The Project Gutenberg EBook of Story-Tell Lib, by Annie Trumbull Slosson
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
Title: Story-Tell Lib
Author: Annie Trumbull Slosson
Release Date: December 1, 2006 [EBook #19989]
Language: English
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STORY-TELL LIB ***
Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
Story-Tell Lib
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration]
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
Story-Tell Lib
By
Annie Trumbull Slosson
Author of "Fishin' Jimmy"
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
NEW YORK . . . . . 1908
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
_Copyright, 1900_
BY CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
_All rights reserved_
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS
PAGE
I. STORY-TELL LIB 3
II. THE SHET-UP POSY 13
III. THE HORSE THAT B'LEEVED HE'D GET THERE 25
IV. THE PLANT THAT LOST ITS BERRY 37
V. THE STONY HEAD 47
VI. DIFF'ENT KIND O' BUNDLES 57
VII. THE BOY THAT WAS SCARET O' DYIN' 71
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
STORY-TELL LIB
I
Story-Tell Lib
That was what everybody in the little mountain village called her. Her
real name, as she often told me, ringing out each syllable proudly in
her shrill sweet voice, was Elizabeth Rowena Marietta York. A stately
name, indeed, for the little crippled, stunted, helpless creature, and I
myself could never think of her by any name but the one the village
people used, Story-tell Lib. I had heard of her for two or three summers
in my visits to Greenhills. The village folk had talked to me of the
little lame girl who told such pretty stories out of her own head, "kind
o' fables that learnt folks things, and helped 'em without bein' too
preachy." But I had no definite idea of what the child was till I saw
and heard her myself. She was about thirteen years of age, but very
small and fragile. She was lame, and could walk only with the aid of a
crutch. Indeed, she could but hobble painfully, a few steps at a time,
with that assistance. Her little white face was not an attractive one,
her features being sharp and pinched, and her eyes faded, dull, and
almost expressionless. Only the full, prominent, rounding brow spoke of
a mind out of the common. She was an orphan, and lived with her aunt,
Miss Jane York, in an old-fashioned farmhouse on the upper road.
Miss Jane was a good woman. She kept the child neatly clothed and
comfortably fed, but I do not think she lavished many caresses or loving
words on little Lib, it was not her way, and the girl led a lonesome,
quiet, unchildlike life. Aunt Jane tried to teach her to read and write,
but, whether from the teacher's inability to impart knowledge, or from
some strange lack in the child's odd brain, Lib never learned the
lesson. She could not read a word, she did not even know her alphabet. I
cannot explain to myself or to you the one gift which gave her her
homely village name. She told stories. I listened to many of them, and I
took down from her lips several of these. They are, as you will see if
you read them, "kind o' fables," as the country folk said. They were all
simple little tales in the dialect of the hill country in which she
lived. But each held some lesson, suggested some truth, which, strangely
enough, the child herself did not seem to see; at least, she never
admitted that she saw or intended any hidden meaning.
I often questioned her as to this after we became friends. After
listening to some tale in which I could discern just the lovely truth
which would best help some troubled soul in her audience, I have
questioned her as to its meaning. I can see now, in memory, the
short-sighted, expressionless eyes of faded blue which met mine as she
said, "Don't mean anything,--it don't. It's jest a story. Stories don't
have to mean things; they're stories, and I tells 'em." That was all she
would say, and the mystery remained. What did it mean? Whence came that
strange power of giving to the people who came to her something to help
and cheer, both help and cheer hidden in a simple little story? Was it,
as I like to think, God-given, a treasure sent from above? Or would you
rather think it an inheritance from some ancestor, a writer, a teller of
tales? Or perhaps you believe in the transmigration of souls, and think
that the spirit of some Æsop of old, who spoke in parables, had entered
the frail crippled body of our little Lib, and spoke through her pinched
pale lips. I leave you your theories, I keep my own.
But one thing which I find I have omitted thus far may seem to you to
throw a little light on this matter. It does not help me much. Lib was a
wonderful listener, as well as a narrator. Miss Jane sometimes took an
occasional boarder. Teachers, clergymen, learned professors, had from
time to time tarried under her roof. And while these talked to one
another, or to some visitor from neighboring hotels, little Lib would
sit motionless and silent by the hour. One would scarcely call it
listening; to listen seems too active a verb in this case. The girl's
face wore no eager look of interest, the faded, short-sighted eyes did
not light up with intelligence, nor the features quiver with varied
emotions. If she received ideas from what fell upon her ears, it must
have been by a sort of unconscious absorption. She took it in as the
earth does the rain or the flower the sunshine. And so it was with any
reading aloud from book or paper. She would sit, utterly quiet, while
the reader's voice went on, and nothing could draw her away till it was
ended. Question her later as to what was read or spoken of, and you
gained no satisfaction. If she had any idea of what she had heard, she
had not the power of putting it into words. "I like it. I like it lots,"
she would say; that was all.
Throughout the whole summer in which I knew the child, the summer which
came so quickly, so sadly, to an end, little Lib sat, on bright, fair
days, in a low wooden chair under the maples in front of the farmhouse.
And it had grown to be the custom of her many friends, both young and
old, to gather there, and listen to her stories, if she had any to tell.
I often joined the group of listeners. On many, many days, as the season
advanced, Lib had no words for us. She had always been a fragile, puny
little creature, and this year she seemed to grow weaker, thinner, more
waxen white, each day. She had a wonderful voice, shrill, far-reaching,
but strangely sweet and clear, with a certain vibrating, reedy,
bird-like quality, which even yet thrills me as I recall it.
I am going to tell you a few of the little stories, pictures, fables,
parables, allegories,--I scarcely know what to call them,--which I heard
Story-tell Lib relate. The words are her own, but I cannot give you the
sweet tones, the quaint manner, the weird, strange personality, of the
little narrator. Let me say here that often the little parables seemed
meant to cheer and lift up Lib's own trembling soul, shut up in the
frail, crippled body. Meant, I say; perhaps that is not the right word.
For did she mean anything by these tales, at least consciously? Be that
as it may, certain of these little stories seemed to touch her own case
strangely.
