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THOUGHTS ON SCIENCE

MOLLY GIBSON FINDS A CHAMPION.

MOLLY GIBSON TO THE RESCUE.

Scientific American Supplement, No. 711, August 17, 1889, by Various, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book . ON THE OCCURRENCE OF PARAFFINE IN CRUDE PETROLEUM. here ON THE OCCURRENCE OF PARAFFINE IN CRUDE PETROLEUM. It is well known that the paraffine obtained by the distillation of petroleum residues is crystalline, while that obtained directly (as in the filtration of residuum) is amorphous. Ozokerite or ceresine differs but slightly from paraffine, the principal distinction being want of crystalline structure in it as found. Other characteristics, such as the melting point, specific gravity, etc., vary in both, and so are not of importance in a comparison. Hence it has been asked, Is the paraffine occurring in petroleum and ozokerite identical with that which is produced by their distillation? As crystalline paraffine could be obtained from ozokerite by distillation alone, many persons have supposed that it was engendered in the process. Recently, however, crystalline paraffine has been obtained from ozokerite by dissolving the latter in warm amyl alcohol; on cooling the greater part separates out in crystals having the luster of mother-of-pearl. By repetition of this process, a substance is obtained that is scarcely to be distinguished from the paraffine obtained by distillation. Apparently there exists then in ozokerite, together with paraffine, other substances not capable of crystallization which keep the paraffine from crystallizing. These colloids appear to be separated by amyl alcohol in virtue of their greater solubility in that menstruum. It is also reasonable to suppose that they undergo change or decomposition by distillation. So as petroleum residues are amorphous, and the crystalline paraffine is first produced by distillation, it has been argued that the paraffine present in crude petroleum is approximately the same thing as ozokerite. This, however, is not sufficient to establish the pyrogenic origin of all crystallized paraffine, as crystals can be obtained from the amorphous residues by distillation at normal or reduced pressure or in a current of steam. To explain these facts two assumptions are possible. Either the chemical and physical properties of all or some of the solid constituents are changed by the distillation, and the paraffine is changed from the amorphous into the crystalline variety, or the change produced by the distillation takes place in the medium ( , the mother liquid) in which the paraffine exists. The change effected in ozokerite and in petroleum residues when crystalline paraffine is obtained by distillation is to be regarded as a purification, and can be effected partially by treatment with amyl alcohol. In the same way, by repeated treatment of petroleum residuum with amyl alcohol, a substance of melting point 59° C. can be obtained, which cannot be distinguished from ordinary paraffine. i.e. The treatment with amyl alcohol has therefore accomplished the same results as was obtained by distillation, and the action is probably the same, , a partial separation of colloid substance. These facts point to the conclusion that crystallizable paraffine exists ready formed in both petroleum and in ozokerite, but in both cases other colloidal substances prevent its crystallization. By distillation, these colloids appear to be destroyed or changed so as to allow the paraffine to crystallize. i.e. It is a generally known fact that liquids always appear among the products of the distillation of paraffine, no matter in what way the distillation be conducted. This shows that some paraffine is decomposed in the operation. The name has been given to ozokerite and to the paraffine of petroleum in contradistinction to , the name that has been applied to the paraffine obtained by distillation from any source. proto-paraffine pyro-paraffine According to Reichenbach, paraffine may crystallize in three forms: needles, angular grains, and leaflets having the luster of mother-of-pearl. Hofstadter, in an article on the identity of paraffine from different sources, confirmed this statement, and added further that at first needles, then the angular forms, and then the leaflets are formed. Fritsche found, by means of the microscope, in the ethereal solution of ozokerite, very fine and thin crystal leaflets concentrically grouped, and in the alcoholic solution fine irregular leaflets. Zaloziecki has recently developed these microscopic investigations to a much greater extent. According to this observer, the principal part of paraffine, as seen under the microscope, consists of shining stratified leaflets with a darker edge. The most characteristic and well developed crystals are formed by dissolving paraffine in a mixture of ethyl and amyl alcohols and chilling. The crystals are rhombic or hexagonal tablets or leaves, and are quite regularly formed. They are unequally developed in different varieties of paraffine. The best developed are those obtained from ceresine. Their relative size and appearance give an indication as to the purity of the paraffine, and, as they are always present, they are to be counted among the characteristic tests for paraffine. Reichenbach observed that mere traces of empyreumatic oil prevented their formation. The old method of determining the amount of paraffine in petroleum was to carry out the refining process on a small scale; that is, to distill the residue from the kerosene oils to coking, chill out the paraffine, press it thoroughly between filter paper, and weigh the residue. The sources of error in this procedure are manifold; the principal one is the solubility of paraffine in oils, which depends upon the character of both the paraffine and the oil, and also upon the temperature. The next greatest source of error is variation in the process of distillation and the difference between working on the small scale and on the large scale. In most cases, where a paraffine determination is to be carried out, one has to deal with a mixture of paraffine with liquid oils. Now, paraffine is not a substance defined by characteristic physical properties which distinguish it from the liquid portions of petroleum. It consists of a mixture of homologous hydrocarbons, which form a solid under ordinary conditions. The hydrocarbons of this mixture show a gradation in their properties, and gradually approximate to those which are liquid at ordinary temperatures. It is a well known fact that a separation of these homologues is entirely impossible by distillation. It has also been ascertained that the liquid constituents of petroleum do not always possess boiling points that are lower than those of the solid constituents. This shows that we have to deal not merely with hydrocarbons of one, but of several series. When determinations of the amount of paraffine are to be made, then it becomes necessary to specify with exactness what is to be called paraffine. The most definite property that can be made use of for this purpose is the melting point. For several reasons it is convenient to include under this name hydrocarbons of melting point as low as 35°-40° C. The method proposed by Zaloziecki for the determination of paraffine is the following: The most volatile portions of the petroleum are separated by distillation, until the thermometer shows 200° C. These portions are separated, as they exert great solvent action upon paraffine. At the same time he finds that no pyro-paraffine is formed under this temperature. A weighed portion of the residue is taken and mixed with ten parts by weight of amyl alcohol and ten parts of seventy-five per cent. ethyl alcohol: the mixture is then chilled for twelve hours to 0° C. It is then filtered cold, washed first with a mixture of amyl and ethyl alcohols, and then with ethyl alcohol alone. The paraffine is transferred to a small porcelain evaporating dish and dried at 110° C. It is then heated with concentrated sulphuric acid to 150°-160° C. for fifteen to thirty minutes with constant stirring. The acid is then neutralized and the paraffine extracted by petroleum ether. On evaporation of the solvent, the paraffine is dried at 100° C. and weighed. Zaloziecki found, according to this method, in three samples of Galician petroleums, 4.6, 5.8 and 6.5 per cent., respectively, of proto-paraffine. The method was carried out as above with four samples of American petroleums, Colorado oil from Florence, Col.; Warren County oil from Wing Well, Warren, Pa.; Washington oil from Washington County, Pa.; Middle District oil from Butler County, Pa., all furnished by Professor Sadtler. They were very different in physical properties and in appearance, the Colorado oil being a much heavier oil than the others and the Washington oil being an amber oil, while the other two were of the ordinary dark green color and consistence. The losses on distillation to 200° C. were very different, being about one-tenth in the case of the Colorado oil and nearly one-half in the case of the others. The percentages of partially refined proto-paraffine in the four reduced oils (all below 200° C. off) were as follows: for the Colorado oil, 23.9 per cent.; for the Warren oil, 26.5 per cent.; for the Washington oil, 26.6 per cent.; and for the Middle District oil, 28.2 per cent. The question now arises, What value has this determination of the proto-paraffine which may exist in an oil? As before said, a portion of the paraffine is always decomposed in distillation at temperatures sufficiently high to drive over the paraffine oils, so the yield of pyro-paraffine is always less than the proto-paraffine shown to be present originally. Zaloziecki found this in the case of the several Galician oils he examined. Corresponding to the 4.6, 5.8 and 6.5 per cent. of proto-paraffine in the several oils he obtained 2.18, 2.65 and 2.35 per cent., respectively, of pyro-paraffine. For the present, however, the extraction of proto-paraffine on a large scale by means of such solvents as amyl and ethyl alcohols is out of the question on account of their cost. A distillation, under reduced pressure and with superheated steam, would, however, prevent much of the decomposition of the original proto-paraffine and increase the yield of pyro-paraffine. This study of Zaloziecki's method and the examination of American oils was suggested by Professor Sadtler and carried out in his laboratory. An abstract of thesis by E.A. Partridge, class of '89, Univ. of Pa. Read before the Chemical Section of the Franklin Institute by Prof. S.P. Sadtler. 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. Various (2004). Scientific American Supplement, No. 711, August 17, 1889. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/16972/pg16972-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

ON THE OCCURRENCE OF PARAFFINE IN CRUDE PETROLEUM

We had now reached Switzerland

Our escort had been directed to prepare our abode for the night at the inn

Idris stirred and awoke; alas! she awoke to misery.

