Short Fiction by Edgar Allan Poe (good books for 7th graders .TXT) 📕

gorgeous glories from the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass.

Yet the promises of Eleonora were not forgotten; for I heard the sounds of the swinging of the censers of the angels; and streams of a holy perfume floated ever and ever about the valley; and at lone hours, when my heart beat heavily, the winds that bathed my brow came unto me laden with soft sighs; and indistinct murmurs filled often the night air, and once⁠—oh, but once only! I was awakened from a slumber, like the slumber of death, by the pressing of spiritual lips upon my own.

But the void within my heart refused, even thus, to be filled. I longed for the love which had before filled it to overflowing. At length the valley pained me through its memories of Eleonora, and I left it forever for the vanities and the turbulent triumphs of the world.

I found myself within a strange city, where all things might have served to blot from recollection the sweet dreams I had dreamed so long in the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass. The pomps and pageantries of a stately court, and the mad clangor of arms, and the radiant loveliness of women, bewildered and intoxicated my brain. But as yet my soul had proved true to its vows, and the indications of the presence of Eleonora were still given me in the silent hours of the night. Suddenly these manifestations they ceased, and the world grew dark before mine eyes, and I stood aghast at the burning thoughts which possessed, at the terrible temptations which beset me; for there came from some far, far distant and unknown land, into the gay court of the king I served, a maiden to whose beauty my whole recreant heart yielded at once⁠—at whose footstool I bowed down without a struggle, in the most ardent, in the most abject worship of love. What, indeed, was my passion for the young girl of the valley in comparison with the fervor, and the delirium, and the spirit-lifting ecstasy of adoration with which I poured out my whole soul in tears at the feet of the ethereal Ermengarde?⁠—Oh, bright was the seraph Ermengarde! and in that knowledge I had room for none other. Oh, divine was the angel Ermengarde! and as I looked down into the depths of her memorial eyes, I thought only of them⁠—and of her.

I wedded⁠—nor dreaded the curse I had invoked; and its bitterness was not visited upon me. And once⁠—but once again in the silence of the night; there came through my lattice the soft sighs which had forsaken me; and they modelled themselves into familiar and sweet voice, saying:

“Sleep in peace! for the Spirit of Love reigneth and ruleth, and, in taking to thy passionate heart her who is Ermengarde, thou art absolved, for reasons which shall be made known to thee in Heaven, of thy vows unto Eleonora.”

Three Sundays in a Week

“You hardheaded, dunder-headed, obstinate, rusty, crusty, musty, fusty, old savage!” said I, in fancy, one afternoon, to my grand uncle Rumgudgeon⁠—shaking my fist at him in imagination.

Only in imagination. The fact is, some trivial discrepancy did exist, just then, between what I said and what I had not the courage to say⁠—between what I did and what I had half a mind to do.

The old porpoise, as I opened the drawing-room door, was sitting with his feet upon the mantelpiece, and a bumper of port in his paw, making strenuous efforts to accomplish the ditty.

Remplis ton verre vide!
Vide ton verre plein!

“My dear uncle,” said I, closing the door gently, and approaching him with the blandest of smiles, “you are always so very kind and considerate, and have evinced your benevolence in so many⁠—so very many ways⁠—that⁠—that I feel I have only to suggest this little point to you once more to make sure of your full acquiescence.”

“Hem!” said he, “good boy! go on!”

“I am sure, my dearest uncle [you confounded old rascal!], that you have no design really, seriously, to oppose my union with Kate. This is merely a joke of yours, I know⁠—ha! ha! ha!⁠—how very pleasant you are at times.”

“Ha! ha! ha!” said he, “curse you! yes!”

“To be sure⁠—of course! I knew you were jesting. Now, uncle, all that Kate and myself wish at present, is that you would oblige us with your advice as⁠—as regards the time⁠—you know, uncle⁠—in short, when will it be most convenient for yourself, that the wedding shall⁠—shall⁠—come off, you know?”

“Come off, you scoundrel!⁠—what do you mean by that?⁠—Better wait till it goes on.”

“Ha! ha! ha!⁠—he! he! he!⁠—hi! hi! hi!⁠—ho! ho! ho!⁠—hu! hu! hu!⁠—oh, that’s good!⁠—oh, that’s capital⁠—such a wit! But all we want just now, you know, uncle, is that you would indicate the time precisely.”

“Ah!⁠—precisely?”

“Yes, uncle⁠—that is, if it would be quite agreeable to yourself.”

“Wouldn’t it answer, Bobby, if I were to leave it at random⁠—some time within a year or so, for example?⁠—must I say precisely?”

“If you please, uncle⁠—precisely.”

“Well, then, Bobby, my boy⁠—you’re a fine fellow, aren’t you?⁠—since you will have the exact time I’ll⁠—why I’ll oblige you for once.”

“Dear uncle!”

“Hush, sir!” [drowning my voice]⁠—“I’ll oblige you for once. You shall have my consent⁠—and the plum, we mus’n’t forget the plum⁠—let me see! when shall it be? Today’s Sunday⁠—isn’t it? Well, then, you shall be married precisely⁠—precisely, now mind!⁠—when three Sundays come together in a week! Do you hear me, sir! What are you gaping at? I say, you shall have Kate and her plum when three Sundays come together in a week⁠—but not till then⁠—you young scapegrace⁠—not till then, if I die for it. You know me⁠—I’m a man of my word⁠—now be off!” Here he swallowed his bumper of port, while I rushed from the room in despair.

A very “fine old English gentleman,” was my granduncle Rumgudgeon, but unlike him of the song, he had his weak points. He was a little, pursy, pompous, passionate semicircular somebody, with a red nose, a thick