our Humble Helpers: Familiar Talks on the Domestic Animals by Jean-Henri Fabre, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here . THE PIG CHAPTER XXXIV. THE PIG “There is every reason to believe that the domestic pig is descended from one or another of the numerous kinds of wild boar scattered over Asia—perhaps even from several of them. But the Asiatic wild boar bears so close a resemblance in shape and habits to the European that it will suffice for me to acquaint you with the latter in order to give you a correct idea of the former, and thus show you what the pig must have been in its primitive state. “Though very numerous in early times throughout the forests of France, wild boars are from day to day diminishing in number with us, and are destined sooner or later to disappear altogether, as they have already disappeared from England, where they have now been exterminated to the last one, as is the case also with wolves. This complete extermination is explained by the situation of the country. England is entirely surrounded by the sea. If then the wolf and boar, hunted down as two undesirable neighbors, are at last entirely destroyed, the two species are forever annihilated in the island, since the sea interposes an impassable barrier against new arrivals.” “That is perfectly clear,” assented Emile. “As soon as the last wolf and boar have been killed, the English, protected by the sea that surrounds them, are rid of these animals once for all.” “If we could only rid ourselves of wolves like that!” Louis exclaimed. “Gladly would I see the skin of the last one stuffed with straw and paraded from farm to farm. I will say nothing of the boar, as I don’t know its manner of living.” “The wild boar is also a formidable foe, not to flocks, but to cultivated fields, where it does great damage; besides, it is a brutal beast, rather dangerous to meet in the depths of a forest. In size and shape it closely resembles the common pig, the chief difference being in the boar’s coarse, blackish-red coat; its dorsal bristles, stiff and strong and standing up in anger in a horrible looking mane; its head, longer and more curved; its ears, smaller, more erect, and very mobile; its thick and shorter legs; and, finally, the great stockiness of the body as a whole. The eyes are small but not without expression, becoming quite fiery and ferocious in anger. The eye-teeth of each jaw project in a threatening manner beyond the lips, the lower ones being very long, with a backward curve, sharp edges, and pointed ends, the upper ones shorter and rubbing against the first in such a manner as to serve them as whetstones. From this peculiar function the upper tusks are in fact sometimes likened to grindstones and hence go by the name of grinders, while the lower tusks, terrible in combat, are called defenders. [ ]With its powerful muzzle or snout the boar strikes and overthrows an opponent; with its sharp tusks it rips open and disembowels. The female, or sow, has no tusks, but her bite is most formidable; she accompanies it with a ferocious gnashing of the teeth and an infuriated stamping of the hoofs that would alone prove fatal to the trampled adversary. The cry of both consists in an obstreperous snort, a signal of alarm and surprise; but except in case of danger the brute is usually silent. 326 “The wild boar is fond of vast forests, in which it seeks the darkest and most retired spots where it will not be disturbed by man’s presence. In the daytime it lies in its retreat or lair amid the thickest of brushwood and bushes. In the neighborhood there is generally some sort of muddy pool where it wallows with delight. Toward nightfall it leaves its retreat in search of food. With its snout it plows the ground, always in a straight line, to unearth fleshy roots; it gathers the fruit fallen to the ground, the kernels of cereals, also chestnuts, beech-nuts, hazel-nuts, and acorns, especially the last, its favorite food. But a vegetable diet fails to satisfy its voracity. If it knows of a fish-pond, it plows up the banks to get the eels lurking in the mud; if it knows of a rabbit-burrow, it ransacks it by hollowing out a deep ditch and upturning stones with its powerful snout. It surprises the partridge on its nest and devours mother and brood; it crunches young rabbits in their snug retreat; it lays hold of young fawns in their sleep. Finally, if live prey is wanting, [ ]it gorges itself with carrion. The whole night is passed in predatory raids of this sort, after which the beast regains its lair at the dawn of day. 327 “A wild sow’s litter numbers from three to eight little ones, sometimes called grice. They are white, with tawny or brown stripes running lengthwise. At the age of six months their hair becomes darker, a sort of dirty gray, and they outgrow the name of