 
### Table of Contents

The Happy Rovers Bicycle Thief Gang & Other Stories

THE LONG-AWAITED CARRIAGE RIDE

BREEDING SEASON

THE MATING CALL

THE BALLOON RIDE

THE HAPPY ROVERS BICYCLE THIEF GANG

THE FATAL BEAUTY

THE GREAT INSULTER, PART I

THE SATURNALIA OF DESPAIR

ODD ALPHABET

RENDEZVOUS WITH A MINT JULIP

AVERTING ONE'S EYES

THE LAMENT

LED DOWN THE GARDEN PATH

ODD ALPHABET II

THE GUEST WHO NEVER LEFT

KING OF THE KALAHARI

THE SATURNALIA

THE JUICE OF THE POPPY

THE SANATORIUM IMAGICANUS

COMSUMPTION I

THE SOMNABULIST

THE BALLERINA

DASH AND APLOMB

ON HOW TO AVOID BEING THOUGHT A SCOUNDREL

THE HORSELESS CARRIAGE

THE SCENTED MEN

ON THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN EPEEISTS, FOILISTS, AND SABREURS

HENRY

THE MAGIC JEWEL

THE WANDERER

SICKNESS I

SICKNESS II

THE FORGER I

THE FORGER II

DISHONOR

HONOR

TO ALL APPEARANCES

THE COAXER

WELL DISPOSED TOWARD LUXURY

INGRATITUDE

THE HUNGARIAN

ROUSTABOUT JACK

SHAME

THE BODYGUARD

THE MYSTERIOUS FORTUNE

THE PROWLER AND HIS MUFTIE

THE ABANDONEE

CORNER DWELLERS

A BACHELOR'S LIFE

IF ONLY...

IN LOVE

THE FACES OF ANIMALS

ALL THE UNBORN CHILDREN

THE LOST FRIEND

THE LAST COUGH

THE LION TAMER

A STRIKING FIGURE

THE SILENT ONE

THE DEMISE OF A BALLOON

LITTLE BROTHER AND LITTLE SISTER

DISGUISES

THE TICK

LIDLESS EYES

MY SON

THE SPIRIT ANIMAL

THE LONG-LOST BROTHER?

THE GREAT INSULTER II

THE DANCING MASTER

THE BALLOON

JASPER AND MALEK

THE MALADY II

THE CONTORTIONIST

THE REFLECTION

THE KITES

THE PARASOL

AN ATTACK OF THE VAPOURS
THE HAPPY ROVERS BICYCLE THIEF GANG

& Other Stories

A Penny Dreadful Book

By

John-Philip Penny
THE LONG-AWAITED CARRIAGE RIDE

All that week long young Melvina-Rose had looked forward to the Sunday ride in the family carriage with her beloved mother and father. When at last Sunday came, they all piled into the carriage, and put the impatient horses into motion. Unfortunately, their driver, a man by the name of Vernon, was a notorious drunk, and he had already imbibed half a bottle of gin that very morning. The party swerved to and fro all down the country lane as Vernon sang loudly and merrily and harangued innocent passersby. Melvina-Rose's father was not amused, and shouted at Vernon to make him slow down, but this only seemed to spur the man on to even greater excesses of speed and wantonness, until finally he lost control altogether, and the carriage crashed into a large spruce tree. Melvina-Rose died instantly, while all the others sustained life-threatening injuries.
BREEDING SEASON

When the beginning of breeding season is finally upon us, we are none of us unprepared. We have everything we need to see us through: Sir Renwick Clebert has the servants trim the overgrown hedges for the third time; Reginald Sykes, who has just returned after a long sojourn in India, is left to prepare the spiced teas; Lady Grey assembles the finest show of Parisian haute-couture yet seen on these shores; Brandiwald Brainy polishes all the brass knobs on his brand-new horseless-carriage; Oriental rugs are unearthed and unfurled; while within the library, volumes concerning the feeding habits of Egrets are consulted; all the urns have been checked and re-checked; the pond-beds dredged, and the ear-pieces tuned. Now let us stand aghast with wonder and amazement within the sculpture garden, where animals of paradise disport themselves upon the well-manicured lawn.
THE MATING CALL

Every night, and all night long through the month of May, the sounds of echoing mating cries can be heard everywhere. It is not uncommon, when out of an evening, to see a fellow suddenly stop himself in mid-stride, then lean his head back, and begin crowing and whooping loudly in the characteristic manner. He may keep this up for as long as twenty minutes each night, over a period of twenty days, or until he has attracted his ideal mate. Being just a young man myself, I have not yet mastered the call, and all that comes out when I tentatively try is a dry sort of croaking sound. This will surely not attract any females, and so it is necessary to observe the more experienced men as they go on their rounds, walking sticks in hand, strolling down the boulevard, and tipping their hats to the ladies in an ever-so-unrestrained fashion.
THE BALLOON RIDE

One day a big red balloon floated down out of the sky, and blew breezily through the streets of the town of Wyre Piddle. Tied to it's bottom was a long piece of string, which trailed lazily along behind it like a slithering tail. Soon, all the town children had begun to chase the balloon through the narrow cobblestone alleys, and even out into the outlying farmers' fields. One little girl, named Myrtle, was faster than all the rest, and she managed to catch hold of the string, and clasped it tightly, even as a strong gust of wind lifted the balloon high up into the air. At first, she squeeled with delight, as her friends became smaller and smaller far below her feet, but then began to cry as her arms started to weaken under the strain of gripping the string. In vain she held on; within moments a swoon overcame her, and she was forced to let go, thereby plunging to her death.

Myrtle was just the first of seven children who were killed in like manner by this balloon over the course of a single day.
THE HAPPY ROVERS

BICYCLE THIEF GANG

Should you be riding peacefully on your bicycle down a quiet country lane on a sunny afternoon in spring, you must be wary, for it is at just such a time as this that the Happy Rovers Bicycle Thief Gang is most likely to strike! Their favoured method of attack is to string a long piece of fishing wire across the path, which they tie to two trees. Being caught unawares, you will tumble to the ground as you run into this trap, and will lie there in a sort of dazed befuddlement. It is then that the gang will suddenly spring from the bushes from whence they have been hiding, and will make off with your brand new bicycle before you have a chance to come to your senses.
THE FATAL BEAUTY

Hesperia Kettlesby was an extraordinarily beautiful, but also a very kindly person, and would surely have been aghast at the thought that her comeliness would ever have made her the cause of anyone else's tragedy. And yet she was it. Take, for example, the time when she was walking down the avenue, shopping for petticoats, when a young cyclist suddenly became so entranced by her shapely, yet modestly attired form, that he proceeded to ride right under the wheels of a passing carriage. Some years later, Baron Gaspard de Desnoyers and a disreputable bachelor by the name of Algernon Beauregard fought a secret duel over her, a duel so secret that they didn't even tell Hesperia about it. The baron was killed, skewered upon a sabre at dawn, while Beauregard carried an ugly scar across his roguishly handsome face for the rest of his life. Still later, an entire family perished, along with their Bichon Frise lapdog, when a careless driver, no doubt swerving the wheel of his lorry in order to get a better view of her as she passed, drove over the edge of a bridge and straight into the raging torrent below. Of these terrible incidents, though, Hesperia, bless her, remained blissfully unaware...
THE GREAT INSULTER,

PART I

There was once a man who was very gifted at insulting people. He would stand on a very high place where no one could get at him, and rain down insults upon those who passed below. 
THE SATURNALIA OF DESPAIR

I used to believe that all things, even imaginary suffering, had limits placed upon it by nature, and that there were certain boundries beyond which such moods and feelings could not go, without some form of optimism showing itself through. But now I see that I was mistaken, and that nature does not place parameters upon our innermost beings, as it does upon the limits of a wave, or the cresting heights of a mountain, or the distance a man may walk on his own strength in a single day. No, there are no such chains, and since I am a soul much given to despairing and despondency, and would even say I have a gift for plunging to the deepest depths, the shadowed reaches of inner desolation, this journey has seemed to be never-ending. And thus it is that I sit here, draped all in black, shouting at the dreary walls of my moonlit chamber, and listening to the never-wearying flutter of the wings of bats, as though this were some sort of music, and crying out forelornly for all that is malformed, or ill-achieved, or unbegotten, or under-valued, in this sad, sorry world of our's. And I cannot help but to beat my frustrated fists against my pulsing temples, for all the many untold woes that one has to endure, and will go on enduring for all of eternity. It is because of this that my life is now a perpetual and never-ending saturnalia of despair, and this fact alone carries me to the very edge of the darkest precipices of my mind.
ODD ALPHABET

A is for autumn, which turns into spring

B is for bald, after rigorous defeathering

C is for creep, when we crawl like a cat

D is for the doodoo left by a rat

E is for everyone who has sunk in a moat

F is for the feral ones, cast adrift in a boat

G is for gals, dressed lightly in spring

H is for hostesses, who will do most anything

I is for Intellectuals, burned at the stake

J is for Johann, and his pet python snake

K is for kerchief, held to the nose

L is for society ladies who take off their clothes

M is for the minstrel, who plays on his lute

N is for Napoleon, but also for newt

O is for optimism, of which we have none

P is for putrid, when the rotting's half done

Q is for queer, which is quite better by far

R is for Russia, and it's holy Czar

S is for Saturnalia, a festival of excess

T is for Tesla, and his electrical quest

U is for undergarments, which ride up the bum

V is for the vicarious thrills enjoyed by nuns

W is for Wimbledon, a place famed for tennis

X is for Xenobia, a woman of some menace

Y is for why not? When asked with some grace

Z is for Zenia, smearing make-up on her face
RENDEZVOUS WITH A MINT JULIP

When father was run over by a flower delivery truck, the stunned driver testified that the last words he spoke, as he lay dying on the street, were, 'I have a rendezvous with a mint julip that simply will not wait.' His family members, myself included, were at first mystified, and then sceptical of this story, for we had never known our father to drink before, nor did we believe that he was the sort of man to even know what a mint julip was, let alone to phrase his last sentence using a word like rendezvous, which would have been quite out of character. We could not see any reason however, that the driver, who seemed genuinely grief-stricken over what had happened, should be lying. Somehow this story never felt right, though we kept our private reservations and doubts to ourselves, having little cause to make baseless accusations. Our suspicions were to prove well-founded, though, for within a short time after the accident it was discovered that it was in fact the driver himself who enjoyed drinking mint julips, and that on that fateful day he had been rushing to his mint julip rendezvous, when he had suddenly lost control of the flower truck. Why he placed his own words into the mouth of a dying man we may never know.
AVERTING ONE'S EYES

