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Speaker 1: Charles Ashmore's Trail by Ambrose Bierce. The family of Christian

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Ashmore consisted of his wife, his mother, two grown daughters,

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and a son of sixteen years. They lived in Troy,

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New York, were well to do, respectable persons, and had

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many friends, some of whom reading these lines will doubtless

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learn for the first time the extraordinary fate of the

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young man. From Troy, the Ashmores moved in eighteen seventy

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one or eighteen seventy two to Richmond, Indiana, and a

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year or two later to the vicinity of Quincy, Illinois,

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where mister Ashmore bought a farm and lived on it.

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At some little distance from the farmhouse was a spring

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with a constant flow of clear, cold water, whence the

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family derived its supply for domestic use at all seasons.

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On the evening of the ninth of November eighteen seventy eight,

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at about nine o'clock, young Charles Ashmore left the family

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circle about the hearth, took a tin bucket, and started

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toward the spring. As he did not return, the family

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became uneasy, and going to the door by which he

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had left the house, his father called, without receiving an answer,

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He then lighted a lantern, and with the eldest daughter, Martha,

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who insisted on accompanying him, went in search a light.

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Snow had fallen, obliterating the path, but making the young

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man's trail conspicuous. Each footprint was clearly defined. After going

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a little more than half way, perhaps seventy five yards,

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the father, who was in advance, halted and elevating his lantern,

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stood peering intently into the darkness ahead. What is the matter, father,

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the girl asked. This was the matter. The trail of

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the young man had abruptly ended, and all beyond was smooth,

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unbroken snow. The last footprints were as conspicuous as any

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in the line. The very nail marks were distinctly visible.

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Mister Ashmore looked upward, shading his eyes with his hat

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held between them and the lantern. The stars were shining.

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There was no cloud in the sky. He was denied

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the explanation, which had suggested itself doubtful, as it would

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have been a new snowfall with a limit so plainly defined.

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Taking a wide circuit round the ultimate tracks so as

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to leave them undisturbed for further examination, the man proceeded

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to the spring the girl following, weak and terrified. Neither

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had spoken a word of what both observed. The spring

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was covered with eyes hours old. Returning to the house,

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they noted the appearance of the snow on both sides

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of the trail its entire length. No tracks led away

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from it. The morning light showed nothing more smooth, spotless, unbroken.

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The shallow snow lay everywhere. Four days later, the grease

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stricken mother herself went to the spring for water. She

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came back and related that in passing the spot where

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the footprints had ended, she had heard the voice of

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her son, and had been eagerly calling to him, wandering

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about the place as she had fancied the voice to

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be now in one direction, now in another, until she

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was exhausted with fatigue and emotion. Questioned as to what

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the voice had said, she was unable to tell, yet

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avered that the words were perfectly distinct. In a moment,

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the entire family was at the place, but nothing was heard,

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and the voice was believed to be an hallucination caused

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by the mother's great anxiety and her disordered nerves. But

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for months afterwards, at irregular intervals of a few days,

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the voice was heard by several members of the family,

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and by others. All declared it was unmistakably the voice

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of Charles Ashmore. All agreed that it seemed to come

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from a great distance, faintly, yet with entire distinctness of articulation.

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Yet none could determine its direction, nor repeat its words.

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The intervals of silence grew longer and longer, the voice

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fainter and fainter, and by Midsummer it was heard no more.

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If any one knows the fate of Charles Ashmore, it

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is probably his mother. She is dead. The End of

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Charles Ashmore's Trail by Ambrose Bierce