Leo Tolstoy

Leo Tolstoy

LITTLE GIRLS WISER THAN MEN

IT was an early Easter. Sledging was only just over; snow still lay in the yards; and water ran in streams down the village street.

Two little girls from different houses happened to meet in a lane between two homesteads, where the dirty water after running through the farm-yards had formed a large puddle. One girl was very small, the other a little bigger. Their mothers had dressed them both in new frocks. The little one wore a blue frock the other a yellow print, and both had red kerchiefs on their heads. They had just come from church when they met, and first they showed each other their finery, and then they began to play. Soon the fancy took them to splash about in the water, and the smaller one was going to step into the puddle, shoes and all, when the elder checked her:

'Don't go in so, Malásha,' said she, 'your mother will scold you. I will take off my shoes and stockings, and you take off yours.'

They did so, and then, picking up their skirts, began walking towards each other through the puddle. The water came up to Malásha's ankles, and she said:

'It is deep, Akoúlya, I'm afraid!'

'Come on,' replied the other. 'Don't be frightened. It won't get any deeper.'

When they got near one another, Akoúlya said:

'Mind, Malásha, don't splash. Walk carefully!'

She had hardly said this, when Malásha plumped down her foot so that the water splashed right on to Akoúlya's frock. The frock was splashed, and so were Akoúlya's eyes and nose. When she saw the stains on her frock, she was angry and ran after Malásha to strike her. Malásha was frightened, and seeing that she had got herself into trouble, she scrambled out of the puddle, and prepared to run home. Just then Akoúlya's mother happened to be passing, and seeing that her daughter's skirt was splashed, and her sleeves dirty, she said:

'You naughty, dirty girl, what have you been doing?'

'Malásha did it on purpose,' replied the girl.

At this Akoúlya's mother seized Malásha, and struck her on the back of her neck. Malásha began to howl so that she could be heard all down the street. Her mother came out.

'What are you beating my girl for?' said she; and began scolding her neighbour. One word led to another and they had an angry quarrel. The men came out and a crowd collected in the street, every one shouting and no one listening. They all went on quarrelling, till one gave another a push, and the affair had very nearly come to blows, when Akoúlya's old grandmother, stepping in among them, tried to calm them.

'What are you thinking of, friends? Is it right to behave so? On a day like this, too! It is a time for rejoicing, and not for such folly as this.'

They would not listen to the old woman and nearly knocked her off her feet. And she would not have been able to quiet the crowd, if it had not been for Akoúlya and Malásha themselves. While the women were abusing each other, Akoúlya had wiped the mud off her frock, and gone back to the puddle. She took a stone and began scraping away the earth in front of the puddle to make a channel through which the water could run out into the street. Presently Malásha joined her, and with a chip of wood helped her dig the channel. Just as the men were beginning to fight, the water from the little girls' channel ran streaming into the street towards the very place where the old woman was trying to pacify the men. The girls followed it; one running each side of the little stream.

'Catch it, Malásha! Catch it!' shouted Akoúlya; while Malásha could not speak for laughing.

Highly delighted, and watching the chip float along on their stream, the little girls ran straight into the group of men; and the old woman, seeing them, said to the men:

'Are you not ashamed of yourselves? To go fighting on account of these lassies, when they themselves have forgotten all about it, and are playing happily together. Dear little souls! They are wiser than you!'

The men looked at the little girls, and were ashamed, and, laughing at themselves, went back each to his own home.

'Except ye turn, and become as little children, ye shall in no wise enter into the kingdom of heaven.'

Kate Chopin

The Storm

I

The leaves were so still that even Bibi thought it was going to rain. Bobinôt, who was accustomed to converse on terms of perfect equality with his little son, called the child's attention to certain sombre clouds that were rolling with sinister intention from the west, accompanied by a sullen, threatening roar. They were at Friedheimer's store and decided to remain there till the storm had passed. They sat within the door on two empty kegs. Bibi was four years old and looked very wise.

"Mama'll be 'fraid, yes," he suggested with blinking eyes.

"She'll shut the house. Maybe she got Sylvie helpin' her this evenin'," Bobinôt responded reassuringly.

"No; she ent got Sylvie. Sylvie was helpin' her yistiday," piped Bibi.

Bobinôt arose and going across to the counter purchased a can of shrimps, of which Calixta was very fond. Then he retumed to his perch on the keg and sat stolidly holding the can of shrimps while the storm burst. It shook the wooden store and seemed to be ripping great furrows in the distant field. Bibi laid his little hand on his father's knee and was not afraid.

