Tell me your favourite fairy tales.
In return, I'll post mine, though I won't ask you to struggle through it.
Seriously, unless you can handle florid writing styles and fables, don't do it.
The Nightingale and The Rose ~ Oscar Wilde
In return, I'll post mine, though I won't ask you to struggle through it.
Seriously, unless you can handle florid writing styles and fables, don't do it.
The Nightingale and The Rose ~ Oscar Wilde
SPOILERS! (Click to view)
"She said that she would dance with me if I brought her red roses,"
cried the young Student; "but in all my garden there is no red
rose."
From her nest in the holm-oak tree the Nightingale heard him, and
she looked out through the leaves, and wondered.
"No red rose in all my garden!" he cried, and his beautiful eyes
filled with tears. "Ah, on what little things does happiness
depend! I have read all that the wise men have written, and all
the secrets of philosophy are mine, yet for want of a red rose is
my life made wretched."
"Here at last is a true lover," said the Nightingale. "Night after
night have I sung of him, though I knew him not: night after night
have I told his story to the stars, and now I see him. His hair is
dark as the hyacinth-blossom, and his lips are red as the rose of
his desire; but passion has made his face like pale ivory, and
sorrow has set her seal upon his brow."
"The Prince gives a ball to-morrow night," murmured the young
Student, "and my love will be of the company. If I bring her a red
rose she will dance with me till dawn. If I bring her a red rose,
I shall hold her in my arms, and she will lean her head upon my
shoulder, and her hand will be clasped in mine. But there is no
red rose in my garden, so I shall sit lonely, and she will pass me
by. She will have no heed of me, and my heart will break."
"Here indeed is the true lover," said the Nightingale. "What I
sing of, he suffers--what is joy to me, to him is pain. Surely
Love is a wonderful thing. It is more precious than emeralds, and
dearer than fine opals. Pearls and pomegranates cannot buy it, nor
is it set forth in the marketplace. It may not be purchased of the
merchants, nor can it be weighed out in the balance for gold."
"The musicians will sit in their gallery," said the young Student,
"and play upon their stringed instruments, and my love will dance
to the sound of the harp and the violin. She will dance so lightly
that her feet will not touch the floor, and the courtiers in their
gay dresses will throng round her. But with me she will not dance,
for I have no red rose to give her"; and he flung himself down on
the grass, and buried his face in his hands, and wept.
"Why is he weeping?" asked a little Green Lizard, as he ran past
him with his tail in the air.
"Why, indeed?" said a Butterfly, who was fluttering about after a
sunbeam.
"Why, indeed?" whispered a Daisy to his neighbour, in a soft, low
voice.
"He is weeping for a red rose," said the Nightingale.
"For a red rose?" they cried; "how very ridiculous!" and the little
Lizard, who was something of a cynic, laughed outright.
But the Nightingale understood the secret of the Student's sorrow,
and she sat silent in the oak-tree, and thought about the mystery
of Love.
Suddenly she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the
air. She passed through the grove like a shadow, and like a shadow
she sailed across the garden.
In the centre of the grass-plot was standing a beautiful Rose-tree,
and when she saw it she flew over to it, and lit upon a spray.
"Give me a red rose," she cried, "and I will sing you my sweetest
song."
But the Tree shook its head.
"My roses are white," it answered; "as white as the foam of the
sea, and whiter than the snow upon the mountain. But go to my
brother who grows round the old sun-dial, and perhaps he will give
you what you want."
So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing
round the old sun-dial.
"Give me a red rose," she cried, "and I will sing you my sweetest
song."
But the Tree shook its head.
"My roses are yellow," it answered; "as yellow as the hair of the
mermaiden who sits upon an amber throne, and yellower than the
daffodil that blooms in the meadow before the mower comes with his
scythe. But go to my brother who grows beneath the Student's
window, and perhaps he will give you what you want."
So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing
beneath the Student's window.
