daneallred

The Plodder's Mile -- Chapter Twelve

CHAPTER TWELVE

As the sun was coming up, Ray was looking for a good place to hide the car, but all there was in this part of the state was farms. He began looking for a dirt road to go down, and maybe he would be able to find some thick growth to hide the car in. On the left of the road, Ray saw a gap in the trees, and just past the big red barn, he turned down the road. It wound around for quite a while, and Ray decided after about half a mile that he was far enough from the main road and the thick trees here would hide the car, too. He pulled over and got out of the car and stretched. Ray had been driving for about two hours, and the way he figured, if he waited the rest of this day, cops wouldn’t looking as hard for Larry’s car as they do right away.

As he stretched, Ray decided it was time to admire his handiwork, and grabbed the bundle from the back seat. Pulling off the wrapping, Ray admired the green bills. Then he cut through the twine that was holding the whole package together. He pulled off the first bill and saw the stack of paper underneath. He flipped down a few more. Paper.

Pulling the stack in half, he tossed the paper to the ground, looking desperately for the money for which he had killed two people. At the bottom of the pile he found nine more bills. He counted the total take – only $1800!

Ray kicked the side of the car, putting a huge dent in the door. He screamed out loud to no one in particular. He grabbed the paper which had surrounded the bundle and pulled it flat, searching for another $100 bill. It was then he saw the evidence sticker that was stuck to the bottom of the wrapper.

John Graham. 130 Walnut. A phone number. It was a receipt for $1800.

Ray stared at the paper for over a minute, trying to turn over the possibilities. The police had pulled him in like a fish. But did the police have the money? It could be in a bank safe somewhere else, but then why would this guy’s name be on it? They used the $1800 to get him to come collect the bundle, probably hoping to catch him then. Well, the cop who thought that up was either dead or had a bullet hole in him. But what about this address?

Slowly Ray walked around the car, pushing the fake paper bills away from the car with his feet. The wind was blowing them down the dirt road. He took the $1800 from his pocket and looked closely at them. The serial numbers were consecutive. But the rest of the money was missing.

What did it mean?

John Graham was at home thinking hard about the mess he had created for himself. A gangster was out there somewhere wondering where the rest of his money had gone. His best friend had been shot because John wanted to keep money he found on the railroad tracks. His wife kept asking him what was wrong.

He decided to go jogging and think. “I’m sorry, Reba,” John explained. “I think I’m just worried about Greg. I’ll be back in just a bit.” Then he was out the door. He began thinking about running his fourth marathon. He wished he was running a marathon right now. Then he would have five hours to think.

Five hours was a terrible time for most marathon runners. But John was just proud to be able to finish, even though the runners who won the race could have run the course twice in that amount of time. It really did give you a sense of accomplishment to finish 26.2 miles, even if you were plodding while you were doing it.

When you hit the 18 and 19 mile markers you weren’t sure if you would make it. Even though the biggest part was behind you, the “wall” runners talk about hitting becomes a massive stone behemoth ready to fall across you. And at that point in the race, you would be happy for a wall of rock to fall on you. But the 20 mile mark was magic, because you knew only 6.1 miles was left. The difference between 6.1 and 7.1 miles might as well have been 10 miles instead of just one.

Maybe he was just in the last mile before the ending was in sight. Would he give up the money now, and regret not having gone that last mile? Just like when he was running a marathon, John thought to himself that most difficulties were overcome by mental toughness, and not necessarily by sheer strength. John jogged across the railroad tracks again, thinking about how these tracks had started the problems he now found himself in.

John dug in and decided he could have the mental toughness to finish what he had started. This “wall” he felt pressing up against him would be temporary. Unless the real “wall” was hidden somewhere up ahead.

Ray was a slow thinker, but he was methodical. It only took about an hour, and he thought he had figured out where the money was, and what this guy named John Graham had done. Ray figured this guy had hid it somewhere, probably in his house, and was hoping the bank wouldn’t figure it out. Maybe this John guy hoped Ray would get caught, go to jail for the robbery and the money would never be found.

Ray clenched his fists at the thought of someone else spending the money while he rotted in jail. There was no way that was going to happen, and Ray had a pretty good idea how to get his money back.

Then Ray noticed some motion further down the road. As the shape in the distance got closer, Ray could tell it was a man carrying a gun. It could be a hunter, or it could be the cops. But then why would one person being walking up, without even a warning? Just to be safe, Ray hid the revolver in his coat pocket.

“Howdy.” The man in the overalls spoke first.

“Hey,” said Ray. “Out hunting?”

“Nah, just out shooting some old ammunition,” said the old timer, who looked to be over 70 to Ray. “Car trouble?”

“Nah. Just needed to stretch my legs for a while. I thought this road maybe led to a lake or somethin’,” said Ray, relaxing a bit.

“There is a lake just around the corner of the fence”, pointed the old geezer, using his gun to point and then waving it in Ray’s direction. Ray tried hard not to flinch.

“Thanks. I might drive down and check it out,” said Ray. “Good fishing in the lake?”

“Not bad” said the man. “Just be careful about the game warden. He don’t like it when I catch too many fish.” The old guy chuckled, and Ray got back in his car and said “thanks” again. Ray thought he might just camp out by the lake until tomorrow. Spending a night by the lake wouldn’t be too bad, and by then the heat should be off.

A gunshot made Ray jump in his seat. He looked back in the car mirror. A crow fluttered to the ground. The old guy walked over and kicked it with his foot.

It was after 8:30 by the time Greg arrived back at Paula’s room. As he knocked slowly, he could hear her in the room straightening up. Probably making him wait because he made her wait. Well, he was late.

But when the door opened, Paula’s face turned from irritation to concern. “What was happened to you?”

“I’ve been shot.”

He wasn’t sure she believed him, but then she looked from his arm, up to his face and then back to his arm. She couldn’t get him in the room and down on a chair fast enough.

Ray sat quietly by the lake planning his revenge. He hoped there was a family in the picture, because that always made getting what you wanted easier. Every once in a while, he heard the old farmer’s rifle, and Ray pictured John Graham being shot by Larry’s gun – being held in Ray’s hand. Too bad he didn’t have a picture to make the visualization complete. That would come later.

“You mean you got shot because of my report!” Paula pushed Greg’s good shoulder, which made him wince because his whole body moved. She was immediately repentant, saying, “Oh, I’m sorry, did that hurt your arm? I can’t believe you almost got killed because of me.” She was on the verge of tears.

“Calm down, it’s not your fault,” said Greg. “Remember, I’m the one who made the phone call and asked you to do the story. We just didn’t think this guy would be so serious about getting his money so soon.”

“We?”

“Sorry,” Greg apologized, “we means Smitty – Harold Smith, one of my old friends who is the state investigator. You’ve met him.”

Paula looked confused. “But I thought you told me he didn’t get his money, just a small part of it.”

“Yeah, but he didn’t know all the money wasn’t there, and I purposely decided not to tell you. And you were smart enough not to ask,” smiled Greg, wondering why of all the jerks in the world, she had settle on this jerk who had just admitted using her.

“Don’t you ever ask me to put you in danger again,” she warned. “I’ve spent far too much time trying to get to this point in my life without you dying on me.” She reinforced the point by gently sitting down next to him and laying her head on his chest. “You need me around to take care of you, it looks like,” she purred. “And I sure as hell need you around to take care of me.”

LITERATURE OUT LOUD

Click here for a complete INDEX

LITERATURE OUT LOUD -- see and hear great literature Audio narrations with synchronized visual text

The Complete Collection of

SHAKESPEARE'S SONNETS

all 154 poems $3.99 DVD with FREE shipping

Essential Oils -- create your own business -- click on the logo to begin

Click on the player to hear an audio version of this piece Chapter Twelve

The Plodder's Mile -- Chapter Eleven

The Plodder’s Mile

CHAPTER ELEVEN

By that time most of the neighbors had been alerted by the gunshot, and the police captain’s house is where most people decided to check first. Before long a crowd had gathered in the front room of Captain Greg Jones. Widow McGregor had stopped the bleeding from the shoulder, and mopped up the blood on Jones’ face, but he was still out cold.

Many of his neighbors milled about the room wondered just what had happened, and after congratulating each other on their bravery, wondered if the person who had wounded their police captain was still somewhere close by, waiting to shoot them, too.