MR. OSBORNE'S SECRET.

When we arrived at Windsor, I found that Raymond and Perdita had departed for the continent

THE SISTERS OF ALBANO

These women have stood out for driving impact solutions in various sectors. Discover how their determination and talent are leaving an indelible mark on the entrepreneurial world and forging a promising future for the new generations. Female participation in business ecosystems worldwide continues to increase, especially when it comes to leadership positions. Historically, this has been a male-dominated industry across this region but it’s clear the tides are starting to turn. A worldwide trend of more and more into the startup and entrepreneurial sectors is being seen across Asia, LatAm, the United States, and Europe, where female innovators are now inspired to seize leadership opportunities, launch their own companies, and support more women to do the same. women moving And this trend is one that’s predicted to have a positive impact on the corporate world in general. A report from highlights that those companies where three or more women fulfill an executive role register higher performance in organizational effectiveness. UN Women Yet being in charge of a team or a company comes with a great deal of responsibility that requires strong, effective leadership. Yet women moving into executive positions also have the added challenge of tackling the historic gender gap and disparities that still exist. For this reason, it’s important to highlight the achievements of who are driving change and creating impact today and in the future. female leaders Here we present 15 female leaders furthering companies that offer everything from financial solutions and educational platforms to workplace tools and healthcare products, all helping to establish women within the fabric of the global economy. , Co-Founder of Nubank Cristina Junqueira Cristina Junqueira is a Brazilian industrial engineer who graduated from the University of São Paulo. After leaving university, she began working as an associate consultant at the Boston Consulting Group while completing a master’s degree in economic and financial modeling. In 2013, Cristina met Colombian David Vélez and, together with Edward Wible, they founded Nubank, one of the largest digital banks in the world valued at $48 billion dollars. , Co-Founder of Gulp Data Lauren Cascio Lauren Cascio is an entrepreneur who stands out as an angel investor and a long-term contributor to the growth of tech ecosystems. Her knowledge and experience make her an influential figure in the industry, motivating and helping new entrepreneurs navigate the complex world of tech startups. Among her latest ventures is Puerto Rico-based startup Gulp Data, a pioneer in data-backed lending and valuations. Gulp Data uses its machine learning technology to quickly assess the value of a company’s data, offering non-dilutive loans using borrower data as collateral to small and medium-sized businesses. , Project Manager at Source Meridian Daniela Gutierrez Tamayo Daniela Gutiérrez Tamayo is a female developer who stands out as a certified Project Manager and Product Owner, specializing in software development and medical data. With 10 years of experience in this field, Daniela played a crucial role in the creation of Source Meridian, a software development company specializing in technology-based life sciences and healthcare technology. Daniela’s dedication in seeking to improve products and processes, guaranteeing punctual deliveries and actively involving employees in decision-making has been essential in fostering solid and successful relationships. , Co-Founder and CEO of StreamWork Meredith Bailey Meredith Bailey has worked in product marketing at major brands including Apple, Google, YouTube and Warner Bros. where she was responsible for developing and launching some of the world’s most beloved technology products. During her career, she has worked on dozens of campaigns and hundreds of creative assets with cross-functional teams. During her time at these large companies, she felt firsthand the pain points when it came to gathering rounds of feedback and approvals from creative stakeholders. This led her to create StreamWork, the first review, approval and project management platform for creative assets. , Founder and CEO of Colorchain Carolina Hernández Carolina Hernández grew up in a family of entrepreneurs in Colombia, with backgrounds in design, textiles, and energy efficiency. She has a unique blend of medical clinical expertise and global business experience. In 2019 she founded Colorchain with the aim of solving the daily apparel challenges that healthcare professionals face using technology, quality materials, and fair labor conditions. The company currently operates in the United States and large parts of Latin America. Recently, Global Health & Pharma recognized Colorchain as the leading provider of medical apparel supplies. , Co-Founder and CEO of Finematter Caroline Chalmer Caroline Chalme launched Finematter in late 2020 with co-founder Mie Ejdrup. Among their investors is Henrik Holmark, former CFO of the Danish jewelry brand Pandora. Finematter is a global platform for fine jewelry, connecting over 60 of the best independent manufacturers with a new, sustainable-minded online audience. The site launched with 20 jewelers and now has over 100 in the US and UK. , Co-Founder at Remoti Daniella Meneses Daniella Meneses is the Director of Growth and Co-Founder of Remoti, with experience building technology teams and products for growing technology companies. From junior software engineers to CTOs, her team improves client satisfaction and retention by ensuring that when clients receive a profile, the candidate has been vetted, qualified, and meets expectations. Remoti is a company that operates in the recruitment and selection segment for global and multinational companies. Remoti allows companies to achieve their expansion goals by carrying out recruitment and selection processes to find the best talent. , Cofounder at Startuptools.ai Sara Ghazi Sara Ghazi is a Co-Founder at Startuptools.ai and is Board Certified Internal Medicine Physician. Founded with the help of Sara and a group of enthusiasts, Startupstools.ai aims to help entrepreneurs simplify and streamline the path from idea to business execution through its AI-based platform. , Co-Founder of TheVentureCity Clara Bullrich Clara Bullrich is a businesswoman who stands out as an influential woman in the world of finance and entrepreneurship. Clara has forged a 17-year career providing investment advisory services, structuring direct investments, contributing to business development and creating new projects in the United States, Latin America and Europe. Clara stands out for her passion for mentoring, helping executive women in both Latin America and the United States chart their path to success. Along with Laura González Estefani, she co-founded the investment fund TheVentureCity to continue supporting new talent. , Co-Founder of Puscar Buritica Family Office Johana Buriticá Johana Buriticá is a woman leader with a faithful conviction for social causes. From her beginnings as founder and editor-in-chief of VamosCowboys through to co-founding of Puscar Buritica Family Office, whose objective is to contribute to the causes that are positively transforming society in Latin America. As an active example of her contribution to change, Johana led the project to donate computers to schools and sectors in need in Colombia, an example of how ideals can be carried out to improve possibilities and open the future to new generations. , Co-Founder and CEO of threshold.world Lina Pérez Lina Pérez is a prominent technology leader and co-founder of the b.world platform, dedicated to improving and promoting those ventures with a social impact approach. Through her experience, Lina has been a pillar in promoting initiatives that deliver positive change for society. As co-founder of b.world, part of threshold.world, Lina has been an inspiring example for the next generation with her commitment to the improvement and support of social enterprises that create pathways towards a more inclusive and sustainable world. , Co-Founder and CEO of Tech Life Saving María Montoya Maria Montoya is an expert in biotechnology and co-founder and CEO of Tech Live Saving (TLS), a company that focuses on the creation of antidotes against snake venom. The company is part of the Tech Innovation Group (TIG) where she also serves as Vice President. María’s work in executing solutions to face the challenges of wildlife and her role in leading investments in emerging sectors make her an outstanding figure in the business and technological sectors. Co-Founder and CCO of Wayru Paula Ceballos, Paula Ceballos is passionate about technology. Together with Charvel Chedraui and Edward Calderón she founded Wayru, an innovative company on a mission to democratize internet access for the urban developing world. Wayru is a decentralized internet network built on the Algorand Blockchain. It’s implemented, operated, and owned by the people. It democratizes Internet access using technologies such as fiber optics, wireless mesh, unlicensed spectrum, and blockchain. , CEMEX Ventures Leaplab Accelerator Program Leader Karla Arrambide Karla Arrambide is a Mexican who currently leads the Leaplab Acceleration Program promoted by CEMEX Ventures, her corporate venture capital and open innovation unit. She has held roles as Corporate Sustainability Manager, Strategic Supply Manager for the Mexico operations, and Global Energy Advisor. Karla has an MBA in Global Business and Strategy from EGADE Business School and the Belk College of Business at the University of North Carolina, as well as a degree in Chemical Engineering from Tecnológico de Monterrey. With her experience in strategy, engineering and global business, Karla helps CEMEX Ventures Leaplab identify startups with innovative value propositions aligned with the investment and sustainability verticals. This article was originally published by on Stiven Cartagena The Sociable.