"Give me a red rose," she cried, "and I will sing you my sweetest
song."
But the Tree shook its head.
"My roses are red," it answered, "as red as the feet of the dove,
and redder than the great fans of coral that wave and wave in the
ocean-cavern. But the winter has chilled my veins, and the frost
has nipped my buds, and the storm has broken my branches, and I
shall have no roses at all this year."
"One red rose is all I want," cried the Nightingale, "only one red
rose! Is there no way by which I can get it?"
"There is away," answered the Tree; "but it is so terrible that I
dare not tell it to you."
"Tell it to me," said the Nightingale, "I am not afraid."
"If you want a red rose," said the Tree, "you must build it out of
music by moonlight, and stain it with your own heart's-blood. You
must sing to me with your breast against a thorn. All night long
you must sing to me, and the thorn must pierce your heart, and your
life-blood must flow into my veins, and become mine."
"Death is a great price to pay for a red rose," cried the
Nightingale, "and Life is very dear to all. It is pleasant to sit
in the green wood, and to watch the Sun in his chariot of gold, and
the Moon in her chariot of pearl. Sweet is the scent of the
hawthorn, and sweet are the bluebells that hide in the valley, and
the heather that blows on the hill. Yet Love is better than Life,
and what is the heart of a bird compared to the heart of a man?"
So she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air.
She swept over the garden like a shadow, and like a shadow she
sailed through the grove.
The young Student was still lying on the grass, where she had left
him, and the tears were not yet dry in his beautiful eyes.
"Be happy," cried the Nightingale, "be happy; you shall have your
red rose. I will build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it
with my own heart's-blood. All that I ask of you in return is that
you will be a true lover, for Love is wiser than Philosophy, though
she is wise, and mightier than Power, though he is mighty. Flame-
coloured are his wings, and coloured like flame is his body. His
lips are sweet as honey, and his breath is like frankincense."
The Student looked up from the grass, and listened, but he could
not understand what the Nightingale was saying to him, for he only
knew the things that are written down in books.
But the Oak-tree understood, and felt sad, for he was very fond of
the little Nightingale who had built her nest in his branches.
"Sing me one last song," he whispered; "I shall feel very lonely
when you are gone."
So the Nightingale sang to the Oak-tree, and her voice was like
water bubbling from a silver jar.
When she had finished her song the Student got up, and pulled a
note-book and a lead-pencil out of his pocket.
"She has form," he said to himself, as he walked away through the
grove--"that cannot be denied to her; but has she got feeling? I
am afraid not. In fact, she is like most artists; she is all
style, without any sincerity. She would not sacrifice herself for
others. She thinks merely of music, and everybody knows that the
arts are selfish. Still, it must be admitted that she has some
beautiful notes in her voice. What a pity it is that they do not
mean anything, or do any practical good." And he went into his
room, and lay down on his little pallet-bed, and began to think of
his love; and, after a time, he fell asleep.
And when the Moon shone in the heavens the Nightingale flew to the
Rose-tree, and set her breast against the thorn. All night long
she sang with her breast against the thorn, and the cold crystal
Moon leaned down and listened. All night long she sang, and the
thorn went deeper and deeper into her breast, and her life-blood
ebbed away from her.
She sang first of the birth of love in the heart of a boy and a
girl. And on the top-most spray of the Rose-tree there blossomed a
marvellous rose, petal following petal, as song followed song.
Pale was it, at first, as the mist that hangs over the river--pale
as the feet of the morning, and silver as the wings of the dawn.
As the shadow of a rose in a mirror of silver, as the shadow of a
rose in a water-pool, so was the rose that blossomed on the topmost
spray of the Tree.
But the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the
thorn. "Press closer, little Nightingale," cried the Tree, "or the
Day will come before the rose is finished."
So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and louder and
louder grew her song, for she sang of the birth of passion in the
soul of a man and a maid.