grice. When two years old their tusks begin to be dangerous, and at an age ranging from three to five years the animal attains its maximum size and strength and is entitled to the name of wild boar. After this, until twenty-five or thirty, the ordinary limit of its life, it is called an old boar or an old hermit, on account of the isolation in which it lives. Then the tusks become blunted and turn in toward the eyes. “Boar-hunting is not without its dangers. If the boar finds itself hard pressed by the pack of hounds pursuing it, the animal takes refuge in some dense thicket of brambles and holly, and forces a passage through the thorny rampart where no other would dare to penetrate. Through the opening thus made rush the dogs, vying with one another in ardor and in barking. There are eight, twelve, fifteen of them; no matter, the boar awaits with firmness its numerous assailants. Backing up against a gnarled stump which protects it in the rear, it sharpens its tusks and works its drivelling jaws. Its mane stands erect on head and back; its little eyes, inflamed with fury, resemble two glowing coals. The boldest dogs [ ]rush to seize it by the ears; it disperses them with a few vigorous blows from its snout, dealt with startling promptness. Some fall back with belly split open, from which the entrails protrude and catch on the bushes; others have a leg broken, a shoulder dislocated, or at least one or two flesh wounds. The dying stretch their legs in the last convulsions of agony, the wounded howl with pain, the least crippled beat a hasty retreat. But reinforcements arrive, bringing back the fugitives to the charge. Then, from the midst of the thicket, an indescribable uproar is heard. To the cries of the pack, howling, barking, and growling in various keys, and to the wild boar’s grunts of rage, are added the crashing sound of underbrush broken in the fierce scrimmage and the shrill notes of the magpies that have flown in all haste to the scene of tumult and from the surrounding tree-tops noisily discuss the event. Finally the boar emerges from the thicket and, drunk with carnage, takes its turn as pursuer. Woe then to the inexperienced hunter who loses his presence of mind or whose shot misses its mark: he might forfeit his life for his unwariness and lack of skill. But let us hope that a bullet, cleverly aimed between the beast’s eyes, will put an end to a battle that has already cost the lives of the best dogs in the pack.” 328 “I see that this is no tame rabbit-hunt,” said Jules. “If any one should come within reach of the fierce brute that the dogs are worrying, he would not, as they say, have much of a picnic.”[ ] 329 “Nevertheless there are men of dauntless courage who go straight for the furious beast and plunge their hunting knife into its heart. But usually the thing is attended with less peril and with no such atrocious ripping-up of the dogs, a sport for the grand seigneurs. Ambushed in a safe place, the hunter awaits the boar and gives it a couple of bullets as it passes; and that is the end of it. If the attack is less spectacular, at least it spares the life of the dog and does not endanger man’s.” “Then I give it preference,” Jules declared, “to that in which a whole pack might be killed. I don’t like that slaughter of dogs, with the boar’s tusks ripping them open there in the underbrush.” “And what do they do with the beast after they have killed him?” asked Louis. “It is a piece of game,” replied Uncle Paul, “that surpasses anything else to be found in our woods. Such a boar, old hermit-boar, as we call him, may weigh as much as two hundred kilograms. That is enough for a feast, I should hope, and all the more so as the flesh is excellent. The piece of honor is the head, the famous boar’s head. “The Asiatic wild boar, from which the domestic pig descends, does not differ from ours in its habits; it is, like ours, a ferocious, coarse, vigorous, bold, voracious animal, a formidable creature to encounter in the dark woods. How has this intractable beast become the pig that we raise? By what care, what gentle treatment, has it been made to lose its ancient savagery? To these questions there is no further [ ]answer than in the case of the dog and the ox. After centuries and centuries of domestication, the first steps in this process of redemption from the wild state have become lost in oblivion. 