Speaker 1: A Story that Never ends By missus C. J. Woodbury.
Tommy was very angry. He rushed upstairs and into his
mother's room, utterly forgetting his knock or am I welcome? Mother?
Bang echoed the door behind him, with a noise that
resounded over the whole house. Why he was angry was
plain enough. His eye was black, nose, bleeding, coat, torn,
collar hanging. His mother took it off as he bent
over the wash bowl. Oh, Tommy, she said, you've been
fighting again. Well, mother, he exclaimed, what do you expect
me to do that? Bob Sykes threw rocks at me
again and called me names. He said, I was hush,
said his mother. You can only grow more angry as
you speak. Is it hard for you now to remember
the rule? The good things about others, the naughty things
about yourself? Good? There is nothing good about him. I
hate him. I wish you was dead, I do. I
wish I could kill him. Sternly, his mother took him
by the arm and led him before the mirror. One
look at the face he saw there silenced him. To
all intents and purposes. You have killed him. Whosoever hateth
his brother is a murderer. You cannot but remember who
said it, Tommy. It is late in the afternoon, the
sun is going down. Tomorrow is his birthday. Hadn't you
better forgive Bob? The sun may go down and the
sun may come up, for all I care, he answered,
I'll never forgive him. Without further word, his mother bathed
his heated face and led him to her bed. Lie
down and dressed. She said, you are over excited. Quiet
will help you. He lay and looked at her as
she sat quietly and gravely at her work under the picture.
Ever since he could remember, her chair at this hour
of the day had been in that corner, and lo
over it had always hung, just as it hung now,
that picture so often explained to him. The walk to
amais how calm and quiet his mother was, and the room,
how still and cool After that crowded street. Shutting his
aching eyes, he could see it again now, the swearing
mob of boys and men shoving him on their brutal
faces and gestures, the quarrel, the blows those he had
given and taken he felt them again, and the burning
choke of a final grip and wrestle. Oh, how his
head throbbed and ached. It seemed as if the blood
would burst through. He opened his eyes again. The room
was growing darker. He almost forgot his pain for a
few moments, noticing how the sunlight was straightened to a
narrow lane which reached from the extreme southern end of
the window to the floor in front of his mother's chair.
He watched the last rays as they slowly left the
floor and stole up her dress to her lap and
her breast, leaving all behind and below in shadow. Now
they had reached her face, it was bent over her work. Well,
he knew that was some Christmas gift, may be for him,
some Christmas gift, and tomorrow was Christmas. He looked again
to see if he could discover what she was making,
But the light had left her now and had risen
to the picture queer picture. That was what funny clothes
those men wore, those long gaberdines, mother had called them,
reaching almost to the ground, shoes that showed the toes
and hoods for hats, one of them had none. How
closely they looked at him, they didn't even see which
way they were going, And what a long way it
was Stretching out there, dusty and hot, the room was
quite dark, now save for the light on the narrow
road there, What was yonder little village in the distance.
What kind of a place was Amais? His mother had
told him about it. Only one street, a long and
narrow one, and very few trees, and one or two
trading shops only, and the houses low and flat roofed,
with no glass in them, and the sun shining down
hot and straight between them. And oh, how his head ached.
He was out there looking for Bob Sykes. Maybe that
was he lying on this rude bench with the low
cedar bush over it. If it were, he would settle
matters with him quick, he would show him. But it
wasn't Bob. It was only a sheep dog asleep. So
Tommy turned away and walked slowly along the middle of
the street, his face burned with the heat of the
sun on his bruises. He was very thirsty. Climbing a
little hill over which the road lay, he saw on
the other side of it another boy coming toward him.
He was a rather peculiar looking boy, with a face
thoughtful but pleasant. He was carrying a heavy sheepskin bag
over his shoulder. Tommy determined to ask him if he
knew where there was some water. Hello, he said, As
the boy drew near. The boy stopped and smiled at
Tommy without making reply. Where are you going, said Tommy?
I am carrying this bag of tools to my father.
The boy answered, Do you live here, asked Tommy. It
doesn't seem like much of a place. No, said the boy,
It isn't much of a place, but I live here.
What sort of tools have you got in your bag?
Who is your father? My father is a carpenter, answered
the boy. Tommy gave a long, low whistle, a carpenter. Why,
my father owns a store and we live in one
of the best houses in town. Fairfield is the name
of my town. The boy seemed neither to notice the
whistle nor the brag, but, allowing the bag to slip
from his shoulders to the ground, stood still smiling before Tommy. Tommy,
who somehow had forgotten his pain and thirst, felt embarrassed
for a moment. He never before had made that announcement
without its awakening at least a little sensation, even if
it were no more than a boast. In return, this
is a dull old town, he finally said. Many jolly
boys around A good many, answered the boy, do you
get any time to play? I suppose, though you don't.
You have to work most of the time, added Tommy, encouragingly.