The Shet-up Posy
II
The first story I ever heard the child tell was one of those which
seemed to hold comfort and cheer for herself or for humble little souls
like her. It was a story of the closed gentian, the title of which she
announced, as she always did, loudly, and with an amusing little air of
self-satisfaction.
The Shet-up Posy
Once there was a posy. 'T wa'n't a common kind o' posy, that blows out
wide open, so's everybody can see its outsides and its insides too.
But 't was one of them posies like what grows down the road, back o' your
pa's sugar-house, Danny, and don't come till way towards fall. They're
sort o' blue, but real dark, and they look 's if they was buds 'stead
o' posies,--only buds opens out, and these doesn't They're all shet up
close and tight, and they never, never, never opens. Never mind how much
sun they get, never mind how much rain or how much drouth, whether it's
cold or hot, them posies stay shet up tight, kind o' buddy, and not
finished and humly. But if you pick 'em open, real careful, with a
pin,--I've done it,--you find they're dreadful pretty inside.
You couldn't see a posy that was finished off better, soft and nice,
with pretty little stripes painted on 'em, and all the little things
like threads in the middle, sech as the open posies has, standing up,
with little knots on their tops, oh, so pretty,--you never did! Makes
you think real hard, that does; leastways, makes me. What's they that
way for? If they ain't never goin' to open out, what's the use o' havin'
the shet-up part so slicked up and nice, with nobody never seem' it?
Folks has different names for 'em, dumb foxgloves, blind genshuns, and
all that, but I allers call 'em the shet-up posies.
Well, 't was one o' that kind o' posy I was goin' to tell you about.
'Twas one o' the shet-uppest and the buddiest of all on 'em, all
blacky-blue and straight up and down, and shet up fast and tight.
Nobody'd ever dream't was pretty inside. And the funniest thing, it
didn't know 'twas so itself! It thought 'twas a mistake somehow, thought
it had oughter been a posy, and was begun for one, but wa'n't finished,
and 'twas terr'ble unhappy. It knew there was pretty posies all 'round
there, goldenrod and purple daisies and all; and their inside was the
right side, and they was proud of it, and held it open, and showed the
pretty lining, all soft and nice with the little fuzzy yeller threads
standin' up, with little balls on their tip ends. And the shet-up posy
felt real bad; not mean and hateful and begrudgin', you know, and
wantin' to take away the nice part from the other posies, but sorry, and
kind o' 'shamed.
"Oh, deary me!" she says,--I most forgot to say 'twas a girl
posy,--"deary me, what a humly, skimpy, awk'ard thing I be! I ain't
more 'n half made; there ain't no nice, pretty lining inside o' me, like
them other posies; and on'y my wrong side shows, and that's jest plain
and common. I can't chirk up folks like the goldenrod and daisies does.
Nobody won't want to pick me and carry me home. I ain't no good to
anybody, and I never shall be."
So she kep' on, thinkin' these dreadful sorry thinkin's, and most
wishin' she'd never been made at all. You know 't wa'n't jest at fust
she felt this way. Fust she thought she was a bud, like lots o' buds all
'round her, and she lotted on openin' like they did. But when the days
kep' passin' by, and all the other buds opened out, and showed how
pretty they was, and she didn't open, why, then she got terr'ble
discouraged; and I don't wonder a mite.
She'd see the dew a-layin' soft and cool on the other posies' faces, and
the sun a-shinin' warm on 'em as they held 'em up, and sometimes she'd
see a butterfly come down and light on 'em real soft, and kind o' put
his head down to 'em, 's if he was kissin' 'em, and she thought 'twould
be powerful nice to hold her face up to all them pleasant things. But
she couldn't.
But one day, afore she'd got very old, 'fore she'd dried up or fell
off, or anything like that, she see somebody comin' along her way. 'Twas
a man, and he was lookin' at all the posies real hard and partic'lar,
but he wasn't pickin' any of 'em. Seems 's if he was lookin' for
somethin' diff'rent from what he see, and the poor little shet-up posy
begun to wonder what he was arter. Bimeby she braced up, and she asked
him about it in her shet-up, whisp'rin' voice. And says he, the man
says: "I'm a-pickin' posies. That's what I work at most o' the time. 'T
ain't for myself," he says, "but the one I work for. I'm on'y his help.
I run errands and do chores for him, and it's a partic'lar kind o' posy
he's sent me for to-day." "What for does he want 'em?" says the shet-up
posy. "Why, to set out in his gardin," the man says. "He's got the
beautif'lest gardin you never see, and I pick posies for 't." "Deary
me," thinks she to herself, "I jest wish he'd pick me. But I ain't the
kind, I know." And then she says, so soft he can't hardly hear her,
"What sort o' posies is it you're arter this time?" "Well," says the
man, "it's a dreadful sing'lar order I've got to-day. I got to find a
posy that's handsomer inside than 't is outside, one that folks ain't
took no notice of here, 'cause 'twas kind o' humly and queer to look at,
not knowin' that inside 'twas as handsome as any posy on the airth. Seen
any o' that kind?" says the man.
Well, the shet-up posy was dreadful worked up. "Deary dear!" she says to
herself, "now if they'd on'y finished me off inside! I'm the right kind
outside, humly and queer enough, but there's nothin' worth lookin' at
inside,--I'm certin sure o' that." But she didn't say this nor anything
else out loud, and bimeby, when the man had waited, and didn't get any
answer, he begun to look at the shet-up posy more partic'lar, to see why
she was so mum. And all of a suddent he says, the man did, "Looks to
me's if you was somethin' that kind yourself, ain't ye?" "Oh, no, no,
no!" whispers the shet-up posy. "I wish I was, I wish I was. I'm all
right outside, humly and awk'ard, queer's I can be, but I ain't pretty
inside,--oh! I most know I ain't." "I ain't so sure o' that myself,"
says the man, "but I can tell in a jiffy." "Will you have to pick me to
pieces?" says the shet-up posy. "No, ma'am," says the man; "I've got a
way o' tellin', the one I work for showed me." The shet-up posy never
knowed what he done to her. I don't know myself, but 'twas somethin'
soft and pleasant, that didn't hurt a mite, and then the man he says,
"Well, well, well!" That's all he said, but he took her up real gentle,
and begun to carry her away. "Where be ye takin' me?" says the shet-up
posy. "Where ye belong," says the man; "to the gardin o' the one I work
for," he says. "I didn't know I was nice enough inside," says the
shet-up posy, very soft and still. "They most gen'ally don't," says the
man.