II

Calixta, at home, felt no uneasiness for their safety. She sat at a side window sewing furiously on a sewing machine. She was greatly occupied and did not notice the approaching storm. But she felt very warm and often stopped to mop her face on which the perspiration gathered in beads. She unfastened her white sacque at the throat. It began to grow dark, and suddenly realizing the situation she got up hurriedly and went about closing windows and doors.

Out on the small front gallery she had hung Bobinôt's Sunday clothes to dry and she hastened out to gather them before the rain fell. As she stepped outside, Alcée Laballière rode in at the gate. She had not seen him very often since her marriage, and never alone. She stood there with Bobinôt's coat in her hands, and the big rain drops began to fall. Alcée rode his horse under the shelter of a side projection where the chickens had huddled and there were plows and a harrow piled up in the corner.

"May I come and wait on your gallery till the storm is over, Calixta?" he asked.

"Come 'long in, M'sieur Alcée."

His voice and her own startled her as if from a trance, and she seized Bobinôt's vest. Alcée, mounting to the porch, grabbed the trousers and snatched Bibi's braided jacket that was about to be carried away by a sudden gust of wind. He expressed an intention to remain outside, but it was soon apparent that he might as well have been out in the open: the water beat in upon the boards in driving sheets, and he went inside, closing the door after him. It was even necessary to put something beneath the door to keep the water out.

"My! what a rain! It's good two years sence it rain' like that," exclaimed Calixta as she rolled up a piece of bagging and Alcée helped her to thrust it beneath the crack.

She was a little fuller of figure than five years before when she married; but she had lost nothing of her vivacity. Her blue eyes still retained their melting quality; and her yellow hair, dishevelled by the wind and rain, kinked more stubbornly than ever about her ears and temples.

The rain beat upon the low, shingled roof with a force and clatter that threatened to break an entrance and deluge them there. They were in the dining room—the sitting room—the general utility room. Adjoining was her bed room, with Bibi's couch along side her own. The door stood open, and the room with its white, monumental bed, its closed shutters, looked dim and mysterious.

Alcée flung himself into a rocker and Calixta nervously began to gather up from the floor the lengths of a cotton sheet which she had been sewing.

"If this keeps up, Dieu sait if the levees goin' to stan it!" she exclaimed.

"What have you got to do with the levees?"

"I got enough to do! An' there's Bobinôt with Bibi out in that storm—if he only didn' left Friedheimer's!"

"Let us hope, Calixta, that Bobinôt's got sense enough to come in out of a cyclone."

She went and stood at the window with a greatly disturbed look on her face. She wiped the frame that was clouded with moisture. It was stiflingly hot. Alcée got up and joined her at the window, looking over her shoulder. The rain was coming down in sheets obscuring the view of far-off cabins and enveloping the distant wood in a gray mist. The playing of the lightning was incessant. A bolt struck a tall chinaberry tree at the edge of the field. It filled all visible space with a blinding glare and the crash seemed to invade the very boards they stood upon.

Calixta put her hands to her eyes, and with a cry, staggered backward. Alcée's arm encircled her, and for an instant he drew her close and spasmodically to him.

"Bonté!" she cried, releasing herself from his encircling arm and retreating from the window, "The house'll go next! If I only knew w'ere Bibi was!" She would not compose herself; she would not be seated. Alcée clasped her shoulders and looked into her face. The contact of her warm, palpitating body when he had unthinkingly drawn her into his arms, had aroused all the old-time infatuation and desire for her flesh.

"Calixta," he said, "don't be frightened. Nothing can happen. The house is too low to be struck, with so many tall trees standing about. There! aren't you going to be quiet? say, aren't you?" He pushed her hair back from her face that was warm and steaming. Her lips were as red and moist as pomegranate seed. Her white neck and a glimpse of her full, firm bosom disturbed him powerfully. As she glanced up at him the fear in her liquid blue eyes had given place to a drowsy gleam that unconsciously betrayed a sensuous desire. He looked down into her eyes and there was nothing for him to do but to gather her lips in a kiss. It reminded him of Assumption.

"Do you remember — in Assumption, Calixta?" he asked in a low voice broken by passion. Oh! she remembered; for in Assumption he had kissed her and kissed and kissed her; until his senses would well nigh fail, and to save her he would resort to a desperate flight. If she was not an immaculate dove in those days, she was still inviolate; a passionate creature whose very defenselessness had made her defense, against which his honor forbade him to prevail. Now — well, now — her lips seemed in a manner free to be tasted, as well as her round, white throat and her whiter breasts.