If, by chance, you should be out strolling on a clear spring day, and see a fair lady cross your path, take especial care to avert your eyes. And if said lady should linger awhile, and there comport herself upon the greenery, prancing and splaying her pretty white limbs, you must remain steadfast, and keep your eyes safely deflected. Even if she should, uninvited, avail herself to place two or three dozen kisses upon your blushing cheeks, still, avert. And if, perchance, she should deign to beckon to you, to join her beneath the Huckleberry bushes in order to make merry, still, you most assuredly must then keep your eyes doubly averted. 
THE LAMENT

A great wailing noise could be heard from one end of the manor house to the other, but none of us could figure out who, or what, was making this haunting sound. There was, of course, much speculation upon this subject: Could it be, one of us wondered, that the howls and sighs came from some sort of bereaved spirit from the land of the dead? Or could it rather be, as others heatedly argued, that the sound was merely the effect of the wind as it passed through an improperly shuttered window? On several occasions this theory was put to the test, and a general search of the whole house was carried out, each room being thoroughly scoured over with probing lanterns. And yet the sounds of distress continued unabated for another several weeks, until suddenly and mysteriously ceasing altogether. Once this happened, life again became quite dull here in the manor, for there isn't much to do except to try to keep the chill off of one's bones by squatting before the great hearth fire. And oftentimes, as we sit listening to the sound of the wind as it moves across the moores, we talk of the wail, almost fondly, and even yearn for it to return to us again. Life was so much more interesting when we had a unified purpose, and were all so intent upon finding the source of the disturbance. Now, we are filled with a great sense of loss, and sometimes, when we are deep in our cups, a sound rises up from our throats, something not unlike that of the mysterious lament.
LED DOWN THE GARDEN PATH

She will not let herself be led down the garden path- will not, should not, cannot let herself be led down the garden path. And yet she has let herself be led down the garden path, even though she knows full well that the gentleman leading her by the hand is no gentleman at all, but is, rather, a quite notorious leader-down-the-garden-pather. She cannot resist, though; how can she? For there stands her father, off to one side of the garden party, and fully engaged in conversation -impossible for him to get away to stop her. But he is clearly fuming that she should be so blatently disgracing him by being so easily led away from his protective grasp, and especially in public. And over by the fountain, there, the powdered-wig courtiers are all saying 'ohhh', and 'ahhh,' as they leeringly watch her so openly being led away, and 'Mon Dieu,' they castigate, 'but won't her reputation be ruined,' and 'she'll be the talk of the season. This scandal could shake a kingdom, and even topple a throne. Won't the master be most displeased.' But there is nothing really to do against it, nothing to stop the proceedings, for the non-gentleman leader-down-the-pather really is leading with all haste, and with such a determined glint in his eye that not even armed soldiers could stand in his way at this point. Yes, there really isn't much choice but to allow herself the delicious luxury of being led down the garden path, as the refined ladies-in-waiting, a dozen or more, stand with their lace parasols against the sun. Now see their elegantly gloved hands, how they gently caress their own mouths, for they too have been led down this same path, perhaps several times each; and observe how ruffled their dress-trains become in the melee and clamor that ensues when they can finally take no more of seeing her led in such a vigorous manner down the garden path.
ODD ALPHABET II

A is for agony

B is for blind

C is for cholera

D is for diptheria

E is for e-coli

F is for foam at the mouth

G is for get ready for the end

H is for hopeless

I is for inebriation

J is for jaundice

K is for kleptomania

L is for lament

M is for mortuary

N is for necrophile

O is for oblivion

P is for putrid

Q is for life's questions unnanswered

R is for rotting

S is for sputum

T is for tubercular

U is for undertaker

V is for visions of the void

W is for a witness to horrors

X is for excessive discharges

Y is for why?

Z is for just becuz
THE GUEST WHO NEVER LEFT

The guest who arrived on our doorstep one chilly grey autumn day had been an acquaintance of mine from my early school days, a man whom I had not had occasion to see since. I cannot say that we had ever been really close, he being of a most melancholy disposition, as opposed to my more light-hearted ways, but he was duly invited anyhow to join the family for dinner. It seemed that he had come to us when he had nowhere else to go, and being loath to throw him out again into the street, my gracious wife and I decided that there would be nothing wrong in giving the poor fellow respite within the warmth of our home for a week or two, or until he got back on his feet. Our guest thanked us when we told him of our decision, and yet in that manner that was so particular to him, wherein he just mumbled something under his breath. We immediately had the servants make up a spare bedroom for him, and he quietly retired for the evening, carrying nothing but the small black valise he had brought. As my wife and I talked that night, we both commented to one another that our guest really was in an unenviable position, having, as he had said himself, not a friend or relation to whom he could turn, accepting ourselves, though the nature of his current unfortunate circumstances he did not divulge, and we were too polite to pry. Soon, the weeks stretched into months, and the months into years, and yet our guest still showed no signs of wishing to leave, nor did we press him on the matter. The reason for this leniency on our part I can only surmise is because he really is an unobtrusive fellow, so singularily free of any annoying habits, and appears content merely to occupy the humble quarters we have given him, without a murmer of compliant. I myself cannot imagine how he occupies his time, for on the few occasions when I have entered his chamber, there was never a book, nor a game, nor a scrap of paper anywhere to be seen. Of course it also helps that my children are fond of him, and on the rare occasions when he wandered out of his room, and joined us for a picnic on the lawn, he never uttered a cross word to them, and was even, in the old days, willing to go about on his hands and knees when they insisted upon playing horsey. As for how my wife felt about all of this, however, that was a different matter, and she had privately expressed to me many times her desire that our guest should be asked to leave. But I never broached the matter with him, knowing full well that a fellow of his sort would find the world outside most likely to be more than he could reasonably be asked to cope with, and thus I have let the issue rest there. And so it is, that as the years have passed, and our children have grown older and moved out to create families of their own, and while I have eased myself into retirement, so our guest is still here. In the meantime, my wife has forgotten all about her earlier hard-heartedness, and our guest has become something almost like a member of the family, if a very shy and reserved one, for in all of this time I have not heard him piece together more than a few sentences. One need only review the family pictures upon the mantle to see what a presence he has become in our lives, for in every photograph he is always there, standing in the background. Strange to say, he has changed but little in all these years; still wears the same dark suit he wore on that first day that he arrived on our doorstep; the same black hat, and still has the same long drooping mustache, through which he quietly strains his soup.
KING OF THE KALAHARI

He came from a privileged and aristocratic family in England, where comfort and ease were a way of life, and adventure was a thing shunned. And yet by the age of sixteen he had fallen inextricably in love with Africa after reading an illustrated book of that land by the famed white hunter Sir Percival Bascom. From the moment he first held this volume in his hands until his untimely death eleven years later, this book never left his side. By the age of eighteen, he had fled his family and taken passage surruptitiously on a boat headed for the dark continent, by way of Java. In the letter he left his poor mother, he explained that he did not think he'd be coming back, and that she should give his fencing kit to his younger brother Nigel, who had always been a better sabreur anyhow. Being naturally gifted at languages, he had, within a very short time, mastered several of the local dialects, had darkened his skin with oils and sunburn, and taken to dressing in the manner of a local tribal leader. Later, as he worked his way still further into the heart of those dangerous jungles, and barely explored velds, he was well protected by the small band of local men whom he had by then convinced to join him on these journeys. When at last he reached the Kalahari, his ultimate destination, he is said to have uttered only three words as he gazed upon this promised land of all his youthful hopes and dreams: 'Saviour is born!' He quickly set about subduing the local tribes with his army, of by now, hardened and fanatical warriors, until he came to be worshiped almost as a kind of demi-god. When he was not ruling over his people as a harsh but fair king, he often sat gazing out over the vast plains, mumbling something incomprehensible to himself in either English or French, and when his time came, the end was swift: a lion tore out his throat while he was hunting. His tribespeople wept and lamented and threw dust upon themselves for days afterwards, but also marvelled at the fact that with the dying breath still leaving his body, and just before he himself expired, their king had somehow managed to choke to death with his bare hands the lion who slew him.

How strange and mysterious are the hearts of men.
THE SATURNALIA

This coming eclipse day there will be a saturnalia. There will be luxuries and delicacies all the way from Persia and Bangladesh; there will be peackock's eyes and fancy dress; there will be beautiful servants clad in togas and curling pasha slippers, and fan-wavers and message-bearers and priests and priestesess looking magnificent in their splendid robes. There will be philosophers and poets, trained to speak only when spoken to, and wine-colored birds, every shade of a darkened rainbow; and gold, and jewels, and finery, and bone-china, and music such as you've never heard before, music like the whispering mating calls of Egrets in the reeds of moonlit waters, or the sighs a woman makes when she dreams of her lover. And there will be exotic species of animals all about: giraffes, tame lions, and dancing daschunds; and acrobats who swing from the rafters, and who breath smoke, and light themselves on fire; and there will be dancers, losing themselves in the rhythm of strange jungle music; and there will be a procession when the dawn comes, and everyone will walk solemnly out to where the snow melts; and then we will all retire for the evening -alone or not alone- into the comfort of our great wide silk beds.
THE JUICE OF THE POPPY

'It was the juice of the poppy what done 'im in,' the small crowd of onlookers said to one another over and over all that morning. 'It was the juice of the poppy, an no mistake.' Gossip about the town had it that Police Constable Carruthers had found the victim, a certain Cyril Snig, at 2:00 AM curled up in his armchair, and surrounded by a dozen or more discarded bottles of the poisonous substance. The constable was only called when the victim's fellow tenants could no longer bear the stink of decay coming from his rooms. 'But you know,' related one particular char woman to the others gathered outside the building on the street, 'I remembers when ol' Cyril used to get the horrors real bad like, and he'd stamp and stomp an carry on like thunder for awhile, until you'd hear like a sudden thump, and everythin'id fall real quiet, an that were 'im fallin dead asleep 'e was, there on the bare floor an all.' Nods of agreement. 'Aye,' said another gawker, this one a heavy-set fellow, a toiler in the peat bogs, 'Aye, tis' true. A really bad thing is that poppy juice. N'er av I touched it, and I reckon by my good sense that I n'er will either, so elp me.' With that the others all nodded and made a sign.
THE SANATORIUM IMAGICANUS