The Horse that B'leeved he'd Get there
III
Among those who sometimes came to listen to little Lib's allegories was
Mary Ann Sherman, a tall, dark, gloomy woman of whom I had heard much.
She was the daughter of old Deacon Sherman, a native of the village, who
had, some years before I came to Greenhills, died by his own hand, after
suffering many years from a sort of religious melancholia. Whether the
trouble was hereditary and his daughter was born with a tendency
inherited from her father, or whether she was influenced by what she
had heard of his life, and death, I do not know. But she was a dreary
creature with never a smile or a hopeful look upon her dark face.
Nothing to her was right or good; this world was a desert, her friends
had all left her, strangers looked coldly upon her. As for the future,
there was nothing to look forward to in this world or the next. As Dave
Moony, the village cynic, said, "Mary Ann wa'n't proud or set up about
nothin' but bein' the darter of a man that had c'mitted the onpar'nable
sin." Poor woman! her eyes were blinded to all the beauty and brightness
of this world, to the hope and love and joy of the next. What wonder
that one day, as she paused in passing the little group gathered around
Lib, and the child began the little story I give below, I thought it
well fitted to the gloomy woman's case!
The Horse that B'leeved he'd Get there
You've seen them thrashin' machines they're usin' round here. The sort,
you know, where the horses keep steppin' up a board thing 's if they was
climbin' up-hill or goin' up a pair o' stairs, only they don't never get
along a mite; they keep right in the same place all the time, steppin'
and steppin', but never gittin' on.
Well, I knew a horse once, that worked on one o' them things. His name
was Jack, and he was a nice horse. First time they put him on to thrash,
he didn't know what the machine was, and he walked along and up the
boards quick and lively, and he didn't see why he didn't get on faster.
There was a horse side of him named Billy, a kind o' frettin', cross
feller, and he see through it right off.
"Don't you go along," he says to Jack; "'t ain't no use; you won't never
get on, they're foolin' us, and I won't give in to 'em." So Billy he
hung back and shook his head, and tried to get away, and to kick, and
the man whipped him, and hollered at him. But Jack, he went on quiet and
quick and pleasant, steppin' away, and he says softly to Billy, "Come
along," he says; "it's all right, we'll be there bimeby. Don't you see
how I'm gittin' on a'ready?" And that was the ways things went every
day.
Jack never gin up; he climbed and climbed, and walked and walked, jest's
if he see the place he was goin' to, and 's if it got nearer and nearer.
And every night, when they took him off, he was as pleased with his
day's journey 's if he'd gone twenty mile. "I've done first-rate
to-day," he says to cross, kickin' Billy. "The roads was good, and I
never picked up a stone nor dropped a shoe, and I got on a long piece.
I'll be there pretty soon," says he. "Why," says Billy, "what a foolish
fellow you be! You've been in the same place all day, and ain't got on
one mite. What do you mean by _there_? Where is it you think you're
goin', anyway?"
"Well, I don't 'zackly know," says Jack, "but I'm gittin' there real
spry. I 'most see it one time to-day." He didn't mind Billy's laughin'
at him, and tryin' to keep him from bein' sat'sfied. He jest went on
tryin' and tryin' to get there, and hopin' and believin' he would after
a spell. He was always peart and comfortable, took his work real easy,
relished his victuals and drink, and slept first rate nights. But Billy
he fretted and scolded and kicked and bit, and that made him hot and
tired, and got him whipped, and hollered at, and pulled, and yanked. You
see, he hadn't got anything in his mind to chirk him up, for he didn't
believe anything good was comin', as Jack did; he 'most knowed it
wasn't, but Jack 'most knowed it was. And Jack took notice of things
that Billy never see at all. He see the trees a-growin', and heered the
birds a-singin', and Injun Brook a-gugglin' along over the stones, and
he watched the butterflies a-flyin', and sometimes a big yeller 'n black
one would light right on his back. Jack took notice of 'em all, and he'd
say, "I'm gettin' along now, certin sure, for there's birds and posies
and flyin' things here I never see back along. I guess I'm most there."
"'There, there!'" Billy'd say. "Where is it, anyway? I ain't never seen
any o' them posies and creaturs you talk about, and I'm right side of
you on these old boards the whole time."
And all the children round there liked Jack. They'd watch the two horses
workin', and they see Billy all cross and skittish, holdin' back and
shakin' his head and tryin' to kick, never takin' no notice o' them nor
anything. And, again, they see Jack steppin' along peart and spry,
pleasant and willin', turnin' his head when they come up to him, and
lookin' friendly at 'em out of his kind brown eyes, and they'd say, the
boys and girls would, "Good Jack! nice old Jack!" and they'd pat him,
and give him an apple, or a carrot, or suthin' good. But they didn't
give Billy any. They didn't like his ways, and they was 'most afraid
he'd bite their fingers. And Jack would say, come evenin', "It's gittin'
nicer and nicer we get further on the road,--ain't it? Folks is
pleasanter speakin', and the victuals 'pears better flavored, and
things is comfortabler every way, seems 's if, and I jedge by that we're
'most there." But Billy'd say, a-grumblin' away, "It's worse'n
worse,--young ones a-botherin' my life out o' me, and the birds
a-jabberin' and the posies a-smellin' till my head aches. Oh, deary me!
I'm 'most dead." So 't went on and kep' on. Jack had every mite as hard
work as Billy, but he didn't mind it, he was so full o' what was comin'
and how good 't would be to get there. And 'cause he was pleasant and
willin' and worked so good, and 'cause he took notice o' all the nice
things round him, and see new ones every day, he was treated real kind,
and never got tired and used up and low in his mind like Billy. Even the
flies didn't pester him's they done Billy, for he on'y said, when he
felt 'em bitin' and crawlin', "Dog-days is come," says he, "for here's
the flies worse and worse. So the summer's most over, and I'll get there
in a jiffy now."