330 “Despite all its improvement the pig still remains a coarse animal, resembling the wild boar in more than one trait. Like the latter, it feeds on anything and everything; and even more than the latter is it addicted to gluttony. The perils attending its wild state no longer existing, it devotes itself unreservedly to the gratification of its voracious appetite. The pig is a fat-factory: it lives only to eat, digest, and fatten. Its gluttony extends even to the devouring of kitchen refuse, greasy dishwater, nasty leavings, garbage; in fact everything even to excrementitious matter. Ill effects can result from its nosing about in filth to satisfy its gluttony, since it is thus liable to a horrible disease of which we will speak later. Not satisfied with acorns and other viands that go to fill its trough, it turns up the earth with its snout in quest of roots, worms, and fat larvæ. It is always either sleeping, stretched out on its side in the full enjoyment of digestion, or rooting in the ground in the hope of some chance additional tidbit, however small. In the cultivated fields, in prairies and grass-lands, devastation makes rapid progress with such a miner tearing up the ground. To check this mania for excavating, the end of the snout is pierced with two holes through each of which is passed a piece of iron wire, which is then bent into a ring.”[ ] 331 “Oh, I know,” cried Jules. “I have often seen little rings of iron wire at the end of a pig’s snout. I didn’t know what they were for, but now I see. If the pig wants to dig, the iron wire is pressed against the earth and bruises the raw flesh through which it passes; and the pain forces the animal to stop.” “Yes, that is the part played by the rings fixed in the end of the snout.” “And we see pigs, too, with a kind of large wooden triangle around the neck,” Emile put in. “As the pig is not very tractable and pays little heed to the drover’s voice, it is customary, when a number of these animals are taken to the fields, to put around their neck a large triangular wooden collar, which prevents their getting through hedges and overrunning the neighboring cultivated fields. “The pig’s gluttony is proverbial. But let us beware of reproaching it for this. Its voracious appetite transmutes into savory meat and fat quantities of refuse that none of the other domestic animals would eat, and that would be wasted but for its intervention; out of otherwise worthless scraps its strong stomach, which turns at nothing, makes those delectable articles of food so much enjoyed by all of you when they appear in the form of sausages and sausage-cakes. Let us not reproach it, either, for its passionate love of mud, in which it wallows to reduce its temperature. In that it simply inherits the habits of its ancestor, the wild boar, which also delights in the luxury of a mud-bath. Besides, it is more our fault than the pig’s taste. The pig likes a cold bath; [ ]it submits with every indication of satisfaction to being washed and brushed by its keeper. So fond is it of cleanliness that it alone of all the domestic animals hesitates to soil its bed with its excrement. Why then does the word pig suggest the idea of dirtiness? Here we are to blame, more often than not. Let the pig be given clean water for its bath, and it will turn its back on the foul mud that it contents itself with for want of something better; let its premises be kept clean, and the poor animal will be highly delighted, much preferring a sanitary straw bed to a filthy hole. By these attentions to cleanliness the animal will be the gainer, and we shall profit likewise. 332 “In lifetime the pig is of no use to us, unless it be in hunting for truffles, an exercise in which it excels by reason of the extraordinary development of its nose and the keenness of its scent. Yet even for this service the dog is preferred, as being better fitted for exploring uneven ground, more active, and more intelligent. It is after its death that the pig pays us for the care bestowed upon it. Let us be present at this event, a festive occasion for the family. “Fattened for a long time on potatoes, excellent for making flesh, and on acorns, which give firmness and savor to the meat, the porker can hardly stand on its short legs. It sleeps and digests in a reclining posture, lying lazily on its side. From its neck hang three and four great cushions of fat; under its belly are seen ponderous masses of lard; the [ ]rump is well rounded, the back padded with fat. The animal is ripe for the knife. At the break of day it is aroused from its sweet repose and sacrificed in the midst of piercing cries of protest against so cruel a fate. With torches of burning straw the bristles are burnt off, after which the body is well scraped and washed, then opened and cut up. Now the housewife proceeds to the work of salting and curing this rich store of provision. Every member of the family comes to her aid. Here, over a big fire, in a resplendent copper kettle, the lard is tried out and poured into pots, where it hardens and turns as white as snow. Yonder the black puddings are hardening in boiling water. Over there some one is busily plying a big chopping-knife, mincing the meat that is to go into sausages, which will be