And a delicate flush of pink came into the leaves of the rose, like
the flush in the face of the bridegroom when he kisses the lips of
the bride. But the thorn had not yet reached her heart, so the
rose's heart remained white, for only a Nightingale's heart's-blood
can crimson the heart of a rose.
And the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the
thorn. "Press closer, little Nightingale," cried the Tree, "or the
Day will come before the rose is finished."
So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and the thorn
touched her heart, and a fierce pang of pain shot through her.
Bitter, bitter was the pain, and wilder and wilder grew her song,
for she sang of the Love that is perfected by Death, of the Love
that dies not in the tomb.
And the marvellous rose became crimson, like the rose of the
eastern sky. Crimson was the girdle of petals, and crimson as a
ruby was the heart.
But the Nightingale's voice grew fainter, and her little wings
began to beat, and a film came over her eyes. Fainter and fainter
grew her song, and she felt something choking her in her throat.
Then she gave one last burst of music. The white Moon heard it,
and she forgot the dawn, and lingered on in the sky. The red rose
heard it, and it trembled all over with ecstasy, and opened its
petals to the cold morning air. Echo bore it to her purple cavern
in the hills, and woke the sleeping shepherds from their dreams.
It floated through the reeds of the river, and they carried its
message to the sea.
"Look, look!" cried the Tree, "the rose is finished now"; but the
Nightingale made no answer, for she was lying dead in the long
grass, with the thorn in her heart.
And at noon the Student opened his window and looked out.
"Why, what a wonderful piece of luck!" he cried; "here is a red
rose! I have never seen any rose like it in all my life. It is so
beautiful that I am sure it has a long Latin name"; and he leaned
down and plucked it.
Then he put on his hat, and ran up to the Professor's house with
the rose in his hand.
The daughter of the Professor was sitting in the doorway winding
blue silk on a reel, and her little dog was lying at her feet.
"You said that you would dance with me if I brought you a red
rose," cried the Student. "Here is the reddest rose in all the
world. You will wear it to-night next your heart, and as we dance
together it will tell you how I love you."
But the girl frowned.
"I am afraid it will not go with my dress," she answered; "and,
besides, the Chamberlain's nephew has sent me some real jewels, and
everybody knows that jewels cost far more than flowers."
"Well, upon my word, you are very ungrateful," said the Student
angrily; and he threw the rose into the street, where it fell into
the gutter, and a cart-wheel went over it.
"Ungrateful!" said the girl. "I tell you what, you are very rude;
and, after all, who are you? Only a Student. Why, I don't believe
you have even got silver buckles to your shoes as the Chamberlain's
nephew has"; and she got up from her chair and went into the house.
"What I a silly thing Love is," said the Student as he walked away.
"It is not half as useful as Logic, for it does not prove anything,
and it is always telling one of things that are not going to
happen, and making one believe things that are not true. In fact,
it is quite unpractical, and, as in this age to be practical is
everything, I shall go back to Philosophy and study Metaphysics."
So he returned to his room and pulled out a great dusty book, and
began to read.
"She said that she would dance with me if I brought her red roses,"
cried the young Student; "but in all my garden there is no red
rose."
From her nest in the holm-oak tree the Nightingale heard him, and
she looked out through the leaves, and wondered.
"No red rose in all my garden!" he cried, and his beautiful eyes
filled with tears. "Ah, on what little things does happiness
depend! I have read all that the wise men have written, and all
the secrets of philosophy are mine, yet for want of a red rose is
my life made wretched."
"Here at last is a true lover," said the Nightingale. "Night after
night have I sung of him, though I knew him not: night after night
have I told his story to the stars, and now I see him. His hair is
dark as the hyacinth-blossom, and his lips are red as the rose of
his desire; but passion has made his face like pale ivory, and
sorrow has set her seal upon his brow."