They did not heed the crashing torrents, and the roar of the elements made her laugh as she lay in his arms. She was a revelation in that dim, mysterious chamber; as white as the couch she lay upon. Her firm, elastic flesh that was knowing for the first time its birthright, was like a creamy lily that the sun invites to contribute its breath and perfume to the undying life of the world.

The generous abundance of her passion, without guile or trickery, was like a white flame which penetrated and found response in depths of his own sensuous nature that had never yet been reached.

When he touched her breasts they gave themselves up in quivering ecstasy, inviting his lips. Her mouth was a fountain of delight. And when he possessed her, they seemed to swoon together at the very borderland of life's mystery.

He stayed cushioned upon her, breathless, dazed, enervated, with his heart beating like a hammer upon her. With one hand she clasped his head, her lips lightly touching his forehead. The other hand stroked with a soothing rhythm his muscular shoulders.

The growl of the thunder was distant and passing away. The rain beat softly upon the shingles, inviting them to drowsiness and sleep. But they dared not yield.

III

The rain was over; and the sun was turning the glistening green world into a palace of gems. Calixta, on the gallery, watched Alcée ride away. He turned and smiled at her with a beaming face; and she lifted her pretty chin in the air and laughed aloud.

Bobinôt and Bibi, trudging home, stopped without at the cistern to make themselves presentable.

"My! Bibi, w'at will yo' mama say! You ought to be ashame'. You oughta' put on those good pants. Look at 'em! An' that mud on yo' collar! How you got that mud on yo' collar, Bibi? I never saw such a boy!" Bibi was the picture of pathetic resignation. Bobinôt was the embodiment of serious solicitude as he strove to remove from his own person and his son's the signs of their tramp over heavy roads and through wet fields. He scraped the mud off Bibi's bare legs and feet with a stick and carefully removed all traces from his heavy brogans. Then, prepared for the worst — the meeting with an over-scrupulous housewife, they entered cautiously at the back door.

Calixta was preparing supper. She had set the table and was dripping coffee at the hearth. She sprang up as they came in.

"Oh, Bobinôt! You back! My! but I was uneasy. W'ere you been during the rain? An' Bibi? he ain't wet? he ain't hurt?" She had clasped Bibi and was kissing him effusively. Bobinôt's explanations and apologies which he had been composing all along the way, died on his lips as Calixta felt him to see if he were dry, and seemed to express nothing but satisfaction at their safe return.

"I brought you some shrimps, Calixta," offered Bobinôt, hauling the can from his ample side pocket and laying it on the table.

"Shrimps! Oh, Bobinôt! you too good fo' anything!" and she gave him a smacking kiss on the cheek that resounded, "J'vous réponds, we'll have a feas' to-night! umph-umph!"

Bobinôt and Bibi began to relax and enjoy themselves, and when the three seated themselves at table they laughed much and so loud that anyone might have heard them as far away as Laballière's.

IV

Alcée Laballière wrote to his wife, Clarisse, that night. It was a loving letter, full of tender solicitude. He told her not to hurry back, but if she and the babies liked it at Biloxi, to stay a month longer. He was getting on nicely; and though he missed them, he was willing to bear the separation a while longer—realizing that their health and pleasure were the first things to be considered.

V

As for Clarisse, she was charmed upon receiving her husband's letter. She and the babies were doing well. The society was agreeable; many of her old friends and acquaintances were at the bay. And the first free breath since her marriage seemed to restore the pleasant liberty of her maiden days. Devoted as she was to her husband, their intimate conjugal life was something which she was more than willing to forgo for a while.

So the storm passed and every one was happy.

Pudumaippithan the great Tamil writer

?

Written in Tamil by Pudumaippithan

Two persons were going, a master and a disciple, on the way where no human feet had trodden until then. There was no difference found between them except their behaving. They were equal aged. Same grey hair, same wrinkles. If observed closer only, one would seem figuratively younger.. But old age became evident when a thought passed over his face.

They were passing over the snow desert of the Himalayan regions. The chillness seemed to saw one's life. Mount Kailash stood in the distance like an unconquerable ideal. The feet got buried in the recently fallen snow slush. They got slipped at times over some snow rocks found in some places.

The master came to a turning where the vicinity got a legible angle.

"See, it is Mount Kailash, looking high, erect and proud like tearing off the sky! There… on top of the peak, do you see the star illumining bright? The ideal, the God it is like that only." The master pointed it out. Passion poured out from his eyes like the one who touched the shores of Truth.

