Diana's Short Stories

Since then, he had developed into a well behaved little beast with a pair of wistful eyes that looked unutterable love, and a tail that beat the ground, the floor, or the air in joyous welcome whenever Rathburn came in sight. He was part collie, sharp nosed and prick eared, and his undersized little body still bore the marks of the precarious existence that had been his before Rathburn had befriended him.

 

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The cook absently acknowledged smiles and nods as they walked. He was, obviously, a character. Between salutes he delivered a low voiced, rapid fire reaming to Ross and Helena. “Silly stunt. Didn’t you hear about the riots? Supposed to be arms caches somewhere here on the south side. Everybody’s nerves absolutely ragged. Somebody gets smashed up in traffic, they blame it on us."

 

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“‘We were the first that ever burst Into that silent sea.’”
Doris stared at her companion in amazement. How came this barefooted child of thirteen or fourteen, in a little, out of the way New Jersey coast village to be quoting poetry? Where had she learned it? Doris’s own father and mother were untiring readers of poetry and other literature, and surely, this village girl had never learned such things from her parents.

 

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'She stays here,' said he, 'for my sake, and her youth and beauty wither away here in Siberia. She shares my bitter lot with me,' said he, 'and I must give her all the pleasure I can for it...' To make his wife happier he took up with the officials and any kind of rubbish. And they couldn't have company without giving food and drink, and they must have a piano and a fluffy little dog on the sofa bad cess to it... Luxury, in a word, all kinds of tricks. 

 

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True adventurers have never been plentiful. They who are set down in print as such have been mostly businessmen with newly invented methods. They have been out after the things they wanted—golden fleeces, holy grails, lady loves, treasure, crowns and fame- a fine example was the Prodigal Son—when he started back home.

 

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It all commenced that bright November day of the Indian rabbit drive and hunt.  The motley army of the Piute tribe was sweeping tremendously across a sagebrush valley of Nevada, their force two hundred braves in number. Indeed, Death, the Reaper, multiplied two hundredfold and mowing a swath of incredible proportions, could scarcely have pillaged the land of its conies more thoroughly.

 

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It was early autumn in the Finland forest by the lake. Gold glistened from the underbrush, from the great beds of bracken, from the shining birches, from the paler aspens, and even from the prized rowans and juniper trees. On one side where the forest grew thinner, there was a glimpse of marshy land where big whortleberries grew in profusion, a succession of fields grains still uncut.

 

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But his troubles with the Scots were not yet over. Caithness was invaded by two Scottish maormors, called Hundi and Melsnati in the Saga. A battle took place at Duncansbay, in which Melsnati was slain, but Hundi fled, and the Norsemen, learning that another Scottish earl, Malcolm, was assembling an army at Duncansbay, gave up the pursuit and returned to Orkney.

 

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Then they came slinking near again. Andoo yawned and went on along the cliff, and they followed. Then he stopped and went back. It was a splendid night, beset with shining constellations, the same stars, but not the same constellations we know, for since those days all the stars have had time to move into new places. Far away across the open space, a dim mystery touched by the first rays of the yet unseen moon. 

 

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“Well, I think I'll move on. Would I stand any show for some tucker?”
“Him! He wouldn't give a dog a crust, and like as not he'd get you run in for trespass if he caught you camping on the run. But come along to the store and I'll give you enough tucker to carry you on.”
He patronized literature and arts, too, though in an awkward, furtive way. 

 

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