"The Prince gives a ball to-morrow night," murmured the young
Student, "and my love will be of the company. If I bring her a red
rose she will dance with me till dawn. If I bring her a red rose,
I shall hold her in my arms, and she will lean her head upon my
shoulder, and her hand will be clasped in mine. But there is no
red rose in my garden, so I shall sit lonely, and she will pass me
by. She will have no heed of me, and my heart will break."
"Here indeed is the true lover," said the Nightingale. "What I
sing of, he suffers--what is joy to me, to him is pain. Surely
Love is a wonderful thing. It is more precious than emeralds, and
dearer than fine opals. Pearls and pomegranates cannot buy it, nor
is it set forth in the marketplace. It may not be purchased of the
merchants, nor can it be weighed out in the balance for gold."
"The musicians will sit in their gallery," said the young Student,
"and play upon their stringed instruments, and my love will dance
to the sound of the harp and the violin. She will dance so lightly
that her feet will not touch the floor, and the courtiers in their
gay dresses will throng round her. But with me she will not dance,
for I have no red rose to give her"; and he flung himself down on
the grass, and buried his face in his hands, and wept.
"Why is he weeping?" asked a little Green Lizard, as he ran past
him with his tail in the air.
"Why, indeed?" said a Butterfly, who was fluttering about after a
sunbeam.
"Why, indeed?" whispered a Daisy to his neighbour, in a soft, low
voice.
"He is weeping for a red rose," said the Nightingale.
"For a red rose?" they cried; "how very ridiculous!" and the little
Lizard, who was something of a cynic, laughed outright.
But the Nightingale understood the secret of the Student's sorrow,
and she sat silent in the oak-tree, and thought about the mystery
of Love.
Suddenly she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the
air. She passed through the grove like a shadow, and like a shadow
she sailed across the garden.
In the centre of the grass-plot was standing a beautiful Rose-tree,
and when she saw it she flew over to it, and lit upon a spray.
"Give me a red rose," she cried, "and I will sing you my sweetest
song."
But the Tree shook its head.
"My roses are white," it answered; "as white as the foam of the
sea, and whiter than the snow upon the mountain. But go to my
brother who grows round the old sun-dial, and perhaps he will give
you what you want."
So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing
round the old sun-dial.
"Give me a red rose," she cried, "and I will sing you my sweetest
song."
But the Tree shook its head.
"My roses are yellow," it answered; "as yellow as the hair of the
mermaiden who sits upon an amber throne, and yellower than the
daffodil that blooms in the meadow before the mower comes with his
scythe. But go to my brother who grows beneath the Student's
window, and perhaps he will give you what you want."
So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing
beneath the Student's window.
"Give me a red rose," she cried, "and I will sing you my sweetest
song."
But the Tree shook its head.
"My roses are red," it answered, "as red as the feet of the dove,
and redder than the great fans of coral that wave and wave in the
ocean-cavern. But the winter has chilled my veins, and the frost
has nipped my buds, and the storm has broken my branches, and I
shall have no roses at all this year."
"One red rose is all I want," cried the Nightingale, "only one red
rose! Is there no way by which I can get it?"
"There is away," answered the Tree; "but it is so terrible that I
dare not tell it to you."
"Tell it to me," said the Nightingale, "I am not afraid."
"If you want a red rose," said the Tree, "you must build it out of
music by moonlight, and stain it with your own heart's-blood. You
must sing to me with your breast against a thorn. All night long
you must sing to me, and the thorn must pierce your heart, and your
life-blood must flow into my veins, and become mine."
"Death is a great price to pay for a red rose," cried the
Nightingale, "and Life is very dear to all. It is pleasant to sit
in the green wood, and to watch the Sun in his chariot of gold, and
the Moon in her chariot of pearl. Sweet is the scent of the
hawthorn, and sweet are the bluebells that hide in the valley, and
the heather that blows on the hill. Yet Love is better than Life,
and what is the heart of a bird compared to the heart of a man?"
So she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air.
She swept over the garden like a shadow, and like a shadow she
sailed through the grove.