"Lord, what is the use of standing erect? It is lifeless. Is it enough being illuminant? What is the use of being there or go invisible just to remain for the sake of getting touched by someone?" The disciple said.

"If one person touches it, it equals the whole world has touched."

"Since the world loses him?"

" No, since he loses the world."

They were looking over the peak with their heads straight immersed in contemplation,.

After an instant the master said, hanging down his head

" No, what I said was wrong".

Translated from Tamil by: Vaiyavan

The Undaunted Cult

Ernest Miller Hemingway

A Clean, Well-Lighted Place (1933) / Ernest Hemingway

1

.It was very late and everyone had left the café except an old man who sat in

the shadow the leaves of the tree made against the electric light. In the day time

the street was dusty, but at night the dew settled the dust and the old man liked

to sit late because he was deaf and now at night it was quiet and he felt the

difference. The two waiters inside the café knew that the old man was a little

drunk, and while he was a good client they knew that if he became too drunk he

would leave without paying, so they kept watch on him.

"Last week he tried to commit suicide," one waiter said.

"Why?"

"He was in despair."

"What about?"

"Nothing."

"How do you know it was nothing?"

"He has plenty of money."

They sat together at a table that was close against the wall near the door of

the café and looked at the terrace where the tables were all empty except where

the old man sat in the shadow of the leaves of the tree that moved slightly in the

wind. A girl and a soldier went by in the street. The street light shone on the

brass number on his collar. The girl wore no head covering and hurried beside

him.

"The guard will pick him up," one waiter said.

"What does it matter if he gets what he's after?"

"He had better get off the street now. The guard will get him. They went by

five minutes ago."

The old man sitting in the shadow rapped on his saucer with his glass. The

younger waiter went over to him.

"What do you want?"

The old man looked at him. "Another brandy," he said.

"You'll be drunk," the waiter said. The old man looked at him. The waiter

went away.

"He'll stay all night," he said to his colleague. "I'm sleepy now. I never get

into bed before three o'clock. He should have killed himself last week."

The waiter took the brandy bottle and another saucer from the counter

inside the café and marched out to the old man's table. He put down the saucer

and poured the glass full of brandy.

"You should have killed yourself last week," he said to the deaf man. The

old man motioned with his finger. "A little more," he said. The waiter poured on

into the glass so that the brandy slopped over and ran down the stem into the

top saucer of the pile. "Thank you," the old man said. The waiter took the bottle

back inside the café. He sat down at the table with his colleague again.

"He's drunk now," he said.

"He's drunk every night."

"What did he want to kill himself for?"

"How should I know."

"How did he do it?"

"He hung himself with a rope."

"Who cut him down?"

"His niece."

"Why did they do it?"

"Fear for his soul."

2

"How much money has he got?"

"He's got plenty."

"He must be eighty years old."

"Anyway I should say he was eighty."

"I wish he would go home. I never get to bed before three o'clock. What

kind of hour is that to go to bed?"

"He stays up because he likes it."

"He's lonely. I'm not lonely. I have a wife waiting in bed for me."

"He had a wife once too."

"A wife would be no good to him now."

"You can't tell. He might be better with a wife."

"His niece looks after him. You said she cut him down."

"I know."

"I wouldn't want to be that old. An old man is a nasty thing."

"Not always. This old man is clean. He drinks without spilling. Even now,

drunk. Look at him."

"I don't want to look at him. I wish he would go home. He has no regard for

those who must work."

The old man looked from his glass across the square, then over at the

waiters.

"Another brandy," he said, pointing to his glass. The waiter who was in a

hurry came over.

"Finished," he said, speaking with that omission of syntax stupid people

employ when talking to drunken people or foreigners. "No more tonight. Close

now."

"Another," said the old man.

"No. Finished." The waiter wiped the edge of the table with a towel and

shook his head.

The old man stood up, slowly counted the saucers, took a leather coin

purse from his pocket and paid for the drinks, leaving half a peseta tip.

The waiter watched him go down the street, a very old man walking

unsteadily but with dignity.

"Why didn't you let him stay and drink?" the unhurried waiter asked. They

were putting up the shutters. "It is not half-past two."

"I want to go home to bed."

"What is an hour?"

"More to me than to him."

"An hour is the same."

"You talk like an old man yourself. He can buy a bottle and drink at home."

"It's not the same."

"No, it is not," agreed the waiter with a wife. He did not wish to be unjust.

He was only in a hurry.

"And you? You have no fear of going home before your usual hour?"

"Are you trying to insult me?"

"No, hombre, only to make a joke."