While they had called 911, any medical help would take about 30 minutes to reach the small town. That’s about the time someone got the bright idea to call the state police, and get some more protection here in their town. There had never been much more than accidental gunshot wounds in Ridgeway, and there had been that excitement several years ago with the drug dealer and the car chase.

But it was especially unnerving to see your police captain, the man you depended upon for protection, bleeding in his own hallway. It was at times like these the townspeople were grateful that someone else took the risks to protect them. But if their protection was out of commission, how were they supposed to feel protected?

Luckily, it was now that Greg Jones sat up and put his hand on his jaw, rubbing slowly. Looking around at his neighbors, and seeing the fear in their faces he said, “Did anyone get the license number of that truck?”

Ray had the keys to the safe, transportation, and a weapon. He didn’t intend to stay in Ridgeway a second longer that was necessary, because it didn’t seem to him that the shot he gokilled the cop. He wasn’t planning on staying around to see if the cop followed him to where they both knew he was going. The station.

The shack Ridgeway called a police station was an embarrassment. It was so run down and dilapidated that no one ever talked of fixing the place up, just what kind of building to have next. Most people favored moving it to the old woolen mills, which had been empty for 25 years and whose roof leaked in most places.

It wasn’t hard for Ray to break a window and unlock the door. Even easier was finding the safe, since it seemed to be the only reinforced part of the entire structure. Having both keys made all that reinforcement unnecessary. No one ever anticipated both officers being attacked.

Ray was into the safe and grabbed the bundle in seconds. He rummaged around for anything else valuable and decided that Ridgeway must have been a very dull town indeed. He tucked the bundle under his arm and quickly walked to Larry’s car. With the bundle, the car, Larry’s gun and a substantial head-start on anyone who might want to follow, Ray decided to drive away from town, away from Tommy in his cell, and toward the bank they had originally robbed. The cops would never think of looking for him in that direction. Now all he had to do was find a place to hide for a day or two.

Smitty was on the way to Ridgeway when the call for help came. He listened to the details, and reflexively sped the car up when he heard his good friend’s name mentioned. Smitty had seen the news broadcast earlier that night, and cursed himself for suggesting it to Greg. He had forgotten Greg was being chased by that cute blond from WGHH. He never imagined when he gave Greg the suggestion that the story would show up on the news that same night. He had wanted a couple of days to get some surveillance set up.

As soon as he saw the story on the television, Smitty knew there would be trouble, and this call about Greg being shot only confirmed his fears. This criminal was quick, and Smitty kicked himself for not thinking all this through. Of course the guy would come back for the money, because he thought only he knew where the drop-off had been. When he saw the news that night, that short guy who had ditched his partner must have done a back flip thinking he knew where the money was. Smitty also thought he knew why Greg had been shot.

The short guy wanted the vault key.

“So, if I am finally reading this right,” muttered Smitty to himself, “we are dealing with a pro. Someone who isn’t afraid to shoot a cop, or anyone else.” His thoughts raced, and he reached out the window to set the bubble gum machine turning. He sped up even faster.

John Graham stood looking at his friend Greg Jones. Widow McGregor had fixed him up so fast there was practically no blood on his arm at all. Greg was up walking back and forth in his kitchen, tethered to the phone by a cord that was too short. He had tried to call his deputy, but there had been no answer.

Greg was now trying to get Smitty on the phone. He was also unavailable, and no one could tell Officer Jones where “Harold” was at the moment. When Greg hung up the phone, John pulled his friend down onto one of the kitchen chairs.

“Greg, take it easy”, said John. “You’ve been shot. You should get your arm looked at.”

“Just a flesh wound,” Greg laughed, imagining himself to be striking a heroic figure. “Really, John, it was a clean shot, no bone, and the muscle is a little sore. I don’t know what Old Lady McGregor put in that hole, but it has closed over and the ibuprofen is taking care of the pain.”

“What I’m worried about,” he continued, “is that out there somewhere is a guy who thinks it was worth it to shoot me for the key to the office vault.”

John’s eyes met Greg’s.

“You mean this is over the money?” John’s eyes got big. Greg nodded and then said, “You saw the news tonight, right?”

John nodded.

“The state police said that might get the other robber out of hiding,” explained Greg, “but I didn’t think it would work this fast. This has been one wild couple of days.”

Greg shook his head. “First a robbery, a train gets stopped, you find the money, and now someone wants my key bad enough to kill me for it. I would say we got his interest.”

“But why would he go to all this trouble just to get the $1800?” asked John, trying to seem innocent, while really wondering if it was time to ‘fess up and go get the rest of the cash.

Greg looked at John for a moment, and then shook his head. “Someone must have got to the money first, and our robber thinks he has the whole wad.” Greg paused for effect. “Any other ideas why he would do this?” Greg asked, indicating his wounded arm.

Silence. Then John said, “I really have no idea why he would shoot you.” Then more silence.

Greg thought to himself that John probably knew more that he was saying, but for the second part of Smitty’s suggestion to work, it was better not to press John right now. Greg looked at his watch.

“Is it really eight in the morning?” he exclaimed.

John saw no significance in the hour. “Yeah, it’s eight, why?”

“I’m late for a breakfast appointment,” Greg said, and grabbed his coat and dashed out the door. John and the other neighbors looked at each other, and decided that if Greg wasn’t going to stay home, maybe they had better leave his house, too.

LITERATURE OUT LOUD

Click here for a complete INDEX

LITERATURE OUT LOUD -- see and hear great literature Audio narrations with synchronized visual text

The Complete Collection of

SHAKESPEARE'S SONNETS

all 154 poems $3.99 DVD with FREE shipping

Essential Oils -- create your own business -- click on the logo to begin

Click on the player to hear an audio version of this piece Chapter Eleven

Biography Out Loud -- Robert Frost

This author once said “By working faithfully eight hours a day you may eventually get to be a boss and work 12 hours a day.” Though he delivered newspapers and was a cobbler, farmer and the light bulb filament changer in a factory, he always felt his true calling was as a poet. He also worked as a teacher, and won four Pulitzer prizes for poetry.

He is renowned for his ability to capture rural life and colloquial language. Who is this rural poet, regarded as one of the most famous American authors? We’ll find out in a moment on:

Biography Out Loud

Robert Frost’s epitaph quotes a line from one of his poems: "I had a lover's quarrel with the world." Best known for his poem “The Road Not Taken”, the lines most often cited from this poem include “two roads diverged in a wood, and I, I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.”

He sold his first poem “My Butterfly: An Elegy”, at the age of 20 for fifteen dollars. This early success caused him to propose to Elinor. She refused this first proposal, but later agreed to marriage. They were in England when World War I broke out, and Robert Frost then returned with his family to what would be the family homestead. Frost met Ezra Pound while in England. Pound helped promote Robert Frost’s poetry by reviewing his first book of poetry, but their friendship waned in later years. Frost said of life, “In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life. It goes on.”

His father died when he was 11, his mother when he was 26, and he also had to commit his sister to an institution. He and his wife had six children, but was only survived by two daughters. He buried his wife in 1938. Though faced with much tragedy in his life, he said, “Happiness makes up in height for what it lacks in length.” He also said, “The best way out is always through.”

He taught later in his life at the University of Michigan and received more than 40 honorary degrees in his lifetime. Of education he once said, “Education is the ability to listen to almost anything without losing your temper.”

Robert Frost performed a reading of his poetry at the inauguration of John F. Kennedy at the age of eighty-six. Frost enjoyed reading his works, and once said, “I look at a poem as a performance.” Of Robert Frost, President Kennedy said, "He has bequeathed his nation a body of imperishable verse from which Americans will forever gain joy and understanding."

His use of common language to communicate in poetry makes Frost one of the most famous American poets. His wit has also been frequently quoted. He once said, “A jury consists of twelve persons chosen to decide who has the better lawyer.”

He worked on various farms his entire life, commenting he had no regular writing schedule. he said, “I don’t have hours; I don’t work at it, you know. I’m not a farmer, that’s no pose of mine. But I have farmed some, and I putter around. And I walk and live with other people. Like to talk a lot.”

Though his life was checkered with loss, he once said, “I never knew how many disadvantages anyone needed to get anywhere in the world. No psychology will ever tell you who needs a whip and who needs a spur to win races.”

When asked once about the creative process, Robert Frost said, “It’s just the same as when you feel a joke coming. You see somebody coming down the street that you’re accustomed to abuse, and feel it rising in you, something to say as you pass each other. Coming over him the same way. And where do these thoughts come from?”