The young Student was still lying on the grass, where she had left
him, and the tears were not yet dry in his beautiful eyes.
"Be happy," cried the Nightingale, "be happy; you shall have your
red rose. I will build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it
with my own heart's-blood. All that I ask of you in return is that
you will be a true lover, for Love is wiser than Philosophy, though
she is wise, and mightier than Power, though he is mighty. Flame-
coloured are his wings, and coloured like flame is his body. His
lips are sweet as honey, and his breath is like frankincense."
The Student looked up from the grass, and listened, but he could
not understand what the Nightingale was saying to him, for he only
knew the things that are written down in books.
But the Oak-tree understood, and felt sad, for he was very fond of
the little Nightingale who had built her nest in his branches.
"Sing me one last song," he whispered; "I shall feel very lonely
when you are gone."
So the Nightingale sang to the Oak-tree, and her voice was like
water bubbling from a silver jar.
When she had finished her song the Student got up, and pulled a
note-book and a lead-pencil out of his pocket.
"She has form," he said to himself, as he walked away through the
grove--"that cannot be denied to her; but has she got feeling? I
am afraid not. In fact, she is like most artists; she is all
style, without any sincerity. She would not sacrifice herself for
others. She thinks merely of music, and everybody knows that the
arts are selfish. Still, it must be admitted that she has some
beautiful notes in her voice. What a pity it is that they do not
mean anything, or do any practical good." And he went into his
room, and lay down on his little pallet-bed, and began to think of
his love; and, after a time, he fell asleep.
And when the Moon shone in the heavens the Nightingale flew to the
Rose-tree, and set her breast against the thorn. All night long
she sang with her breast against the thorn, and the cold crystal
Moon leaned down and listened. All night long she sang, and the
thorn went deeper and deeper into her breast, and her life-blood
ebbed away from her.
She sang first of the birth of love in the heart of a boy and a
girl. And on the top-most spray of the Rose-tree there blossomed a
marvellous rose, petal following petal, as song followed song.
Pale was it, at first, as the mist that hangs over the river--pale
as the feet of the morning, and silver as the wings of the dawn.
As the shadow of a rose in a mirror of silver, as the shadow of a
rose in a water-pool, so was the rose that blossomed on the topmost
spray of the Tree.
But the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the
thorn. "Press closer, little Nightingale," cried the Tree, "or the
Day will come before the rose is finished."
So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and louder and
louder grew her song, for she sang of the birth of passion in the
soul of a man and a maid.
And a delicate flush of pink came into the leaves of the rose, like
the flush in the face of the bridegroom when he kisses the lips of
the bride. But the thorn had not yet reached her heart, so the
rose's heart remained white, for only a Nightingale's heart's-blood
can crimson the heart of a rose.
And the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the
thorn. "Press closer, little Nightingale," cried the Tree, "or the
Day will come before the rose is finished."
So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and the thorn
touched her heart, and a fierce pang of pain shot through her.
Bitter, bitter was the pain, and wilder and wilder grew her song,
for she sang of the Love that is perfected by Death, of the Love
that dies not in the tomb.
And the marvellous rose became crimson, like the rose of the
eastern sky. Crimson was the girdle of petals, and crimson as a
ruby was the heart.
But the Nightingale's voice grew fainter, and her little wings
began to beat, and a film came over her eyes. Fainter and fainter
grew her song, and she felt something choking her in her throat.
Then she gave one last burst of music. The white Moon heard it,
and she forgot the dawn, and lingered on in the sky. The red rose
heard it, and it trembled all over with ecstasy, and opened its
petals to the cold morning air. Echo bore it to her purple cavern
in the hills, and woke the sleeping shepherds from their dreams.
It floated through the reeds of the river, and they carried its
message to the sea.
"Look, look!" cried the Tree, "the rose is finished now"; but the
Nightingale made no answer, for she was lying dead in the long
grass, with the thorn in her heart.