"No," the waiter who was in a hurry said, rising from pulling down the metal

shutters. "I have confidence. I am all confidence."

"You have youth, confidence, and a job," the older waiter said. "You have

everything."

"And what do you lack?"

"Everything but work."

"You have everything I have."

3

"No. I have never had confidence and I am not young."

"Come on. Stop talking nonsense and lock up."

"I am of those who like to stay late at the café," the older waiter said. "With

all those who do not want to go to bed. With all those who need a light for the

night."

"I want to go home and into bed."

"We are of two different kinds," the older waiter said. He was now dressed

to go home. "It is not only a question of youth and confidence although those

things are very beautiful. Each night I am reluctant to close up because there

may be some one who needs the café."

"Hombre, there are bodegas open all night long."

"You do not understand. This is a clean and pleasant café. It is well lighted.

The light is very good and also, now, there are shadows of the leaves."

"Good night," said the younger waiter.

"Good night," the other said. Turning off the electric light he continued the

conversation with himself. It was the light of course but it is necessary that the

place be clean and pleasant. You do not want music. Certainly you do not want

music. Nor can you stand before a bar with dignity although that is all that is

provided for these hours. What did he fear? It was not a fear or dread. It was a

nothing that he knew too well. It was all a nothing and a man was a nothing too.

It was only that and light was all it needed and a certain cleanness and order.

Some lived in it and never felt it but he knew it all was nada y pues nada y nada y

pues nada. Our nada who art in nada, nada be thy name thy kingdom nada thy

will be nada in nada as it is in nada. Give us this nada our daily nada and nada us

our nada as we nada our nadas and nada us not into nada but deliver us from

nada; pues nada. Hail nothing full of nothing, nothing is with thee. He smiled and

stood before a bar with a shining steam pressure coffee machine.

"What's yours?" asked the barman.

"Nada."

"Otro loco mas," said the barman and turned away.

"A little cup," said the waiter.

The barman poured it for him.

"The light is very bright and pleasant but the bar is unpolished," the waiter

said.

The barman looked at him but did not answer. It was too late at night for

conversation.

"You want another copita?" the barman asked.

"No, thank you," said the waiter and went out. He disliked bars and

bodegas. A clean, well-lighted café was a very different thing. Now, without

thinking further, he would go home to his room. He would lie in the bed and

finally, with daylight, he would go to sleep. After all, he said to himself, it's

probably only insomnia. Many must have it.

.

.

C.N.Annadurai

The Wooden log

C.N.Annadurai(One of the most popular leaders of Tamils known as 'Anna')

Tranalated by:Vaiyavan

Dharmalingam began repairing the house which went ruining step by step for a long time. Taking much pains, spending much money, he changed it for a suitable to live. The house would have gone as a mound of mud, if he had not taken such arduous steps.

’ It needs a lot of money and pains. Instead of it Dharmalingam might build a fine new house. He is wasting his efforts and money. The result would remain as a wasted labour.’ People who could not preserve their houses properly commented.

‘You know, there is an anthill in the backyard.’

‘Yes.. yes. I know. There is a dried up well also. I have seen.’

‘They say the foundation alone remain stronger.’

‘What stronger? They have laid the foundation with materials considered to be stronger before two generations. That’s all’

‘In walls there were…’

‘Yes. So many cracks. Many pits in the floor. The roof is leaky.’

‘If left without troubling, it would end as a mound of mud.’

‘Then we can cultivate brinjal or ladies finger there.’

‘Dharmalingam says he is going to repair it fit-enough to reside.’

‘Does he want to reside there after repairs?’

‘How mad you are! He is going to reside there first and then do repairs after.’

Many people went on commenting.

Some went to him and advised not to undertake such a kind of trouble.

But he did not say anything as, ‘It can be repaired. I can do it… I will do it … These are the plans.’

Instead, he said, ’Yes, It would be painful .troublesome…I know. Waste of labour even. But if we leave it like this it would become a total ruin. Mere spurges and mushrooms would grow up there, making donkeys to mow and finally left as a waste ground.’

With this firm reply he shifted his residence there to repair; bearing all sufferings he made it a worthy play to reside. His critics too appreciated it.

Many came to see the repaired house and to congratulate him. One among them saw a wooden log on the way to the backyard.

‘Is this redwood?’ He asked Dharmalingam.

Dharmalingam replied as if he had seen it for the first time, ‘Might be. Or some other variety.’

But the questioner continued, ’No.. Dharmalingam. This is a piece of teak. You can make a beautiful roof layer out of this.’