The Champflower Sanatorium, in Wyke, is a place of refuge and healing designed not for those who suffer from real ailments, but for those who are plagued in no less real a way by various imaginary maladies. For example, one of the patients, a certain Mr. Crapstone, finds himself troubled by a severe, though unreal, case of liver tremors. Then there is Miss Botusfleming, of Trunch, who is never free from the pains of her brainpox. Mr. Shagg, a very severe case indeed, awakens each and every night with much hair pulling and gnashing of teeth, as he experiences yet another attack of dressmaker's croup. Naturally, all of the staff of the sanatorium are fully aware of the situation, as are the patients themselves, for whatever else they may suffer from, they are not generally delusional. But who is to say that these poor souls do not ache and throb just as much as those who truly are afflicted, and that there is not something beneficial and invigorating in indulging in a mild case of something or other. Clearly, Dr. Rabbitshuffle, a leading expert on imaginary diseases, and the man in charge of running the daily operations of the sanitorium, firmly believes in his work. Yes, the prescribing of daily salt glows, cold mitten frictions, the all-milk fat diet, the enema machine, trotting, and the dips in the chill-tank are all pursued by him, and the entire staff, with unrivalled gusto. In fact, the nurses and the doctors are encouraged to indulge in their own imaginary malingering, and to take full advantage of the resources offered to them at their place of work, though only during off hours of course. Dr. Rabbitshuffle is himself a sufferer of over twelve imaginary ailments, including Hawaiian cat flu, inferno virus, and dryditch fever, and dreams of the day when real diseases will be replaced with imaginary ones.
COMSUMPTION I

She really was so very beautiful, and when she consented to giving me her hand in marriage, I was obviously overjoyed. We were so happy together, and used to make plans about our future deep in the night, when everyone else had gone to sleep. She had a dream of opening a hat or a dress shop, while I was going to become a successful society portrait painter. Many were the hours I spent studying the lines of her delicate face, and how the soft light of afternoon fell upon the glossy tresses of her hair. But to my utter shock and horror, my beautiful bride died of a terrible and incurable disease only one week after we had been joined forever. As if this were not enough, it seems that in her passing she left me with a dose of her affliction, as I have started to cough up blood, and am afraid it is just a matter of time before I too shall leave this veil of suffering for good. 
THE SOMNABULIST

He could walk up to sixteen miles through the city streets while still asleep. When he awoke in the morning, there was often mud on his boots. At other times, his belt, or his hat would be missing, and on one occasion he came to with blood on his hands, and smeared across his face, and this frightened him most of all. He had tried chaining himself into bed just before going to sleep, and threw the key to the padlock across the room -and yet the next morning the chains just lay there in a useless heap beside the bed. Sometimes, and not surprisingly, he wondered if he were cursed, or possessed by the devilish one, and so had taken to smoking copious amounts of opium in order to become so sedated that he would be rendered incapable of getting up and roaming about. But even this had not worked. The only thing left that he hadn't tried was to simply not fall asleep in the first place, and so he hovered naked in a corner of the room for many days and nights, hoping that the cold would keep him alert, though he succumbed to sleep in the end. He was always sure he had failed when he looked down at his hands, and saw that there was fresh dirt imbedded under his fingernails, and the mystery of all this put him into a desperate state of mind. At one point he even purchased a masonry hammer, with the intention of hobbling himself by crushing his own feet and toes, but was never able to work up the courage.
THE BALLERINA

The very instant I receive my vast inheritance I know what I shall do: I shall immediately take up residence in the stateliest and most patrician manor house in all of town, and will fill it to over-brimming with artworks, great and small, and with Persian carpets, and other various and priceless bric-a-brac. All this treasure and property I shall surround with a high stone wall, and will set at least two vicious guard dogs loose upon the property as a deterrent against busy-bodies, peepers and thieves. But all these things will merely serve as a set-piece, a theatrical design if you will, for the great drama which will unfold within these new living quarters. Yes, my most important purchase by far, and the one for which all the others are as mere decoration, will be a pretty and waifish ballerina seconded from the local Ballet school. When she is not busy entertaining my friends and I with excerpts from her most glorious stage triumphs, this tutu'd toe-dancer will perform solo for myself, as I dine, and will imitate a dying swan, or a snow fairy, or some other such delight, for my edification alone. And when she is not dancing, I shall keep her in a small closet, and will insist that she remain mute, for art hath no need of course speech. I am happily told that ballerinas are light eaters, being over-full no doubt on a steady diet of works of genius, but will anyhow instruct the servants to leave her a bowl of milk with some breadcrumbs in it every now and then.
DASH AND APLOMB

I carry out my daily rituals with a great deal of dash and aplomb. Firstly, I put on my well-starched bowtie, setting it perfectly in place, then groom my hair, making sure that the tips of my mustache are well waxed. It is only when these rituals are complete that I set out on my daily rounds, promenading down my favourite streets. No, nothing gives me as great a pleasure as making sure that my every step has that extra bit of je ne se que that gives others the impression that I am almost floating by upon the currents of the air. It seems more than a little likely that these commoners wish that they themselves were possessed of the kind of dash and aplomb that appears to be present in even the slightest of my movements, from the gestures I make with my finessing hands, to the mincing gait I affect, to the slight lisp I have adopted in order to create a not unfavourable impression upon anyone who has the good fortune to pass my way.
ON HOW TO AVOID BEING

THOUGHT A SCOUNDREL

In order to avoid being thought a scoundrel, we must first begin with the assumption that one already is one, otherwise there would be no purpose in consulting a manual which purports to be able to offset the detrimental effects of being taken for what one truly is. This settled, we may now confidently move on to describing exactly what will be necessary. First, let us be generalists, and presume that one is any kind of criminal, from a murderer to an arsonist. The most important thing that you must always remember is to smile and be polite. A smile is humanity's way of letting others know that your ultimate intentions towards them are good, and that you regard their well-being with at least a measure of the sacredness that you reserve for yourself. Thus reassured both by your smile and your pleasing manner, which bespeaks of gentle breeding, others will tend to overlook a great many flaws within your person, sometimes even extending as far as giving you the benefit of the doubt even when all the facts clearly state otherwise. To be more specific, let us say that you are a thief, either of the grand larceny type, or even a common pickpocket. It is a truism to say that as long as you spread at least some of your newly acquired wealth around, to those in positions of consequence naturally -but also not neglecting to save a coin for the street urchin- then it is safe to say that you may well come to be regarded as a public benefactor, and a man of the people. Likewise, as long as you tip generously and remain in good spirits, your slovenly public intoxication will gain one nothing but an ample supply of ready friends, while all that has been previously said could be counted as equally true if one indulges oneself in the art of dice, or cards. It is likewise encouraged that one take account of appearances as regards one's state of dress, for it is always highly advisable to look smart, and neat, and clean, in a well-pressed suit: for nothing inspires confidence and trust in others like well-tailored habardashery. Such efforts will surely not go unrewarded, for you will positively exude stability, as well as responsibility and a commitment to personal, as well as to public, orderliness. Lastly, the happy news is that one may commit almost any henious deed, as long as you appear to remain faithful to your wife and your children, as nothing will more surely and quickly bring about your ruin should you ignore this basic tenant. The public at large will never forgive a philanderer -a thief or murderer, yes, but never a lady's man. Many are the scoundrels who have literally gotten away with mass murder because they were willing to coddle a child.
THE HORSELESS CARRIAGE

We have arrived at the dawn of a new age, one in which hay, dung, and oats are a thing of the past, and are now being replaced with long scarves and dust goggles. So send your horses out to pasture, and acquire for yourself a horseless carriage, for just imagine how you will feel when you hear the engine roar into life after giving it a hearty crank, or as you drive devilishly fast down country lanes and through busy towns. Yes, and you will simply marvel at the way people leap out of their skins, and dive out of the way, when you blare upon your tooting horn.
THE SCENTED MEN

It is never difficult to tell a scented man from other sorts of refined gentleman, for one need only rely upon one's nose. It is also easy enough to distinguish them by the way they hold flowery-scented handkerchiefs to thier noses when they pass through the smelly and dismal quarters of town. They really are a sight to behold, as they sail as gracefully as colorful silk ships, weaving their way through the islands and shoals of the dirty, wretched masses of humanity. One must surely marvel at the care and precision which these men invest in their appearances, from their well-trimmed beards, to their shiny satin tophats, to their flaring crimson capes. And they carry thmselves with such dignity, and poise, that they almost seem to hover and float high above the squalid fray far below, and even after they are gone, a pleasant scent still lingers hauntingly in their wake. Each scented man has his own distinctive perfume: Sandlewood, Parsimmion, Frankinsense -not to mention petulia, blueberry and Myrrh. We of the lower orders spend hours smelling the air, and follow like soldiers behind them whenever they pass. The children even have a song they sing. 'A scented man is coming, hurry before he's gone. His perfume smells so sweetly, but will not linger long.'
ON THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN EPEEISTS, FOILISTS, AND SABREURS

It is my firm conviction that sabreurs, by and large, are a lot of unscrupulous cads. I say this as a lifelong students of the gentle art of fencing, and as a convinced moralist. My strong feelings on this matter come after many long years of reflection, and even longer years of experience upon the piste. Those attracted to the sabre as a weapon tend to be the type who are opportunistic, ruthless, win-at-any-costs sorts of fellows by their very nature. There is something generally quite shady and shifty about them, as well as tempermental. I am well prepared of course to back up my assertions with facts, and do not make accusations about the base characters of others without evidence. Note, if you will, the fact that a sabre blade can be manipulated with nothing more than a quick flick of the wrist. One may quite easily bend the tip of the point with a simple whipping motion employed by the duelist. This means, quite simply, that it is possible, if one chooses, to inflict a 'hit' upon one's opponent essentially through trickery, by effectively making use of the nature of the blade, which in no ways reflects the true nature of any actual fighting implement. In reality, sabre blades, which are based upon Hussar cavalrymen's swords, are not only stiffer, but are sharp on only one side. Note, also, the fact that when one proceeds with a blow to an opponent's head, or mask, they in turn may well take advantage of one's momentarily exposed wrist to inflict a minor flick upwards, or from the side, thus also scoring the point; though your own blade may, only a fraction of a second later, nearly shatter upon this opponent's mask. One can be sure that in any real duel, with real swords, this would not do as a proper end to an encounter, and one cannot help but feel cheated that while one has just delivered a potentially fatal blow, while the rival has but merely scratched one's wrist, or snagged a bit of clothing with their sword, though they are actually counted as having won the contest. It is for these reasons, as well as many others, that I assert that sabreurs are, for the most part, a lowly bunch of cheaters at heart, the equivalent of cardsharps, who should not be trusted in either matters of sport, or more generally, in life. Both the foilist and the epeeist, by contrast, tend to be made up of the ranks of those who are far more straightforward, both as sportsmen, and as men, for there can be no denying that the goal of both is to seek the truest line of attack -that is- they both seek to land the killer blow. Their area of striking being smaller, and more vital, means that they must choose where to jab, and then commit fully to the lunge. Luck is rarely a factor, and foil and epee blades do not have the same tendency to go skidding about pell mell, nor do these men tend to ever take the risk of themselves being skewered upon the other's blade, so long as they have scored first -a common gaff of sabreurs. There is a definitiveness and a finality to the foilists' and to the epeeists' hits -the blades literally bending like bridges or rainbows with the applied pressure- that one will not likely find as purely reflected with the sabre. And that is why I again assert that sabreurs tend to be those who enjoy ambiguity, and the fact that they may well take advantage of anothers' uncertainty, and may also enjoy the thrill that comes from securing an unlikely, and even sly, victory. That I am myself a sabreur is a matter of little consequence, and removes nothing from the salience of my point.
HENRY