And at noon the Student opened his window and looked out.
"Why, what a wonderful piece of luck!" he cried; "here is a red
rose! I have never seen any rose like it in all my life. It is so
beautiful that I am sure it has a long Latin name"; and he leaned
down and plucked it.
Then he put on his hat, and ran up to the Professor's house with
the rose in his hand.
The daughter of the Professor was sitting in the doorway winding
blue silk on a reel, and her little dog was lying at her feet.
"You said that you would dance with me if I brought you a red
rose," cried the Student. "Here is the reddest rose in all the
world. You will wear it to-night next your heart, and as we dance
together it will tell you how I love you."
But the girl frowned.
"I am afraid it will not go with my dress," she answered; "and,
besides, the Chamberlain's nephew has sent me some real jewels, and
everybody knows that jewels cost far more than flowers."
"Well, upon my word, you are very ungrateful," said the Student
angrily; and he threw the rose into the street, where it fell into
the gutter, and a cart-wheel went over it.
"Ungrateful!" said the girl. "I tell you what, you are very rude;
and, after all, who are you? Only a Student. Why, I don't believe
you have even got silver buckles to your shoes as the Chamberlain's
nephew has"; and she got up from her chair and went into the house.
"What I a silly thing Love is," said the Student as he walked away.
"It is not half as useful as Logic, for it does not prove anything,
and it is always telling one of things that are not going to
happen, and making one believe things that are not true. In fact,
it is quite unpractical, and, as in this age to be practical is
everything, I shall go back to Philosophy and study Metaphysics."
So he returned to his room and pulled out a great dusty book, and
began to read.
Either post a summary, or a link, or just the title, if it's well known.
Stardust, by Neil Gaiman.
I do have one other story for you, and one of my favorite short stories.
By Kurt Vonnegut, "Long Walk to Forver"
Long Walk to Forever
They had grown up next door to each other,on the fringe of a city,near fields and woods and orchards,within sight of a lovely bell tower that belonged to a school for the blind.
Now they were twenty,had not seen each other for nearly a year.There had always been playful,comfortable warmth between them,but never any talk of love.
His name was Newt.Her name was Catharine.In the early afternoon,Newt knocked on Catharine's front door.
Catharine came to the door.She was carrying a fat,glossy magazine she had been reading.The magazine was devoted entirely to brides."Newt!" she said.She was sur- prised to see him.
"Could you come for a walk?" he said.He was a shy person,even with Catharine. He covered his shyness by speaking absently,as though he were a secret agent pausing briefly on a mission between beautiful,distant,and sinister points.This manner of speaking had always been Newt's style,even in matters that concerned him desperately.
"A walk?" said Catharine.
"One foot in front of the other,"said Newt,"Through leaves,over bridges--"
"I had no idea you were in town,"she said.
"Just this minute got in,"he said.
"Still in the Army,I see,"she said.
"Seven more months to go,"he said.He was a private first class in the Artillery. His uniform was rumpled.His shoes were dusty.He needed a shave.He held out his hand for the magazine."Let's see the pretty book,"he said.
She gave it to him."I'm getting married,Newt,"she said.
"I know," he said."Let's go for a walk."
"I'm awfully busy,Newt,"she said."The wedding is only a week away."
"If we go for a walk," he said,"it will make you rosy.It will make you a rosy bride."He turned the pages of the magazine."A rosy bride like her--like her--like her," he said,showing her rosy brides.
Catharine turned rosy,thinking about rosy brides.
"That will be my person to Henry Stewart Chasens," said Newt."By talking you for a walk,I'll be giving him a rosy bride."
"You know his name?" said Catharine.
"Mother wrote,"he said."Form Pittsburgh?"
"Yes,"she said."You'd like him."
"Maybe," he said.
"Can--can you come to the wedding,Newt?" she said.
"That I doubt."he said.
"Your furlough isn't for long enough?"she said.