Female Entrepreneurs Shattering Barriers in 2023

Mark Twain's Speeches by Mark Twain, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book . THE WEATHER here THE WEATHER ADDRESS AT THE NEW ENGLAND SOCIETY’S SEVENTY FIRST
          ANNUAL DINNER, NEW YORK CITY The next toast was: “The Oldest Inhabitant-The Weather of New England.” “Who can lose it and forget it?
                    Who can have it and regret it?
                    Be interposer ’twixt us Twain.”
                                         —Merchant of Venice. I reverently believe that the Maker who made us all makes everything in New England but the weather. I don’t know who makes that, but I think it must be raw apprentices in the weather-clerk’s factory who experiment and learn how, in New England, for board and clothes, and then are promoted to make weather for countries that require a good article, and will take their custom elsewhere if they don’t get it. There is a sumptuous variety about the New England weather that compels the stranger’s admiration—and regret. The weather is always doing something there; always attending strictly to business; always getting up new designs and trying them on the people to see how they will go. But it gets through more business in spring than in any other season. In the spring I have counted one hundred and thirty-six different kinds of weather inside of four-and-twenty hours. It was I that made the fame and fortune of that man that had that marvellous collection of weather on exhibition at the Centennial, that so astounded the foreigners. He was going to travel all over the world and get specimens from all the climes. I said, “Don’t you do it; you come to New England on a favorable spring day.” I told him what we could do in the way of style, variety, and quantity. Well, he came and he made his collection in four days. As to variety, why, he confessed that he got hundreds of kinds of weather that he had never heard of before. And as to quantity well, after he had picked out and discarded all that was blemished in any way, he not only had weather enough, but weather to spare; weather to hire out; weather to sell; to deposit; weather to invest; weather to give to the poor. The people of New England are by nature patient and forbearing, but there are some things which they will not stand. Every year they kill a lot of poets for writing about “Beautiful Spring.” These are generally casual visitors, who bring their notions of spring from somewhere else, and cannot, of course, know how the natives feel about spring. And so the first thing they know the opportunity to inquire how they feel has permanently gone by. Old Probabilities has a mighty reputation for accurate prophecy, and thoroughly well deserves it. You take up the paper and observe how crisply and confidently he checks off what to-day’s weather is going to be on the Pacific, down South, in the Middle States, in the Wisconsin region. See him sail along in the joy and pride of his power till he gets to New England, and then see his tail drop. He doesn’t know what the weather is going to be in New England. Well, he mulls over it, and by and-by he gets out something about like this: Probably northeast to southwest winds, varying to the southward and westward and eastward, and points between, high and low barometer swapping around from place to place; probable areas of rain, snow, hail, and drought, succeeded or preceded by earthquakes, with thunder and lightning. Then he jots down his postscript from his wandering mind, to cover accidents. “But it is possible that the programme may be wholly changed in the mean time.” Yes, one of the brightest gems in the New England weather is the dazzling uncertainty of it. There is only one thing certain about it: you are certain there is going to be plenty of it—a perfect grand review; but you never can tell which end of the procession is going to move first. You fix up for the drought; you leave your umbrella in the house and sally out, and two to one you get drowned. You make up your mind that the earthquake is due; you stand from under, and take hold of something to steady yourself, and the first thing you know you get struck by lightning. These are great disappointments; but they can’t be helped. The lightning there is peculiar; it is so convincing, that when it strikes a thing it doesn’t leave enough of that thing behind for you to tell whether—Well, you’d think it was something valuable, and a Congressman had been there. And the thunder. When the thunder begins to merely tune up and scrape and saw, and key up the instruments for the performance, strangers say, “Why, what awful thunder you have here!” But when the baton is raised and the real concert begins, you’ll find that stranger down in the cellar with his head in the ash-barrel. Now as to the size of the weather in New England—lengthways, I mean. It is utterly disproportioned to the size of that little country. Half the time, when it is packed as full as it can stick, you will see that New England weather sticking out beyond the edges and projecting around hundreds and hundreds of miles over the neighboring States. She can’t hold a tenth part of her weather. You can see cracks all about where she has strained herself trying to do it. I could speak volumes about the inhuman perversity of the New England weather, but I will give but a single specimen. I like to hear rain on a tin roof. So I covered part of my roof with tin, with an eye to that luxury. Well, sir, do you think it ever rains on that tin? No, sir; skips it every time. Mind, in this speech I have been trying merely to do honor to the New England weather—no language could do it justice. But, after all, there is at least one or two things about that weather (or, if you please, effects produced by it) which we residents would not like to part with. If we hadn’t our bewitching autumn foliage, we should still have to credit the weather with one feature which compensates for all its bullying vagaries—the ice-storm: when a leafless tree is clothed with ice from the bottom to the top—ice that is as bright and clear as crystal; when every bough and twig is strung with ice-beads, frozen dew-drops, and the whole tree sparkles cold and white, like the Shah of Persia’s diamond plume. Then the wind waves the branches and the sun comes out and turns all those myriads of beads and drops to prisms that glow and burn and flash with all manner of colored fires, which change and change again with inconceivable rapidity from blue to red, from red to green, and green to gold—the tree becomes a spraying fountain, a very explosion of dazzling jewels; and it stands there the acme, the climax, the supremest possibility in art or nature, of bewildering, intoxicating, intolerable magnificence. One cannot make the words too strong. 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. Mark Twain (2004). Mark Twain's Speeches. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved October 2022 https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/3188/pg3188-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 WEATHER