wound in a long garland about two laths and hung from the ceiling opposite the fireplace to get a good drying. In still another place the ham is being made ready for wrapping in linen and hanging in a corner under the chimney mantel to assure its preservation. On a screen are spread the most important parts of the animal, the chine and flanks, covered with a layer of salt. And the housewife’s heart is filled with content as she views her cupboards and larders stored with provisions for a year to come. 333 “Now, these provisions, on which the housekeeper’s hopes are based, would speedily decay and become unfit for food without the use of salt. A piece of meat left to itself soon gives out a bad smell and undergoes putrefaction. The higher the temperature [ ]and the damper the air, the more rapid the rate of decay. That is why the approach of winter and as far as possible a dry time are chosen for the annual pig-killing. Salt in liberal quantities is used for preserving the meat, lard, and fat. Salted meat dries without becoming tainted, and keeps for a long time, though not indefinitely, since sooner or later it turns rancid. Nevertheless salting is the best way to preserve meat. 334 “Another process, discovered long ago and very efficacious, consists in exposing the meat to the action of smoke from burning wood. That is why salted hams are hung in the chimney-corner. But on the farm it usually happens that too little attention is paid to this method of curing: it is deemed sufficient to place the hams within reach of the smoke from the fireplace without any covering to protect them. Hence the meat becomes covered with soot, black juices permeate it, and putrefaction sets in. To avoid this mishap it is enough to wrap the hams in two layers of linen, which sifts the smoke, keeps out the soot, and admits only the vapors really adapted to the preservation of the meat without blackening it and giving it a disagreeable taste. “In various countries, Germany and England for example, smoking is practised on a large scale for curing beef as well as pork. Three or four rooms with low ceilings and communicating with one another by means of openings are connected with a fireplace at some distance, in which oak shavings and aromatic plants are burnt. The largest pieces are [ ]hung in the first room on poles or iron hooks, the medium-sized pieces are hung in the second, and the smallest are relegated to the last room. The smoke, on account of the comparative remoteness of the fireplace, is cold when it reaches the first compartment, where it acts with full force on the large pieces of meat, the hardest to penetrate. Thence it passes to the second compartment, and finally to the third, thus in proportion to its loss of strength encountering pieces less resistant to its action. As food, smoked meat is preferable to salted: it tastes better and is easier to digest. 335 “Smoking is also applied to fish. You have a well-known example in the herring. This fish, as it comes from the grocer, is sometimes silvery white, sometimes golden red. In the first state he calls it white herring; in the second, red herring. The difference is in the way it is cured. Directly after being caught, the herrings are opened, cleaned, washed, and put to soak in brine, that is to say in a strong solution of salt. About fifteen hours later they are taken out, put to drip, and finally packed in casks in regular layers. The product of this process is the white herring, so named because the fish, simply salted and put up in casks, keeps its beautiful silvery color. Smoking produces the so-called red herring, recognizable from its golden-yellow tint and smoky smell. The fresh fish are first of all strongly salted by being left thirty hours in the brine; then they are attached to small twigs or branches passed through the gills, after which they are hung in a sort of fireplace [ ]where green wood is burnt, which gives out little flame and torrents of smoke. It is here that the herring takes on its red color and its slightly smoky smell.” 336 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. Jean-Henri Fabre (2022). Our Humble Helpers: Familiar Talks on the Domestic Animals. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/67073/pg67073-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 PIG