"Furlough?"said Newt.He was studying a twopage ad for flat silver."I'm not on furlough,"he said.
"Oh?" she said.
"I'm what they call A.W.O.L.," said Newt.
"Oh,Newt!You're not!" she siad.
"Sure I am,"he said,still looking at the magazine.
"Why,Newt?" she said.
"I had to find out what your silver pattern is,"he said.He read names of silver pat- terns from the magazine."Albermarle?Heather?"he said."Legend?Rambler Rose?" He looked up,smile."I plan to give you and your husband a spoon,"he said.
"Newt,Newt--tell me really,"she said.
"I want to go for a walk,"he said.
She wrung her hands in sisterly anguish."Oh,Newt--you're fooling me about be- ing A.W.O.L.,"she said.
Newt imitated police siren softly,raised his eyebrows.
"Where--where from?" she said.
"Fort Bragg," he said.
"North Carolina?" she said.
"That all right,"he said."Near Fayetteville--where Scarlett O'Hara went to school."
"How did you get here,Newt?" she said.
He raised his thumb,jerked it in a hitchhike gesture."Two days," he said.
"Dose your mother know?"she said.
"I didn't come to see my mother,"he told her.
"Who did you come to see?" she said.
"You," he said.
"Why me?"she said.
"Because I love you,"he said."Now can we take a walk?"he said."One foot in front of the other--through leaver,over bridges--"
They were talking the walk now,were in a woods with a brown-leaf floor.
Catharine was angry and rattled,close to tears."Newt,"she said,"this is absolutely crazy."
"HOw so?"said Newt.
"What a crazy time to tell me you love me,"she said."You never talked that way before."She stopped walking.
"Let's keep walking,"he said.
"No,"she said."So far,no farther.I shouldn't have come out with you at all,"she said.
"You did,"he said.
"To get you out of the house,"she said."If somebody walked in and heard you talk- ing to me that way,a week before the wedding--"
"What would they think?"he said.
"They'd think you were crazy,"she said.
"Why?"he said.
Catharine took a deep breath,made a speech."Let me say that I'm deeply honored by this crazy thing you've done,"she said."I can't believe you're really A.W.O.L., but maybe you are.I can't believe you really love me,but maybe you do.But--"
"I do,"said Newt.
"Well,I'm deeply honored,"said Catharine,"and I'm very fond of you as a friend,Newt,extremely fond--but it's just too late."She took a step away from him. "You've never even kissed me,"she said,and she protected herself with her hands."I don't mean you should do it now.I just mean this is all so unexpected.I haven't got the remotest idea of how to respond."
"Just walk some more,"he said."Have a nice time."
They started walking again.
"How did you expect me to react?" she said.
"How would I know what to expect?"he said."I've never done anything like this before."
"Did you think I would throw myself into you arms?"she said.
"Maybe,"he said.
"I'm sorry to disappointed you,"she said.
"I'm not disappointed,"he said."I wasn't counting on it.This is very nice,just walking."
Catharine stopped again."You know what happens next?"she said.
"Nope,"he said.
"We shake hands,"she said."We shake hands and part friends,"she said."That's what happens next."
Newt nodded."All right,"he said."Remember me from time to time.Remember how much I love you."
Involuntarily,Catharine burst into tears.She turned her back to Newt,looked into the infinite colonnade of the woods.
"what does that mean?"said Newt.
"Rage!"said Catharine.she clenched her hands."You have no right--"
"I had to find out,"he said.
"If I'd loved you,"she said,"I would have let you know before now."
"You would?"he said.
"Yes,"she said.She faced him,looked up at him,her face quite red."You would have known,"she said.
"How?"he said.
"You would have seen it,"she said."Would aren't very clever at hiding it."
Newt looked closely at Catharine's face now.To her distress,she realized that what she had said was true,that a woman couldn't hide love.
Newt was seeing love now.
And he did what he had to do.He kissed her.
"You're hell to get along with!"she said when Newt let her go.
