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Speaker 1: A Story that Never ends By missus C. J. Woodbury.

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Tommy was very angry. He rushed upstairs and into his

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mother's room, utterly forgetting his knock or am I welcome? Mother?

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Bang echoed the door behind him, with a noise that

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resounded over the whole house. Why he was angry was

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plain enough. His eye was black, nose, bleeding, coat, torn,

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collar hanging. His mother took it off as he bent

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over the wash bowl. Oh, Tommy, she said, you've been

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fighting again. Well, mother, he exclaimed, what do you expect

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me to do that? Bob Sykes threw rocks at me

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again and called me names. He said, I was hush,

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said his mother. You can only grow more angry as

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you speak. Is it hard for you now to remember

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the rule? The good things about others, the naughty things

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about yourself? Good? There is nothing good about him. I

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hate him. I wish you was dead, I do. I

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wish I could kill him. Sternly, his mother took him

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by the arm and led him before the mirror. One

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look at the face he saw there silenced him. To

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all intents and purposes. You have killed him. Whosoever hateth

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his brother is a murderer. You cannot but remember who

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said it, Tommy. It is late in the afternoon, the

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sun is going down. Tomorrow is his birthday. Hadn't you

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better forgive Bob? The sun may go down and the

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sun may come up, for all I care, he answered,

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I'll never forgive him. Without further word, his mother bathed

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his heated face and led him to her bed. Lie

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down and dressed. She said, you are over excited. Quiet

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will help you. He lay and looked at her as

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she sat quietly and gravely at her work under the picture.

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Ever since he could remember, her chair at this hour

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of the day had been in that corner, and lo

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over it had always hung, just as it hung now,

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that picture so often explained to him. The walk to

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amais how calm and quiet his mother was, and the room,

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how still and cool After that crowded street. Shutting his

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aching eyes, he could see it again now, the swearing

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mob of boys and men shoving him on their brutal

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faces and gestures, the quarrel, the blows those he had

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given and taken he felt them again, and the burning

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choke of a final grip and wrestle. Oh, how his

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head throbbed and ached. It seemed as if the blood

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would burst through. He opened his eyes again. The room

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was growing darker. He almost forgot his pain for a

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few moments, noticing how the sunlight was straightened to a

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narrow lane which reached from the extreme southern end of

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the window to the floor in front of his mother's chair.

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He watched the last rays as they slowly left the

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floor and stole up her dress to her lap and

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her breast, leaving all behind and below in shadow. Now

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they had reached her face, it was bent over her work. Well,

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he knew that was some Christmas gift, may be for him,

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some Christmas gift, and tomorrow was Christmas. He looked again

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to see if he could discover what she was making,

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But the light had left her now and had risen

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to the picture queer picture. That was what funny clothes

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those men wore, those long gaberdines, mother had called them,

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reaching almost to the ground, shoes that showed the toes

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and hoods for hats, one of them had none. How

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closely they looked at him, they didn't even see which

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way they were going, And what a long way it

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was Stretching out there, dusty and hot, the room was

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quite dark, now save for the light on the narrow

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road there, What was yonder little village in the distance.

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What kind of a place was Amais? His mother had

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told him about it. Only one street, a long and

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narrow one, and very few trees, and one or two

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trading shops only, and the houses low and flat roofed,

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with no glass in them, and the sun shining down

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hot and straight between them. And oh, how his head ached.

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He was out there looking for Bob Sykes. Maybe that

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was he lying on this rude bench with the low

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cedar bush over it. If it were, he would settle

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matters with him quick, he would show him. But it

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wasn't Bob. It was only a sheep dog asleep. So

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Tommy turned away and walked slowly along the middle of

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the street, his face burned with the heat of the

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sun on his bruises. He was very thirsty. Climbing a

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little hill over which the road lay, he saw on

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the other side of it another boy coming toward him.

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He was a rather peculiar looking boy, with a face

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thoughtful but pleasant. He was carrying a heavy sheepskin bag

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over his shoulder. Tommy determined to ask him if he

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knew where there was some water. Hello, he said, As

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the boy drew near. The boy stopped and smiled at

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Tommy without making reply. Where are you going, said Tommy?

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I am carrying this bag of tools to my father.

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The boy answered, Do you live here, asked Tommy. It

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doesn't seem like much of a place. No, said the boy,

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It isn't much of a place, but I live here.

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What sort of tools have you got in your bag?

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Who is your father? My father is a carpenter, answered

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the boy. Tommy gave a long, low whistle, a carpenter. Why,

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my father owns a store and we live in one

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of the best houses in town. Fairfield is the name

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of my town. The boy seemed neither to notice the

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whistle nor the brag, but, allowing the bag to slip

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from his shoulders to the ground, stood still smiling before Tommy. Tommy,

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who somehow had forgotten his pain and thirst, felt embarrassed

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for a moment. He never before had made that announcement

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without its awakening at least a little sensation, even if

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it were no more than a boast. In return, this

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is a dull old town, he finally said. Many jolly

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boys around A good many, answered the boy, do you

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get any time to play? I suppose, though you don't.

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You have to work most of the time, added Tommy, encouragingly.