"What am I stoppin' for," do you say, 'Miry? 'Cause that's all. You
needn't make sech a fuss, child'en. It's done, this story is, I tell ye.
Leastways I don't know any more on it. I told you all about them two
horses, and which had a good time and which didn't, and what 'twas made
the differ'nce 'twixt 'em. But you want to know whether Jack got there.
Well, I don't know no more 'n the horses did what _there_ was, but in my
own mind I b'leeve he got it. Mebbe 't was jest dyin' peaceful and quiet,
and restin' after all that steppin' and climbin'. He'd a-liked that,
partic'lar when he knowed the folks was sorry to have him go, and would
allus rec'lect him. Mebbe 't was jest livin' on and on, int'rested and
enjoyin', and liked by folks, and then bein' took away from the hard
work and put out to pastur' for the rest o' his days. Mebbe 'twas--Oh! I
d'know. Might 'a' been lots o' things, but I feel pretty certin sure he
got it, and he was glad he hadn't gi'n up b'leevin' 't would come. For
you 'member, all the time when Billy 'most knowed it wasn't, Jack 'most
knowed 'twas.
The Plant that Lost its Berry
IV
It was a sad day in Greenhills when we knew that Susan Holcomb's little
Jerusha was dead. We all loved the child, and she was her mother's
dearest treasure. Susan was a widow, and this was her only child. A
pretty little creature she was, with yellow curls and dark-blue eyes,
rosy and plump and sturdy. But a sudden, sharp attack of croup seized
the child, and in a few hours she fell asleep. I need not tell you of
the mother's grief. She could not be comforted because her child was
not. One day a little neighbor, a boy with great faith--not wholly
misplaced--in the helpfulness of Story-tell Lib's little parables,
succeeded, with a child's art, in bringing the sad mother to the group
of listeners. And it was that day that Lib told this new story.
The Plant that Lost its Berry
Once there was a plant, and it had jest one little berry. And the berry
was real pretty to look at. It was sort o' blue, with a kind o' whitey,
foggy look all over the blue, and it wa'n't round like huckleberries and
cramb'ries, but longish, and a little p'inted to each end. And the stem
it growed on, the little bit of a stem, you know, comin' out o' the
plant's big stem, like a little neck to the berry, was pinky and real
pretty. And this berry didn't have a lot o' teenty little seeds inside
on it, like most berries, but it jest had one pretty white stone in it,
with raised up streaks on it.
The plant set everything by her little berry. She thought there never
was in all the airth sech a beautiful berry as hern,--so pretty shaped
and so whitey blue, with sech a soft skin and pinky neck, and more
partic'lar with that nice, white, striped stone inside of it. She held
it all day and all night tight and fast. When it rained real hard, and
the wind blowed, she kind o' stretched out some of her leaves, and
covered her little berry up, and she done the same when the sun was too
hot. And the berry growed and growed, and was so fat and smooth and
pretty! And the plant was jest wropped up in her little berry, lovin' it
terr'ble hard, and bein' dreadful proud on it, too.
Well, one day, real suddent, when the plant wasn't thinkin' of any storm
comin', a little wind riz up. 'T wa'n't a gale, 't wa'n't half as hard a
blow as the berry'd seen lots o' times and never got hurt nor nothin'.
And the plant wa'n't lookin' out for any danger, when all of a suddent
there come a little bit of a snap, and the slimsy little pink stem
broke, and the little berry fell and rolled away, and, 'fore you could
say "Jack Robinson," 't was clean gone out o' sight. I can't begin to
tell ye how that plant took on. Seem 's if she'd die, or go ravin'
crazy. It's only folks that has lost jest what they set most by on airth
that can understand about it, I s'pose. She wouldn't b'leeve it fust
off; she 'most knowed she'd wake up and feel her little berry a-holdin'
close to her, hangin' on her, snugglin' up to her under the shady
leaves. The other plants 'round there tried to chirk her up and help
her. One on 'em told her how it had lost all its little berries itself,
a long spell back, and how it had some ways stood it and got over it.
"But they wa'n't like mine," thinks the poor plant. "There never, never
was no berry like mine, with its pretty figger, its pinky, slim little
neck, and its soft, smooth-feelin' skin." And another plant told her
mebbe her berry was saved from growin' up a trouble to her, gettin' bad
and hard, with mebbe a worm inside on it, to make her ashamed and sorry.
"Oh, no, no!" thinks the mother plant. "My berry'd never got bad and
hard, and I'd 'a' kep' any worm from touchin' its little white heart."
Not a single thing the plant-folks said to her done a mite o' good.
Their talk only worried her and pestered her, when she jest wanted to be
let alone, so's she could think about her little berry all to herself.
Just where the berry used to hang, and where the little pinky stem broke
off, there was a sore place, a sort o' scar, that ached and smarted all
day and all night, and never, never healed up. And bimeby the poor plant
got all wore out with the achin' and the mournin' and the missin' and
she 'peared to feel her heart all a-dryin' up and stoppin', and her
leaves turned yeller and wrinkled, and--she was dead. She couldn't live
on, ye see, without her little berry.
They called it bein' dead, folks did, and it looked like it, for there
she lay without a sign of life for a long, long, long spell. 'Twas for
days and weeks and months anyway. But it didn't seem so long to the
mother plant. She shet up her eyes, feelin' powerful tired and lonesome,
and the next thing she knowed she opened 'em again, and she was wide
awoke. She hardly knowed herself, though, she was so fresh and juicy and
'live, so kind o' young every way. Fust off she didn't think o' anything
but that, how good and well she felt, and how beautiful things was all
'round her. Then all of a suddent she rec'lected her little berry, and
she says to herself, "Oh, dear, dear me! If only my own little berry
was here to see me now, and know how I feel!" She thought she said it to
herself, but mebbe she talked out loud, for, jest as she said it,
somebody answered her. 'T was a Angel, and he says, "Why your little
berry does see you,--look there." And she looked, and she see he was
p'intin' to the beautif'lest little plant you never see,--straight and
nice, with little bits o' soft green leaves, with the sun a-shinin'
through 'em, and,--well, somehow, you never can get it through your head
how mothers take in things,--she knowed cert'in sure that was her little
berry.