Sylvie and Bruno by Lewis Carroll, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here. A BEGGAR'S PALACE CHAPTER V. A BEGGAR'S PALACE That I had said something, in the act of waking, I felt sure: the hoarse stifled cry was still ringing in my ears, even if the startled look of my fellow-traveler had not been evidence enough: but what could I possibly say by way of apology? “I hope I didn't frighten you?” I stammered out at last. “I have no idea what I said. I was dreaming.” “You said 'Uggug indeed!'” the young lady replied, with quivering lips that would curve themselves into a smile, in spite of all her efforts to look grave. “At least—you didn't say it—you shouted it!” “I'm very sorry,” was all I could say, feeling very penitent and helpless. “She has Sylvie's eyes!” I thought to myself, half-doubting whether, even now, I were fairly awake. “And that sweet look of innocent wonder is all Sylvie's too. But Sylvie hasn't got that calm resolute mouth nor that far-away look of dreamy sadness, like one that has had some deep sorrow, very long ago—” And the thick-coming fancies almost prevented my hearing the lady's next words. “If you had had a 'Shilling Dreadful' in your hand,” she proceeded, “something about Ghosts or Dynamite or Midnight Murder—one could understand it: those things aren't worth the shilling, unless they give one a Nightmare. But really—with only a medical treatise, you know—” and she glanced, with a pretty shrug of contempt, at the book over which I had fallen asleep. Her friendliness, and utter unreserve, took me aback for a moment; yet there was no touch of forwardness, or boldness, about the child for child, almost, she seemed to be: I guessed her at scarcely over twenty—all was the innocent frankness of some angelic visitant, new to the ways of earth and the conventionalisms or, if you will, the barbarisms—of Society. “Even so,” I mused, “will Sylvie look and speak, in another ten years.” “You don't care for Ghosts, then,” I ventured to suggest, “unless they are really terrifying?” “Quite so,” the lady assented. “The regular Railway-Ghosts—I mean the Ghosts of ordinary Railway-literature—are very poor affairs. I feel inclined to say, with Alexander Selkirk, 'Their tameness is shocking to me'! And they never do any Midnight Murders. They couldn't 'welter in gore,' to save their lives!” “'Weltering in gore' is a very expressive phrase, certainly. Can it be done in any fluid, I wonder?” “I think not,” the lady readily replied—quite as if she had thought it out, long ago. “It has to be something thick. For instance, you might welter in bread-sauce. That, being white, would be more suitable for a Ghost, supposing it wished to welter!” “You have a real good terrifying Ghost in that book?” I hinted. “How could you guess?” she exclaimed with the most engaging frankness, and placed the volume in my hands. I opened it eagerly, with a not unpleasant thrill (like what a good ghost-story gives one) at the 'uncanny' coincidence of my having so unexpectedly divined the subject of her studies. It was a book of Domestic Cookery, open at the article Bread Sauce.' I returned the book, looking, I suppose, a little blank, as the lady laughed merrily at my discomfiture. “It's far more exciting than some of the modern ghosts, I assure you! Now there was a Ghost last month—I don't mean a real Ghost in in Supernature—but in a Magazine. It was a perfectly flavourless Ghost. It wouldn't have frightened a mouse! It wasn't a Ghost that one would even offer a chair to!” “Three score years and ten, baldness, and spectacles, have their advantages after all!”, I said to myself. “Instead of a bashful youth and maiden, gasping out monosyllables at awful intervals, here we have an old man and a child, quite at their ease, talking as if they had known each other for years! Then you think,” I continued aloud, “that we ought sometimes to ask a Ghost to sit down? But have we any authority for it? In Shakespeare, for instance—there are plenty of ghosts there—does Shakespeare ever give the stage-direction 'hands chair to Ghost'?” The lady looked puzzled and thoughtful for a moment: then she almost clapped her hands. “Yes, yes, he does!” she cried. “He makes Hamlet say 'Rest, rest, perturbed Spirit!”' “And that, I suppose, means an easy-chair?” “An American rocking-chair, I think—” “Fayfield Junction, my Lady, change for Elveston!” the guard announced, flinging open the door of the carriage: and we soon found ourselves, with all our portable property around us, on the platform. The accommodation, provided for passengers waiting at this Junction, was distinctly inadequate—a single wooden bench, apparently intended for three sitters only: and even this was already partially occupied by a very old man, in a smock frock, who sat, with rounded shoulders and drooping head, and with hands clasped on the top of his stick so as to make a sort of pillow for that wrinkled face with its look of patient weariness. “Come, you be off!” the Station-master roughly accosted the poor old man. “You be off, and make way for your betters! This way, my Lady!” he added in a perfectly different tone. “If your Ladyship will take a seat, the train will be up in a few minutes.” The cringing servility of his manner was due, no doubt, to the address legible on the pile of luggage, which announced their owner to be “Lady Muriel Orme, passenger to Elveston, via Fayfield Junction.” As I watched the old man slowly rise to his feet, and hobble a few paces down the platform, the lines came to my lips:— “From sackcloth couch the Monk arose,
    With toil his stiffen'd limbs he rear'd;
    A hundred years had flung their snows
    On his thin locks and floating beard.” {Image...'Come, you be off!'} But the lady scarcely noticed the little incident. After one glance at the 'banished man,' who stood tremulously leaning on his stick, she turned to me. “This is not an American rocking-chair, by any means! Yet may I say,” slightly changing her place, so as to make room for me beside her, “may I say, in Hamlet's words, 'Rest, rest—'” she broke off with a silvery laugh. “—perturbed Spirit!”' I finished the sentence for her. “Yes, that describes a railway-traveler exactly! And here is an instance of it,” I added, as the tiny local train drew up alongside the platform, and the porters bustled about, opening carriage-doors—one of them helping the poor old man to hoist himself into a third-class carriage, while another of them obsequiously conducted the lady and myself into a first-class. She paused, before following him, to watch the progress of the other passenger. “Poor old man!” she said. “How weak and ill he looks! It was a shame to let him be turned away like that. I'm very sorry—” At this moment it dawned on me that these words were not addressed to me, but that she was unconsciously thinking aloud. I moved away a few steps, and waited to follow her into the carriage, where I resumed the conversation. “Shakespeare must have traveled by rail, if only in a dream: 'perturbed Spirit' is such a happy phrase.” “'Perturbed' referring, no doubt,” she rejoined, “to the sensational booklets peculiar to the Rail. If Steam has done nothing else, it has at least added a whole new Species to English Literature!” “No doubt of it,” I echoed. “The true origin of all our medical books—and all our cookery-books—” “No, no!” she broke in merrily. “I didn't mean our Literature! We are quite abnormal. But the booklets—the little thrilling romances, where the Murder comes at page fifteen, and the Wedding at page forty—surely they are due to Steam?” “And when we travel by Electricity if I may venture to develop your theory we shall have leaflets instead of booklets, and the Murder and the Wedding will come on the same page.” “A development worthy of Darwin!”, the lady exclaimed enthusiastically. “Only you reverse his theory. Instead of developing a mouse into an elephant, you would develop an elephant into a mouse!” But here we plunged into a tunnel, and I leaned back and closed my eyes for a moment, trying to recall a few of the incidents of my recent dream. “I thought I saw—” I murmured sleepily: and then the phrase insisted on conjugating itself, and ran into “you thought you saw—he thought he saw—” and then it suddenly went off into a song:— “He thought he saw an Elephant,
    That practised on a fife:
    He looked again, and found it was
    A letter from his wife.
    'At length I realise,' he said,
    “The bitterness of Life!'” And what a wild being it was who sang these wild words! A Gardener he seemed to be yet surely a mad one, by the way he brandished his rake—madder, by the way he broke, ever and anon, into a frantic jig—maddest of all, by the shriek in which he brought out the last words of the stanza! {Image....The gardener} It was so far a description of himself that he had the feet of an Elephant: but the rest of him was skin and bone: and the wisps of loose straw, that bristled all about him, suggested that he had been originally stuffed with it, and that nearly all the stuffing had come out. Sylvie and Bruno waited patiently till the end of the first verse. Then Sylvie advanced alone (Bruno having suddenly turned shy) and timidly introduced herself with the words “Please, I'm Sylvie!” “And who's that other thing?', said the Gardener. “What thing?” said Sylvie, looking round. “Oh, that's Bruno. He's my brother.” “Was he your brother yesterday?” the Gardener anxiously enquired. “Course I were!” cried Bruno, who had gradually crept nearer, and didn't at all like being talked about without having his share in the conversation. “Ah, well!” the Gardener said with a kind of groan. “Things change so, here. Whenever I look again, it's sure to be something different! Yet I does my duty! I gets up wriggle-early at five—” “If I was oo,” said Bruno, “I wouldn't wriggle so early. It's as bad as being a worm!” he added, in an undertone to Sylvie. “But you shouldn't be lazy in the morning, Bruno,” said Sylvie. “Remember, it's the early bird that picks up the worm!” “It may, if it likes!” Bruno said with a slight yawn. “I don't like eating worms, one bit. I always stop in bed till the early bird has picked them up!” “I wonder you've the face to tell me such fibs!” cried the Gardener. To which Bruno wisely replied “Oo don't want a face to tell fibs wiz—only a mouf.” Sylvie discreetly changed the subject. “And did you plant all these flowers?” she said. “What a lovely garden you've made! Do you know, I'd like to live here always!” “In the winter-nights—” the Gardener was beginning. “But I'd nearly forgotten what we came about!” Sylvie interrupted. “Would you please let us through into the road? There's a poor old beggar just gone out—and he's very hungry—and Bruno wants to give him his cake, you know!” “It's as much as my place is worth!” the Gardener muttered, taking a key from his pocket, and beginning to unlock a door in the garden-wall. “How much are it wurf?” Bruno innocently enquired. But the Gardener only grinned. “That's a secret!” he said. “Mind you come back quick!” he called after the children, as they passed out into the road. I had just time to follow them, before he shut the door again. We hurried down the road, and very soon caught sight of the old Beggar, about a quarter of a mile ahead of us, and the children at once set off running to overtake him. Lightly and swiftly they skimmed over the ground, and I could not in the least understand how it was I kept up with them so easily. But the unsolved problem did not worry me so much as at another time it might have done, there were so many other things to attend to. The old Beggar must have been very deaf, as he paid no attention whatever to Bruno's eager shouting, but trudged wearily on, never pausing until the child got in front of him and held up the slice of cake. The poor little fellow was quite out of breath, and could only utter the one word “Cake!” not with the gloomy decision with which Her Excellency had so lately pronounced it, but with a sweet childish timidity, looking up into the old man's face with eyes that loved 'all things both great and small.' The old man snatched it from him, and devoured it greedily, as some hungry wild beast might have done, but never a word of thanks did he give his little benefactor—only growled “More, more!” and glared at the half-frightened children. “There is no more!”, Sylvie said with tears in her eyes. “I'd eaten mine. It was a shame to let you be turned away like that. I'm very sorry—” I lost the rest of the sentence, for my mind had recurred, with a great shock of surprise, to Lady Muriel Orme, who had so lately uttered these very words of Sylvie's—yes, and in Sylvie's own voice, and with Sylvie's gentle pleading eyes! “Follow me!” were the next words I heard, as the old man waved his hand, with a dignified grace that ill suited his ragged dress, over a bush, that stood by the road side, which began instantly to sink into the earth. At another time I might have doubted the evidence of my eyes, or at least have felt some astonishment: but, in this strange scene, my whole being seemed absorbed in strong curiosity as to what would happen next. When the bush had sunk quite out of our sight, marble steps were seen, leading downwards into darkness. The old man led the way, and we eagerly followed. The staircase was so dark, at first, that I could only just see the forms of the children, as, hand-in-hand, they groped their way down after their guide: but it got lighter every moment, with a strange silvery brightness, that seemed to exist in the air, as there were no lamps visible; and, when at last we reached a level floor, the room, in which we found ourselves, was almost as light as day. It was eight-sided, having in each angle a slender pillar, round which silken draperies were twined. The wall between the pillars was entirely covered, to the height of six or seven feet, with creepers, from which hung quantities of ripe fruit and of brilliant flowers, that almost hid the leaves. In another place, perchance, I might have wondered to see fruit and flowers growing together: here, my chief wonder was that neither fruit nor flowers were such as I had ever seen before. Higher up, each wall contained a circular window of coloured glass; and over all was an arched roof, that seemed to be spangled all over with jewels. With hardly less wonder, I turned this way and that, trying to make out how in the world we had come in: for there was no door: and all the walls were thickly covered with the lovely creepers. “We are safe here, my darlings!” said the old man, laying a hand on Sylvie's shoulder, and bending down to kiss her. Sylvie drew back hastily, with an offended air: but in another moment, with a glad cry of “Why, it's Father!”, she had run into his arms. {Image...A beggar's palace} “Father! Father!” Bruno repeated: and, while the happy children were being hugged and kissed, I could but rub my eyes and say “Where, then, are the rags gone to?”; for the old man was now dressed in royal robes that glittered with jewels and gold embroidery, and wore a circlet of gold around his head. 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. Lewis Carroll (1996). Sylvie and Bruno. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved October 2022 https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/620/pg620-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