In 1942, Robert Frost received his fourth Pulitzer prize for his book “A Winter Tree” He is the first person to win four Pulitzer prizes. He also once had patchwork quilts made from the academic hoods he had received with his honorary degrees.

In a memorable couplet, Frost once said, “It’s from their having stood contrasted, That good and bad so long have lasted.”

Frost was born in 1874, but maintained his entire life he was born in 1875. His friends threw a 50^th birthday party for him as he turned fifty-one, and he was honored by the US Senate for his 75^th birthday, although he was seventy-six. Robert Frost, one of the most accomplished American poets, died in 1963.

He once quipped, “Half the world is composed of people who have something to say and can't and the other half who have nothing to say and keep on saying it.”

LITERATURE OUT LOUD

Click here for a complete INDEX

LITERATURE OUT LOUD -- see and hear great literature Audio narrations with synchronized visual text

The Complete Collection of

SHAKESPEARE'S SONNETS

all 154 poems $3.99 DVD with FREE shipping

Essential Oils -- create your own business -- click on the logo to begin

Click on the player to hear an audio version of this piece Robert Frost

The Plodder's Mile -- Chapter Ten

CHAPTER TEN

Deputy Larry Skinner was across town having his last beer at the Hitbox. It was the only place in town that stayed open this late and served beer, so when closing time came, every drunk in town had to go home.

Larry Skinner wasn’t an alcoholic, but he did like to drink. He liked the way it made him feel, and he wasn’t about to give that up, even though Captain Jones had warned him against coming to work hung-over.

“Hell, Greg”, he had said to his friend and boss, “I’m just a part-time deputy, but I am a full-time drunk.”

His captain’s advice was to come to work sober, and save the booze for down time. It was the end of a very nice couple of days of down time, although he had to pretend he hadn’t been drinking when the money was counted and stored in the safe earlier that day. He had only had a six-pack by then anyway. Captain Jones had noticed, but had decided not to say anything. Larry had been sober enough that afternoon to count money. But now, he was in the midst of being fully drunk and out of pain.

Larry even drove home when he was drunk, since he knew there was only one other person in town who could arrest him, and if Captain Jones threw him in the jail, there would be one less deputy in town. Then the good Captain would have to do more work, and in the logic of the fuzzy drunken brain, that was practically a “Do Not Go To Jail” card.

True, Larry had damaged three cars last month as he weaved home, but had paid for the repairs out of his own pocket to keep his insurance company from knowing. He actually was close to having to buy very expensive insurance for the privilege of driving. So tonight, he was driving extra careful, which meant extra slow.

The problem with living with only 200 neighbors is that everyone knows your business. The great advantage though, is that everyone tolerates your faults, because you have to tolerate theirs. Drivers who saw Larry coming down the street knew enough to pull very wide of his car, or to turn and take the next street.

Larry’s garbage can didn’t know the protocol. As he ran right over the top of it and drug it up his driveway, the neighbors knew that Larry was home again after a late night at the Hitbox bar, and that he would be buying yet another garbage can.

Inside the house, the screeching metal on metal on concrete made Ray jump straight up, and he instantly pulled his “automotive tool” from his pocket, trying to protect himself from the screeching attacker. He calmed down enough to realize the noise was coming from outside, but that the car’s occupant was heading for the front door.

Ray quickly stepped to the front door and hid to one side. He would only have one chance to do this right. As the door opened and then closed, Ray grabbed Larry as he stumbled across the room. The sharp point was help right under Larry chin, and Ray knew enough to push a bit to make the right impression.

“Don’t say anything or I’ll kill you now,” Ray whispered loudly. “All I want is your key to the station safe.”

All of this had happened way too fast for Larry to understand what was wanted, especially in his drunken state. First he slurred out, “What? What are you doing in my house?”

Still holding Larry from behind, Ray got just enough of a whiff of the alcohol to understand he would have to go slow. “Give me your key to the safe.”

“What?” Larry was slurring most of his words, but Ray had known enough drunks to understand the lingo. “You can’t get into the safe with just my key.”

Ray jabbed Larry with the sharp end a bit to help him focus. “I know that. But I want your key, or I’ll kill you right here and now.”

Larry become much more focused, and realizing the guy was serious, he reached into his pocket and held up the set of keys. He was having a hard time balancing, and had begun shaking a bit, too.

“Which one?”

Larry held up the slender key, which was longer than the rest.

“Good job, deputy Fife. Do you have your one bullet ready?” said Ray, smiling to himself at the small town reference. Larry started to relax a bit, since the guy had what he wanted. It was the last thing Larry would do.

Ray pushed Larry in front of him enough to stab him from the back, in the brain stem, just as he had with Mike Shepherd. Larry fell to the floor even faster.

“I hope you don’t mind if I take your car, too,” said Ray, wiping the blood off the silver stem on Larry’s pant leg.

Greg delivered Paula to her motel doorstep and was rewarded with a large sloppy kiss and little bit of mutual groping. They had worked through the crisis, and seemed to be back on track.

“You need to go. Now,” Paula pushed him away and almost closed the door. “Be here at 7:00 a.m. and we’ll go get breakfast.” The door closed as Greg stepped in closer. She really knew how to work him.

But that was okay, too. There was always morning, which it already was, but after a cold shower and few hours of sleep, Greg would be right back here. And the dance would continue.

Two in the morning, and he felt great. Not tired, not exactly fresh as the morning sunshine, but even Greg realized something in his life had just changed. He had a girlfriend, and it looked like she wanted it to be permanent. Damn. How had that all happened? Two years of waiting? She really had been patient. Now he would have to be.

Getting home was quick since Ridgeway was so small, really only a couple of square miles of houses, and that made what he saw next even more out of place. Larry’s car was parked in front of his house.

“Damn drunk. Can’t even make it to his own house three blocks away.” Greg turned off the car and looked into Larry’s car. No one was passed out on the front or back seat, so Greg thought Larry must have made it inside to the couch.

Greg often left his house unlocked, more from a feeling of security of small towns than from a need to lock his house as an example to the rest of the town. Larry had learned to appreciate the gesture when his driving abilities wouldn’t work for even the few blocks he had to travel. He was usually just inside the door on the couch with his boots still on.

But tonight there was no one on the couch, and Greg thought he heard movement further back in the house just as he came in. His hand automatically went to his gun, and for the first time in a week, he wasn’t worried about the holster rubbing against his hip. He dropped back along the outside wall of the living room and crept up to the kitchen entryway. It was just an entry without a door, so he could hear someone’s footfall in the back of the house. As he stood quietly, the noise stopped.

Captain Greg Jones slid around the edge of the doorway into the kitchen and swept his gun from one end to the other. There was no one in here, but he thought to himself whoever was in his house was in his back bedroom. He would have to go through the den to get there, and there were three doorways in between. He also frowned to think someone from town would even want to steal something from his house, and how embarrassing it would be to have to admit he hadn’t locked the doors. What kind of a police captain had crime happen in his own house? But it was probably just Larry.

Then Greg heard another shuffling noise from the rear of the house. It was the bedroom, and slowly crossing the kitchen, Greg eased around the corner and looked briefly into the bathroom. It was clear.``

Time to check out the den. Stepping into the room slowly, he waved his gun again from one side of the room to the other, and curled around the doorway after seeing no one was there either. The next doorway was the bedroom.

While he imagined he was walking quietly, Raymond Johnson had heard the captain working his way through the house. Unfortunately, the bedroom had only one door, and Ray imagined correctly that momentarily a gun would be sliding around the corner of the door. He positioned himself low on the floor for a surprise attack.

Just as Greg Jones whipped his gun into the bedroom at chest height, Raymond Jones jumped up from the floor and pushed Greg back into the hallway, where he landed on his back with Ray straddling him. A gun was immediately pointed at his face.

“Hey, captain,” smiled Ray. “Recognize the gun?”

Greg shook his head “yes” very slowly. Larry’s gun wasn’t hard to identify. Greg didn’t recognize the face and realized that big city crime had once again invaded the peaceful town he was charged to protect.

“Your deputy won’t be needing this anymore,” said Ray”, and as much as I would love to shoot you right now, Officer Greg Jones at 320 Sycamore, that would make too much noise in this quiet little town, now wouldn’t it?”

Greg didn’t bother to nod. He was looking down the barrel of the gun, and could see the other bullets in the chambers of the six-gun that Larry had preferred.

“What I want from you, Captain Jones,” said Ray standing and backing up slowly, “is your key to the safe at the station house.” Ray was standing over Greg’s gun, which had been knocked from his hands when he was tackled.