The Angel begun to speak. He was goin' to explain how, if she hadn't
never lost her berry, 'twouldn't never 'a' growed into this pretty
plant, but, he see, all of a suddent, that he needn't take the trouble.
She showed in her face she knowed all about it,--every blessed thing. I
tell ye, even angels ain't much use explainin' when there's mothers, and
it's got to do with their own child'en. Yes, the mother plant see it
all, without tellin'. She was jest a mite 'shamed but she was terr'ble
pleased.
The Stony Head
V
When little Lib told the story I give below, Deacon Zenas Welcome was
one of the listeners. The deacon was a son of old Elder Welcome who had
been many years before the pastor of the little church in a neighboring
village. Elder Welcome was one of the old-fashioned sort not so common
in these days, a good man, but stern and somewhat harsh. He preached
only the terrors of the law, dwelt much upon the doctrines, the decrees,
election, predestination, and eternal punishment, and rarely lingered
over such themes as the fatherhood of God, his love to mankind, and his
wonderful gift to a lost world. The son followed in his father's
footsteps. He was a hard, austere, melancholy man, undemonstrative and
reticent, shutting out all brightness from his own life, and clouding
many an existence going on around him. I have always thought that his
unwonted presence among us that day had a purpose, and that he had come
to spy out some taint of heterodoxy in Lib's tales, to reprove and
condemn. He went away quietly, however, when the story was ended, and we
heard nothing of reproof or condemnation.
The Stony Head
Once there was somethin' way up on the side of a mountain that looked
like a man's head. The rocks up there'd got fixed so's they jest made a
great big head and face, and everybody could see it as plain as could
be. Folks called it the Stony Head, and they come to see it from miles
away. There was a man lived round there jest where he could see the
head from his winder. He was a man that things had gone wrong with all
along; he'd had lots o' trouble, and he didn't take it very easy. He
fretted and complained, and blamed it on other folks, and more
partic'lar on--God. And one day--he'd jest come to live in them
parts--he looked out of his winder, and he see, standin' out plain ag'in
the sky, he see that Stony Head. It looked real ha'sh and hard and stony
and dark, and all of a suddent the man thought it was--God.
"Yes," he says to hisself, "that's jest the way I 'most knowed he
looked, ha'sh and hard and stony and dark, and that's him." The man was
dreadful scaret of it, but some ways he couldn't stop lookin' at it. And
bimeby he shet hisself up there all alone, and spent his whole time jest
a-lookin' at that hard, stony face, and thinkin' who't was, and who'd
brought all his trouble on him. There was poor folks all 'round that
deestrict, but he never done nothin' to help 'em; let 'em be hungry or
thirsty or ailin', or shet up in jail, or anything, he never helped 'em
or done a thing for 'em, 'cause he was a-lookin' every single minute at
that head, and seein' how stony and hard it was, and bein' scaret of it
and the One he thought it looked like.
Folks that was in trouble come along and knocked at his door, and he
never opened it a mite, even to see who was there. Sheep and lambs that
had got lost come a-strayin' into his yard, but he never took 'em in,
nor showed 'em the way home. He wa'n't no good to nobody, not even to
hisself, for he was terr'ble unhappy and scaret and angry. So 't went on,
oh! I d'know how long, years and years, I guess likely, and there the
man was shet up all alone, lookin' and lookin', and scaret at lookin' at
that ha'sh, hard, stony face and head. But one day, as he was settin'
there by the winder lookin', he heerd a little sound. I d'know what made
him hear it jest then. There'd been sech sounds as that time and time
ag'in, and he never took no notice. 'Twas like a child a-cryin', and
that's common enough.
But this time it seemed diff'ent, and he couldn't help takin' notice. He
tried not to hear it, but he had to. 'T was a little child a-cryin' as
if it had lost its way and was scaret, and the man found he couldn't
stand it somehow. Mebbe the reason was he'd had a little boy of his own
once, and he lost him. Now I think on 't, that was one o' the things he
blamed on God, and thought about when he looked at the Stone Head.
Anyway, he couldn't stand this cryin' that time, and he started up, and,
fust thing he knowed, he'd opened the door and gone out. He hadn't been
out in the sunshine and the air for a long spell, and it made his head
swimmy at fust. But he heerd the little cryin' ag'in, and he run along
on to find the child. But he couldn't find it; every time he'd think he
was close to it, he'd hear the cryin' a little further off. And he'd go
on and on, a-stumblin' over stones and fallin' over logs and a-steppin'
into holes, but stickin' to it, and forgettin' everything only that
little cryin' voice ahead of him. Seems 's if he jest must find that
little lost boy or girl, 's if he'd be more 'n willin' to give up his own
poor lonesome old life to save that child. And, jest 's he come to
thinkin' that, he see somethin' ahead of him movin' and in a minute he
knowed he'd found the lost child.
'Fore he thought what he was a-doin', he got down on his knees jest's he
used to do 'fore he got angry at God, and was goin' to thank him for
helpin' him to save that child. Then he rec'lected. It come back to him
who God was, and how he'd seed his head, with the ha'sh stony face up on
the mountain, and that made him look up to see it ag'in.
And oh! what do you think he see? There was the same head up there,--he
couldn't make a mistake about that,--but the face, oh! the face was so
diff'ent. It wasn't ha'sh nor hard nor dark any more. There was such a
lovin', beautiful, kind sort o' look on it now. Some ways it made the
man think a mite of the way his father, that had died ever so long ago,
used to look at him when he was a boy, and had been bad, and then was
sorry and 'shamed. Oh, 't was the beautif'lest face you never see! "Oh!
what ever does it mean?" says the man out loud. "What's changed that
face so? Oh! what in the world's made it so diff'ent?" And jest that
minute a Angel come up close to him. 'T was a little young Angel, and I
guess mebbe 't was what he'd took for a lost child, and that he'd been
follerin' so fur. And the Angel says, "The face ain't changed a mite.
