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A DOG AND THREE DOLLARS

I have always believed that a man must be honest. "Never ask for money you have not earned", I always said.

Now I shall tell you a story which will show you how honest I have always been all my life.

A few days ago at my friend's house I met General Miles. General Miles was a nice man and we became great friends very quickly.

"Did you live in Washington in 1867?" the general asked me.

"Yes, I did," I answered.

"How could it happen that we did not meet then?" said General Miles.

"General", said I. "We could not meet then. You forget that you were already a great general then, and I was a poor young writer whom nobody knew and whose books nobody read. You do not remember me, I thought, but we met once in Washington at that time."

I remember it very well. I was poor then and very often I did not have money even for my bread. I had a friend. He was a poor writer too. We lived together. We did everything together: worked, read books, went for walks together. And when we were hungry, we were both hungry. Once we were in need of three dollars. I don't remember why we needed these three dollars so much, but I remember well that we had to have the money by the evening.

"We must get these three dollars," said my friend. "I shall try to get the money, but you must also try."

I went out of the house, but I did not know where to go and how to get the three dollars. For an hour I was walking along the streets of Washington and was very tired. At last I came to a big hotel. "I shall go in and have a rest," I thought.

I went into the hall of the hotel and sat down on a sofa. I was sitting there when a beautiful small dog ran into the hall. It was looking for somebody. The dog was nice and I had nothing to do, so I called it and began to play with it.

I was playing with the dog, when a man came into the hall. He wore a beautiful uniform and I knew at once that he was General Miles. I knew him by his pictures in the newspapers. "What a beautiful dog!" said he. "Is it your dog?"

I did not have time to answer him when he said, "Do you want to sell it?"

"Three dollars", I answered at once.

"Three dollars?" he asked. "But that is very little. I can give you fifty dollars for it."

"No, no. I only want three dollars."

"Well, it is your dog. If you want three dollars for it, I shall be glad to buy your dog."

General Miles paid me three dollars, took the dog and went up to his room.

Ten minutes later an old man came into the hall. He looked round the hall. I could see that he was looking for something.

"Are you looking for a dog, sir?" I asked.

"Oh, yes! Have you seen it?" said the man.

"Your dog was here a few minutes ago and I saw how it went away with a man," I said. "If you want, I shall try to find it for you."

 The man was very happy and asked me to help him.

"I shall be glad to help you, but it will take some of my time and..."

"I am ready to pay you for your time," cried the man. "How much do you want for it?"

"Three dollars," answered I.

"Three dollars?" said the man. "But it is a very good dog. I shall pay you ten dollars if you find it for me."

"No sir, I want three dollars and not a dollar more," said I.

Then I went up to General Miles's room. The General was playing with his new dog." I came here to take the dog back", said I.

"But it is not your dog now — I have bought it. I have paid you three dollars for it," said the General.

"I shall give you back your three dollars, but I must take the dog back", answered I. "But you have sold it to me, it is my dog now."

"I could not sell it to you, sir, because it was not my dog."

"Still you have sold it to me for three dollars." "How could I sell it to you when it was not my dog? You asked me how much I wanted for the dog, and I said that I wanted three dollars. But I never told you that it was my dog."

General Miles was very angry now.

"Give me back my three dollars and take the dog," he shouted. When I brought the dog back to its master, he was very happy and paid me three dollars with joy. I was happy too because I had the money, and I felt I earned it.

Now you can see why I say that honesty is the best policy and that a man must never take anything that he has not earned.

 

A Good Lesson

Once a rich Englishwoman called Mrs Johnson decided to have a birthday party. She invited a lot of guests and a singer. The singer was poor, but he had a very good voice.
The singer got to Mrs Johnson's house at exactly six o'clock as he had been asked to do, but when he went in, he saw through a door that the dining-room was already full of guests, who were sitting round a big table in the middle of the room. The guests were eating, joking, laughing, and talking loudly. Mrs Johnson came out to him, and he thought she was going to ask him to join them, when she said, "We're glad, sir, that you have come. You will be singing after dinner, I'll call you as soon as we're ready to listen to you. Now will you go into the kitchen and have dinner, too, please?"
The singer was very angry, but said nothing. At first he wanted to leave Mrs Johnson's house at once, but then he changed his mind and decided to stay and teach her and her rich guests a good lesson. When the singer went into the kitchen, the servants were having dinner, too. He joined them. After dinner, the singer thanked everybody and said, "Well, now I'm going to sing to you, my good friends." And he sang them some beautiful songs.
Soon Mrs Johnson called the singer.
"Well, sir, we're ready."
"Ready?" asked the singer. "What are you ready for?"
"To listen to you," said Mrs Johnson in an angry voice.
"Listen to me? But I have already sung, and I'm afraid I shan't be able to sing any more tonight."
"Where did you sing?"
"In the kitchen. I always sing for those I have dinner with."