Our Humble Helpers: Familiar Talks on the Domestic Animals by Jean-Henri Fabre, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here . THE JACKAL CHAPTER XIX. THE JACKAL “What you have just told us, Uncle Paul,” Jules remarked, “is not unlike what navigators tell us of the life of savages.” “Nevertheless,” rejoined his uncle, “it is our own history, my friend; it is really a chapter of French history.” “I never read anything like it in my history-book.” “Your schoolbooks generally begin with the Frankish chief, Pharamond, at an epoch when civilization had already made considerable progress, and when agriculture and grazing had been known for a long time. My story goes back to a much earlier period, one almost lost in the darkness of the past, and shows us man in his painful beginnings, unskilled and almost wholly dependent on hunting for his food and clothing. “In that state of extreme destitution in which the day’s supply of food depended, above all, on fleetness of foot and quickness of scent, the dog was the most precious of acquisitions. With its aid, first the game fell more abundantly under the stone hatchet and flint-head arrow; then came the possibility of the herd, which, furnishing a reserve of [ ]food, freed man from the alternation of famine and abundance, and gave him leisure to devise means for the improvement of his condition. Then the ox was tamed, the horse mastered, the sheep domesticated, and finally came agriculture, preëminent source of our well-being. That is how the tattooed hunters of our country lost the barbarism of their habits and advanced from one stage of progress to another, until they became the cultivated race from which we are descended. First in Asia, then throughout all Europe, a similar development took place: everywhere the dog was the first and most valuable of man’s conquests, and everywhere the dog has represented the first element of progress. Without the dog, no such thing as human society, says an old book of the East, whence this most serviceable animal came. And the old book is a thousand times right, for without the dog the chase in old times would have been too little productive to satisfy the devouring hunger of a very thinly scattered population; without the dog, no herds or flocks, no assured food, and consequently no leisure, for the inexorable necessity of providing food would have occupied the whole time. Without leisure, no attempt at culture, no observations leading to the birth of science, no reflections bearing fruit in manufactures and commerce. The primitive mode of life was a hand-to-mouth existence, with a slice of broiled urus or elk to stay the cravings of hunger. A surfeit one day was followed by fasting the next; it all depended on the chances of the hunt. Hatchets continued to be [ ]fashioned out of stone, the tattooing of the body in blue went on, and at the entrance to the hut the enemy’s head was still nailed as a horrible trophy of war.” 182 183 “I see,” said Louis, “how immensely useful the dog has been and still is to us; so I should like to know at what time and by whom this valuable animal was trained for our service.” “No one could give a satisfactory answer to that question. The taming of the dog goes back to the earliest times and all remembrance of it is lost. There is the same deep obscurity as to its origin and the wild species from which it is descended. Nowhere has the dog been seen by travelers in its primitive state, in a state of complete independence. If some dogs are found leading a wild life, they are runaways; that is to say, dogs that have fled from domestic life to live as they please in desert regions. Such are those that burrow and hunt for themselves in the vast plains of South America. They are certainly descended from domestic dogs carried thither by Europeans; for at the time of its discovery, nearly four centuries ago, the New World had no dogs. All that can be affirmed is that the dog came to us from Asia already trained for man’s use. Apparently Asia made a gift to Europe of the oldest known domestic animals, such as the ox, the ass, and the hen. “On account of the almost infinite variety in respect to its coat, its shape, and its size, it is suspected that the dog is not derived from a single source but comes from various species that have been improved [ ]by man and profoundly modified in their characteristics by cross-breeding. Among these wild species to which is given the honor of being regarded as ancestors of the domestic dog, I will mention the jackal, which abounds in Africa as well as Asia. 184 Jackal “The jackal looks a little like the wolf, but is smaller and is harmless to man. Its coat is red, varied with white under the stomach and black on the back. It has a pointed muzzle and erect ears. Its timidity causes it to feed on the remnants left over by animals bolder and stronger than itself. When the gorged lion abandons its half-devoured prey, the jackals, crouching in the neighborhood and waiting until his lordship has finished, hasten up in companies to the disdained carcass and clean it to the bone. For the same reason the jackal frequents in troops the outskirts of villages and encampments in the hope of finding garbage and carrion. In the daytime it stays quietly in its den among the rocks, but at nightfall it issues forth in quest of food with a sort of sharp howling that continues all night. There is nothing so disagreeable as the nocturnal concert of a band of jackals prowling around dwellings. One of them begins with a cry something like argee in a very piercing and prolonged tone. Scarcely has it finished when a second takes up the [ ]refrain and improves upon it; then a third and a fourth, until the whole band has joined in, producing a veritable charivari composed of a mixed chorus of discordant howls. After this musical feat, solos are in order again, interspersed with choral productions; and so it goes on until daybreak. Such is the infernal music that awaits the sleeper every night.” 