'Twas jest like that all the time, only you're lookin' at it from a
diff'ent p'int." And 'twas so, and he see it right off. He'd been
follerin' that cryin' so fur and so long that he'd got into a diff'ent
section o' country, and he'd got a diff'ent view, oh! a terr'ble
diff'ent view, and he never went back.
Diff'ent Kind o' Bundles
VI
Everybody in Greenhills knew "Stoopin' Jacob," the little humpbacked boy
who lived at the north end of the village. From babyhood he had suffered
from a grievous deformity which rounded his little shoulders and bowed
the frail form. It was characteristic of the kindly folk of the
neighborhood, that, instead of calling the boy Hump-backed or
Crooked-backed Jacob, they gave him the name of Stoopin' Jacob, as if
the bowed and bent posture was voluntary, and not enforced.
A lovely soul dwelt in that crooked, pain-racked body, and looked out
of the gentle brown eyes shining in the pale, thin little face. Every
one loved the boy, most of all the dogs, cats, horses, cows of the
little farms, the birds and animals of forest and brookside. He knew
them all, and they knew, loved, and trusted him. The tinier creatures,
such as butterflies, bees, ants, beetles, even caterpillars, downy or
smooth, were his friends, or seemed so. He knew them, watched them,
studied their habits, and was the little naturalist of Greenhills
village, consulted by all, even by older and wiser people.
A close friendship existed between the boy and Story-tell Lib, and we
all understood the tale she told us one day when Stoopin' Jacob was one
of the listeners.
Diff'ent Kind o' Bundles
Once there was a lot o' folks, and every single one on 'em had bundles
on their backs. But they was all diff'ent, oh! jest as diff'ent as--as
anything, the bundles was. And these folks all b'longed to one person,
that they called the Head Man. They was his folks, and nobody else's,
and he had the whole say, and could do anything he wanted to. But he was
real nice, and always done jest the best thing,--yes, sir, the bestest
thing, whatever folks might say against it.
Well, I was tellin' ye about how these folks had diff'ent kind o'
bundles on their backs. 'Twas this way. One on 'em was a man that had a
real hefty bundle on his back, that he'd put on there hisself,--not all
to onct, but a mite to time, for years 'n' years. 'Twas a real cur'us
bundle, made up out o' little things in the road that'd got in his way,
or hurt him, or put him back. Some on 'em was jest little stones that
had hurt his feet, and some was little stingin' weeds that smarted him
as he went by 'em, and some was jest mites o' dirt somebody'd throwed at
him, not meanin' no great o' harm. He'd picked 'em all up, every bit o'
worryin', prickin', hurtin' little thing, and he'd piled 'em up on his
back till he had a big bundle that he allers carried about and never
forgot for a minute.
He was f'rever lookin' out for sech troublin' things, too, and he'd see
'em way ahead on him in his road, and sometimes he'd think he see 'em
when there wa'n't any there't all. And, 'stead o' lettin' 'em lay where
they was, and goin' right ahead and forgettin' 'em, he'd pick every
single one on 'em up and pile 'em on that bundle, and carry 'em wherever
he went.
And he was allers talkin' about 'em to folks, p'intin' out that little
stone that he'd stubbed his toe on, and this pesky weed that stung him,
and t'other little mite o' mud he'd conceited somebody'd throwed at him.
He fretted and scolded and complained 'bout 'em, and made out that
nobody never had so many tryin' things gettin' in his way as he had. He
never took into 'count, ye see, that he'd picked 'em up hisself and
piled 'em on his own back. If he'd jest let 'em lay, and gone along,
he'd 'a' forgot 'em all, I guess, after a spell.
Then there was another man with a bundle, a cur'us one too, for 't was
all made out o' money, dreadful heavy and cold and hard to carry. Every
speck o' money he could scrape together he'd put in that bundle, till he
couldn't scursely heft it, 'twas that big and weighed so much. He had
plenty o' chances to make it lighter, for there was folks all along the
road that needed it bad,--little child'en that hadn't no clo'es nor no
victuals, and sick folks and old folks, every one on 'em needin' money
dreadful bad. But the man never gin 'em a mite. He kep' it all on his
back, a-hurtin' and weighin' him down.
Then ag'in there was another man. He had a bundle that he didn't put on
his back hisself, nor the Head Man didn't nuther. Folks did it to him.
He hadn't done nothin' to deserve it, 't was jest put on him by other
people, and so 't was powerful hard to bear. But, ye see, the Head Man
had pervided partic'lar for them kind, and he'd said in public, so 't
everybody knowed about it, that he'd help folks like that,--said he'd
help 'em carry sech bundles hisself, or mebbe take 'em off, if it
'peared to be best.
But this man disremembered that,--or, worse still, p'r'aps he didn't
'zackly believe it. So he went along all scrunched down with that hefty
bundle other folks had piled up on him, not scoldin' nor complainin'
nor gittin' mad about it, but jest thinkin' it had got to be, and nobody
could help him. But ye see it hadn't got to be, and somebody could 'a'
helped him.
And then bimeby along come a man that had sech a hefty, hefty bundle!
'Twas right 'tween his shoulders, and it sort o' scrooched him down, and
it hurt him in his back and in his feelin's. The Head Man had put that
bundle on the man hisself when he was a little bit of a feller. He'd
made it out o' flesh and skin and things. It was jest ezackly like the
man's body, so 't when it ached he ached hisself. And he'd had to carry
that thing about all his born days.
I don't know why the Head Man done it, I'm sure, but I know how good and
pleasant he was, and how he liked his folks and meant well to 'em, and
how he knowed jest what oughter be and what hadn't oughter be, so 't
stands to reason he'd done this thing a-purpose, and not careless like,
and he hadn't made no mistake.
I've guessed a lot o' reasons why he done it. Mebbe he see the man
wouldn't 'a' done so well without the bundle,--might 'a' run off, 'way,
'way off from the Head Man and the work he had to do. Or, ag'in, p'r'aps
he wanted to make a 'zample of the man, and show folks how patient and
nice a body could be, even though he had a big, hefty bundle to carry
all his born days, one made out o' flesh and skin and things, and that
hurt dreadful.