A BEGGAR'S PALACE

FORTUNE TELLING

The Secret of Chimneys by Agatha Christie, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here . A Dead Man VIII. A Dead Man On that same Thursday afternoon Virginia Revel had been playing tennis at Ranelagh. All the way back to Pont Street, as she lay back in the long, luxurious limousine, a little smile played upon her lips, as she rehearsed her part in the forthcoming interview. Of course it was within the bounds of possibility that the blackmailer might not reappear, but she felt pretty certain that he would. She had shown herself an easy prey. Well, perhaps this time there would be a little surprise for him! When the car drew up at the house, she turned to speak to the chauffeur before going up the steps. “How’s your wife, Walton? I forgot to ask.” “Better I think, ma’am. The doctor said he’d look in and see her about half-past six. Will you be wanting the car again?” Virginia reflected for a minute. “I shall be away for the week-end. I’m going by the 6.40 from Paddington, but I shan’t need you again—a taxi will do for that. I’d rather you saw the doctor. If he thinks it would do your wife good to go away for the week-end, take her somewhere, Walton. I’ll stand the expense.” Cutting short the man’s thanks with an impatient nod of the head, Virginia ran up the steps, delved into her bag in search of her latchkey, remembered she hadn’t got it with her, and hastily rang the bell. It was not answered at once, but as she waited there a young man came up the steps. He was shabbily dressed, and carried in his hand a sheaf of leaflets. He held one out to Virginia with the legend on it plainly visible: “Why Did I Serve my Country?” In his left hand he held a collecting-box. “I can’t buy two of those awful poems in one day,” said Virginia pleadingly. “I bought one this morning. I did, indeed, honour bright.” The young man threw back his head and laughed. Virginia laughed with him. Running her eyes carelessly over him, she thought him a more pleasing specimen than usual of London’s unemployed. She liked his brown face, and the lean hardness of him. She went so far as to wish she had a job for him. But at that moment the door opened, and immediately Virginia forgot all about the problem of the unemployed, for to her astonishment the door was opened by her own maid, Élise. “Where’s Chilvers?” she demanded sharply, as she stepped into the hall. “But he is gone, madame, with the others.” “What others? Gone where?” “But to Datchet, madame—to the cottage, as your telegram said.” “My telegram?” said Virginia, utterly at sea. “Did not madame send a telegram? Surely there can be no mistake. It came but an hour ago.” “I never sent any telegram. What did it say?” “I believe it is still on the table là-bas.” Élise retired, pounced upon it, and brought it to her mistress in triumph. “Voilà, madame!” The telegram was addressed to Chilvers and ran as follows: “Please take household down to cottage at once, and make preparations for week-end party there. Catch 5.49 train.” There was nothing unusual about it, it was just the sort of message she herself had frequently sent before, when she had arranged a party at her riverside bungalow on the spur of the moment. She always took the whole household down, leaving an old woman as caretaker. Chilvers would not have seen anything wrong with the message, and like a good servant had carried out his orders faithfully enough. “Me, I remained,” explained Élise, “knowing that madame would wish me to pack for her.” “It’s a silly hoax,” cried Virginia, flinging down the telegram angrily. “You know perfectly well, Élise, that I am going to Chimneys. I told you so this morning.” “I thought madame had changed her mind. Sometimes that does happen, does it not, madame?” Virginia admitted the truth of the accusation with a half smile. She was busy trying to find a reason for this extraordinary practical joke. Élise cut forward a suggestion. “Mon Dieu!” she cried, clasping her hands. “If it should be the malefactors, the thieves! They send the bogus telegram and get the domestiques all out of the house, and then they rob it.” “I suppose that might be it,” said Virginia doubtfully. “Yes, yes, madame, that is it without a doubt. Every day you read in the papers of such things. Madame will ring up the police at once—at once—before they arrive and cut our throats.” “Don’t get so excited, Élise. They won’t come and cut our throats at six o’clock in the afternoon.” “Madame, I implore you, let me run out and fetch a policeman now, at once.” “What on earth for? Don’t be silly, Élise. Go up and pack my things for Chimneys if you haven’t already done it. The new Cailleuax evening dress, and the white crêpe marocain, and—yes, the black velvet—black velvet is so political, is it not?” “Madame looks ravishing in the eau de nil satin,” suggested Élise, her professional instincts reasserting themselves. “No, I won’t take that. Hurry up, Élise, there’s a good girl. We’ve got very little time. I’ll send a wire to Chilvers at Datchet, and I’ll speak to the policeman on the beat as we go out and tell him to keep an eye on the place. Don’t start rolling your eyes again, Élise—if you get so frightened before anything has happened, what would you do if a man jumped out from some dark corner and stuck a knife into you?” Élise gave vent to a shrill squeak, and beat a speedy retreat up the stairs, darting nervous glances over each shoulder as she went. Virginia made a face at her retreating back, and crossed the hall to the little study where the telephone was. Élise’s suggestion of ringing up the police station seemed to her a good one, and she intended to act upon it without any further delay. She opened the study door and crossed to the telephone. Then, with her hand on the receiver, she stopped. A man was sitting in the big arm-chair, sitting in a curious huddled position. In the stress of the moment, she had forgotten all about her expected visitor. Apparently he had fallen asleep whilst waiting for her. She came right up to the chair, a slightly mischievous smile upon her face. And then suddenly the smile faded. The man was not asleep. He was dead. She knew it at once, knew it instinctively even before her eyes had seen and noted the small shining pistol lying on the floor, the little-singed hole just above the heart with the dark stain round it, and the horrible dropped jaw. She stood quite still, her hands pressed to her sides. In the silence she heard Élise running down the stairs. “Madame! Madame!” “Well, what is it?” She moved quickly to the door. Her whole instinct was to conceal what had happened—for the moment anyway—from Élise. Élise would promptly go into hysterics, she knew that well enough, and she felt a great need for calm and quiet in which to think things out. “Madame, would it not be better if I should draw the chain across the door? These malefactors, at any minute they may arrive.” “Yes, if you like. Anything you like.” She heard the rattle of the chain, and then Élise running upstairs again, and drew a long breath of relief. She looked at the man in the chair and then at the telephone. Her course was quite clear, she must ring up the police at once. But still she did not do so. She stood quite still, paralysed with horror and with a host of conflicting ideas rushing through her brain. The bogus telegram. Had it something to do with this? Supposing Élise had not stayed behind? She would have let herself in—that is, presuming she had had her latchkey with her as usual, to find herself alone in the house with a murdered man—a man whom she had permitted to blackmail her on a former occasion. Of course she had an explanation of that; but thinking of that explanation she was not quite easy in her mind. She remembered how frankly incredible George had found it. Would other people think the same. Those letters now—of course she hadn’t written them, but would it be so easy to prove that? She put her hands on her forehead, squeezing them tight together. “I must think,” said Virginia. “I simply must think.” Who had let the man in? Surely not Élise. If she had done so, she would have been sure to have mentioned the fact at once. The whole thing seemed more and more mysterious as she thought about it. There was really only one thing to be done—ring up the police. She stretched out her hand to the telephone, and suddenly she thought of George. A man—that was what she wanted—an ordinary level-headed, unemotional man who would see things in their proper proportion and point out to her the best course to take. Then she shook her head. Not George. The first thing George would think of would be his own position. He would hate being mixed up in this kind of business. George wouldn’t do at all. Then her face softened. Bill, of course! Without more ado, she rang up Bill. She was informed that he had left half an hour ago for Chimneys. “Oh, damn!” cried Virginia, jamming down the receiver. It was horrible to be shut up with a dead body and to have no one to speak to. And at that minute the front-door bell rang. Virginia jumped. In a few minutes it rang again. Élise, she knew, was upstairs packing and wouldn’t hear it. Virginia went out in the hall, drew back the chain, and undid all the bolts that Élise had fastened in her zeal. Then, with a long breath, she threw open the door. On the steps was the unemployed young man. Virginia plunged headlong with a relief born of overstrung nerves. “Come in,” she said. “I think that perhaps I’ve got a job for you.” She took him into the dining-room, pulled toward a chair for him, sat down herself facing him, and stared at him very attentively. “Excuse me,” she said, “but are you—I mean——” “Eton and Oxford,” said the young man. “That’s what you wanted to ask me, wasn’t it?” “Something of the kind,” admitted Virginia. “Come down in the world entirely through my own incapacity to stick to regular work. This isn’t regular work you’re offering me, I hope?” A smile hovered for a moment on her lips. “It’s very irregular.” “Good,” said the young man in a tone of satisfaction. Virginia noted his bronzed face and long lean body with approval. “You see,” she explained, “I’m in rather a hole, and most of my friends are—well, rather high up. They’ve all got something to lose.” “I’ve nothing whatever to lose. So go ahead. What’s the trouble?” “There’s a dead man in the next room,” said Virginia. “He’s been murdered, and I don’t know what to do about it.” She blurted out the words as simply as a child might have done. The young man went up enormously in her estimation by the way he accepted her statement. He might have been used to hearing a similar announcement made every day of his life. “Excellent,” he said, with a trace of enthusiasm. “I’ve always wanted to do a bit of amateur detective work. Shall we go and view the body, or will you give me the facts first?” “I think I’d better give you the facts.” She paused for a moment to consider how best to condense her story, and then began, speaking quietly and concisely. “This man came to the house for the first time yesterday and asked to see me. He had certain letters with him—love letters, signed with my name——” “But which weren’t written by you,” put in the young man quietly. Virginia looked at him in some astonishment “How did you know that?” “Oh, I deduced it. But go on.” “He wanted to blackmail me—and I—well, I don’t know if you’ll understand, but I—let him.” She looked at him appealingly, and he nodded his head reassuringly. “Of course I understand. You wanted to see what it felt like.” “How frightfully clever of you! That’s just what I did feel.” “I am clever,” said the young man modestly. “But, mind you, very few people would understand that point of view. Most people, you see, haven’t got any imagination.” “I suppose that’s so. I told this man to come back to-day—at six o’clock. I arrived home from Ranelagh to find that a bogus telegram had got all the servants except my maid out of the house. Then I walked into the study and found the man shot.” “Who let him in?” “I don’t know. I think if my maid had done so she would have told me.” “Does she know what has happened?” “I have told her nothing.” The young man nodded, and rose to his feet. “And now to view the body,” he said briskly. “But I’ll tell you this—on the whole it’s always best to tell the truth. One lie involves you in such a lot of lies—and continuous lying is so monotonous.” “Then you advise me to ring up the police?” “Probably. But we’ll just have a look at the fellow first.” Virginia led the way out the room. On the threshold she paused, looking back at him. “By the way,” she said, “you haven’t told me your name yet?” “My name? My name’s Anthony Cade.” 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. Agatha Christie (1998). The Secret of Chimneys. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/65238/pg65238-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 .