"I am?"said Newt.
"You shouldn't have done that,"she said.
"You didn't like it?"he said.
"What did you expect,"she said--"wild,abandoned passion?"
"I keep telling you,"he said,"I never know what's going to happen next."
"We say good-by,"she said.
He frowned slightly."All right,"he said.
she made another speech."I'm not sorry we kissed,"she said."That was sweet.We should have kissed,we've been so close.I'll always remember you,Newt,and good luck."
"You too,"he said.
"Thank you,Newt,"she said.
"Thirty days,"he said.
"What?"she said.
"Thirty days in the stockade,"he said--"that's what one kiss will cost me."
"I--I'm sorry,"she said,"but I didn't ask you to go A.W.O.L."
"I know,"he said.
"You certainly don't deserve any hero's reward for doing something as foolish as that,"she said.
"Must be nice to be a hero,"said Newt."Is Henry Stewart Chasens a hero?"
"He might be,if he got the chance,"said Catharine.She noted uneasily that they had begun to walk again.That farewell had been forgotten.
"You really love him?"he said.
"Certainly I love him!"she said hotly."I would not marry him if I didn't love him!"
"What's good about him?"said Newt.
"Honestly!"she cried,stopping again."Do you have any idea how offensive you're being?Many,many,many things are good about Henry!Yes,"she said,"and many, many,many things are probably bad too.But that isn't any of your business.I love Henry,and I don't have to argue his merits with you!"
"Sorry,"said Newt.
"Honestly!"said Catharine.
Newt kissed her again.He kissed her again because she wanted him to.
They were now in a large orchard.
"How did we get so far from home,Newt?"said Catharine.
"One foot in front of the other--through leaves,over bridges,"said Newt.
"They add up--the steps,"she said.
Bells rang in the tower of the school for the blind nearby.
"School for the blind,"said Newt.
"School for the blind,"said Catharine.She shook her head in drowsy wonder."I've got to go back now,"she said.
"Say good-by,"said Newt.
"Every time I do,"said Carharine,"I seem to get kissed."
Newt sat down on the close-cropped grass under an apple tree."Sit down,"he said.
"No,"she said.
"I won't touch you,"he said.
"I don't believe you,"she said.
She sat down under another tree,twenty feet away from him.She closed her eyes.
"Dream of Henry Stewart Chasens,"he said.
"What?"she said.
"Dream of your wonderful husband-to-be,"he said.
"All right,I will,"she said.She closed her eyes tighter,caught glimpses of her hus- band-to-be.
Newt yawned.
The bees were humming in the trees,and Catharine almost fell asleep.When she opened her eyes she saw that Newt really was asleep.
He began to snore softly.
Catharine let Newt sleep for an hour,and while he slept she adored him with all her heart.
The shadows of the apple trees grew to the east.The bells in the tower of the school for the blind rang again.
"Chick-a-dee-dee-dee,"went a chickadee.
Somewhere far away an automobile starter nagged and failed,nagged and failed, fell still.
Catharine came out from under her tree,knelt by Newt.
"Newt?"she said.
"H'm?"he said,He opened his eyes.
"Late,"she said.
"Hello,Catharine,"he said.
"Hello,Newt,"she said.
"I love you,"he said.
"I know,"she said.
"Too late,"she said.
He stood,stretched groaningly."A very nice walk."he said.
"I thought so,"she said.
"Part company here?"he said.
"Where will you go?"she said.
"Hitch into town,turn myself in,"he said.
"Good luck,"she said.
"You too,"he said."Marry me,Catharine?"
"No,"she said.
He smiled,stared at her hard for a moment,then walked away quickly.
Catharine watched him grow smaller in the long perspective of shadows and trees, knew that if he stopped and turned now,if he called to her,she would run to him.She would have no choice.
Newt did stop.He did turn.He did call."Catharine,"he called.
She ran to him,put her arms around him,could not speak.
End
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