“But there isn’t anything there worth doing this for…” Greg’s words trailed off as he remembered the pile of “cash” they had counted that afternoon. Smitty and Greg hadn’t planned on this kind of quick result. Ray wasn’t interested in protestations, and cocked the gun back.

“You can just hand it to me now, or I can search you for it after you’re dead.”

Greg reached to the side of his belt for his group of keys. He held the longest key out and handed the key ring to Ray. “That’s a good cop. A smart cop.”

Greg started to sit up. “Now you’re not being so smart,” Ray warned, and Greg froze halfway sitting up. But it did give him the angle he needed to push his arms against the wall and swing his legs across Ray’s legs. But Ray was ready, and the gun exploded in the small hallway as they both filled the space with too many arms and legs. Greg winced as the bullet shot through his left shoulder and into the floor behind him. The searing pain just made him mad, and as he crawled across the floor on his knees, Ray recognized the anger and irritation. He jumped to his feet and kicked Greg in the face and ran out the front door.

Greg Jones fell straight backwards onto the hallway floor. He didn’t move for fifteen minutes.

LITERATURE OUT LOUD

Click here for a complete INDEX

LITERATURE OUT LOUD -- see and hear great literature Audio narrations with synchronized visual text

The Complete Collection of

SHAKESPEARE'S SONNETS

all 154 poems $3.99 DVD with FREE shipping

Essential Oils -- create your own business -- click on the logo to begin

Click on the player to hear an audio version of this piece Chapter Ten

Biography Out Loud -- O. Henry

Welcome to Biography Out Loud. I am your host, Dane Allred.

He spent time in the Ohio penitentiary. He is better known by his pen name, which some have said is made from the phrase “Ohio penitentiary”. He worked as a pharmacist, sheep-herder, cook, babysitter, draftsman, a teller and a bookkeeper. He was married, and though his wife had tuberculosis when they were married, she lived ten more years. They had children, and participated in music and theatre groups. This author fled the country when he was accused of embezzlement, spending time in Honduras and New Orleans. His most famous work may be “The Gift of the Magi”. In a moment, we examine another exciting literary life on

Biography Out Loud

William Sydney Porter was three when his mother died of tuberculosis. Though better known as O. Henry, he would spend his formative years in North Carolina, moving to Texas when he was twenty in hopes of getting rid of a persistent cough. He did get better, and worked on ranches, at banks, and as a draftsman at the Texas General Land Office. O. Henry continued to make contributions to magazines and newspapers and started a magazine called “The Rolling Stone” which he eventually stopped producing. He then began writing for the Houston Post, often sitting in hotel lobbies observing and talking to people he would meet there.

Federal investigators found discrepancies from his work in Austin, and Porter was indicted for embezzlement. The day before the trial was to take place, O. Henry fled Texas, going to New Orleans and then to Honduras. When he learned his wife was dying, he returned to Texas, where he surrendered to authorities. O. Henry once said of his self-exile, “You can't appreciate home till you've left it, money till it's spent, your wife till she's joined a women's club, nor Old Glory till you see it hanging on a broomstick on the shanty of a consul in a foreign town.”

A few months later his wife died, he was put on trial and eventually found guilty of embezzlement, and was sentenced to five years. He spent the next three years in the Ohio Penitentiary, being released early for good behavior in 1901. Having a friend forward his stories from New Orleans, neither his publishers nor his daughter knew he was spending time behind bars. His daughter, Margaret was told he had been away on business.

After moving to New York to be near his publishers, he wrote 381 short stories. His stories have surprise endings, and while critics often panned his work, William Sydney Porter once said, “Write what you like; there is no other rule.”

There are two versions of how his pen name was selected. Porter once wrote he and a friend came up with it one day, but author and scholar Guy Davenport offers another explanation. He says "The pseudonym that he began to write under in prison is constructed from the first two letters of Ohio and the second, third and last two letters of penitentiary." O. Henry also once said the “O” stood for “Olivier”, what he called the French version of Oliver.

Whatever the source, O. Henry is most well-known for his poignant stories like “The Last Leaf”; where a sickly girl wishes to see the last leaf fall from a tree outside her window, and it is discovered it has been painted there. The girl recovers; the artist who hoped to paint a masterpiece died from painting it there one cold night. He says of death in this story, “The lonsomest thing in all the world is a soul when it is making ready to go on its mysterious, far journey.”

Retold on radio, television and other movie adaptations, “The Gift of the Magi” is a story of two poor lovebirds who sacrifice their prized possessions to get a Christmas present for each other, with a nice twist at the end. A classic phrase from the story is “Life is made up of sobs, sniffles and smiles, with sniffles predominating.”

Two other famous stories are “The Cop and the Anthem”; where Soapy, a homeless wanderer in the city wants to be arrested so he can spend the cold winter in jail, but can’t get arrested no matter how he tries. Another Porter classic is “The Ransom of Red Chief”; where a kidnapped child is so much trouble the kidnappers end up paying to get the father to take him back.

O. Henry was reunited later with his childhood sweetheart Sarah Lindsey Coleman. They were married briefly before his health and writing began to deteriorate.

A heavy drinker later in life, William Sydney Porter died of cirrhosis of the liver. A writing award carrying his name has been presented every year to outstanding short story writers since 1919. If you hear a short story with a surprise ending, check to see if O. Henry is the author.

LITERATURE OUT LOUD

Click here for a complete INDEX

LITERATURE OUT LOUD -- see and hear great literature Audio narrations with synchronized visual text

The Complete Collection of

SHAKESPEARE'S SONNETS

all 154 poems $3.99 DVD with FREE shipping

Essential Oils -- create your own business -- click on the logo to begin

Click on the player to hear an audio version of this piece O Henry

The Plodder's Mile -- Chapter Nine

CHAPTER NINE

It wasn’t too difficult in such a small town to find out who the captain of police was, and where he lived. Since there was noise at his house when Ray went by, he decided to check out the deputy’s house instead. He knew that most police procedure made the officers deposit money in a safe in the police station that had a two key system, so they wouldn’t be tempted to try to use the money themselves. The big problem was with large amounts of money, Ray knew that the regulations usually called for bigger deposits to be made to the local bank. That meant the money could have been transferred to a bank, but Ray was hoping he was quick enough to catch the bundle still in the local police office, since the nearest bank was another town twenty miles away.

He had to find the two keys, and then hoped he would be able to outwit these small town cops. Ray was fully confident he had the experience that they lacked, and with some careful execution of plans, he would have his money before the night was over.

As Ray approached the house where Larry, Greg’s deputy lived, he noticed there was little activity on the street, which could be good unless there was a nosy neighbor waiting around. Since most of the lights were out this late at night, his only problem would be if the deputy was at home. But there was no car in the driveway or parked in the carport, so Ray went around to the back to find a way in.

John Graham couldn’t sleep. He thought he would be able to deal with this money thing better than this. He tossed and turned as Reba slept soundly, not even aware that John was struggling with the fact of hiding something from her. When she had made the off-hand comment about Greg giving them some of the money, the pit in his stomach became a giant sinkhole. He had almost said something twice, but other news items caught her attention, and before he could spit out a word, they were in bed.

Reba was a heavy sleeper. She could fall asleep faster than John every night of the week and usually did. John reviewed the day, got up and read, ate a late night snack, and then tried to sleep again. Often Reba had been sleeping an hour before he was able to nod off.

Tonight was no exception. The gnawing fear of being found out, being accused of stealing money (of stealing stolen money?), of the possible shame that would come to his family was overwhelming. Even if he were able to keep the money, he doubted now that he would enjoy it. He just wanted it out of his life.

He had been so distracted by this fear that he realized, almost an hour later, that he had rebuffed romantic overtures by his wife. She had pulled him close, hugging him from behind and had begun to playfully caress his arm. Unfortunately, Reba was only good for two or three minutes of foreplay without response before she would fall fast asleep, sometimes still holding him tight. This is what happened tonight, and before John got in the mood, the moment had passed. John thought what a problem the money had become when he realized he had passed up making love to his wife to sort out what to do about the money. He should get rid of it tomorrow. Maybe.

Greg was driving slowly over to the only motel in town. He knew he only had a few moments to find out what was happening with Paula tonight, and if he didn’t start now, there might not be another chance. Ever.

“Paula, I’m sorry I assumed you were ready. That was stupid of me.”