Without having a wife as a helpmate, Henry raised his two children, a son and a daughter, as best he could, in the manner of the time. He taught them to be polite and gentle, and was very proud of them both, though he never indulged in boasting to acquaintances about their fine qualities, a habit he found tasteless in others. In fact, Henry was a very uncommunicative sort of man, generally, and kept himself well-bottled up. He believed that his heart had partly died within him some years earlier, when the mother of his children -a woman who was already married to another man, and who had a child of her own- had died tragically young. Eighteen years later, Henry's son and daughter, the product of their secret affair, had grown into adulthood, and it was then that Henry's son informed him that he had fallen in love with a lovely girl named Miss Emma Pyke. Henry could barely believe his ears, for he knew at once that this was the daughter of his very own long-dead love. This news understandably caused him untold anxiety, though he was careful not to show it, and was successful in this, for he had had long years of practice in withholding his emotions. He did not know what to make of this new development though, and feared that upon seeing the very likeness of his old love, embodied within the delicate frame of Miss Emma (he knew her outward appearance because his son had described her features to him, and they seemed to correspond well with her mother's), that he might very well again fall helplessly in love. But, as circumstance would have it, such a situation never arose, for just days afterward, Miss Emma fell through the ice while out skating on a lake, and drowned. No one could understand why poor Henry, who had never before even met the girl, was inconsolable with grief for weeks afterward.
THE MAGIC JEWEL

The magic jewel you asked me about earlier, I keep it tucked away in my pocket. It really can do everything I claim. All one has to do is clutch it in one's hands for its power to take hold. Immediately upon squeezing it gently, between forefinger and thumb, the most charming and beautiful women begin to be drawn as though moths to a flame by the hypnotizing charm of the jewel's seductive lure. True bliss awaits he who is the possessor of this sacred stone... If only every man could have such a boon within his pocket, then so many of the world's troubles would be solved. Unfortunately, though, the jewel is unique, and I have never seen its like anywhere, not even in the far east... But now, as to practical matters, you asked what you can do, for though you are wealthy, and handsome even, your luck with the fairer sex has always been spare. Let me say that I sympathize with your predicament, and would perhaps be willing to sell the jewel to you, though only for the sake of helping out a fellow man. Unfortunately, it will not come cheap, but I dare say that if we try, we may agree upon some price for this priceless treasure...
THE WANDERER

He wandered for so long that his feet became worn down. Where they once were, now there are only two shiny nubs at the ends of the ankles, and it is upon these that he continues his journey, albeit at a much slower pace than when he began.
SICKNESS I

The maladies I suffer from do not have names, and yet they are no less real for all that. The symptoms vary according to many things: The weather, humidity, dryness, light, lack of light, time of day, or year, and even a shift in the lunar cycles. Though I am often not believed, even the dispositon of the soil in the front garden may effect some small part of my body, causing untold shudders of cramp to pass there like subterranean tremors. Being obviously extremely sensitive, I will often notice, for example, even the slightest change in temperature in my room, and such alterations are usually accompanied by a corresponding pain somewhere about my person, though I dare not list the full catalogue of ailments which are an almost constant misery. Of course, all of this is a trivial matter, when one considers that the sufferings I daily undergo are not to be compared in any way with those who live in want for their daily sustenance. No, in this manner I am quite fortunate, for I am cared for by a large and concerned family, who see to my every need. But nevertheless, let it just be said that not a day goes by where I do not experience some sort of setback, and have therefore had to become a master at disciplining myself against all that intrudes and inflicts itself upon me by way of germs and diseases, and aches. For example, I have learned to judge when an illness, especially one that is familiar to me, is on its way, at least a week before it finally arrives. I have become expert, and something of a guard upon the battlement walls of my bed, sharp-eyed and canny about seeing the approach of any invading army up on the hilly horizon. My nose is fine tuned, and can smell even a solitary molecule of sickness upon the breeze, and thus I am better prepared for it when it comes. I have even become adept at smelling out sickness in others, before they themselves are aware of it, for my mind and body are focused like a magnifying glass upon the unseen spirits of distemper that hover in the air. Yes, every one of my limbs retains the ghost of a past chill or shudder running through them -this body that is a museum of past maladies- for all the sicknesses that have been and gone, leaving their scars, their tatoos, their hieroglyphics upon the walls of my muscles, tissue, stomach, heart and brain. I well remember them, each and every one, their signs and symptoms, their causes and their reliefs. And yet, despite this knowlege, they always seem to get the better of me, and find their way in, despite my best defences, and then I am helpless and in their power once again, these germs that spread and mutate and transform, becoming stronger (for their will to live is greater even than my own). No, nothing gives me as much pleasure as driving them off, a temporary state of affairs, perhaps -their friends always return, and in greater numbers- they are much like barbarians at the walls of ancient Rome, trying to force their way in so that they might plunder and destroy and ruin. But I must hold out, must ration my strength, preserve order and carry on in this never-ending business of the governance of this much weakened body as I limp and cough my way through this weary world.
SICKNESS II

These things I know: That no matter how long I lie here, coughing and wheezing, no matter how many months I lounge within my sick bed, feeling miserable, looking miserable, and thinking miserable thoughts; no matter how many hours are spent in imagining what it would be like if I died, and how those I know would react to the news of my demise, and who would weep bitter tears for the loss, and who would barely shed a single one. No, it is no matter, for I am certain that once again I will be well; shall once again stride jauntily down the sun- dappled street, smiling a hearty smile and waving at passersby, and will even pat a small dog upon his head; and will again eat and drink with full gusto and appetite, and shall run a mile without getting out of breath; and dive head-first into an ice-cold lake, just as I did as a boy... These things I know.
THE FORGER I

Mine is the forgers' art, and I practice my trade both night and day. At any hour I can be seen pounding my hammer upon a forge, as the glowing red and yellow sparks jump like hot crickets, and the sweat pours down my well-wrought body. There is no art in all the world as arduous as the forger's, nor is there any so rewarding, for when at last my day is done, I may look about me and see a whole array of variously useful objects which I have fashioned from nothing more than crude lumps of metal. At present, I am engaged on a whole series of iron horses' heads, manes and all, which will decorate the high gates of an elaborate mansion. Previous to that, I fashioned a thousand spear points which were used by our soldiers to put down a revolt. Still earlier, I designed the metalwork of a hundred gilded carriages, in which the ladies of the court take their daily rides. Next, I will begin my most elaborate and ambitious commission yet, to design one thousand finely-wrought birdcages, which will one day house the entire aviary of the Ducal Palace itself. It tickles my fancy to imagine all those colorful exotic specimens making their homes within my handiwork. As I said, mine is a rewarding art, for with my hammer and my forge, I am the maker of worlds.
THE FORGER II

Mine is the forgers' art, and I practice my trade both night and day. At any hour I can be seen at my worktable, hunched over scattered documents, happily engaged in the art of forging. It does not matter what it is you want, for I am a master of my craft, and can replicate all known things. If it is a secret document you desire, than I am your man. If it is proof of noble ancestry, contained within falsified geneological charts, then I will provide. If it is stamps, charts, maps, letters, signatures, graphs, or even rare works of art, likewise. Perhaps you need a whole new identity, and wish to disappear for months, or years, to foreign climbs? You will find me here, in a darkened corner of my office, ready with the veil of dissemblement, which will make your vanishing complete. But if you are an officer of the law, come to arrest me, and to take me away to gaol, then you may have more difficulty in this task than you imagine, for I am capable of managing my own disappearance far more easily than I find possible for my clients, and can even convince the most sceptical person that I never really did exist at all... Such things are as easy for me as the blinking of an eye.
DISHONOR

This recent shameful and cowardly ban on the carrying of swords cannot, and will not, be endured. For some years now we have been brought low by these foreign ideas, and this truly is the last straw. Many of us have already taken the only honorable course of action available to one in times like these, and I plan very shortly on following suit. It is not enough that they have made us cut our hair, and abandon the ancient codes we used to live by, but now they order us to perform an act that is the equivalent of cutting off one of our limbs. In such cases it is better just to die, and be done with it, for life under such conditions is both impossible and undesirable... Please throw my ashes into the lake where I swam as a child. You know the place I mean.
HONOR

When he told us that he was going to engage in a duel, we told him he was mad, and tried to talk him out of it. Later, when we attempted to mend the wounds he had received from his opponent's pistol, he would have none of it, and soon thereafter died. At his funeral, we tried to press some money into the palms of his widow, but she refused, and walked away. As his children grew, we went to them, an beseeched them to let us help, but they just quietly showed us to the door.
TO ALL APPEARANCES

To all appearances, the world seems as nothing more than a stage to an actor; to the mother it appears as an extended family; to the undertaker, one long funeral; to the prisoner, life is nothing but a cage; to the man of letters, the world must appear as a book, just as to the artist it is a picture. And what of the soldier, who believes all to be nothing more than a great bloody battle? Or the politician, to whom everything is a series of crafty schemes. And do not forget the doctor, meanwhile, for to him it is a sick ward; while to the madman, one never-ending insane asylum. Who amongst them is right? What is the true nature of the world?.. The answer is that none of them are correct, though the madman comes closest of all.
THE COAXER

You may call me the coaxer, for that is what I am: one who coaxes gently, and yet with great assurance, for I have never yet been thwarted in my desires. But you will not see me plying with promises, or bribery, for I rely only upon my hands, and upon the soothing nature of my voice. Yes, in my lap kittens curl themselves up to take their rest, and dogs lay their chins upon my knees, all because of a little coaxing. These are the same methods I employ when trying to seduce a woman, but do not confuse what I do with luring, for I am not a man of that sort, one who tricks the gentle sex. No, I have simply found that by coaxing, I have made of myself someone upon whom others feel free to exercise their own desires, which, happily for me, always happens to coincide with my own.
WELL DISPOSED TOWARD LUXURY