But my other guess is the one I b'leeve in most,--that the Head Man done
it to scrooch him down, so's he'd take notice o' little teenty things,
down below, that most folks never see, things that needed him to watch
'em, and do for 'em, and tell about 'em. That's my fav'rite guess. 'Tany
rate, the Head Man done right,--I'm cert'in sure o' that.
And it _had_ made the man nicer, and pleasanter spoken, and kinder to
folks, and partic'lar to creaturs. It had made him sort o' bend down,
'twas so hefty, and so he'd got to takin' notice o' teenty little things
nobody else scursely'd see,--mites o' posies, and cunnin' little bugs,
and creepin', crawlin' things. He took a heap o' comfort in 'em. And he
told other folks 'bout them little things and their little ways, and
what they was made for, and things they could learn us; and 'twas real
int'restin', and done folks good too.
And, deary me, he was that patient and good and uncomplainin', you never
see! No, I ain't a-cryin'. This was a stranger, this man, you know, and
I make a p'int o' never cryin' about strangers.
There was a lot and a lot more kinds o' folks with bundles, but I'm only
goin' to tell ye about them four,--this time, any way.
Well, come pay day, these folks all come up afore the Head Man to be
settled with. And fust he called up the man that had the bundle all made
out o' things that had pricked him, and tripped him up, and scratched
him, and put him back on the road. And then he had up the man with the
money weighin' him down,--the money he'd kep' away from poor folks and
piled up on his own back. And then come the feller that was carryin' the
heavy bundle folks had put on him when 't wa'n't no fault o' his'n, and
that he might 'a' got red of a long spell back, if he'd only rec'lected
what the Head Man had said 'bout sech cases, and how they could be
helped.
I ain't a-goin' to tell ye what he said to them folks, 'cause 't ain't
my business, seems to me. Whether he punished either on 'em, or scolded
'em, or sent 'em off to try ag'in, or what all, never mind. Knowin' 's
much as I do about the ways o' that Head Man, I bet he made 'em feel
terrible ashamed, any way.
But when he came to the man with the bundle made out o' flesh and skin
and things, he looks at him a minute, and then says he, the Head Man
does, "Why," he says, "that's my own work! I made that bundle, and I
fixed it on your back all myself. I hefted and I sized it, and I hefted
you and sized you. A mite of a young one you was then. I made it jest
hefty enough for you to carry, not a bit heftier, no more nor less. I
rec'lect it well," he says. "I ain't forgot it. I never forgot it one
minute sence I fitted in on, though mebbe you kind o' thought by spells
that I had. And now," he says--No, I can't tell ye what he says. It's a
secret, that is. But I don't mind lettin' ye know that the man was
sat'sfied, perfec'ly sat'sfied. A Angel told me he was, and went on to
say the man was dreadful pleased to find he'd been wearin' a bundle the
Head Man hisself had made and fixed on him, heftin' it and sizin' it,
and heftin' him and sizin' him too, so's 'twa'n't too much for him to
carry. But he ain't carryin' it no more. The Angel said so.
The Boy that was Scaret o' Dyin'
VII
I have told you that little Lib was a delicate child, and that she grew
more and more fragile and weak as the summer went on. In the hot, dry
days of August she drooped like a thirsty flower, and her strength
failed very fast. Her voice, though still sweet and clear, lost its
shrillness, and one had to draw very close to the little speaker that he
might not lose a word of the stories she told. Aunt Jane York often came
out to us now, anxious and fussy, talking fretfully of and to little
Lib, feeling the small hands and feet to see if they were cold, and
drawing the shawl closer around the wasted form. I know she loved the
little girl, and perhaps she wished now that she had shown that love
more tenderly. She talked freely, in the very presence of the child, of
her rapid decline and the probability that she would not "last long."
Lib said nothing concerning her own condition, and showed no sign of
having heard her aunt's comments. But one day, when Miss York, after
speaking very freely and plainly of the child's approaching end, had
gone indoors, Lib announced, in a low, sweet voice, a new story.
The Boy that was Scaret o' Dyin'
Once there was a boy that was dreadful scaret o' dyin'. Some folks is
that way, you know; they ain't never done it to know how it feels, and
they're scaret. And this boy was that way. He wa'n't very rugged, his
health was sort o' slim, and mebbe that made him think about sech things
more. 'Tany rate, he was terr'ble scaret o' dyin'. 'Twas a long time
ago this was,--the times when posies and creaturs could talk so's folks
could know what they was sayin'.
And one day, as this boy, his name was Reuben,--I forget his other
name,--as Reuben was settin' under a tree, an ellum tree, cryin', he
heerd a little, little bit of a voice,--not squeaky, you know, but small
and thin and soft like,--and he see 'twas a posy talkin'. 'Twas one o'
them posies they call Benjamins, with three-cornered whitey blowths with
a mite o' pink on 'em, and it talked in a kind o' pinky-white voice, and
it says, "What you cryin' for, Reuben?" And he says, "'Cause I'm scaret
o' dyin'," says he; "I'm dreadful scaret o' dyin'." Well, what do you
think? That posy jest laughed,--the most cur'us little pinky-white laugh
't was,--and it says, the Benjamin says: "Dyin'! Scaret o' dyin'? Why, I
die myself every single year o' my life." "Die yourself!" says Reuben.
"You 're foolin'; you're alive this minute." "'Course I be," says the
Benjamin; "but that's neither here nor there,--I've died every year
sence I can remember." "Don't it hurt?" says the boy. "No, it don't,"
says the posy; "it's real nice. You see, you get kind o' tired a-holdin'
up your head straight and lookin' peart and wide awake, and tired o' the
sun shinin' so hot, and the winds blowin' you to pieces, and the bees
a-takin' your honey. So it's nice to feel sleepy and kind o' hang your
head down, and get sleepier and sleepier, and then find you're droppin'
off. Then you wake up jest 't the nicest time o' year, and come up and
look 'round, and--why, I like to die, I do." But someways that didn't
help Reuben much as you'd think. "I ain't a posy," he think to himself,
"and mebbe I wouldn't come up."