Paula sniffed. “You were right to assume. I am ready. I just don’t know if you know how ready I really am.”

Now Greg was totally confused. “Then was I just being a jerk?” He found this was often the answer in his relationships, and he often had to ask.

“Greg, do you remember where we first met?” Paula’s eyes found his as he pulled into the parking lot, turned off the lights and left the car running.

“Yeah,” he lied, trying to think fast. “It was at the O’Malley murder trials.”

“No, that was the third time,” she said quickly, forgiving his lack of focus. “We first met when Harrison, that drug dealer was arrested here in town after being chased through three counties.”

“Oh, yeah”, he said, “and you wanted to interview the local police captain who had nothing to do with the arrest whatsoever.”

Paula giggled quietly. “You were able to coordinate the state cars to help trap him in that dead end road. They could have chased him for another three counties. That’s being involved.”

Greg grunted and wondered where this was all going.

“I’ve never told you this before, but the drug dealer you busted that night was one of my ex-boyfriends. We had only dated a couple of times, but when something like that happens, it really makes you stop and listen to the wise advice of your mother. She had told me not to see that jerk anymore, and when she saw our interview on the television, she pointed out that I could do lots worse than Officer Greg Jones, local police captain.”

“Is that why you’ve been making excuses to cover the southern part of the state more lately?”

“Well, I didn’t plan it this way, but a year later, after another stupid relationship, my mother’s words began to make more sense.” Paula sighed. “That’s when I set my sights on you, and why I find an excuse to call every other week, to visit as often as I have. I have learned to be patient.”

“Just because I am so dense,” Greg lamented.

“It’s not just you, Greg,” she explained, and pulled him closer to give him a good long kiss. “I think it’s really charming that you have been so shy, and all it has done is to steel my resolve and be as patient as you needed. I just got a little sensitive tonight, and it really isn’t anything you said or did. I think I have just built up this night in my imagination so much that there was no way for it to be the romantic time I thought it would be.”

“So when I said I was glad you came to this town…”

“I guess I thought you were thinking there might be other men for me, in every town. But there’s not. There’s just been you for way too long. I’ve been waiting for tonight for two years. And I don’t want you to think I do this in every town I visit. I’m only interested in you.”

“I’m so sorry, Paula”, Greg breathed out, finally understanding what he could do to help this problem get fixed. “I only meant that this small town boy is in love with the uptown girl. I still can’t see what you see in me, but I’m just glad you didn’t give up.”

Paula collapsed into his arms and he wrapped his arms tight around her. She sighed and said, “You big dumb lummox. I love you, too. Next time, I’ll be better, I promise.”

“Well,” said Greg, “now that your secret fascination for small town policemen is out, I’ll have to work on keeping you happy, so you don’t go to the next town and find someone even bigger and dumber.”

They weren’t the most romantic words ever spoken by a man to a woman, but for Paula, after waiting for so long, they were the right words. She kissed him deeply, glad that she had been so patient.

LITERATURE OUT LOUD

Click here for a complete INDEX

LITERATURE OUT LOUD -- see and hear great literature Audio narrations with synchronized visual text

The Complete Collection of

SHAKESPEARE'S SONNETS

all 154 poems $3.99 DVD with FREE shipping

Essential Oils -- create your own business -- click on the logo to begin

Click on the player to hear an audio version of this piece Chapter Nine

The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Caleveras County by Mark Twain

The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County

by Mark Twain

In compliance with the request of a friend of mine, who wrote me from the East, I called on good-natured, garrulous old Simon Wheeler, and inquired after my friend's friend, Leonidas W. Smiley, as requested to do, and I hereunto append the result. I have a lurking suspicion that Leonidas W. Smiley is a myth; that my friend never knew such a personage; and that he only conjectured that, if I asked old Wheeler about him, it would remind him of his infamous Jim Smiley, and he would go to work and bore me nearly to death with some infernal reminiscence of him as long and tedious as it should be useless to me. If that was the design, it certainly succeeded.

I found Simon Wheeler dozing comfortably by the bar-room stove of the old, dilapidated tavern in the ancient mining camp of Angel's, and I noticed that he was fat and bald-headed, and had an expression of winning gentleness and simplicity upon his tranquil countenance. He roused up and gave me good-day. I told him a friend of mine had commissioned me to make some inquiries about a cherished companion of his boyhood named Leonidas W. Smiley – Rev. Leonidas W. Smiley – a young minister of the Gospel, who he had heard was at one time a resident of Angel's Camp. I added that, if Mr. Wheeler could tell me anything about this Rev. Leonidas W. Smiley, I would feel under many obligations to him.

Simon Wheeler backed me into a corner and blockaded me there with his chair, and then sat me down and reeled off the monotonous narrative which follows this paragraph. He never smiled, he never frowned, he never changed his voice from the gentle-flowing key to which he tuned the initial sentence, he never betrayed the slightest suspicion of enthusiasm; but all through the interminable narrative there ran a vein of impressive earnestness and sincerity, which showed me plainly that, so far from his imagining that there was anything ridiculous or funny about his story, he regarded it as a really important matter, and admired its two heroes as men of transcendent genius in finesse. To me, the spectacle of a man drifting serenely along through such a queer yarn without ever smiling, was exquisitely absurd. As I said before, I asked him to tell me what he knew of Rev. Leonidas W. Smiley, and he replied as follows. I let him go on in his own way, and never interrupted him once:

There was a feller here once by the name of Jim Smiley, in the winter of '49 – or maybe it was the spring of '50 – I don't recollect exactly, somehow, though what makes me think it was one or the other is because I remember the big flume wasn't finished when he first came to the camp; but any way, he was the curiosest man about always betting on anything that turned up you ever see, if he could get anybody to bet on the other side; and if he couldn't, he'd change sides. Any way that suited the other man would suit him – any way just so's he got a bet, he was satisfied. But still he was lucky, uncommon lucky; he most always come out winner. He was always ready and laying for a chance; there couldn't be no solitry thing mentioned but that feller'd offer to bet on it, and take any side you please, as I was just telling you.

If there was a horse-race, you'd find him flush, or you'd find him busted at the end of it; if there was a dog-fight, he'd bet on it; if there was a cat-fight, he'd bet on it; if there was a chicken-fight, he'd bet on it; why, if there was two birds setting on a fence, he would bet you which one would fly first; or if there was a camp-meeting, he would be there reg'lar, to bet on Parson Walker, which he judged to be the best exhorter about here, and so he was, too, and a good man. If he even seen a straddle-bug start to go anywheres, he would bet you how long it would take him to get wherever he was going to, and if you took him up, he would foller that straddle-bug to Mexico but what he would find out where he was bound for and how long he was on the road. Lots of the boys here has seen that Smiley, and can tell you about him. Why, it never made no difference to him – he would bet on anything – the dangdest feller. Parson Walker's wife laid very sick once, for a good while, and it seemed as if they warn't going to save her; but one morning he come in, and Smiley asked how she was, and he said she was considerable better – thank the Lord for his inf'nit mercy – and coming on so smart that, with the blessing of Prov'dence, she'd get well yet; and Smiley, before he thought, says, "Well, I'll risk two-and-a-half that she don't, anyway."

Thish-yer Smiley had a mare – the boys called her the fifteen-minute nag, but that was only in fun, you know, because, of course, she was faster than that – and he used to win money on that horse, for all she was so slow and always had the asthma, or the distemper, or the consumption, or something of that kind. They used to give her two or three hundred yards start, and then pass her under way; but always at the fag-end of the race she'd get excited and desperate-like, and come cavorting and straddling up, and scattering her legs around limber, sometimes in the air, and sometimes out to one side amongst the fences, and kicking up m-o-r-e dust, and raising m-o-r-e racket with her coughing and sneezing and blowing her nose – and always fetch up at the stand just about a neck ahead, as near as you could cipher it down.

And he had a little small bull pup, that to look at him you'd think he wan't worth a cent, but to set around and look ornery, and lay for a chance to steal something. But as soon as money was up on him, he was a different dog; his under-jaw'd begin to stick out like the fo'castle of a steamboat, and his teeth would uncover, and shine savage like the furnaces. And a dog might tackle him, and bully-rag him, and bite him, and throw him over his shoulder two or three times, and Andrew Jackson – which was the name of the pup – Andrew Jackson would never let on but what he was satisfied, and hadn't expected nothing else – and the bets being doubled and doubled on the other side all the time, till the money was all up; and then all of a sudden he would grab that other dog jest by the j'int of his hind leg and freeze to it – not chew, you understand, but only jest grip and hang on till they throwed up the sponge, if it was a year. Smiley always come out winner on that pup, till he harnessed a dog once that didn't have no hind legs, because they'd been sawed off by a circular saw, and when the thing had gone along far enough, and the money was all up, and he come to make a snatch for his pet holt, he saw in a minute how he'd been imposed on, and how the other dog had him in the door, so to speak, and he 'peared surprised, and then he looked sorter discouraged-like, and didn't try no more to win the fight, and so he got shucked out bad.

