داستان کوتاه The Shower of Gold [RB:Rozblog_Dynamic_Code] [RB:Rozblog_Js]

داستان کوتاه The Shower of Gold

تبلیغات بنری

داستان کوتاه The Shower of Gold
تعداد بازديد : 88

ONCE upon a time lived a poor little maiden, whose father and mother were both dead, and the child was so very poor that she had no little room to live in nor even a bed to lie on. At last all her clothes were gone excepting those she wore, and she had nothing to eat but a piece of bread, which she held in her hand. She was good and pious, and although forsaken by all the world, she knew that God would take care of her, and she went out into the field and prayed to him.

She was walking along the road with a piece of bread in her hand, when she met a poor old man, who said to her, "Please give me something to eat; I am so hungry." She gave him the whole piece, and continued her walk.

Presently she saw a little child sitting by the roadside crying, and as she passed, the child cried to her, "Oh, my head is so cold! do give me something to cover it." Instantly she took off her hood and gave it to the child.

A little farther on the maiden met another child, who said she was freezing for want of a cloak; so she gave up her own.
At length she entered a forest, where it was quite dark, and here she intended to sleep. She had not gone far before she found another poor little child, with scarcely any clothing at all, and nearly dying with cold. The good maiden thought to herself, "It is quite dark now, and no one will see me;" so she took off her skirt and covered the poor, shivering child with it.

Now the good maiden had nothing left in the world, and she was turning to go into the forest and cover herself with leaves, when suddenly a golden shower fell around her from heaven. A little angel had watched the kind maiden and took pity on her and sent down a shower of stars, which turned into golden dollars when they reached the ground. She found herself covered from head to foot with warm clothes. Then she gathered up the money, carried it away, and was rich the rest of her life.
The Shower of Gold
A Fictional Short Story by
Agnes Taylor Ketchum & Ida M. Jorgensen

داستان کوتاه Proof of the Pudding صفحه 3
تعداد بازديد : 95

He was a fiction writer, and one of Westbrook's old acquaintances. At one time they might have called each other old friends. Dawe had some money in those days, and lived in a decent apartment-house near Westbrook's. The two families often went to theatres and dinners together. Mrs. Dawe and Mrs. Westbrook became 'dearest' friends. Then one day a little tentacle of the octopus, just to amuse itself, ingurgitated Dawe's capital, and he moved to the Gramercy Park neighbourhood, where one, for a few groats per week, may sit upon one's trunk under eightbranched chandeliers and opposite Carrara marble mantels and watch the mice play upon the floor. Dawe thought to live by writing fiction. Now and then he sold a story. He submitted many to Westbrook. The Minerva printed one or two of them; the rest were returned. Westbrook sent a careful and conscientious personal letter with each rejected manuscript, pointing out in detail his reasons for considering it unavailable. Editor Westbrook had his own clear conception of what constituted good fiction. So had Dawe. Mrs. Dawe was mainly concerned about the constituents of the scanty dishes of food that she managed to scrape together. One day Dawe had been spouting to her about the excellences of certain French writers. At dinner they sat down to a dish that a hungry schoolboy could have encompassed at a gulp. Dawe commented.
'It's Maupassant hash,' said Mrs. Dawe. 'It may not be art, but I do wish you would do a five course Marion Crawford serial with an Ella Wheeler Wilcox sonnet for dessert. I'm hungry.'
As far as this from success was Shackleford Dawe when he plucked Editor Westbrook's sleeve in Madison Square. That was the first time the editor had seen Dawe in several months. 'Why, Shack, is this you?' said Westbrook somewhat awkwardly, for the form of this phrase seemed to touch upon the other's changed appearance.
'Sit down for a minute,' said Dawe, tugging at his sleeve. 'This is my office. I can't come to yours, looking as I do. Oh, sit down - you won't be disgraced. Those half-plucked birds on the other benches will take you for a swell porch-climber. They won't know you are only an editor.' 'Smoke, Shack?' said Editor Westbrook, sinking cautiously upon the virulent green bench. He always yielded gracefully when he did yield. Dawe snapped at the cigar as a kingfisher darts at a sunperch, or a girl pecks at a chocolate cream. 'I have just- ' began the editor.

 

نویسنده :
تاریخ انتشار : پنج شنبه 14 فروردين 1399 ساعت: 19:33
ليست صفحات
تعداد صفحات : 13
تبلیغات بنری
//تبلیغات متنی//