A Dead Man

The Golden Road by L. M. Montgomery, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here . THE PATH TO ARCADY CHAPTER XXVIII. THE PATH TO ARCADY October that year gathered up all the spilled sunshine of the summer and clad herself in it as in a garment. The Story Girl had asked us to try to make the last month together beautiful, and Nature seconded our efforts, giving us that most beautiful of beautiful things—a gracious and perfect moon of falling leaves. There was not in all that vanished October one day that did not come in with auroral splendour and go out attended by a fair galaxy of evening stars—not a day when there were not golden lights in the wide pastures and purple hazes in the ripened distances. Never was anything so gorgeous as the maple trees that year. Maples are trees that have primeval fire in their souls. It glows out a little in their early youth, before the leaves open, in the redness and rosy-yellowness of their blossoms, but in summer it is carefully hidden under a demure, silver-lined greenness. Then when autumn comes, the maples give up trying to be sober and flame out in all the barbaric splendour and gorgeousness of their real nature, making of the hills things out of an Arabian Nights dream in the golden prime of good Haroun Alraschid. You may never know what scarlet and crimson really are until you see them in their perfection on an October hillside, under the unfathomable blue of an autumn sky. All the glow and radiance and joy at earth’s heart seem to have broken loose in a splendid determination to express itself for once before the frost of winter chills her beating pulses. It is the year’s carnival ere the dull Lenten days of leafless valleys and penitential mists come. The time of apple-picking had come around once more and we worked joyously. Uncle Blair picked apples with us, and between him and the Story Girl it was an October never to be forgotten. “Will you go far afield for a walk with me to-day?” he said to her and me, one idle afternoon of opal skies, pied meadows and misty hills. It was Saturday and Peter had gone home; Felix and Dan were helping Uncle Alec top turnips; Cecily and Felicity were making cookies for Sunday, so the Story Girl and I were alone in Uncle Stephen’s Walk. We liked to be alone together that last month, to think the long, long thoughts of youth and talk about our futures. There had grown up between us that summer a bond of sympathy that did not exist between us and the others. We were older than they—the Story Girl was fifteen and I was nearly that; and all at once it seemed as if we were immeasurably older than the rest, and possessed of dreams and visions and forward-reaching hopes which they could not possibly share or understand. At times we were still children, still interested in childish things. But there came hours when we seemed to our two selves very grown up and old, and in those hours we talked our dreams and visions and hopes, vague and splendid, as all such are, over together, and so began to build up, out of the rainbow fragments of our childhood’s companionship, that rare and beautiful friendship which was to last all our lives, enriching and enstarring them. For there is no bond more lasting than that formed by the mutual confidences of that magic time when youth is slipping from the sheath of childhood and beginning to wonder what lies for it beyond those misty hills that bound the golden road. “Where are you going?” asked the Story Girl. “To ‘the woods that belt the gray hillside’—ay, and overflow beyond it into many a valley purple-folded in immemorial peace,” answered Uncle Blair. “I have a fancy for one more ramble in Prince Edward Island woods before I leave Canada again. But I would not go alone. So come, you two gay youthful things to whom all life is yet fair and good, and we will seek the path to Arcady. There will be many little things along our way to make us glad. Joyful sounds will ‘come ringing down the wind;’ a wealth of gypsy gold will be ours for the gathering; we will learn the potent, unutterable charm of a dim spruce wood and the grace of flexile mountain ashes fringing a lonely glen; we will tryst with the folk of fur and feather; we’ll hearken to the music of gray old firs. Come, and you’ll have a ramble and an afternoon that you will both remember all your lives.” We did have it; never has its remembrance faded; that idyllic afternoon of roving in the old Carlisle woods with the Story Girl and Uncle Blair gleams in my book of years, a page of living beauty. Yet it was but a few hours of simplest pleasure; we wandered pathlessly through the sylvan calm of those dear places which seemed that day to be full of a great friendliness; Uncle Blair sauntered along behind us, whistling softly; sometimes he talked to himself; we delighted in those brief reveries of his; Uncle Blair was the only man I have ever known who could, when he so willed, “talk like a book,” and do it without seeming ridiculous; perhaps it was because he had the knack of choosing “fit audience, though few,” and the proper time to appeal to that audience. We went across the fields, intending to skirt the woods at the back of Uncle Alec’s farm and find a lane that cut through Uncle Roger’s woods; but before we came to it we stumbled on a sly, winding little path quite by accident—if, indeed, there can be such a thing as accident in the woods, where I am tempted to think we are led by the Good People along such of their fairy ways as they have a mind for us to walk in. “Go to, let us explore this,” said Uncle Blair. “It always drags terribly at my heart to go past a wood lane if I can make any excuse at all for traversing it: for it is the by-ways that lead to the heart of the woods and we must follow them if we would know the forest and be known of it. When we can really feel its wild heart beating against ours its subtle life will steal into our veins and make us its own for ever, so that no matter where we go or how wide we wander in the noisy ways of cities or over the lone ways of the sea, we shall yet be drawn back to the forest to find our most enduring kinship.” “I always feel so SATISFIED in the woods,” said the Story Girl dreamily, as we turned in under the low-swinging fir boughs. “Trees seem such friendly things.” “They are the most friendly things in God’s good creation,” said Uncle Blair emphatically. “And it is so easy to live with them. To hold converse with pines, to whisper secrets with the poplars, to listen to the tales of old romance that beeches have to tell, to walk in eloquent silence with self-contained firs, is to learn what real companionship is. Besides, trees are the same all over the world. A beech tree on the slopes of the Pyrenees is just what a beech tree here in these Carlisle woods is; and there used to be an old pine hereabouts whose twin brother I was well acquainted with in a dell among the Apennines. Listen to those squirrels, will you, chattering over yonder. Did you ever hear such a fuss over nothing? Squirrels are the gossips and busybodies of the woods; they haven’t learned the fine reserve of its other denizens. But after all, there is a certain shrill friendliness in their greeting.” “They seem to be scolding us,” I said, laughing. “Oh, they are not half such scolds as they sound,” answered Uncle Blair gaily. “If they would but ‘tak a thought and mend’ their shrew-like ways they would be dear, lovable creatures enough.” “If I had to be an animal I think I’d like to be a squirrel,” said the Story Girl. “It must be next best thing to flying.” “Just see what a spring that fellow gave,” laughed Uncle Blair. “And now listen to his song of triumph! I suppose that chasm he cleared seemed as wide and deep to him as Niagara Gorge would to us if we leaped over it. Well, the wood people are a happy folk and very well satisfied with themselves.” Those who have followed a dim, winding, balsamic path to the unexpected hollow where a wood-spring lies have found the rarest secret the forest can reveal. Such was our good fortune that day. At the end of our path we found it, under the pines, a crystal-clear thing with lips unkissed by so much as a stray sunbeam. “It is easy to dream that this is one of the haunted springs of old romance,” said Uncle Blair. “‘Tis an enchanted spot this, I am very sure, and we should go softly, speaking low, lest we disturb the rest of a white, wet naiad, or break some spell that has cost long years of mystic weaving.” “It’s so easy to believe things in the woods,” said the Story Girl, shaping a cup from a bit of golden-brown birch bark and filling it at the spring. “Drink a toast in that water, Sara,” said Uncle Blair. “There’s not a doubt that it has some potent quality of magic in it and the wish you wish over it will come true.” The Story Girl lifted her golden-hued flagon to her red lips. Her hazel eyes laughed at us over the brim. “Here’s to our futures,” she cried, “I wish that every day of our lives may be better than the one that