‘Yes..yes.’ Dharmalingam shook his head and replied something meaningless.

But the questioner went on explaining how to make the roof layer and what kind of carving work should be made on it e and where to place it and how the look of the building would improved beautifully.’

‘You can make roof layers, suspension layers ...this and that could be done ...’

Many people gave many ideas. But Dharmalingam did not yield to any of them, neither he accepted nor denied…ending their advices with,’ Yes.. yes.. Let me see.’

The wooden log was there in its own place where it was. Days, months even years passed on. The wooden log was there in its own place.

Some innocent persons would enquire,’ Isn’t it a good piece of wood?’

Dharmalingam would reply them,’ No..no.. It’s a fine variety.’

Then they will wonder and begin advising,’ Why should you keep it as a junk? Make it useful.’

The reply from Dharmalingam would be the same, ’Yes.. yes. Some thing should be done.’ But nothing was done. It was there in its own place.

The wooden log would get a move when cleaning the house or on discovering the hidden scorpion or some poisonous insects; then it would be moved back to its own place.

‘Keeping this log here disturbs the passage. Moreover it accumulates trash and garbage under.’ The house members made bitter complaints.

‘It is there at one corner. How does it trouble you? It is not blocking the way.’ Dharmalingam threw aside all those objections.

‘Good piece of wood. Worthy for fine wood-work. Beautiful things could be done..’

In spite of all these praises and recommendations the wooden log was there in its own place.

Time went on. The familiarity of the wooden log lying at the same place made its merit degraded. The same persons who valued it as a fine piece of wood began to call it then as usable only for firewood. Some got the guts to go to Dharmalingam to advise him to cut it to pieces and use for stove.

Dharmalingam rebuked them, ‘Don’t you get anything to use as firewood? Do you know anything about the use and standard of finer wooden materials?’

‘It is kept useless. So that we told you to use it as firewood.’ they tried to explain.

‘Okay.. okay . I know.. You please go.!”

The wooden log remained there where it was.

‘Scorpion would pass over it. Lizards would run upon it. Garbage and trash went accumulated beside it. It was not affected. What if a scorpion stings it? It is just a wooden log.

‘I have seen a wooden log at Dharmalingam’s house. It would suit our purpose.’

‘Yes. I too had seen it. He has it for a long time.’

‘I think he keeps it for some purpose.’

‘It does not seem so. He might not know what to do with it.’

‘He won’t give it rather to anyone.’

This kind of talk was going on around the town. Dharmalingam let the wooden log to be in its own place. How can it move? Was not it just a wooden log?

Wind and rain followed one day. The mud walls went up to dissolving. Window doors sounded terrifically. The kitchen wall seemed to disintegrate. Every one was worried.

‘The wall is going to fall’. Somebody shouted.

Dharmalingam saw that the wall was preparing itself to fall down. He thought for a while. He called some persons and gave an order. ‘ Aye… you go . Get that wooden log and prop it as a support before the wall.’

Some persons who knew about the condition of the kitchen wall thought that it would have crumbled and fallen and there might be a calamity. One of them came there after the rain and saw the wooden log used as a prop supporting the wall.

‘Did you keep the wooden log just for this purpose for a long time?’ He asked Dharmalingam.

‘Yes.’ Dharmalingam agreed for namesake just to avoid him.

The wooden log did not know what they talked about it. And it did not know that it was used as a prop to support a wall which was about to be fallen. It was just a wooden log.

After a proper repair was done to the weakened wall, the prop was found unnecessary. So it was removed to its own place. Slowly the time passed on.

Time went on. The wooden log became a prey to termites. They entered into it, began eating it inside, destroying the quality and the strength the wooden log once had.

A person who came to visit Dharmalingam saw the wooden log in that stage pushed it to see its strength..

‘Oh! It is useless. So that you keep it idle.’ He commented.

As usual Dharmalingam did not give any specific reply.

‘There was a time. Then I was strong, I would have been useful. Many suggested, many expected. No use. I was kept in a corner. Now termites eat me. What can I do?’

It did not explain such because it has no tongue. It was just a wooden log.

[Tranalated by:Vaiyavan]

***** ***** ******

Short Story Masters:O'Henry

O'Henry

Girl

In gilt letters on the ground glass of the door of room No. 962 were the words: "Robbins & Hartley, Brokers." The clerks had gone. It was past five, and with the solid tramp of a drove of prize Percherons, scrub-women were invading the cloud-capped twenty-story office building. A puff of red-hot air flavoured with lemon peelings, soft-coal smoke and train oil came in through the half-open windows.