That I am well disposed toward luxury there can be little doubt, for ever since I was a toddler in arms, my natural inclanations have always led me to seek out the finer things in life. That I am in no way capable of financially supporting such a lavish lifestyle as I have come to enjoy is equally something that I have no doubts about. Yet this has in no way discouraged me. Rather, it has only encouraged my desire, for it is my belief that we are more likely to strive for something for which we feel a decided lack than for something which is readily available and at hand. Every day I most decidedly feel this lack; feel it upon my skin, which is delicate; feel it when I am forced by necessity to wear course clothes rather than silk. Feel it upon my poor parched tongue, when I must slake my thirst with plain old water, and not with champagne. But these harsh realities effect my eyes most of all, when I have no recourse but to look with horror and disgust upon the various banalities and tasteless moral ruination that passes for art and decor amongst the middle classes. Naturally, I do not mean to overspend myself. It is just that there are certain things that one simply can't do without. Just the other day, for example, I had to purchase for myself a new dress shirt and tie. I had fully intended to leave it at that, but I had to have some new cufflinks to go with it, for what is the worth of a good shirt without proper links? Then it became necessary (and I do not use that word lightly) to buy some new trousers to go with the shirt, for what are a new shirt, cufflinks and tie worth without new pants to go along with them, and so on... And so you see how one thing tends to lead to another, and how one can find oneself very quickly overdrawn at the bank. The same can be said for my home, which is in no small way a rather fine dwelling. Afterall, one must have somewhere to entertain society, and for that you need fine pictures and furniture and other beautiful things. It is not possible to live in any kind of true comfort within an empty house. In this way, I have become quite dependent, and even more well-disposed than before, upon a life of luxury. I certainly enjoy this lifestyle, and yet it becomes more and more apparent that without the means to fund it, all could lead to ruin, though I forge on regardless. Still, there is some positive news for me, and it is upon these glad tidings which I pin all my hopes and dreams for future happiness. You see, my dear old grandmother happens to be ailing, and with her passing will come a rather large inheritance for myself. This alone could be the saving grace for which I have prayed long and fervently these past months, and it is possible that the good Lord has at last seen to it that my prayers will be answered. I can only hope...
INGRATITUDE

You really ought to be more grateful to me, for was it not I who taught you how to stroll in a leisurly manner, as well as the art of grooming and waxing your angels' wings' mustache? For some reason, unknown to myself, you seem to feel as though you owe me nothing in this regard. Tell me truly, was it not I who first introduced you to the pleasures of the Sunday jaunt? It was surely myself who instructed you in the protocol of how to tip your hat to the ladies, and how to engage in gentle conversation. How easily you seem to forget the debt you owe me. I most certainly served as an example of poise, and grace, amongst many of the finer things of life, all for your benefit, and yet you have decided to go your own way, and now barely acknowlege my presence when we pass one another upon the Boulevard Promenade. 
THE HUNGARIAN

I am an obscure Hungarian fencing master, living in exile from my homeland. You have not heard my story before, and I will not bore you by telling it now.
ROUSTABOUT JACK

Poor old Roustabout Jack

Earned his name the easy way,

By living life as he pleased

By making merry and making hay

He left home when still young

In search of treasure and gold

Wanted to taste something of life

Before he got too old

So he made his way to Turkey

And there set sail from port

Took on the life of a sailor

As something of a last resort

But of honour he knew little

And jumped ship first chance he got

And joined a vessel of pirates

With whom he cast his lot

No, he never believed in luck

That fair maiden he'd never seen

And believed you make your own

Out of sweat and blood and dreams

So he sailed the seven seas

Sailed on into the sky

And never worried about anything

Knew that he'd die when he died

Taking to port he met a lady

She was passing beautiful and fair

Spent hours together with her

Running his hands through her hair

But then the sea called out is name

Saying, 'Come along young Jack',

He could not resist his wayfaring ways

For he was a roustabout at that

But then one day in early June

When his ship sidled next to another

He fell ill with a fit of poxy

And couldn't join in the slaughter

He died shortly thereafter

With no prayer upon his lips

And so his bilge-rat companions

Threw his corpse over the side of the ship

Then they fired a canon salute

To their dead companion dastardly

For his fellow pirates had loved him

That was plain enough to see

Jack's body floated there a moment

Before sinking far below

Down to Davy Jones' locker

With a yo ho ho, and a ho!

Now apportion out his whisky

Apportion out his wine

Shared out by present company

As we sing out this jaunty rhyme

Poor old Roustabout Jack

He really was the worst of the lot

And fair would it be to say

That in the end he deserved what he got.
SHAME

I go about clothed in shame. My hat is the color of my shame, and when I pass, people point to me, and say: 'Look, there goes old ----- . He ought to be ashamed of himself'. And I am. And my cloak bears the many marks of my shame, as do my trousers, the very pattern and design of which alludes in no uncertain manner to my shame. But for all this I am grateful, for it is a form of repentance that I go about thus attired, and the general populous has been more than helpful in making me aware of the full weight of the shame that I carry about upon my slippers. In fact, I am even considering adding a very shameful pair of gloves, or mittens, to my ensemble, and perhaps even a walking stick, though it becomes more and more difficult to manage this ever-increasing weight. I really should not complain, however, for I once saw a man who wore wound round his neck ten entire yards of shameful scarf, while behind him followed a gaggle of laughing children, who tried to step on the loose trailing ends.
THE BODYGUARD

I can see very well that my bodyguard is in cahoots with those who mean to do me harm, for he is always leading me down dark, dank alleys, or under bridges where no one else goes. There, he asks me to wait alone for hours in the chilly night air. I can only believe that I am still alive because the lines of communication between himself and those assassins with whom he conspires must in some way be faulty, and so that is why he has thus far failed to bring about my demise. And yet, he is always there, awaiting his next chance, and is always watching me, out from under the brim of his filthy bowler hat, his seedy little eyes darting to-and-fro, as he plans out his next plot for how he might lure me to my doom.
THE MYSTERIOUS FORTUNE

When at last he returned from his travels, he came in a ship that was quite literally laden down with gold, as well as many other types of priceless treasure. There were so many valuables, in fact, that it took thirteen carriages to take it all to the bank, where it was secured within a huge domed vault. With nothing more than the interest from his great wealth, he bought himself a grand home in one of the finest districts in town, and then proceeded to furnish this mansion with many beautiful pictures, furniture, antiques, as well as carpets all the way from Persia. He then acquired for himself a whole retinue of cooks, butlers and maids, who waited on him hand and foot from the moment he awoke, till he turned in, in the evening. Thirty well-spent years later, he died of old age, and is still missed by all who knew him. But on the subject of how he had come by the possession of such a vast horde of treasure, he remained peculiarly silent, and never once alluded to the nature of its provenance.
THE PROWLER AND HIS MUFTIE

The prowler was caught at last, near midnight, on the 2nd of May. It was noted that he was attired very strangely, in a greatcoat and slippers, silken trousers with a drawstring, and, most oddly, a large fur muftie. As the police dragged him away in handcuffs, the gathered crowd watched and cheered, for they had lived for far too long under the prowler's reign of terror, and might well be excused for this sudden emotional outburst. As for the courts of law, they were not merciful in any way, and the prowler was condemned by one and all who spoke against him. A life of penal servitude was to be his fate, from which there would be no chance for parole, only, at the last minute they did make one concession to the wretched fellow, and allowed that he might at least be allowed to keep his large fur muftie, to which he seemed so attached.
THE ABANDONEE

Having been abandoned on a deserted island by her treacherous cousins, she was forced to compete with the local wildlife for her supper each evening. Several times, ships passed by in the distance, but the flimsy fires she constructed, and the frantic flailing of her arms were not sufficient to draw their attention. Eventually, she gave up in exasperation and died, after discovering that some mischievous monkeys had stolen her entire cache of carefully hoarded coconuts.
CORNER DWELLERS

My nephew is afflicted with something known as 'Corner-Dwellers Disease', and although this sickness is still relatively rare, it has become more and more common of late, particularily amongst the young. Symptoms include: Dwelling for long hours at any sort of corner, be it near the threshold of a hallway, within a room, or at street corners. At first, we did not know what was wrong with --------, and became worried when we first saw him peeping out of the shadows of a dark corner, seemingly unable to move from the spot. We were greatly concerned by this strange behaviour, but felt reassured when, after taking him to a specialist, we learned that this is a rare, though fairly well-documented ailment, of which many hundreds of cases have been recorded. Sadly, no cure as yet exists, however, there are, thankfully, many things that can be done to help the sufferers of this strange malady, and this has rekindled our hope. Firstly, one can simply increase the number of corners within one's home, so that those that are thus afflicted may have more options for where to sit or stand. This may be done far more easily than may at first be imagined, not only by hiring a carpenter to make the necessary modifications, but also by crafting a mobile corner which may be shifted at will. Such things can be made of a lighter type of wood, so that, as in the case of my nephew, for instance, he may simply strap the entire contraption to his back. There is also the option of heavy sedation, which is highly recommended for the more extreme cases, so that they might at least be slowly weaned off their corner-dwelling tendencies. Still, it is always profitable to remember that a full cure may take years to achieve, if it can be had at all, and that one must be forever patient, and resolved. The most important thing not to forget is that dwellers must never be forcefully removed from their corners at any time, for to try do so is to risk provoking a violent response from the patient, wherein they may even lash out with teeth and nails.
A BACHELOR'S LIFE

It's a bachelors life, this is: Toasting one's toes before the blazing hearth; not sharing one's biscuits and tea; singing as loudly as one pleases any time of the day or night; drinking oneself unconcious every evening, and waking up in one's easy chair; never minding about the holes in one's socks, or undergarments; more room in one's bed, to spread out luxuriously; no inlaws; no one to nag and gripe and fuss; enjoying the peace and quiet; being able to leave the reading light on at night as long as one wishes; never having to apologize. Yes, it's a bachelor's life for me!
IF ONLY...