went before.” “An extravagant wish—a very wish of youth,” commented Uncle Blair, “and yet in spite of its extravagance, a wish that will come true if you are true to yourselves. In that case, every day WILL be better than all that went before—but there will be many days, dear lad and lass, when you will not believe it.” We did not understand him, but we knew Uncle Blair never explained his meaning. When asked it he was wont to answer with a smile, “Some day you’ll grow to it. Wait for that.” So we addressed ourselves to follow the brook that stole away from the spring in its windings and doublings and tricky surprises. “A brook,” quoth Uncle Blair, “is the most changeful, bewitching, lovable thing in the world. It is never in the same mind or mood two minutes. Here it is sighing and murmuring as if its heart were broken. But listen—yonder by the birches it is laughing as if it were enjoying some capital joke all by itself.” It was indeed a changeful brook; here it would make a pool, dark and brooding and still, where we bent to look at our mirrored faces; then it grew communicative and gossiped shallowly over a broken pebble bed where there was a diamond dance of sunbeams and no troutling or minnow could glide through without being seen. Sometimes its banks were high and steep, hung with slender ashes and birches; again they were mere, low margins, green with delicate mosses, shelving out of the wood. Once it came to a little precipice and flung itself over undauntedly in an indignation of foam, gathering itself up rather dizzily among the mossy stones below. It was some time before it got over its vexation; it went boiling and muttering along, fighting with the rotten logs that lie across it, and making far more fuss than was necessary over every root that interfered with it. We were getting tired of its ill-humour and talked of leaving it, when it suddenly grew sweet-tempered again, swooped around a curve—and presto, we were in fairyland. It was a little dell far in the heart of the woods. A row of birches fringed the brook, and each birch seemed more exquisitely graceful and golden than her sisters. The woods receded from it on every hand, leaving it lying in a pool of amber sunshine. The yellow trees were mirrored in the placid stream, with now and then a leaf falling on the water, mayhap to drift away and be used, as Uncle Blair suggested, by some adventurous wood sprite who had it in mind to fare forth to some far-off, legendary region where all the brooks ran into the sea. “Oh, what a lovely place!” I exclaimed, looking around me with delight. “A spell of eternity is woven over it, surely,” murmured Uncle Blair. “Winter may not touch it, or spring ever revisit it. It should be like this for ever.” “Let us never come here again,” said the Story Girl softly, “never, no matter how often we may be in Carlisle. Then we will never see it changed or different. We can always remember it just as we see it now, and it will be like this for ever for us.” “I’m going to sketch it,” said Uncle Blair. While he sketched it the Story Girl and I sat on the banks of the brook and she told me the story of the Sighing Reed. It was a very simple little story, that of the slender brown reed which grew by the forest pool and always was sad and sighing because it could not utter music like the brook and the birds and the winds. All the bright, beautiful things around it mocked it and laughed at it for its folly. Who would ever look for music in it, a plain, brown, unbeautiful thing? But one day a youth came through the wood; he was as beautiful as the spring; he cut the brown reed and fashioned it according to his liking; and then he put it to his lips and breathed on it; and, oh, the music that floated through the forest! It was so entrancing that everything—brooks and birds and winds—grew silent to listen to it. Never had anything so lovely been heard; it was the music that had for so long been shut up in the soul of the sighing reed and was set free at last through its pain and suffering. I had heard the Story Girl tell many a more dramatic tale; but that one stands out for me in memory above them all, partly, perhaps, because of the spot in which she told it, partly because it was the last one I was to hear her tell for many years—the last one she was ever to tell me on the golden road. When Uncle Blair had finished his sketch the shafts of sunshine were turning crimson and growing more and more remote; the early autumn twilight was falling over the woods. We left our dell, saying good-bye to it for ever, as the Story Girl had suggested, and we went slowly homeward through the fir woods, where a haunting, indescribable odour stole out to meet us. “There is magic in the scent of dying fir,” Uncle Blair was saying aloud to himself, as if forgetting he was not quite alone. “It gets into our blood like some rare, subtly-compounded wine, and thrills us with unutterable sweetnesses, as of recollections from some other fairer life, lived in some happier star. Compared to it, all other scents seem heavy and earth-born, luring to the valleys instead of the heights. But the tang of the fir summons onward and upward to some ‘far-off, divine event’—some spiritual peak of attainment whence we shall see with unfaltering, unclouded vision the spires of some aerial City Beautiful, or the fulfilment of some fair, fadeless land of promise.” He was silent for a moment, then added in a lower tone, “Felicity, you loved the scent of dying fir. If you were here tonight with me—Felicity—Felicity!” Something in his voice made me suddenly sad. I was comforted when I felt the Story Girl slip her hand into mine. So we walked out of the woods into the autumn dusk. We were in a little valley. Half-way up the opposite slope a brush fire was burning clearly and steadily in a maple grove. There was something indescribably alluring in that fire, glowing so redly against the dark background of forest and twilit hill. “Let us go to it,” cried Uncle Blair, gaily, casting aside his sorrowful mood and catching our hands. “A wood fire at night has a fascination not to be resisted by those of mortal race. Hasten—we must not lose time.” “Oh, it will burn a long time yet,” I gasped, for Uncle Blair was whisking us up the hill at a merciless rate. “You can’t be sure. It may have been lighted by some good, honest farmer-man, bent on tidying up his sugar orchard, but it may also, for anything we know, have been kindled by no earthly woodman as a beacon or summons to the tribes of fairyland, and may vanish away if we tarry.” It did not vanish and presently we found ourselves in the grove. It was very beautiful; the fire burned with a clear, steady glow and a soft crackle; the long arcades beneath the trees were illuminated with a rosy radiance, beyond which lurked companies of gray and purple shadows. Everything was very still and dreamy and remote. “It is impossible that out there, just over the hill, lies a village of men, where tame household lamps are shining,” said Uncle Blair. “I feel as if we must be thousands of miles away from everything we’ve ever known,” murmured the Story Girl. “So you are!” said Uncle Blair emphatically. “You’re back in the youth of the race—back in the beguilement of the young world. Everything is in this hour—the beauty of classic myths, the primal charm of the silent and the open, the lure of mystery. Why, it’s a time and place when and where everything might come true—when the men in green might creep out to join hands and dance around the fire, or dryads steal from their trees to warm their white limbs, grown chilly in October frosts, by the blaze. I wouldn’t be much surprised if we should see something of the kind. Isn’t that the flash of an ivory shoulder through yonder gloom? And didn’t you see a queer little elfin face peering at us around that twisted gray trunk? But one can’t be sure. Mortal eyesight is too slow and clumsy a thing to match against the flicker of a pixy-litten fire.” Hand in hand we wandered through that enchanted place, seeking the folk of elf-land, “and heard their mystic voices calling, from fairy knoll and haunted hill.” Not till the fire died down into ashes did we leave the grove. Then we found that the full moon was gleaming lustrously from a cloudless sky across the valley. Between us and her stretched up a tall pine, wondrously straight and slender and branchless to its very top, where it overflowed in a crest of dark boughs against the silvery splendour behind it. Beyond, the hill farms were lying in a suave, white radiance. “Doesn’t it seem a long, long time to you since we left home this afternoon?” asked the Story Girl. “And yet it is only a few hours.” Only a few hours—true; yet such hours were worth a cycle of common years untouched by the glory and the dream. 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 (2008). The Golden Road. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/316/pg316-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 PATH TO ARCADY