I work a good deal, said the boy. I get
time to play, however, I like it, which the work
or the play both well, said Tommy after a pause.
Do you ever have any trouble with the boys you
play with? No, said the boy. I don't think so. Well,
you must be a queer sort of boy. Now there's
a Bob's sykes. Perhaps you've noticed that my eye is
hurt and my face scratched some. Well, we had a
little difficulty just a few moments ago. He insulted me,
and I won't take an insult from any one, and
I told him to shut up his mouth. And he
sassed me back and called me names and said I
was stuck up and thought I was better than the
other boys, and he'd show me that I wasn't. Of course,
I wouldn't stand that. So I've had a fight, and
it isn't the first one either, Yes, said the boy,
I know that I feel very sorry for Bob. He
hasn't any mother to go to. You know, he had
to wash the blood and dirt off his face as
best he could at the town pump, and then laid
around the streets until his father came from work. It
is pretty hard for a boy to have no place
to lay his head. Why do you know Bob Sykes,
asked Tommy. Yes, answered the boy. I've been with him
a good deal. Queer now, mused Tommy, I don't remember
of ever seeing you around. But now tell me what
you would have done if he had provoked you and
insulted you too, I would have forgiven him, answered the boy.
Well I did. There was one spell. I just started
in and forgave him every day for a while. That
was seven times. I would have forgiven him seventy times seven.
That is just what my mother always says. Perhaps you
know my mother. She knows me too, replied the boy.
That is odd. I didn't think she knew any of
the boys. Bob knows. Bob does not know me, replied
the boy, I know him. Just then, Tommy's attention was
attracted by a flock of little brown birds passing over
their heads. One of the birds flew low and fluttered
as if wounded, and fell in the dust nearer where
it lay, beating its little wings, panting and dying. The
boy tenderly picked it up. Somebody's hit him with a slingshot,
said Tommy carelessly. The boy smoothed the bruised wing and
straightened the crushed and broken body. The bird ceased fluttering.
I'm most sorry, said Tommy. Didn't forgive Bob. It makes
me feel bad what you told me about him having
no home. Now, Mother is something like you. She don't
mind one's being poor. Why if I took Bob home
with me, Mother wouldn't seem to see his clothes and
ragged shoes. She'd just talk to him and treat him
like he was the best dressed boy in town. There's
Bill Logan came home to dinner with me once Mother
made me ask him. He is a real poor boy.
Cast to work his mother washes, he didn't know what
to do nor how to act. He kept his hands
in his pockets most all the time. Aunt Lily said
it was shocking, but Mother said never mind. She said
she was glad he had his pockets, for his hands
were rough and not too clean, and she thought they
mortified him. Father went and kissed her. Then, don't tell this.
I don't know what makes me run on and tell
you all these things. I never spoke of them before,
but I know father was a poor, poor young working
man when he married mother. The boy raised his hand,
and the sparrow gave a twitter of delight and flew heavenward. Why,
exclaimed Tommy in amazement. You've cured him. He's all right?
How did you do it? Do you feel sorry for
the sparrows as well as Bob? I pity every sparrow
that is hurt, said the boy. And isn't Bob of
more consequence than a sparrow? I wish, said Tommy. I
hadn't fought with Bob. It was most all my fault.
I've a good mind to tell him. So I wish
I was better acquainted with you. If I played with
such a boy as you are now, i'd be better.
I am certain. Suppose you come after school nights and
play in our yard. Never mind your clothes. Can't you come? Yes?
I will come if you want me to, answered the boy,
looking steadfastly at him a moment, But now I must
be about my father's business. He stooped, lifted the bag
of tools to his shoulders, and before Tommy could stay him,
had moved some steps away, don't go yet, tell me
some more about what you'd do. And Tommy turned to
follow him. But was it the boy? And was that
a bag of tools on his back? It had grown
strangely longer and heavier now, so that it dragged on
the ground, and the face was the face of the picture.
And lo it turned toward him, and the hand was
raised in benediction and farewell. I am with you always,
and he was gone. Oh, come back, come back, sobbed Tommy,
reaching out his arms and struggling to run after him.
Poor boy, said his mother, wiping the blinding tears from
his eyes. Your sleep didn't do you much good. I've
not been asleep, said Tommy. I've been. I've been talking
with with him. And he spoke low with a longing reverence,
and pointed to the picture. It was a dream, my child, mother,
It was a vision. I saw him when he was
a little boy in his own town, Nazareth, and mother,
I even told him it wasn't much of a place
to live in. He talked to me about Bob, he said,
you knew him. I saw him cure a little bird,
and oh, mother, he said, he would be with me always.
He is a little boy like me. I know what
to do now, he showed me. I must find Bob,
I must have him. Forgive me. I want to bring
him home with me into my bed for to night.
He stopped. Mother, he said solemnly, tomorrow is his birthday
and of a story that never ends. By missus C. J.
Wood three