Ah, if only I could have seen more stage productions of Hamlet, and gone ice-skating on the Volga, and learned to cherish the sweet songs of the yellow parakeet. And if only I had swilled more champagne, and personally known more failed revolutionaries, and been swindled more often by charlatans, and gone across the sweltering swamps of Borneo on a pack mule. And if only I had married my first cousin, and not wasted so much time on art, and become addicted to more things that are bad for me, and learned to play the piccolo, and suffered heat stroke in front of the mighty Egyptian pyramids, and learned to wrestle with greased-up dock labourers, and had more stare-downs with venomous cobras. And if only I had learned to walk with a fashionable limp, and to sleep through Wagner's operas, and consulted the stars concerning my private life, and inherited more widows' fortunes, and lived on the wrong side of the tracks, and taken part in more general strikes, and learned to sew hemp socks, and to breath in the circular manner of the aboriginal masters of the digereedoo, and cut myself shaving more often, and spent more nights out in the cold, and burrowed deeply, in hopes of finding something interesting. And if only I had voted less, and had more obsessions and unquenched longings, and eaten less fibre, and heard less about Sweden, and learned to lose less well at chess, and to iron my pleated pants, and spot rainbows with less enthusiasm, and been more fooled by fools' gold, and visited more prisons, and lost more buttons, and had more unholy visions... Oh, if only...
IN LOVE

It is simple enough to know when one has succumbed to the self-immolation that is love, but much more difficult by far to know for certain whether or not the lady upon whom one has cast one's eye returns these feeling with equal ardour. Do not count too much upon her blushes to give her away, for a maiden's rosy complexion can easily be counterfeited when she so wishes. Nor should one depend too much upon her sighs, or fair whispered words, for much like a mans', these words may well be full of treachery. And when wooing her, do not croon too well, you sweet-voiced bird, you leader of men, you pillar of strength; for while sweeping her up in a tidal wave of passion, and tasting the heavenly elixir of desire, you too may become swept up beyond the clouds. Drink once from this cup, I say, and then nevermore. And beware, for all women, like swordsmen, are masters of the feint; she the matador, and you the bull; she twists and turns, and will not allow herself to be gored upon your horny thorn, until she too may pierce you with a cold blade through the heart. 
THE FACES OF ANIMALS

I am given to wonder just how many of us has ever really studied the faces and expressions of our animal and bird cousins. I myself make it a regular habit to watch as they play, fight, and relax, whenever I come across them. Chimpanzees are an especial favourite, and sometimes I become totally absorbed in observing them as they carry out their daily routines of eating, drinking, and grooming themselves -while they cautiously watch me in return. There is one particular chimp, named Bustard, whose face is as expressive and as vulnerable as any child's, and seemingly as malleable as soft putty. I have absorbed the most from him, though about what exactly, I do not know. From birds, I have learnt a great deal about a certain quality of alertness, and the various dignified stances; while from the smaller, furrier, more wild-eyed sorts of critters, I have learned what it is to be diligent and resourceful. I am often given to question whether these zoological wonders are themselves taking away something from us, some sort of odd shuffle, imitated from the way we walk, that they perform for the amusement of their fellow creatures. Perhaps some sort of noise as well, made in imitation of human speech, or even a minute twinkle in the eye which is particular to us, and yet noticible only to them, and that they may contemplate upon the significance of on dark and otherwise unoccupied evenings.
ALL THE UNBORN CHILDREN

How many of you fine mystics will follow me in this sorrowful lament? How many of you will bow your heads and weep for all the unborn children of the world? And who will cry out for one's sisters, and one's brothers, those who have not been conceived? And what of all the possible alternative histories of the world that never were; all the masterful symphonies that did not get composed; the pictures left unpainted; and the stones left uncarved by the sculptors. Now weep with me for all the mothers who could have gone childless (had they not); or those poor souls who might never have been saved at the last moment from fatal accidents (though they were); for the victims of terrible plagues that never visited themselves upon us; for the cruel fates of merciless kings; the freedom of criminals at large; the unanswered ache in a rapist's loins, or a vampire's jaws; the slow dying of a star far too distant to gaze upon from here; all the animals who never got to stride upon the earth, because their kin had earlier provided a meal to something larger, or swifter, than themselves. Weep for all the inventions undiscovered; great manuscripts left in the bottom of old drawers; extinct species that have left no fossil records; unhatched eggs; and most of all, for all of the gods who have for too long gone completely unknown, and unworshiped, in all their cosmic splendour.
THE LOST FRIEND

I lost my friend. He was the greatest of friends, but now he is gone. For some years I simply stopped looking, and gave up all hope of finding him again. But then I had a dream, and in it, I saw his face, and knew again what he looked like, down to the last detail, for his features had blurred a great deal in my memory. And in the dream, my friend said to me in a dream voice that wasn't his, and yet was, that I shouldn't quit looking. And so now I walk down the streets, and my eyes are wide open as I evaluate every face, and try to imagine how my friend's appearance has changed after all this time, and I try to take all of that into account as I search every face looking for the lost face of my friend.
THE LAST COUGH

This wretched cough has plagued me for years, and I truly long for the day when it will trouble me no more. Deep and phlemy it is, and seems to come from the deepest cavern within the darkest part of my lungs. I hope that when I finally die from it I will be fully conscious, and will recognize it as the last cought -though perhaps it will only be a half cough as my last breath is drawn; though either way I will relish it- for it will signal the end of my terrible and prolonged misery.
THE LION TAMER

The crack of a whip, and the tall, strutting arrogance of a top-hatted, mustachioed man. Opposite him, the near-feral lions, as they sat upon stools, and performed other feats at the behest of their dictatorial master: first a leap through a blazing ring, then walking on their forepaws only, then groping the air in side-splittingly jolly imitation of pugilists. These are the scenes of childhood that I remember best. And yet when I grew up, and myself became a professional tamer, I used a much different approach with the lions. I did not feel the need to master these graceful and beautiful creatures, and they, for their part, returned this kindness by never trying to kill me. In fact, the mutual trust that eventually grew up between myself and my charges was such that I was able to spend the night sleeping beside them, in their cages, my face nuzzled deeply down into their warm manes. And when it came to performing tricks in front of an audience, I truly astounded everyone when I trained my lion friends to wear, without complaint, the breeches, top hat, red jacket and high riding boots which I myself had previously donned. And the circus viewers fairly brayed like donkeys when the lions went even further, and began to stand upon their hind legs, just long enough to deliver lighting-fast cracks of their wet leather whips upon my flanks, as I sometimes meekly, sometimes ferociously, forced my naked body to perform various undignified tricks and somersaults.
A STRIKING FIGURE

He cut quite a striking figure, standing there in his breeches and waistcoat, the polished buckles of his belt and shoes gleaming, and his deep blue eyes all a-glitter. Everything about him was all refinement, down to the waxed mustache which he so lovingly cultivated... All of us were in awe of him, as he strutted and paraded himself like a great peacock before our dazzled eyes. Never before had we seen, or even heard of anyone quite like him before, with his low-rolling baritone singing voice, and fine aquiline nose. He was like a figure out of history, or from another world, and we all trouped single file behind him, trying our best, but always failing, to replicate his distinctive swagger as he promenaded before the approving gazes of prominent and beautiful ladies, who commented to one another upon every facet of his decorous demeanor. He himself barely seemed to notice anyone else's presence, and carried on as though he were only performing for his own pleasure.
THE SILENT ONE

No one that I know had ever actually heard him speak before, and there was some speculation that he was a mute; though others who were said to know him slightly, insisted up and down that he could indeed have spoken if he had wished it, though they admitted that they themselves had never heard him do so. Suffice it to say that he was an extremely quiet and withdrawn man, who kept to himself, and who didn't seem to have any family or friends. It therefore struck us as bewilderingly odd that an entire age in history should have been named after him; when literally hundreds of great political figures, military masters and bemedaled athletes should have been condemned to complete obscurity. Yet this simple, and seemingly insignificant man, who left behind neither scientific, nor artistic, nor physical achievements, has been held up as the absolute embodiment and essence of all that has come and gone in this tumultuous past century. Such, one supposes, is the strangeness of history, and of man, and of the universe...
THE DEMISE OF A BALLOON

Each time the balloon saw another balloon that had had the air let out of it, and that lay on the ground withered and sagging, he thought about taking his own life before such a sad end came to him. Anything would be better than slowly wilting, and he was sure that it would be better to go out with a bang! And yet, when he tried very diligently one day to collide with a rusty old nail, he found he didn't have the strength to build up enough momentum to actually puncture his stretched rubber skin. Later, he tried to hang himself by his own string, which he wound around the rafters in an attic, but this only resulted in causing him to bob about upside down for awhile...
LITTLE BROTHER AND LITTLE SISTER

While little brother was busy making absurd sketches in his notepad, little sister was envisioning herself drowning her medium-sized doll, Netochka, in a large fountain in the front courtyard of the huge family estate. But the eyes of the serfs who served the home were ever-watchful, and were always on the lookout for any suspicious hint of witchcraft or black magic, and so the girl had to restrict herself to dark daydreams. Meanwhile, in another part of the country, Czar ----- the First, was inspecting his troops on the parade ground of his palace during a downpour. He caught pneumonia, and died in bed three days later. His son, then a young man of twenty, immediately succeeded his father, but was assassinated by a group of desperate and wild-eyed anarchists. Later, the nation went to war against a rival power, and lost. Much of the power and prestige the empire had accumulated over the past centuries was also lost as a result of that sad defeat. Very soon the foul beast that is revolution stirred, and then awoke amongst the peasantry. In it's path, this chaos left few survivors, and broke all the previous records for wanton cruelty and brutality. Within a few generations of this upheaval though, the children of the revolution had all died out, though long after their initial fervour and destructive enthusiasm had waned. Afterwards, a dozen or so similiar revolts were inflamed, and then went out as well, as all the while, little brother made absurd sketches in his notepad, and little sister dreamed of snuffing out her treacherous doll.
DISGUISES

Throughout the centuries, he had disguised himself as many things: sometimes as a lion, sometimes as a snake, and once in a while as a monster with the gift of second sight -but always he was recognized in the end, and had to slink away to begin again...
THE TICK

Of his facial tick, he remained almost totally unaware, and died without having considered it in the least. When I say unaware though, I do not mean that he was never, not even for a moment, cognizant of the fact that the left side of his face went into a sort of spasmodic dance every few minutes or so; it is just that he was always under the impression that this mildly unfavourable condition was well under his control, and that no one else was likely to even notice it. For this reason, he dismissed the matter almost entirely from his mind, noting, anyway, that such a thing was not half as unusual as some of the things he had seen in his time. Others did notice it though, and it colored their perception of him while he was alive, and even figured in their memories after he had died. In fact, whenever one of his friends or acquaintances wished to describe him to another, they very often simply resorted to referring to this nervous tick in order for the other to achieve instant recognition of whom it was that they spoke of. Had he known that his peers were so aware of his condition, he would have been quite surprised, and might even perhaps have made greater efforts to keep this facial fluttering under control. But he was not aware, and so died in a state of blissful ignorance. 
LIDLESS EYES

The statuette has lidless eyes -cold lidless eyes- that stare down at one from where it sits upon the mantle. It is carved from the wood of a yew tree, and represents a sitting monkey. It looks so lifelike that it seems as though it could go swinging about the room at any moment. Some have wondered aloud why I do not simply remove it altogether if it disturbs me so, but that would involve going near it, touching it, and this I will not, cannot do. Much better by far to let it sit there, staring, forever watching, forever haunting my dreams.
MY SON

My son is nothing like me at all. It is strange, but where I am short, he is tall, and where I am dark of complexion, he is fair, and where I tend to be quiet and reserved, my son is actually quite high-spirited. Even in the little details he seems different, for when I look at his nose, or his ears, or his mouth, or brow, they are also completely oppposite to myself. I have remarked upon this fact to my beloved wife on many occasions, saying how odd it is, but she merely shrugs her eyelids, and I am sure that this is because she is as mystified by the whole business as I am.
THE SPIRIT ANIMAL

And what would you do? And how would you react, if, after living for a lifetime with the courage of a lion in your breast, the cunning of a fox, the nobility of the lofty eagle, and the cool reserve of a crocodile; what if you had suddenly learned -after participating in one of those sacred native rituals- that you had not the spirit of a lion, nor the fox, nor the eagle, nor the crocodile, but were actually possessed of the lowly spirit of a squirrel? Would you too not be mingling your bitter tears with the rain, as I do now?
THE LONG-LOST BROTHER?