Robbins, fifty, something of an overweight beau, and addicted to first nights and hotel palm-rooms, pretended to be envious of his partner's commuter's joys.

"Going to be something doing in the humidity line to-night," he said. "You out-of-town chaps will be the people, with your katydids and moonlight and long drinks and things out on the front porch."

Hartley, twenty-nine, serious, thin, good-looking, nervous, sighed and frowned a little.

"Yes," said he, "we always have cool nights in Floralhurst, especially in the winter."

A man with an air of mystery came in the door and went up to Hartley.

"I've found where she lives," he announced in the portentous half-whisper that makes the detective at work a marked being to his fellow men.

Hartley scowled him into a state of dramatic silence and quietude. But by that time Robbins had got his cane and set his tie pin to his liking, and with a debonair nod went out to his metropolitan amusements.

"Here is the address," said the detective in a natural tone, being deprived of an audience to foil.

Hartley took the leaf torn out of the sleuth's dingy memorandum book. On it were pencilled the words "Vivienne Arlington, No. 341 East ----th Street, care of Mrs. McComus."

"Moved there a week ago," said the detective. "Now, if you want any shadowing done, Mr. Hartley, I can do you as fine a job in that line as anybody in the city. It will be only $7 a day and expenses. Can send in a daily typewritten report, covering--"

"You needn't go on," interrupted the broker. "It isn't a case of that kind. I merely wanted the address. How much shall I pay you?"

"One day's work," said the sleuth. "A tenner will cover it."

Hartley paid the man and dismissed him. Then he left the office and boarded a Broadway car. At the first large crosstown artery of travel he took an eastbound car that deposited him in a decaying avenue, whose ancient structures once sheltered the pride and glory of the town.

Walking a few squares, he came to the building that he sought. It was a new flathouse, bearing carved upon its cheap stone portal its sonorous name, "The Vallambrosa." Fire-escapes zigzagged down its front--these laden with household goods, drying clothes, and squalling children evicted by the midsummer heat. Here and there a pale rubber plant peeped from the miscellaneous mass, as if wondering to what kingdom it belonged--vegetable, animal or artificial.

Hartley pressed the "McComus" button. The door latch clicked spasmodically--now hospitably, now doubtfully, as though in anxiety whether it might be admitting friends or duns. Hartley entered and began to climb the stairs after the manner of those who seek their friends in city flat-houses--which is the manner of a boy who climbs an apple-tree, stopping when he comes upon what he wants.

On the fourth floor he saw Vivienne standing in an open door. She invited him inside, with a nod and a bright, genuine smile. She placed a chair for him near a window, and poised herself gracefully upon the edge of one of those Jekyll-and-Hyde pieces of furniture that are masked and mysteriously hooded, unguessable bulks by day and inquisitorial racks of torture by night.

Hartley cast a quick, critical, appreciative glance at her before speaking, and told himself that his taste in choosing had been flawless.

Vivienne was about twenty-one. She was of the purest Saxon type. Her hair was a ruddy golden, each filament of the neatly gathered mass shining with its own lustre and delicate graduation of colour. In perfect harmony were her ivory-clear complexion and deep sea-blue eyes that looked upon the world with the ingenuous calmness of a mermaid or the pixie of an undiscovered mountain stream. Her frame was strong and yet possessed the grace of absolute naturalness. And yet with all her Northern clearness and frankness of line and colouring, there seemed to be something of the tropics in her--something of languor in the droop of her pose, of love of ease in her ingenious complacency of satisfaction and comfort in the mere act of breathing--something that seemed to claim for her a right as a perfect work of nature to exist and be admired equally with a rare flower or some beautiful, milk-white dove among its sober-hued companions.

She was dressed in a white waist and dark skirt--that discreet masquerade of goose-girl and duchess.

"Vivienne," said Hartley, looking at her pleadingly, "you did not answer my last letter. It was only by nearly a week's search that I found where you had moved to. Why have you kept me in suspense when you knew how anxiously I was waiting to see you and hear from you?"

The girl looked out the window dreamily.

"Mr. Hartley," she said hesitatingly, "I hardly know what to say to you. I realize all the advantages of your offer, and sometimes I feel sure that I could be contented with you. But, again, I am doubtful. I was born a city girl, and I am afraid to bind myself to a quiet suburban life."

"My dear girl," said Hartley, ardently, "have I not told you that you shall have everything that your heart can desire that is in my power to give you? You shall come to the city for the theatres, for shopping and to visit your friends as often as you care to. You can trust me, can you not?"