185 “Oh, what disagreeable neighbors!” exclaimed Jules. “If the dog had kept any of those detestable habits it would be a very troublesome animal, useful though it is.” “The dog shows not seldom, it must be admitted, a mania for making the night hideous; but it cannot be reproached with anything comparable to the jackal’s concert. The dog has two cries, without counting those that are secondary. One of the two is natural, the howl; the other artificial, the bark. Is it necessary to point out to you the difference between the two?” “I know what you mean, Uncle,” Jules was quick to reply. “The dog howls when it gives a long, wild cry, so mournful and terrifying in the night; it barks when it gives those short, jerky yelps. It howls from fright, sadness, ennui; it barks with joy and pleasure.” “Yes, that is it. I told you, then, that howling is the dog’s natural voice. In it can be found, but with a very different action of the throat and a less sharp tone, something of the jackal’s cry. As for the bark, it is an artificial utterance; that is to say, [ ]it has been acquired. Dogs that have gone back to the wild state, as for example those of South America, can no longer bark. Deserters from civilization, they have lost the language and are reduced to their primitive howling, which they share with the jackal and the wolf.” 186 “And how does a dog learn to bark when it is with us?” “It learns by hearing its fellows, the other dogs, bark. If it were brought up far from its own kind, it would never know how to bark, any more than we could speak our language if we had never heard it spoken. Well, the jackal also can acquire the habit of barking by education. Placed in company with the dog, which by its example initiates it into a new language, it barks at first badly, then a little better, then well, and in a short time the scholar almost equals the master. “The primitive species, if it really is the jackal, must have, as you see, undergone profound changes affecting even its most inveterate habits, to become the domestic dog. It must have lost its habit of nocturnal prowling, forgotten its predilection for concerts of ear-piercing cries, learned to bark, and, what is far more difficult, exchanged its timidity for boldness. Another improvement was indispensable. The jackal gives forth from all over its body a strong fishy smell. To become the companion of man and to live in his home, the animal had to be rid of this infection. That is what the progress of time has done almost completely: to-day the dog has scarcely [ ]any odor except when warm from rapid hunting; but it is likely, in view of its presumed origin, that in the beginning the dog was not precisely a bouquet of roses beside its master. Doubtless it was denied access to the hut, which it would have infected with its odor, and was relegated to a distant spot outside in the open air. 187 “Those are not all the jackal’s defects. It is true the animal is easily tamed, but without acquiring the docility and attachment of the dog. When pressed by hunger, it is gentle and caressing toward the master who gives it something to eat; when satiated, it shows its teeth and tries to bite if any one reaches out to take hold of it. Children, whom dogs so love to play with, do not gain its confidence any more than grown people. Whoever should try to pull its tail in play would certainly get bitten.” “Our Medor has a much better disposition,” said Emile; “the more pranks I play with him, the better he likes it. I’d a good deal rather play with him than with a stinking jackal.” “Medor owes his excellent qualities, particularly his honest, dogged patience, to the extraordinary pains taken during long centuries to improve his breed; but certainly the primitive dog must have been a pretty rough playmate for little boys. He did not allow any one to pull his mustache, did not give the paw, did not play dead with four legs in the air, did not wait for the command to jump and snap the crust of bread placed on the tip of his nose. The jackal, docile only when hungry, shows you [ ]what could be expected from Medor’s surly ancestors.” 