He give Smiley a look, as much as to say his heart was broke, and it was his fault, for putting up a dog that hadn't no hind legs for him to take holt of, which was his main dependence in a fight, and then he limped off a piece and laid down and died. It was a good pup, was that Andrew Jackson, and would have made a name for hisself if he'd lived, for the stuff was in him, and he had genius – I know it, because he hadn't had no opportunities to speak of, and it don't stand to reason that a dog could make such a fight as he could under them circumstances, if he hadn't no talent. It always makes me feel sorry when I think of that last fight of his'n, and the way it turned out.

Well, thish-yer Smiley had rat-tarriers, and chicken cocks, and tom-cats, and all them kind of things, till you couldn't rest, and you couldn't fetch nothing for him to bet on but he'd match you. He ketched a frog one day, and took him home, and said he cal'klated to edercate him; and so he never done nothing for three months but set in his back yard and learn that frog to jump. And you bet you he did learn him, too. He'd give him a little punch behind, and the next minute you'd see that frog whirling in the air like a doughnut – see him turn one summerset, or may be a couple, if he got a good start, and come down flat-footed and all right, like a cat. He got him up so in the matter of catching flies, and kept him in practice so constant, that he'd nail a fly every time as far as he could see him. Smiley said all a frog wanted was education, and he could do most anything – and I believe him. Why, I've seen him set Dan'l Webster down here on this floor – Dan'l Webster was the name of the frog – and sing out, "Flies, Dan'l, flies!" and quicker'n you could wink, he'd spring straight up, and snake a fly off'n the counter there, and flop down on the floor again as solid as a gob of mud, and fall to scratching the side of his head with his hind foot as indifferent as if he hadn't no idea he'd been doin' any more'n any frog might do. You never see a frog so modest and straightfor'ard as he was, for all he was so gifted. And when it come to fair and square jumping on a dead level, he could get over more ground at one straddle than any animal of his breed you ever see. Jumping on a dead level was his strong suit, you understand; and when it come to that, Smiley would ante up money on him as long as he had a red.

Smiley was monstrous proud of his frog, and well he might be, for fellers that had traveled and been everywheres, all said he laid over any frog that ever they see.

Well, Smiley kept the beast in a little lattice box, and he used to fetch him down town sometimes and lay for a bet. One day a feller – a stranger in the camp, he was – come across him with his box, and says:

"What might it be that you've got in the box?"

And Smiley says, sorter indifferent like, "It might be a parrot, or it might be a canary, may be, but it ain't – it's only just a frog."

And the feller took it, and looked at it careful, and turned it round this way and that, and says, "H'm – so 'tis. Well, what's he good for?"

"Well," Smiley says, easy and careless, "He's good enough for one thing, I should judge – he can outjump any frog in Calaveras county."

The feller took the box again, and took another long, particular look, and give it back to Smiley, and says, very deliberate, "Well, I don't see no p'ints about that frog that's any better'n any other frog."

"May be you don't," Smiley says. "Maybe you understand frogs, and may be you don't understand 'em; maybe you've had experience, and maybe you an't only a amature, as it were. Anyways, I've got my opinion, and I'll risk forty dollars that he can outjump any frog in Calaveras county."

And the feller studied a minute, and then says, kinder sad like, "Well, I'm only a stranger here, and I an't got no frog; but if I had a frog, I'd bet you."

And then Smiley says, "That's all right – that's all right – if you'll hold my box a minute, I'll go and get you a frog." And so the feller took the box, and put up his forty dollars along with Smiley's, and set down to wait.

So he set there a good while thinking and thinking to hisself, and then he got the frog out and prized his mouth open and took a teaspoon and filled him full of quail shot – filled him pretty near up to his chin – and set him on the floor. Smiley he went to the swamp and slopped around in the mud for a long time, and finally he ketched a frog, and fetched him in, and give him to this feller, and says:

"Now, if you're ready, set him alongside of Dan'l, with his fore-paws just even with Dan'l, and I'll give the word." Then he says, "One – two – three – jump!" and him and the feller touched up the frogs from behind, and the new frog hopped off, but Dan'l give a heave, and hysted up his shoulders – so – like a Frenchman, but it wan't no use – he couldn't budge; he was planted as solid as an anvil, and he couldn't no more stir than if he was anchored out. Smiley was a good deal surprised, and he was disgusted too, but he didn't have no idea what the matter was, of course.

The feller took the money and started away; and when he was going out at the door, he sorter jerked his thumb over his shoulders – this way – at Dan'l, and says again, very deliberate, "Well, I don't see no p'ints about that frog that's any better'n any other frog."

Smiley he stood scratching his head and looking down at Dan'l a long time, and at last he says, "I do wonder what in the nation that frog throw'd off for – I wonder if there an't something the matter with him – he 'pears to look mighty baggy, somehow." And he ketched Dan'l by the nap of the neck, and lifted him up and says, "Why, blame my cats, if he don't weigh five pound!" and turned him upside down, and he belched out a double handful of shot. And then he see how it was, and he was the maddest man – he set the frog down and took out after that feller, but he never ketched him. And ––

(Here Simon Wheeler heard his name called from the front yard, and got up to see what was wanted.) And turning to me as he moved away, he said: "Just set where you are, stranger, and rest easy – I an't going to be gone a second."

But, by your leave, I did not think that a continuation of the history of the enterprising vagabond Jim Smiley would be likely to afford me much information concerning the Rev. Leonidas W. Smiley, and so I started away.

At the door I met the sociable Wheeler returning, and he buttonholed me and recommenced:

"Well, thish-yer Smiley had a yaller one-eyed cow that didn't have no tail, only jest a short stump like a bannanner, and ––"

"Oh! hang Smiley and his afflicted cow!" I muttered, good-naturedly, and bidding the old gentleman good-day, I departed.

LITERATURE OUT LOUD

Click here for a complete INDEX

LITERATURE OUT LOUD -- see and hear great literature Audio narrations with synchronized visual text

The Complete Collection of

SHAKESPEARE'S SONNETS

all 154 poems $3.99 DVD with FREE shipping

Essential Oils -- create your own business -- click on the logo to begin

Click on the player to hear an audio version of this piece The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County

Mark Twain on Biography Out Loud

He said, “I came in with Halley's Comet in 1835. It is coming again next year, and I expect to go out with it. It will be the greatest disappointment of my life if I don't go out with Halley's Comet. The Almighty has said, no doubt: "Now here are these two unaccountable freaks; they came in together, they must go out together." This great American author did die in 1910 with the next visit of Haley’s Comet, and though he is better known by his pen name, his characters are a symbol of American humor and ingenuity. He was first author to type a manuscript on a new invention called “the typewriter”. In a moment, we’ll become better acquainted with the writer of what has been called “The Great American Novel”--

Today on Biography

Samuel Langehorne Clemens is better known as Mark Twain, a pen name which also takes its meaning from measurements of river depth. Calling out “by the Mark Twain” on a riverboat means the sounding rope is out two fathoms, or twain. This meant there was 12 feet of water in the river. Wherever he came up with the name, Samuel Clemens produced some of the most memorable characters in American Literature in books like “Tom Sawyer” and “Huckleberry Finn” – a book some call the Great American Novel. Working in his youth as a printer’s apprentice after his father’s death, he later worked as a printer in several major U.S. cities. He said, “Always do right. This will gratify some people, and astonish the rest.” In a related vein, he said, “When in doubt, tell the truth” and “If you tell the truth you don't have to remember anything.”

He then spent two years learning the intricacies of the Mississippi to qualify as a steamboat pilot. He once remarked, “I have never let my schooling interfere with my education.” He convinced his brother to come and work on the river with him.

Clemens had an unusual dream two weeks before the death of his brother Henry, foreseeing how his brother would die in an explosion while working on a steamboat. After the Civil War began, travel on the Mississippi was significantly less, and Samuel Clemens then joined his brother on a trip to Nevada, where Orion Clemens was to serve as secretary to the governor of the Nevada territory. Mark Twain documents his many adventures through the west and his other travels, first becoming known for his short story “The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County.”

