Moonbeams from the Larger Lunacy by Stephen Leacock (best feel good books .TXT) 📕
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- Author: Stephen Leacock
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“I took the account from my pocket (I had it with me, fearing the worst), and we laid his cheque-book before him on the bed. Jarvis thinking him too faint to write tried to guide his hand as he filled in the sum. But he shook his head.
“‘The room is getting dim,’ he said. ‘I can see nothing but the figures.’
“‘Never mind,’ said Jarvis,—much moved, ‘that’s enough.’
“‘Is it four hundred and thirty?’ he asked faintly.
“‘Yes,’ I said, and I could feel the tears rising in my eyes, ‘and fifty cents.’
“After signing the cheque his mind wandered for a moment and he fell to talking, with his eyes closed, of the new federal banking law, and of the prospect of the reserve associations being able to maintain an adequate gold supply.
“Just at the last he rallied.
“‘I want,’ he said in quite a firm voice, ‘to do something for both of you before I die.’
“‘Yes, yes,’ we said.
“‘You are both interested, are you not,’ he murmured, in City Traction?’
“‘Yes, yes,’ we said. We knew of course that he was the managing director.
“He looked at us faintly and tried to speak.
“‘Give him a cordial,’ said Jarvis. But he found his voice.
“‘The value of that stock,’ he said, ‘is going to take a sudden—’
“His voice grew faint.
“‘Yes, yes,’ I whispered, bending over him (there were tears in both our eyes), ‘tell me is it going up, or going down?’
“‘It is going’—he murmured,—then his eyes closed—‘it is going—’
“‘Yes, yes,’ I said, ‘which?’
“‘It is going’—he repeated feebly and then, quite suddenly he fell back on the pillows and his soul passed. And we never knew which way it was going. It was very sad. Later on, of course, after he was dead, we knew, as everybody knew, that it went down.”
5.—The Reminiscences of Mr. Apricot
“Rather a cold day, isn’t it?” I said as I entered the club.
The man I addressed popped his head out from behind a newspaper and I saw it was old Mr. Apricot. So I was sorry that I had spoken.
“Not so cold as the winter of 1866,” he said, beaming with benevolence.
He had an egg-shaped head, bald, with some white hair fluffed about the sides of it. He had a pink face with large blue eyes, behind his spectacles, benevolent to the verge of imbecility.
“Was that a cold winter?” I asked.
“Bitter cold,” he said. “I have never told you, have I, of my early experiences in life?”
“I think I have heard you mention them,” I murmured, but he had already placed a detaining hand on my sleeve. “Sit down,” he said. Then he continued: “Yes, it was a cold winter. I was going to say that it was the coldest I have ever experienced, but that might be an exaggeration. But it was certainly colder than any winter that YOU have ever seen, or that we ever have now, or are likely to have. In fact the winters NOW are a mere nothing,”—here Mr. Apricot looked toward the club window where the driven snow was beating in eddies against the panes,—“simply nothing. One doesn’t feel them at all,”—here he turned his eyes towards the glowing fire that flamed in the open fireplace. “But when I was a boy things were very different. I have probably never mentioned to you, have I, the circumstances of my early life?”
He had, many times. But he had turned upon me the full beam of his benevolent spectacles and I was too weak to interrupt.
“My father,” went on Mr. Apricot, settling back in his chair and speaking with a far-away look in his eyes, “had settled on the banks of the Wabash River—”
“Oh, yes, I know it well,” I interjected.
“Not as it was THEN,” said Mr. Apricot very quickly. “At present as you, or any other thoughtless tourist sees it, it appears a broad river pouring its vast flood in all directions. At the time I speak of it was a mere stream scarcely more than a few feet in circumference. The life we led there was one of rugged isolation and of sturdy self-reliance and effort such as it is, of course, quite impossible for YOU, or any other member of this club to understand,—I may give you some idea of what I mean when I say that at that time there was no town nearer to Pittsburgh than Chicago, or to St. Paul than Minneapolis—”
“Impossible!” I said.
Mr. Apricot seemed not to notice the interruption.
“There was no place nearer to Springfield than St. Louis,” he went on in a peculiar singsong voice, “and there was nothing nearer to Denver than San Francisco, nor to New Orleans than Rio Janeiro—”
He seemed as if he would go on indefinitely.
“You were speaking of your father?” I interrupted.
“My father,” said Mr. Apricot, “had settled on the banks, both banks, of the Wabash. He was like so many other men of his time, a disbanded soldier, a veteran—”
“Of the Mexican War or of the Civil War?” I asked.
“Exactly,” answered Mr. Apricot, hardly heeding the question,—“of the Mexican Civil War.”
“Was he under Lincoln?” I asked.
“OVER Lincoln,” corrected Mr. Apricot gravely. And he added,—“It is always strange to me the way in which the present generation regards Abraham Lincoln. To us, of course, at the time of which I speak, Lincoln was simply one of ourselves.”
“In 1866?” I asked.
“This was 1856,” said Mr. Apricot. “He came often to my father’s cabin, sitting down with us to our humble meal of potatoes and whiskey (we lived with a simplicity which of course you could not possibly understand), and would spend the evening talking with my father over the interpretation of the Constitution of the United States. We children used to stand beside them listening open-mouthed beside the fire
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