Dear Sir,

I can see now that you insist upon claiming that you are my long-lost brother, but I am forced through an unsparing look at the facts to cast a doubtful eye upon your claims, if for no other reason than that I can disern no familial resemblance whatsoever either in your contenance, nor in your character. Furthermore, the fact that not one member of my extended family has ever heard, nor even imagined your existence before, also adds weight to my side of the argument. All this coupled with the fact that you, sir, if I am more harshly specific still, are possessed of a full shock of red hair, while we are all dark of complexion, to a soul. Also, you are quite short, while we are all tall. You are quarrelsome and fidgety, while we tend toward quietude and self restraint. If you hoped to gain financially in some way through your supposed kinship to us, than I am sorry to have to inform you that we are not at all endowed with riches, and have merely enough to sustain ourselves with dignity, but no more. And if you had hoped for social advancement through association with us, than again you will be disappointed, for though we may be respectable, and well thought of, we are by no means influential. And no, I most certainly will not -in response to our earlier meetings- embrace you, and would ask that you desist from calling me your 'dear brother', and that you cease to weep when I am forced to chastise you publicly upon these points. And I must inform you that I will no longer pay heed to your pleading entreaties, and shall even be forced to send you out into the cold night air, alone and supperless, if I should again find you curled up at the foot of my bed. 
THE GREAT INSULTER II

In his later years, as a bearded old man, he was widely regarded as the greatest insulter who had ever lived. To judge by the vast numbers of young people -mostly diligent students of the insult themselves- who flocked to hear him speak, it was difficult to imagine that in his early years, The Great Insulter had actually endured a long and mighty struggle against those who held his art in low regard. It must have pleased him greatly, decades later, that the sons and daughters of those very persons who had earlier thought so little of him, now lined up for days on end, at booksellers, in order to purchase the latest edition of his collections of harsh quips and jeers. Some critics have now even begun to make the claim that this intellectual giant may well be the genius of the age, on an equal footing at least with those heroes of the arts and sciences who have irrevocably changed the world forever. Whatever one may think, there is really no denying that there is something stupendous about being possessed of an ability to reduce a grown man to tears with a single word, or gesture. He seemed to have a way of finding out the one thing about oneself that you also despise, but that you have kept so well-hidden from view that you believed no one would ever find out, and that is the exact point upon which The Great Insulter could fixate upon with razor-like precision. And to think of delivering a well-timed retort against him did no good, for The Great Insulter always had a ruder remark in waiting, and besides, he gave no time for replies, and just heaped abuse upon abuse until moving on to the next victim. And in this manner, he had become first respected, then revered, then, all but worshiped, as new students of the art flocked in ever-growing numbers to his public appearances, hoping to glean something from the master. Quite naturally, however, he reserved his greatest contempt for those who knelt at his feet most assiduously, and scorned them with a viciousness not easily witnessed without experiencing a sense of shock and bewilderment. And yet, for all this, his reputation only seemed to grow, ever-larger, to the point where he is now regarded as a national institution, and treasure. When he finally died, hundreds of thousands lined the streets, dressed in the black robes of mourning, and followed like a silent dark weeping wave behind his hearse as it wound its way toward the graveyard. It is said that this was the largest funeral in history, and that the grief of the people was truly tremendous and unprecedented. The Great Insulter was asked upon his deathbed if he wished to say anything to the world, to leave a last message behind. He responded by referring to an elderly nurse, a kindly woman who had looked after and cared for him through all the infirmities of age, and informed everyone present, the nurse included, that it was she, and the hideous nature of her face, that had at last driven him into his grave, and that he was glad to be going, if only for the fact that he would never have to look upon her ever again... Alas, the world may never recover from the loss of this giant of a man, The Great Insulter.
THE DANCING MASTER

\----- the bear, was proving to be quite useless to her trainer, the renowned dancing master -----, and no matter how he whipped her, she remained stubbornly uncompliant. He had already worked with her for several months, and had had some initial successes, with ----- responding favourably to the bits of trifle he rewarded her with. After only one week, she was able to gesticulate amusingly with her left paw, and that had pleased the master. It was -----'s manner to work on one of the bear's limbs at a time, and after acheiving the desired effect he sought, would then try to integrate all four limbs together in motion, thus creating the appearance of a sort of dance. And yet he had not gotten beyond the left paw, and left leg, before she had suddenly seemed to lose all interest, either in dancing, or in doing anything else for that matter, and no longer responded either to the rewards, nor to the punishments he meted out. Presently, she just slouched about lazily, and yet seemed, strangely, neither sad, nor happy, nor even particularly stubborn. Perhaps it was just that she felt on some animal level that dancing before an audience was a silly and frivolous thing to engage in, and would simply prefer to do nothing, rather than to participate in such a pointless routine. In any case, the bear obviously did not understand the stakes, for by now, dancing master -----'s entire reputation was on the line. He had already invested in her future career, and had spend considerable amounts of time and coin nurturing his own dreams of glory, which she had been expected to aid. And what would the other dancing master all over Europe say, when they heard, inevitably, of this failure? How they would laugh, and say that he had lost his golden touch with the untamed beasts, and that he could no longer be relied upon to deliver; and oh, he had been great once, perhaps, but that was a long time ago, and this was a young man's game now, and surely it was time for him to hang up his hat, and his whip, and retire for good. But he was defiant, and would never think of retiring, and knew that he would never give up with this bear, and would train her day and night, and limb by immobile limb, until her whole massive form swayed gracefully to the music. That, or else he would sell her to an unscrupulous butcher for the meat! And yet he could not give up on her, and felt that there had to be something to which she might respond favourably, something that was missing, and that he had never tried before. Until now, the bits of trifle and the lash had always done the trick...
THE BALLOON

A large crowd had gathered in Odd Down field, beneath a great hot-air balloon which hovered above us like some sort of colourful bloated monster. We all looked up at it, being at once both astonished and terrified, for it seemed to float there, some fifty yards high, as if by magic, as if upheld by the hands of invisible angels. The basket at the bottom was still firmly attached to the ground by ropes, and before it stood the barker, who called out very energetically, trying to goad us into taking a ride in this marvellous contraption. We all remained afraid though, and fairly trembled at the thought of leaving terra firma behind, and made our hesitations known through murmurings and downward-cast glances. And yet there was one amongst us, a certain Cuthbert Fitch-Hatton, a local man of some note, who bravely stepped forward as a volunteer. He was not alone either, for he brought with him his wife, three daughters, and two sons, who by their stoic expressions, appeared to be as willing to risk life and limb as their father. At first we all protested, and begged dear Cuthbert to be reasonable, and to reconsider. We tried to persuade him that while it was all very well for him to undertake such a hazardous journey, it was hardly fair, nor just, to risk his whole family in such a rash venture. But Cuthbert was adamant. By and by, we could see that there would be no changing his mind, and so stepped aside as they filed into the basket, one by one, and readied themselves for the journey. Within mere moments, all was ready, and the pilot of the balloon signalled to the workmen that they should free the ropes which tethered them fast to the ground. Slowly at first, and then with greater rapidity, the balloon began to rise. We could clearly see the faces of the children as they peered at us from over the edge of the basket, and as they continued their ascension we all cheered, raising our hats and walking sticks to wish them well. We truly admired their courage and pluck, for daring to do something which any sensible person should rightly fear, but when the balloon had ascended about a mile into the high, clear air, we felt a sudden gust of wind picking up, very strong, and it invariably began to drive the balloon off its original course. The colourful orb continued to recede into the distance, first becoming as small as a marble, and then a mere fly-speck, until it disappeared completely from view. None of those who were aboard were ever seen nor heard from again, and as we turned to leave the field that fateful day, we all felt fully justified in our initial wariness.
JASPER AND MALEK

Though Jasper and Malek were twins, and though they still, after twenty years, bore a strong physical resemblance to one another, they could not have been more different in their manner and temperment. Jasper was kind, open, generous and industrious, while Malek was distrustutful, sly, greedy and lazy. But despite this fact, the two of them got along well with each other, perhaps due to some sort of mutual understanding that only those born as twins can know. Jasper, for some reason unknown to us, continued to defend the actions of his brother long past the point where the rest of us had given up all hope for the redemption of his soul. He even seemed to accept with aplomb many things about Malek which we found intolerable and disturbing, like the way he peeped at people through the slats in shutters, or the way he spread malicious gossip, and then stood back and watched with mirthful glee as the townsfolk set upon one another with violence as a direct result of his machinations. But then Jasper had always been willing to offer himself up as a sacrifice to be whipped in the place of his brother, even when they had been children. Sadly, Malek was not above using this trait of Jasper's to his own advantage whenever he could, and thus did Jasper suffer much on account of the selfishness of Malek, though we never once heard him speak ill of him. In fact, when we'd finally had enough of Malek and his evil ways, and had decided to drown him in the old bog, Jasper, once again, and true to character, offered himself up as a willing sacrifice, if only Malek could be spared. But by then it was too late, and we wanted to be free of the both of them -Malek for the corruption of his heart, and Jasper for his piety, which we found intolerable. What we found most irritating about Jasper though, was not only his excuses for his brother, but that we always seemed to fall pray to our own sense of mercy after listening to him. And so this time we made no mistake, and did them both in at the same time, before we should allow ourselves to be dissuaded from the deed. If only Japer had been a little less good, then perhaps he would still be alive today...
THE MALADY II