"To the fullest," she said, turning her frank eyes upon him with a smile. "I know you are the kindest of men, and that the girl you get will be a lucky one. I learned all about you when I was at the Montgomerys'."

"Ah!" exclaimed Hartley, with a tender, reminiscent light in his eye; "I remember well the evening I first saw you at the Montgomery's'. Mrs. Montgomery was sounding your praises to me all the evening. And she hardly did you justice. I shall never forget that supper. Come, Vivienne, promise me. I want you. You'll never regret coming with me. No one else will ever give you as pleasant a home."

The girl sighed and looked down at her folded hands.

A sudden jealous suspicion seized Hartley.

"Tell me, Vivienne," he asked, regarding her keenly, "is there another--is there some one else ?"

A rosy flush crept slowly over her fair cheeks and neck.

"You shouldn't ask that, Mr. Hartley," she said, in some confusion. "But I will tell you. There is one other--but he has no right--I have promised him nothing."

"His name?" demanded Hartley, sternly.

"Townsend."

"Rafford Townsend!" exclaimed Hartley, with a grim tightening of his jaw. "How did that man come to know you? After all I've done for him--"

"His auto has just stopped below," said Vivienne, bending over the window-sill. "He's coming for his answer. Oh I don't know what to do!"

The bell in the flat kitchen whirred. Vivienne hurried to press the latch button.

"Stay here," said Hartley. "I will meet him in the hall."

Townsend, looking like a Spanish grandee in his light tweeds, Panama hat and curling black mustache, came up the stairs three at a time. He stopped at sight of Hartley and looked foolish.

"Go back," said Hartley, firmly, pointing downstairs with his forefinger.

"Hullo!" said Townsend, feigning surprise. "What's up? What are you doing here, old man?"

"Go back," repeated Hartley, inflexibly. "The Law of the Jungle. Do you want the Pack to tear you in pieces? The kill is mine."

"I came here to see a plumber about the bathroom connections," said Townsend, bravely.

"All right," said Hartley. "You shall have that lying plaster to stick upon your traitorous soul. But, go back." Townsend went downstairs, leaving a bitter word to be wafted up the draught of the staircase. Hartley went back to his wooing.

"Vivienne," said he, masterfully. "I have got to have you. I will take no more refusals or dilly-dallying."

"When do you want me?" she asked.

"Now. As soon as you can get ready."

She stood calmly before him and looked him in the eye.

"Do you think for one moment," she said, "that I would enter your home while Heloise is there?"

Hartley cringed as if from an unexpected blow. He folded his arms and paced the carpet once or twice.

"She shall go," he declared grimly. Drops stood upon his brow. "Why should I let that woman make my life miserable? Never have I seen one day of freedom from trouble since I have known her. You are right, Vivienne. Heloise must be sent away before I can take you home. But she shall go. I have decided. I will turn her from my doors."

"When will you do this?" asked the girl.

Hartley clinched his teeth and bent his brows together.

"To-night," he said, resolutely. "I will send her away to-night."

"Then," said Vivienne, "my answer is 'yes.' Come for me when you will."

She looked into his eyes with a sweet, sincere light in her own. Hartley could scarcely believe that her surrender was true, it was so swift and complete.

"Promise me," he said feelingly, "on your word and honour."

"On my word and honour," repeated Vivienne, softly.

At the door he turned and gazed at her happily, but yet as one who scarcely trusts the foundations of his joy.

"To-morrow," he said, with a forefinger of reminder uplifted.

"To-morrow," she repeated with a smile of truth and candour.

In an hour and forty minutes Hartley stepped off the train at Floralhurst. A brisk walk of ten minutes brought him to the gate of a handsome two-story cottage set upon a wide and well-tended lawn. Halfway to the house he was met by a woman with jet-black braided hair and flowing white summer gown, who half strangled him without apparent cause.

When they stepped into the hall she said:

"Mamma's here. The auto is coming for her in half an hour. She came to dinner, but there's no dinner."

"I've something to tell you," said Hartley. "I thought to break it to you gently, but since your mother is here we may as well out with it."

He stooped and whispered something at her ear.

His wife screamed. Her mother came running into the hall. The dark-haired woman screamed again--the joyful scream of a well-beloved and petted woman.

"Oh, mamma!" she cried ecstatically, "what do you think? Vivienne is coming to cook for us! She is the one that stayed with the Montgomery's a whole year. And now, Billy, dear," she concluded, "you must go right down into the kitchen and discharge Heloise. She has been drunk again the whole day long."