A very successful writer, Twain was notorious for investing in new inventions and spending all of his earnings. He once said, “I am opposed to millionaires, but it would be dangerous to offer me the position.”

After a world tour giving lectures, Samuel Clemens returned to the United States in 1900 with his debts paid. He was a promoter of the abolition of slavery, and spoke in favor of granting the right to vote to women.

Famous for his wit, he once said of the government, “Suppose you were an idiot. And suppose you were a member of Congress. But I repeat myself.”

He also quipped, “Be respectful to your superiors, if you have any.”

He also once said, “The only reason why God created man is because he was disappointed with the monkey.”

Samuel Clemens helped us laugh about the problems of the world, and as he once said, “Against the assault of Laughter nothing can stand.”

When one of his cousins died, reports circulated that Samuel Clemens was dead. He replied, “The reports of my death are greatly exaggerated.”

Once hearing himself praised in an introduction he said, “I was sorry to have my name mentioned as one of the great authors, because they have a sad habit of dying off. Chaucer is dead, Spencer is dead, so is Milton, so is Shakespeare, and I’m not feeling so well myself.”

Ernest Hemingway once said of Mark Twain, “All modern American literature comes from one book by Mark Twain called, Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.”

Mark Twain’s prediction that he would go out with Haley’s Comet was prescient. He died one day after the comet made its closest approach. Upon hearing of Twain's death, President William Howard Taft said, "Mark Twain gave pleasure – real intellectual enjoyment – to millions, and his works will continue to give such pleasure to millions yet to come... His humor was American, but he was nearly as much appreciated by Englishmen and people of other countries as by his own countrymen. He has made an enduring part of American literature."

Samuel Clemens once contemplated his choice of final destinations and concluded, “..[H]eaven for climate, Hell for society.”

LITERATURE OUT LOUD

Click here for a complete INDEX

LITERATURE OUT LOUD -- see and hear great literature Audio narrations with synchronized visual text

The Complete Collection of

SHAKESPEARE'S SONNETS

all 154 poems $3.99 DVD with FREE shipping

Essential Oils -- create your own business -- click on the logo to begin

Click on the player to hear an audio version of this piece Mark Twain

Lincoln's Thanksgiving Proclamation

Lincoln's Thanksgiving Proclamation

By the President of the United States of America.

A Proclamation.

The year that is drawing towards its close, has been filled with the blessings of fruitful fields

and healthful skies. To these bounties, which are so constantly enjoyed that we are prone to forget the source from which they come, others have been added, which are of so extraordinary a nature, that they cannot fail to penetrate and soften even the heart which is habitually insensible to the ever watchful providence of Almighty God. In the midst of a civil war of unequaled magnitude and severity, which has sometimes seemed to foreign States to invite and to provoke their aggression, peace has been preserved with all nations, order has been maintained, the laws have been respected and obeyed, and harmony has prevailed everywhere except in the theatre of military conflict; while that theatre has been greatly contracted by the advancing armies and navies of the Union. Needful diversions of wealth and of strength from the fields of peaceful industry to the national defence, have not arrested the plough, the shuttle or the ship; the axe has enlarged the borders of our settlements, and the mines, as well of iron and coal as of the precious metals, have yielded even more abundantly than heretofore. Population has steadily increased, notwithstanding the waste that has been made in the camp, the siege and the battle-field; and the country, rejoicing in the consiousness of augmented strength and vigor, is permitted to expect continuance of years with large increase of freedom. No human counsel hath devised nor hath any mortal hand worked out these great things. They are the gracious gifts of the Most High God, who, while dealing with us in anger for our sins, hath nevertheless remembered mercy. It has seemed to me fit and proper that they should be solemnly, reverently and gratefully acknowledged as with one heart and one voice by the whole American People. I do therefore invite my fellow citizens in every part of the United States, and also those who are at sea and those who are sojourning in foreign lands, to set apart and observe the last Thursday of November next, as a day of Thanksgiving and Praise to our beneficent Father who dwelleth in the Heavens. And I recommend to them that while offering up the ascriptions justly due to Him for such singular deliverances and blessings, they do also, with humble penitence for our national perverseness and disobedience, commend to His tender care all those who have become widows, orphans, mourners or sufferers in the lamentable civil strife in which we are unavoidably engaged, and fervently implore the interposition of the Almighty Hand to heal the wounds of the nation and to restore it as soon as may be consistent with the Divine purposes to the full enjoyment of peace, harmony, tranquillity and Union.

In testimony whereof, I have hereunto set my hand and caused the Seal of the United States

to be affixed.

Done at the City of Washington, this Third day of October, in the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and sixty-three, and of the Independence of the Unites States the Eighty-eighth.

By the President: Abraham Lincoln

William H. Seward,

Secretary of State

LITERATURE OUT LOUD

Click here for a complete INDEX

LITERATURE OUT LOUD -- see and hear great literature Audio narrations with synchronized visual text

The Complete Collection of

SHAKESPEARE'S SONNETS

all 154 poems $3.99 DVD with FREE shipping

Click on the Amazon button to order

Essential Oils -- create your own business -- click on the logo to begin

Click on the player to hear an audio version of this piece Lincoln's Thanksgiving Proclamation

A Cask of Amontillado

The Cask of Amontillado

by Edgar Allan Poe

The thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could; but when he ventured upon insult, I vowed revenge. You, who so well know the nature of my soul, will not suppose, however, that I gave utterance to a threat. At length I would be avenged; this was a point definitely settled--but the very definitiveness with which it was resolved precluded the idea of risk. I must not only punish, but punish with impunity. A wrong is un-redressed when retribution overtakes its redresser. It is equally un-redressed when the avenger fails to make himself felt as such to him who has done the wrong.

It must be understood that neither by word nor deed had I given Fortunato cause to doubt my good-will. I continued, as was my wont, to smile in his face, and he did not perceive that my smile now was at the thought of his immolation.

He had a weak point--this Fortunato--although in other regards he was a man to be respected and even feared. He prided himself on his connoisseurship in wine. Few Italians have the true virtuoso spirit. For the most part their enthusiasm is adopted to suit the time and opportunity--to practice imposture upon the British and Austrian millionaires. In painting and gemmary, Fortunato, like his countrymen, was a quack--but in the matter of old wines he was sincere. In this respect I did not differ from him materially: I was skillful in the Italian vintages myself, and bought largely whenever I could.

It was about dusk, one evening during the supreme madness of the carnival season, that I encountered my friend. He accosted me with excessive warmth, for he had been drinking much. The man wore motley. He had on a tight-fitting party-striped dress, and his head was surmounted by the conical cap and bells. I was so pleased to see him that I thought I should never have done wringing his hand.

I said to him: "My dear Fortunato, you are luckily met. How remarkably well you are looking to-day! But I have received a pipe of what passes for Amontillado, and I have my doubts."

"How?" said he. "Amontillado? A pipe? Impossible! And in the middle of the carnival!"

"I have my doubts," I replied; "and I was silly enough to pay the full Amontillado price without consulting you in the matter. You were not to be found, and I was fearful of losing a bargain

"Amontillado!"

"I have my doubts."

"Amontillado!"

"And I must satisfy them."

"Amontillado!"

"As you are engaged, I am on my way to Luchesi. If anyone has a critical turn, it is he. He will tell me-- "

"Luchesi cannot tell Amontillado from Sherry."

"And yet some fools will have it that his taste is a match for your own."

"Come, let us go."

"Whither?"

"To your vaults."

"My friend, no. I will not impose upon your good nature. I perceive you have an engagement. Luchesi--"

"I have no engagement--come."

"My friend, no. It is not the engagement, but the severe cold with which I perceive you are afflicted. The vaults are insufferably damp, They are encrusted with nitre."

"Let us go, nevertheless. The cold is merely nothing. Amontillado! You have been imposed upon. And as for Luchesi, he cannot distinguish Sherry from Amontillado."

Thus speaking, Fortunato possessed himself of my arm. Putting on a mask of black silk, and drawing a roquelaure closely about my person, I suffered him to hurry me to my palazzo.

There were no attendants at home; they had absconded to make merry in honor of the time. I had told them that I should not return until the morning, and had given them explicit orders not to stir from the house. These orders were sufficient, I well knew, to insure their immediate disappearance, one and all, as soon as my back was turned.