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I work a good deal, said the boy. I get

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time to play, however, I like it, which the work

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or the play both well, said Tommy after a pause.

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Do you ever have any trouble with the boys you

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play with? No, said the boy. I don't think so. Well,

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you must be a queer sort of boy. Now there's

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a Bob's sykes. Perhaps you've noticed that my eye is

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hurt and my face scratched some. Well, we had a

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little difficulty just a few moments ago. He insulted me,

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and I won't take an insult from any one, and

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I told him to shut up his mouth. And he

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sassed me back and called me names and said I

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was stuck up and thought I was better than the

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other boys, and he'd show me that I wasn't. Of course,

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I wouldn't stand that. So I've had a fight, and

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it isn't the first one either, Yes, said the boy,

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I know that I feel very sorry for Bob. He

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hasn't any mother to go to. You know, he had

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to wash the blood and dirt off his face as

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best he could at the town pump, and then laid

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around the streets until his father came from work. It

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is pretty hard for a boy to have no place

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to lay his head. Why do you know Bob Sykes,

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asked Tommy. Yes, answered the boy. I've been with him

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a good deal. Queer now, mused Tommy, I don't remember

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of ever seeing you around. But now tell me what

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you would have done if he had provoked you and

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insulted you too, I would have forgiven him, answered the boy.

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Well I did. There was one spell. I just started

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in and forgave him every day for a while. That

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was seven times. I would have forgiven him seventy times seven.

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That is just what my mother always says. Perhaps you

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know my mother. She knows me too, replied the boy.

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That is odd. I didn't think she knew any of

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the boys. Bob knows. Bob does not know me, replied

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the boy, I know him. Just then, Tommy's attention was

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attracted by a flock of little brown birds passing over

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their heads. One of the birds flew low and fluttered

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as if wounded, and fell in the dust nearer where

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it lay, beating its little wings, panting and dying. The

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boy tenderly picked it up. Somebody's hit him with a slingshot,

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said Tommy carelessly. The boy smoothed the bruised wing and

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straightened the crushed and broken body. The bird ceased fluttering.

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I'm most sorry, said Tommy. Didn't forgive Bob. It makes

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me feel bad what you told me about him having

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no home. Now, Mother is something like you. She don't

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mind one's being poor. Why if I took Bob home

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with me, Mother wouldn't seem to see his clothes and

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ragged shoes. She'd just talk to him and treat him

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like he was the best dressed boy in town. There's

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Bill Logan came home to dinner with me once Mother

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made me ask him. He is a real poor boy.

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Cast to work his mother washes, he didn't know what

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to do nor how to act. He kept his hands

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in his pockets most all the time. Aunt Lily said

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it was shocking, but Mother said never mind. She said

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she was glad he had his pockets, for his hands

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were rough and not too clean, and she thought they

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mortified him. Father went and kissed her. Then, don't tell this.

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I don't know what makes me run on and tell

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you all these things. I never spoke of them before,

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but I know father was a poor, poor young working

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man when he married mother. The boy raised his hand,

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and the sparrow gave a twitter of delight and flew heavenward. Why,

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exclaimed Tommy in amazement. You've cured him. He's all right?

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How did you do it? Do you feel sorry for

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the sparrows as well as Bob? I pity every sparrow

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that is hurt, said the boy. And isn't Bob of

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more consequence than a sparrow? I wish, said Tommy. I

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hadn't fought with Bob. It was most all my fault.

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I've a good mind to tell him. So I wish

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I was better acquainted with you. If I played with

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such a boy as you are now, i'd be better.

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I am certain. Suppose you come after school nights and

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play in our yard. Never mind your clothes. Can't you come? Yes?

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I will come if you want me to, answered the boy,

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looking steadfastly at him a moment, But now I must

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be about my father's business. He stooped, lifted the bag

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of tools to his shoulders, and before Tommy could stay him,

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had moved some steps away, don't go yet, tell me

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some more about what you'd do. And Tommy turned to

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follow him. But was it the boy? And was that

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a bag of tools on his back? It had grown

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strangely longer and heavier now, so that it dragged on

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the ground, and the face was the face of the picture.

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And lo it turned toward him, and the hand was

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raised in benediction and farewell. I am with you always,

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and he was gone. Oh, come back, come back, sobbed Tommy,

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reaching out his arms and struggling to run after him.

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Poor boy, said his mother, wiping the blinding tears from

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his eyes. Your sleep didn't do you much good. I've

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not been asleep, said Tommy. I've been. I've been talking

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with with him. And he spoke low with a longing reverence,

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and pointed to the picture. It was a dream, my child, mother,

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It was a vision. I saw him when he was

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a little boy in his own town, Nazareth, and mother,

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I even told him it wasn't much of a place

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to live in. He talked to me about Bob, he said,

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you knew him. I saw him cure a little bird,

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and oh, mother, he said, he would be with me always.

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He is a little boy like me. I know what

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to do now, he showed me. I must find Bob,

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I must have him. Forgive me. I want to bring

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him home with me into my bed for to night.

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He stopped. Mother, he said solemnly, tomorrow is his birthday

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and of a story that never ends. By missus C. J.

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Wood three