It is my great misfortune to suffer from a malady so rare that it has not yet even been given a name, though the symptoms of this affliction are no less real, and no less extreme for all that. The disease renders me incapable of normal emotional responses -not that I cannot express the various emotions- it is just that they manifest themselves in a most unusual fashion. For example, if I have been told some very pleasing news, my face might then take on the look of one who is extremely bored, or frustrated even. Also, if someone were to express a heartfelt feeling of loss due to the recent bereavement of a beloved family member, my response might be to break out in a wide grin, while also laughing in a most jovial manner. It is also possible that I might express abject horror, even at the relation of the most trivial comment upon the state of the weather. That this malady has put a strain upon my formerly good social relations can easily be imagined, and that it causes great confusion in others there can also be no doubt. I have found it nearly impossible to carry on even the slightest bit of conversation or business, without the patience of everyone, myself included, being sorely put to the test. Sadly, a cure does not seem likely, not in the immediate future in any case, as the physicians have not yet been able to even deduce the cause of my symptoms, let alone work out a remedy, and so I must therefore be content to bear my affliction with as much grace and dignity as I might muster, though it is entirely likely that both grace and dignity should end up being expressed as shame, and surprise.
THE CONTORTIONIST

My friend, Alston Ashes, is a strange fellow. He is extremely skillful at contorting his body into any shape that he desires, or compacting it into one-tenth of its original size, and it is really a marvel to witness such things. At first, Alston just did this for fun, but later he realized that such a skill can be very useful to him in his proffession as a petty thief, for he must often outrun the officers of the law, and in these dire circumstances it is necessary sometimes to contort himself into some sort of hiding place, such as a violin case, until the danger has passed. Many are the times that the police have upturned an entire room looking for him, only to leave empty-handed, for who would suspect that an attache case, for example, or a dusty urn, could actually contain a full grown man. But such things are no difficulty for Alston, and he can be perfectly comfortable for hours at a time in the most cramped conditions imaginable. As great as this skill is though, he has always wanted to reach a larger and more appreciative audience than his small circle of friends, and wishes to perform in front of large crowds of admiring spectators. In his mind's eye, I know that he pictures himself being cheered by the thronging masses for his incredible abilities, and even being carried on their shoulders while brass bands play in his honour. He does not see why his talents should not finally earn him the fortune he has always sought, and failed to achieve through a life of petty crime. He even fancies that if given the chance, the King himself will ask to see him perform, and naturally enough, after witnessing the amazing spectacle of Alston's contorted limbs -or so goes the fantasy- our Sovereign, overcome with emotion, will embrace this magnificent artist, and with tears in his eyes, take one of his own medals from his chest and pin it upon Alston's bosom, and beg him to allow him to make him an honorary member of the Royal Family, and to call him by his first name, and so on... Such are Alston's rambling imaginings. I never have had the heart to tell him though, that the most he can expect this unnusual ability of his to gain him will be a place as some sort of sideshow in a carnival, or during the interval at a travelling circus, and that he will never make more money than will allow him to feed himself. Eventually, he will become stiff and sore after years of abusing his body in this manner, and will probably die penniless and forgotten... But as I say, I have never had the heart to tell him...
THE REFLECTION

Every day for several months now I have returned daily to the full-length mirror in the hall, and examined the reflection that stared back at me. This reflection is not mine, I am sure of it, and am convinced that an imposter, or body-double, has merely dressed himself up in my clothes, and then hidden himself behind a piece of glass that only looks like a mirror. He must be a veritable genius at the art of simultaneous mimicry, for I have not been able to trip him up yet, and not for want of trying. He seems capable of holding the most difficult scowls, smiles, and even buffoonish poses, without a pause or a break, and I find myself worn out by the end of these exercises -though I can see that he is too, ha ha! Nevertheless, while others may not agree, I do not believe that he really looks anything like myself, and feel fortunate that at least I am not so exceedingly ugly as he...
THE KITES

It all started with one kite lifting up into the high, clear air, which was soon followed by a second, and then a third, and a fourth, and so on, until the whole sky, and for as far as the eye could see, was filled with these colourful apparitions. No one seemed to know where they came from, or who was flying them, but it was generally agreed that they were beautiful to look at, and should be allowed to continue to soar for as long as they wanted. We loved to watch them for hours on end, as they dipped, and rose, and crested the air just like ships on a wave, but much later we began to regret our earlier decision not to interfere with the kites, for carriage drivers became so mesmerized by the sight of them that they were sometimes lulled into sleep, thus causing many horrible accidents, and much loss of life. It was then that we began to see the kites not as some sort of frivolous novelty, but as a menace, and swift action by our politicians and men of state was demanded by the public. Within days, the local militia had been called out, and as they shot each one down, the sadly punctured sails sagged to the ground like old deflated balloons. That evening, we gathered the tattered pieces together, made a big heap, doused them with kerosene, and set the remains alight. The flaming pile burned till morning. 
THE PARASOL

On a particularily hot day, a parasol offers just the right amount of shade needed to ensure one's full comfort, and yet on a windy day, such an accessory might well prove to be a positive danger, a fact well-illustrated by the tale about to be told: Her name was Lullaby Lilou, she was six years old, and was dressed for a day on the town in the most fashionable garments of the season. Her ensemble included a silk dress, and hat, high leather booties, bloomers, and a fine lace parasol of the latest design. Every matron who passed the girl on the street could not help but comment upon her rosy-cheecked complexion, and the deep coral color of her innocent blue eyes, while gentlemen tipped their hats to the little lady. But all this fine feeling came abruptly, and terrifyingly, to an end, just as Lullaby crossed the six-mile-bottom bridge, which spanned the Seaton Sluice River, and passed through town. As she reached the middle, a sudden and unexpected gust of wind caught under her parasol, and lifted her up at least twenty feet in the air -she being of but negligible weight. Many witnessed the calamity, but were powerless to do anything save to stand aghast. Then, just as suddenly as the wind had lifted her, it died down, and the hapless girl was plunked right into the deepest part of the water. Luckily, a local lad by the name of Augustine, son of the local milliner, happened to be fishing in the river, and witnessed the terrible scene. Being possessed of the instant reflexes of a cat, he leapt into action, and with a well-practiced flick of the wrist, cast the line of his rod, and caught the floundering girl with his hook on the hem of her dress. However, by the time he had finally managed to reel her in, she was already drowned, and her bright blue eyes stared unblinkingly up at the sun.
AN ATTACK OF THE VAPOURS

Mrs. Saphronia Weobly was known to suffer from prodigious and frequent attacks of the vapours. It was thought that the best thing for her would be a trip to a well-reputed health sanatorium currently under the direction of a doctor famous for his many innovative advances in the field of rest cures. However, because Mrs. Weobly's bouts of hysteria were so unpredictable in their nature, both in their duration, as well as in the conditions which stimulated them, it was thought that I, her personal chaplain, ought to accompany her during her stay, at least until it was obvious that Dr. B. Thankful, head of the sanatorium, had everything well in hand. When such an opportunity arose, I was to retire to a discreet distance, though I should never think of ceasing in my duty of keeping Mrs. Weobly's family well-informed of any and all developments concerning her treatment. Mr. Bertie Weobly, a man of quite considerable influence and fortune, had lavished every care and attention upon his dear beloved wife, and yet himself was prone, in moments of particular weakness, to undergo long and pronounced periods of inert drunkeness. I knew that it would be the content of my letters which would either help to alleviate his troubled mind, or else act as a stimulus -should the tidings be unfavourable- to further lapses into access on his part where alcohol and depression were concerned. Therefore, I found myself in the unenviable position of being both duty-bound to recount in as honest a manner as I was capable of doing the true and undisputed medical facts as they were reported to me daily by Dr. B. Thankful, while at the same time not painting a picture which was too grim, and held out no hope at all, even if that were indeed the situation as it stood, for such a letter would surely only precipitate further despair within the family household to which I was bound not only by obligation, but also by some feeling. Yes, I could not help but to think of poor Mr. Weobly, and especially his two daughters, both of whom were every bit as delicate of disposition as their mother, and who through all the years of Mrs. Weobly's failing health, had taken upon themselves to suffer alongside -almost in the manner of saints, or martyrs- her fate. I knew that any negative report would only be met with fresh bouts of paroxysms of despair, and worried that the fault would be mine own, for not having more delicately struck a balance between what must -for the sake of the family- be said, and the clear facts of the case. It was necessary to take into account the general mood and framework of the whole, for over my many years' service to the Weobly's, I had had more than enough time to acquire an overall assessment of their many strengths, and weaknesses. Still, during the first month of our health retreat, many of my initial fears seemed unfounded, for Madam's treatment seemed to be going well enough, and she responded positively to the electro/hydro therapy, as well as to the daily yogourt enimas, which restored the rosy complexion to her cheeks quite admirably. Also invigorating were the daily jaunts and skating parties, as well as the nature frolics, which seemed to have the effect of restoring at least some of her former vitality. And yet, after that first month, I am afraid that things again took a turn for the worse, and I could only lend my fervent and beseeching prayers to our sweet crucified lord as Madam underwent a new and more violent fit of hysteria than I had ever before witnessed. It was even necessary, during the height of the crisis, for several strong male nurses to hold her down, as she thrashed about and wailed inconsolably throughout the night. By this point, it was only the yogourt enemas that seemed to do anything at all towards bringing any response to Madam's barely flickering eyes, as she descended deeper and deeper into a near catatonic state of emotional and physical torper. By and by, I was informed by the good doctor that there was nothing more that this institute could do for her, as they were really just a place of rest and recovery for over-taxed minds and bodies, and were not equipped to deal with the incurably insane, and it was recommended that the possibility of Madam being placed in the care of a permanent insane asylum be at least considered. And so it was that I returned home, with poor Mrs. Weobly in tow, only to find that Mr. Weobly himself had by now, upon hearing the terrible news of his wife, slipped into a severe case of melencholia and alcoholic stupor, from which there was no rousing him, while Blanche Weobly, eldest daughter, had thrown herself out of an upper-story window of the family home, and been killed instantly. As if this were not enough, the youngest daughter, Prudence Weobly, had drowned herself in the nearby duck pond, though how she managed this it is hard to imagine, since the pond is a mere three feet at its deepest. How could I help but to blame myself, most of all, for this woeful state of affairs, for despite my best efforts, and my clear foreknowledge of the delicate state of this family's mental balance and fortitude, I had perhaps been too forthcoming in my later letters home, having found it increasingly difficult to find anything positive to report about Mrs. Woebly's condition. And yet I cannot now help but think that if I had placed even one word differently upon the page, perhaps then this entire tragedy might somehow have been averted...

-FIN-