I took from their sconces two flambeaux, and giving one to Fortunato, bowed him through several suites of rooms to the archway that led into the vaults. I passed down a long and winding staircase, requesting him to be cautious as he followed. We came at length to the foot of the descent, and stood together on the damp ground of the catacombs of the Montresors.

The gait of my friend was unsteady, and the bells upon his cap jingled as he strode.

"The pipe," said he.

"It is farther on," said I; "but observe the white webwork which gleams from these cavern walls."

He turned towards me, and looked into my eyes with two filmy orbs that distilled the rheum of intoxication.

"Nitre?" he asked, at length.

"Nitre," I replied. "How long have you had that cough?"

"Ugh! ugh! ugh!--ugh! ugh! ugh!--ugh! ugh! ugh!--ugh! ugh! ugh! ugh! ugh! ugh!"

My poor friend found it impossible to reply. For many minutes.

"It is nothing," he said at last.

"Come," I said, with decision, "we will go back; your health is precious. You are rich, respected, admired, beloved; you are happy, as once I was. You are a man to be missed. For me it is no matter. We will go back; you will be ill, and I cannot be responsible. Besides, there is Luchesi--"

"Enough," he said: "the cough is a mere nothing; it will not kill me. I shall not die of a cough."

"True--true." I replied; "and indeed, I had no intention of alarming you unnecessarily--but you should use all proper caution. A draught of this Medoc will defend us from the damps."

Here I knocked off the neck of a bottle which I drew from a long row of its fellows that lay upon the mould.

"Drink," I said, presenting him the wine.

He raised it to his lips with a leer. He paused and nodded to me familiarly, while his bells jingled.

"I drink," he said, "to the buried that repose around us."

"And I to your long life."

He again took my arm, and we proceeded.

"These vaults," he said, "are extensive."

"The Montresors," I replied, "were a great and numerous family."

"I forget your arms."

"A huge human foot d'or, in a field azure; the foot crushes a serpent rampant whose fangs are embedded in the heel."

"And the motto?"

""Nemo me impune lacessit."

"Good!" he said.

The wine sparkled in his eyes and the bells jingled. My own fancy grew warm with the Medoc. We had passed through walls of piled bones, with casks and puncheons intermingling, into the inmost recesses of the catacombs. I paused again, and this time I made bold to seize Fortunato by an arm above the elbow.

"The nitre!" I said; "see, it increases. It hangs like moss upon the vaults. We are below the river's bed. The drops of moisture trickle among the bones. Come, we will go back ere it is too late. Your cough-- "

"It is nothing," he said; "let us go on. But first, another draught of the Medoc."

I broke and reached him a flagon of De Grâve. He emptied it at a breath. His eyes flashed with a fierce light. He laughed, and threw the bottle upward with a gesticulation I did not understand.

I looked at him in surprise. He repeated the movement--a grotesque one.

"You do not comprehend?" he said.

"Not I," I replied.

"Then you are not of the brotherhood."

"How?"

“You are not of the masons."

"Yes, yes," I said, "yes, yes."

"You? Impossible! A mason?"

"A mason," I replied.

"A sign," he said.

"It is this," I answered, producing a trowel from beneath the folds of my roquelaure.

"You jest," he exclaimed, recoiling a few paces. "But let us proceed to the Amontillado."

"Be it so," I said, replacing the tool beneath the cloak, and again offering him my arm. He leaned upon it heavily. We continued our route in search of the Amontillado. We passed through a range of low arches, descended, passed on, and, descending again, arrived at a deep crypt, in which the foulness of the air caused our flambeaux rather to glow than flame.

At the most remote end of the crypt there appeared another less spacious. Its walls had been lined with human remains, piled to the vault overhead, in the fashion of the great catacombs of Paris. Three sides of this interior crypt were still ornamented in this manner. From the fourth the bones had been thrown down, and lay promiscuously upon the earth, forming at one point a mound of some size. Within the wall thus exposed by the displacing of the bones we perceived a still interior recess, in depth about four feet, in width three, in height six or seven. It seemed to have been constructed for no especial use within itself, but formed merely the interval between two of the colossal supports of the roof of the catacombs, and was backed by one of their circumscribing walls of solid granite.

It was in vain that Fortunate, uplifting his dull torch, endeavored to pry into the depth of the recess. Its termination the feeble light did not enable us to see.

"Proceed," I said; "herein is the Amontillado. As for Luchesi--"

"He is an ignoramus," interrupted my friend, as he stepped unsteadily forward, while I followed immediately at his heels. In an instant he had reached the extremity of the niche, and finding his progress arrested by the rock, stood stupidly bewildered. A moment more and I had fettered him to the granite. In its surface were two iron staples, distant from each other about two feet, horizontally. From one of these depended a short chain, from the other a padlock. Throwing the links about his waist, it was but the work of a few seconds to secure it. He was too much astounded to resist. Withdrawing the key, I stepped back from the recess.

"Pass your hand," I said, "over the wall; you cannot help feeling the nitre. Indeed it is very damp. Once more let me implore you to return. No? Then I must positively leave you. But I must first render you all the little attentions in my power."

"The Amontillado!" ejaculated my friend, not yet recovered from his astonishment.

"True," I replied; "the Amontillado."

As I said these words I busied myself among the pile of bones of which I have before spoken. Throwing them aside, I soon uncovered a quantity of building-stone and mortar. With these materials and with the aid of my trowel, I began vigorously to wall up the entrance of the niche.

I had scarcely laid the first tier of the masonry when I discovered that the intoxication of Fortunato had in a great measure worn off. The earliest indication I had of this was a low moaning cry from the depth of the recess. It was not the cry of a drunken man. There was then a long and obstinate silence. I laid the second tier, and the third, and the fourth; and then I heard the furious vibrations of the chain. The noise lasted for several minutes, during which, that I might hearken to it with the more satisfaction, I ceased my labors and sat down upon the bones. When at last the clanking subsided, I resumed the trowel, and finished without interruption the fifth, the sixth, and the seventh tier. The wall was now nearly upon a level with my breast. I again paused, and holding the flambeaux over the mason work, threw a few feeble rays upon the figure within.

A succession of loud and shrill screams, bursting suddenly from the throat of the chained form, seemed to thrust me violently back. For a brief moment I hesitated--I trembled. Unsheathing my rapier, I began to grope with it about the recess; but the thought of an instant reassured me. I placed my hand upon the solid fabric of the catacombs, and felt satisfied. I re=approached the wall. I replied to the yells of him who clamored. I re-echoed--I aided--I surpassed them in volume and in strength. I did this, and the clamorer grew still.

It was now midnight, and my task was drawing to a close. I had completed the eighth, the ninth, and the tenth tier. I had finished a portion of the last and the eleventh; there remained but a single stone to be fitted and plastered in. I struggled with its weight; I placed it partially in its destined position. But now there came from out the niche a low laugh that erected the hairs upon my head. It was succeeded by a sad voice, which I had difficulty in recognizing as that of the noble Fortunato. The voice said:

"Ha! ha! ha!--he! he! he!--a very good joke indeed--an excellent jest. We will have many a rich laugh about it at the palazzo--he! he! he!--over our wine--he! he! he!"

"The Amontillado!" I said.

"He! he! he!--he! he! he!--yes, the Amontillado. But is it not getting late? Will not they be awaiting us at the palazzo--the Lady Fortunato and the rest? Let us be gone."

"Yes," I said, "let us be gone."

"For the love of God, Montresor!"

"Yes," I said, "for the love of God!"

But to these words I hearkened in vain for a reply. I grew impatient. I called aloud:

"Fortunato!"

No answer. I called again:

"Fortunato!"

No answer still. I thrust a torch through the remaining aperture and let it fall within. There came forth in return only a jingling of the bells. My heart grew sick--on account of the dampness of the catacombs. I hastened to make an end of my labor. I forced the last stone into its position; I plastered it up. Against the new masonry I re-erected the old rampart of bones. For the half of a century no mortal has disturbed them.

In pace requiescat.

LITERATURE OUT LOUD

Click here for a complete INDEX

LITERATURE OUT LOUD -- see and hear great literature Audio narrations with synchronized visual text

The Complete Collection of

SHAKESPEARE'S SONNETS

all 154 poems $3.99 DVD with FREE shipping

Click on the Amazon button to order

Essential Oils -- create your own business -- click on the logo to begin

Click on the player to hear an audio version of this piece A Cask of Amontillado