Well, another time he was settin' on a stone in the lower pastur',
cryin' again, and he heerd another cur'us little voice. 'T wa'n't like
the posy's voice, but 'twas a little, wooly, soft, fuzzy voice, and he
see 't was a caterpillar a-talkin' to him. And the caterpillar says, in
his fuzzy little voice, he says, "What you cryin' for, Reuben?" And the
boy, he says, "I'm powerful scaret o' dyin', that's why," he says. And
that fuzzy caterpillar he laughed. "Dyin'!" he says. "I'm lottin' on
dyin' myself. All my fam'ly," he says, "die every once in a while, and
when they wake up they're jest splendid,--got wings, and fly about, and
live on honey and things. Why, I wouldn't miss it for anything!" he
says. "I'm lottin' on it." But somehow that didn't chirk up Reuben much.
"I ain't a caterpillar," he says, "and mebbe I wouldn't wake up at
all."
Well, there was lots o' other things talked to that boy, and tried to
help him,--trees and posies and grass and crawlin' things, that was
allers a-dyin' and livin', and livin' and dyin'. Reuben thought it
didn't help him any, but I guess it did a little mite, for he couldn't
help thinkin' o' what they every one on 'em said. But he was scaret all
the same.
And one summer he begun to fail up faster and faster, and he got so
tired he couldn't hardly hold his head up, but he was scaret all the
same. And one day he was layin' on the bed, and lookin' out o' the east
winder, and the sun kep' a-shinin' in his eyes till he shet 'em up, and
he fell asleep. He had a real good nap, and when he woke up he went out
to take a walk.
And he begun to think o' what the posies and trees and creaturs had said
about dyin', and how they laughed at his bein' scaret at it, and he says
to himself, "Why, someways I don't feel so scaret to-day, but I s'pose I
be." And jest then what do you think he done? Why, he met a Angel. He'd
never seed one afore, but he knowed it right off. And the Angel says,
"Ain't you happy, little boy?" And Reuben says, "Well, I would be, only
I'm so dreadful scaret o' dyin'. It must be terr'ble cur'us," he says,
"to be dead." And the Angel says, "Why, you be dead." And he was.
* * * * *
The story of the boy that was scaret o' dyin' was the last story that
little Lib ever told us. We saw her sometimes after that, but she was
not strong enough to talk much. She sat no longer now in the low chair
under the maples, but lay on a chintz-covered couch in the sitting-room,
by the west windows. The once shrilly-sweet voice with its clear bird
tones was but a whisper now, as she told us over and again, while she
lay there, that she would tell us a new story "to-morrow." It was always
"to-morrow" till the end came. And the story was to be, so the whisper
went on, "the beautif'lest story,--oh, you never did!" And its name was
to be,--what a faint and feeble reproduction of the old triumphant
announcement of a new title!--"The Posy Gardin' that the King Kep'."
She never told us that story. Before the autumn leaves had fallen, while
the maples in front of the farmhouse were still red and glorious in
their dying beauty, we laid our little friend to rest. Perhaps she will
tell us the tale some day. I am sure there will be "a Angel" in
it,--sure, too, that the story will have a new and tender meaning if we
hear it there, that story of the King and of the posy gardin' he kep'.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
Transcriber's Notes
1. Punctuation has been normalized to contemporary standards.
2. Unusual spelling in chapter titles retained.
End of Project Gutenberg's Story-Tell Lib, by Annie Trumbull Slosson
*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STORY-TELL LIB ***
***** This file should be named 19989-8.txt or 19989-8.zip *****
This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:
http://www.gutenberg.org/1/9/9/8/19989/
Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions
will be renamed.
Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no
one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation
(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without
permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules,
set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to
copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to
protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project
Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you
charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you
do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the
rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose
such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and
research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do
practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is
subject to the trademark license, especially commercial
redistribution.
*** START: FULL LICENSE ***
THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE
PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK
To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project
Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project
Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at
http://gutenberg.org/license).
Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic works
1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy
all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession.
If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the
terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or
entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.
1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See
paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement
and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works. See paragraph 1.E below.
1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation"
or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the
collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an
individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are
located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from
copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative
works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg
are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project
Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by
freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of
this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with
the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by
keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project
Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others.
1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in
a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check
the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement
before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or
creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project
Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning
the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United
States.
1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:
1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate
access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently
whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the
phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project
Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed,
copied or distributed:
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived
from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is
posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied
and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees
or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work
with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the
work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1
through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the
Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or
1.E.9.
1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional
terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked
to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the
permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.
1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm.
1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg-tm License.
1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any
word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or
distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than
"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version
posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org),
you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a
copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon
request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other
form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.
1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided
that
- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method
you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is
owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he
has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the
Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments
must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you
prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax
returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and
sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the
address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to
the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation."
- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License. You must require such a user to return or
destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium
and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of
Project Gutenberg-tm works.
- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any
money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days
of receipt of the work.
- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works.
1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set
forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from
both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael
Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the
Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.
1.F.
1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm
collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain
"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or
corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual
property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a
computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by
your equipment.
1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right
of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.
1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with
your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with
the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a
refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity
providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to
receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy
is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further
opportunities to fix the problem.
1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO OTHER
WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO
WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.
1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages.
If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the
law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be
interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by
the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any
provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.
1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance
with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production,
promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works,
harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees,
that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do
or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm
work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any
Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause.
Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm
Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers
including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists
because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from
people in all walks of life.
Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will
remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations.
To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4
and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org.
Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive
Foundation
The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at
http://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent
permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws.
The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S.
Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered
throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at
809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email
[email protected]. Email contact links and up to date contact
information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official
page at http://pglaf.org
For additional contact information:
Dr. Gregory B. Newby
Chief Executive and Director
[email protected]
Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation
Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide
spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.
The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To
SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any
particular state visit http://pglaf.org
While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.
International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.
Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation
methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including checks, online payments and credit card
donations. To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate
Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works.
Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm
concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared
with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project
Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.
Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S.
unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily
keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.
Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:
http://www.gutenberg.org
This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.
*** END: FULL LICENSE ***