The Story Girl by L. M. Montgomery, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here . ON THE EDGE OF LIGHT AND DARK CHAPTER XXXI. ON THE EDGE OF LIGHT AND DARK We celebrated the November day when Peter was permitted to rejoin us by a picnic in the orchard. Sara Ray was also allowed to come, under protest; and her joy over being among us once more was almost pathetic. She and Cecily cried in one another’s arms as if they had been parted for years. We had a beautiful day for our picnic. November dreamed that it was May. The air was soft and mellow, with pale, aerial mists in the valleys and over the leafless beeches on the western hill. The sere stubble fields brooded in glamour, and the sky was pearly blue. The leaves were still thick on the apple trees, though they were russet hued, and the after-growth of grass was richly green, unharmed as yet by the nipping frosts of previous nights. The wind made a sweet, drowsy murmur in the boughs, as of bees among apple blossoms. “It’s just like spring, isn’t it?” asked Felicity. The Story Girl shook her head. “No, not quite. It looks like spring, but it isn’t spring. It’s as if everything was resting—getting ready to sleep. In spring they’re getting ready to grow. Can’t you FEEL the difference?” “I think it’s just like spring,” insisted Felicity. In the sun-sweet place before the Pulpit Stone we boys had put up a board table. Aunt Janet allowed us to cover it with an old tablecloth, the worn places in which the girls artfully concealed with frost-whitened ferns. We had the kitchen dishes, and the table was gaily decorated with Cecily’s three scarlet geraniums and maple leaves in the cherry vase. As for the viands, they were fit for the gods on high Olympus. Felicity had spent the whole previous day and the forenoon of the picnic day in concocting them. Her crowning achievement was a rich little plum cake, on the white frosting of which the words “Welcome Back” were lettered in pink candies. This was put before Peter’s place, and almost overcame him. “To think that you’d go to so much trouble for me!” he said, with a glance of adoring gratitude at Felicity. Felicity got all the gratitude, although the Story Girl had originated the idea and seeded the raisins and beaten the eggs, while Cecily had trudged all the way to Mrs. Jameson’s little shop below the church to buy the pink candies. But that is the way of the world. “We ought to have grace,” said Felicity, as we sat down at the festal board. “Will any one say it?” She looked at me, but I blushed to the roots of my hair and shook my head sheepishly. An awkward pause ensued; it looked as if we would have to proceed without grace, when Felix suddenly shut his eyes, bent his head, and said a very good grace without any appearance of embarrassment. We looked at him when it was over with an increase of respect. “Where on earth did you learn that, Felix?” I asked. “It’s the grace Uncle Alec says at every meal,” answered Felix. We felt rather ashamed of ourselves. Was it possible that we had paid so little attention to Uncle Alec’s grace that we did not recognize it when we heard it on other lips? “Now,” said Felicity jubilantly, “let’s eat everything up.” In truth, it was a merry little feast. We had gone without our dinners, in order to “save our appetites,” and we did ample justice to Felicity’s good things. Paddy sat on the Pulpit Stone and watched us with great yellow eyes, knowing that tidbits would come his way later on. Many witty things were said—or at least we thought them witty—and uproarious was the laughter. Never had the old King orchard known a blither merrymaking or lighter hearts. The picnic over, we played games until the early falling dusk, and then we went with Uncle Alec to the back field to burn the potato stalks—the crowning delight of the day. The stalks were in heaps all over the field, and we were allowed the privilege of setting fire to them. ‘Twas glorious! In a few minutes the field was alight with blazing bonfires, over which rolled great, pungent clouds of smoke. From pile to pile we ran, shrieking with delight, to poke each up with a long stick and watch the gush of rose-red sparks stream off into the night. In what a whirl of smoke and firelight and wild, fantastic, hurtling shadows we were! When we grew tired of our sport we went to the windward side of the field and perched ourselves on the high pole fence that skirted a dark spruce wood, full of strange, furtive sounds. Over us was a great, dark sky, blossoming with silver stars, and all around lay dusky, mysterious reaches of meadow and wood in the soft, empurpled night. Away to the east a shimmering silveryness beneath a palace of aerial cloud foretokened moonrise. But directly before us the potato field, with its wreathing smoke and sullen flames, the gigantic shadow of Uncle Alec crossing and recrossing it, reminded us of Peter’s famous description of the bad place, and probably suggested the Story Girl’s remark. “I know a story,” she said, infusing just the right shade of weirdness into her voice, “about a man who saw the devil. Now, what’s the matter, Felicity?” “I can never get used to the way you mention the—the—that name,” complained Felicity. “To hear you speak of the Old Scratch any one would think he was just a common person.” “Never mind. Tell us the story,” I said curiously. “It is about Mrs. John Martin’s uncle at Markdale,” said the Story Girl. “I heard Uncle Roger telling it the other night. He didn’t know I was sitting on the cellar hatch outside the window, or I don’t suppose he would have told it. Mrs. Martin’s uncle’s name was William Cowan, and he has been dead for twenty years; but sixty years ago he was a young man, and a very wild, wicked young man. He did everything bad he could think of, and never went to church, and he laughed at everything religious, even the devil. He didn’t believe there was a devil at all. One beautiful summer Sunday evening his mother pleaded with him to go to church with her, but he would not. He told her that he was going fishing instead, and when church time came he swaggered past the church, with his fishing rod over his shoulder, singing a godless song. Half way between the church and the harbour there was a thick spruce wood, and the path ran through it. When William Cowan was half way through it SOMETHING came out of the wood and walked beside him.” I have never heard anything more horribly suggestive than that innocent word “something,” as enunciated by the Story Girl. I felt Cecily’s hand, icy cold, clutching mine. “What—what—was IT like?” whispered Felix, curiosity getting the better of his terror. “IT was tall, and black, and hairy,” said the Story Girl, her eyes glowing with uncanny intensity in the red glare of the fires, “and IT lifted one great, hairy hand, with claws on the end of it, and clapped William Cowan, first on one shoulder and then on the other, and said, ‘Good sport to you, brother.’ William Cowan gave a horrible scream and fell on his face right there in the wood. Some of the men around the church door heard the scream, and they rushed down to the wood. They saw nothing but William Cowan, lying like a dead man on the path. They took him up and carried him home; and when they undressed him to put him to bed, there, on each shoulder, was the mark of a big hand, BURNED INTO THE FLESH. It was weeks before the burns healed, and the scars never went away. Always, as long as William Cowan lived, he carried on his shoulders the prints of the devil’s hand.” I really do not know how we should ever have got home, had we been left to our own devices. We were cold with fright. How could we turn our backs on the eerie spruce wood, out of which SOMETHING might pop at any moment? How cross those long, shadowy fields between us and our rooftree? How venture through the darkly mysterious bracken hollow? Fortunately, Uncle Alec came along at this crisis and said he thought we’d better come home now, since the fires were nearly out. We slid down from the fence and started, taking care to keep close together and in front of Uncle Alec. “I don’t believe a word of that yarn,” said Dan, trying to speak with his usual incredulity. “I don’t see how you can help believing it,” said Cecily. “It isn’t as if it was something we’d read of, or that happened far away. It happened just down at Markdale, and I’ve seen that very spruce wood myself.” “Oh, I suppose William Cowan got a fright of some kind,” conceded Dan, “but I don’t believe he saw the devil.” “Old Mr. Morrison at Lower Markdale was one of the men who undressed him, and he remembers seeing the marks,” said the Story Girl triumphantly. “How did William Cowan behave afterwards?” I asked. “He was a changed man,” said the Story Girl solemnly. “Too much changed. He never was known to laugh again, or even smile. He became a very religious man, which was a good thing, but he was dreadfully gloomy and thought everything pleasant sinful. He wouldn’t even eat any more than was actually necessary to keep him alive. Uncle Roger says that if he had been a Roman Catholic he would have become a monk, but, as he was a Presbyterian, all he could do was to turn into a crank.” “Yes, but your Uncle Roger was never clapped on the shoulder and called brother by the devil,” said Peter. “If he had, he mightn’t have been so precious jolly afterwards himself.” “I do wish to goodness,” said Felicity in exasperation, “that you’d stop talking of the—the—of such subjects in the dark. I’m so scared now that I keep thinking father’s steps behind us are SOMETHING’S. Just think, my own father!” The Story Girl slipped her arm through Felicity’s. “Never mind,” she said soothingly. “I’ll tell you another story—such a beautiful story that you’ll forget all about the devil.” She told us one of Hans Andersen’s most exquisite tales; and the magic of her voice charmed away all our fear, so that when we reached the bracken hollow, a lake of shadow surrounded by the silver shore of moonlit fields, we all went through it without a thought of His Satanic Majesty at all. And beyond us, on the hill, the homelight was glowing from the farmhouse window like a beacon of old loves. 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 .

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