188 “Then even with much care the tame jackal never acquires the dog’s gentleness?” queried Louis. “Never. Some, more tractable than others, grow a little more gentle, but without ever becoming entirely submissive. They always retain something of their primitive wildness and cannot be left wholly free without committing misdeeds or even running away from home.” “If thorough taming is impossible, I don’t see how the dog can come from the jackal.” “Complete domestication does not take place so quickly as you think, my dear friend. A long succession of individuals is necessary, transmitting from one to another the desired aptitudes, and increasing them by turning to account such gain as may be noted in the best examples of each new generation. Let us assume that in ancient times man had taken into his keeping the half-tamed jackal, such as we could to-day possess ourselves of. However surly it may remain, the animal will be better after several years’ education than it was at the beginning. With continued care the good qualities acquired, though weak, will, as we say of the snowball, increase by rolling. In fact it is a rule, as well with beasts as with us, that the son inherits the father’s qualities, good or bad. Thus the jackal’s little ones, brought up with man, will from their birth be half-tamed, as were their parents. As character is far from being the same in a whole family, [ ]some will be wilder, others more submissive. The first are rejected, the second kept, as soon as it is possible to recognize this diversity of disposition. Here, then, the sons, with continued training, become superior to the fathers. The same care, the same selection, in the third generation, will insure increased progress in the grandchildren. The acquired improvement will be transmitted by inheritance to the great-grandchildren, these will still further add to it, and it will be inherited by their descendants, or, if not by all, at least by some. These latter will be raised in preference to the others. However slight the progress from one generation to the next, it will continually be added to by the intervention of man who always selects for breeding purposes the most promising offspring, until, little by little, in course of time the beast that was intractable in the beginning at last becomes docile. 189 “This onward march, which is kept up by accumulating in the animal, through inheritance, the qualities desired, by always picking out the individual possessing these qualities in the highest degree, is called selection, meaning choice or sorting. The method of selection, which to-day still renders the greatest service to the perfecting of species, has doubtless played an important part in the domestication of the dog; but that alone is not what has made the dog such as we now have him. The astonishing variety of dogs can only be explained by the multiplex origin of the animal and the crossing of the various breeds. I have just told you of one species, the [ ]common jackal, which is suspected to be one of the dog’s ancestors. To finish what I have to say on this exceedingly obscure question, I will add a few words concerning a second species. 190 “There is found in the mountains of Abyssinia a jackal with very slender body, an arched abdomen, long and narrow head, long, upward-curling tail—in short, a veritable greyhound in every respect except that it has erect instead of drooping ears. Everything induces belief that this jackal is the progenitor of our greyhound. “I will end with this conclusion of one of our most learned masters on the origin of domestic animals: ‘Existing in great numbers in Asia, where, history tells us, the dog was first domesticated, jackals commonly live within reach of human habitations, to which they sometimes make their way of their own accord. They are eminently sociable, are easily tamed, and become attached to their masters. They associate freely with the dog. Finally, and this trait dispels my last lingering doubt as to their kinship, they resemble in the highest degree, both in shape and in color, and even in voice where they have learned to bark, the least modified of the canine species. In several countries the resemblance between jackals and dogs is so striking that it has led all travelers who have had an opportunity to compare these animals on the spot to the same conclusion: the jackal and the dog represent respectively the parent stock and the scion, and are to be found reunited again in various parts of Asia and Africa.’ ” 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. Jean-Henri Fabre (2022). Our Humble Helpers: Familiar Talks on the Domestic Animals. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/67073/pg67073-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 .

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