A piece of soap (after H. Munro)

Norman Gortsby was sitting on a bench hidden behind the bushes in Hyde Park. It was a warm May evening. The sun had already set and it was rather dark, but he could still make out the faces of the people who were walking past him and hear the sound of their voices. He was a philosopher, and liked sitting in the Park watching people whom he didn't know. While he was wondering who they were and where they were going, a young man came up to the bench, gave a quick look at him and threw himself down by his side. The newcomer was well-dressed and looked like a gentleman. His face was sad and he sighed deeply.
"You don't seem to be in a very good mood," said Norman. The young man was silent. He only looked at Norman again and there was an expression in his eyes that Norman didn't like.
"I really don't know how it all happened." he began at last, "but I've done the silliest thing that I've ever done in my life." He spoke in a low voice, almost in a whisper.
"Yes" said Norman coldly.
"I came to London this afternoon," the young man went on. "I had a meal at the hotel, sent a letter to my people, giving them the address and then went out to buy a piece of soap. They are supposed to give you soap at the hotel but it's always so bad that I decided to buy some for myself. I bought it, had a drink at a bar, and looked at the shops. When I wanted to go back to the hotel, I suddenly realized that I didn't remember its name or even what street it was in. Of course I can write to my people for the address, but they won't get my letter till tomorrow. The only shilling I had on me when I came out was spent on the soap and the drink and here I am with two pence in my pocket and nowhere to go for the night."
There was a pause after he told the story.
"I'm afraid you don't believe me," he added.
"Why not?" said Norman. "I did the same thing once in a foreign capital. So I can understand you very well."
"I'm glad you do," the young man said with a pleasant smile. "And now I must go. I hope by the time it gets quite dark I'll have found a man who'll believe me like you did, and will agree to lend me some money."
"Of course," said Norman slowly. "The weak point of your story is that you can't produce the soap."
The young man put his hand into his pocket and suddenly got up.
"I've lost it," he said angrily.
"It's too much to lose a hotel and a piece of soap on the same day," said Norman.
But the young man did not hear him. He was running away.
"It was a good idea to ask him about the soap, and so simple," Norman thought as he rose to go. But at that moment he noticed a small packet lying by the side of the bench. It could be nothing but a piece of soap, and it had evidently fallen out of the young man's coat pocket when he threw himself down on the bench. Turning red, Norman picked it up.
"I just can't allow him to go away like this," he thought, and started running after the young man.
"Stop!" cried Norman when he saw him at the Park gate. The young man obeyed.
"Here's your piece of soap," Norman said. "I found it under the bench. Don't lose it again, it's been a good friend to you. And here's a pound, if it can help you".
"Thanks," said the young man, and quickly put the money into his pocket.
"Here's my card with my address," continued Norman. "You can return the money any day this week."
The young man thanked him again and quickly went away.
"It's a good lesson to me," Norman thought, and went back to the Park. When he was passing the bench where the little drama had taken place, he saw an old gentleman looking for something.
"Have you lost anything, sir?" Norman asked.
"Yes, sir, a piece of soap".

A Serious Case

By Chris Rose

I have a friend who is afraid of spiders. This isn’t very unusual; a lot of people are afraid of spiders. I don’t really like spiders much myself. I don’t mind them if you see them outside, in the garden, as long as they’re not too big. But if one comes in the house, especially if it’s one of those really big spiders with furry legs and little red eyes, then I go “yeeucch” and I try to get rid of it. Usually I’ll use a brush to get rid of the spider, but if I feel brave then I’ll put a glass over the top of it, slide a piece of paper under the glass and then take it outside.

This is quite normal, I think. But my friend isn’t afraid of spiders in any normal way. She isn’t just afraid of spiders, she is totally, completely and utterly terrified of them. When my friend sees a spider she doesn’t just go “uurgghh!” or run away, or ask someone else to get rid of the horrible creepy crawly. No: she screams as loud as she possibly can. She screams so loud that her neighbours worry about her, and think about calling the police. When she sees a spider, she shivers all over, and sometimes she freezes completely – she can’t move at all because she is so terrified. Sometimes she even faints.

But my friend had a surprise for me when we met for coffee last week.
“Guess what?” she asked me.
“What?” I said.
“I’ve got a new pet!”
“Great,” I said. “What is it? A dog? A cat?”
“No”
“A budgie?”
“No”
“A rabbit?”
“No”
“What then?”
“I’ve got a pet spider.”
“I don’t believe you!”
“It’s true! I decided that it was time I did something about my phobia so I went to visit a doctor, a special doctor. A psychiatrist. This psychiatrist specialised in phobias – helping people who had irrational fears to get better, and live normally. He told me I suffered from ‘arachnophobia’.”

“It’s an irrational fear of spiders,” he said. “About one in fifty people suffer from a severe form of arachnophobia. It’s not very uncommon.”
“Thanks” said my friend. “But that doesn’t help me much...”
“There are lots of different ways we can try to cure your phobia,” said the psychiatrist. “First, there is traditional analysis.”
“What does that mean?” asked my friend.
“This means lots of talking. We try to find out exactly why you have such a terrible fear of spiders. Perhaps it’s linked to something that happened to you when you were a child.”
“Oh dear,” said my friend. “That sounds quite worrying.”
“It can take a long time,” said the psychiatrist. “Years, sometimes, and you can never be certain that it will be successful.”
“Are there any other methods?”
“Yes – some psychiatrists use hypnosis along with traditional analysis.” My friend didn’t like the idea of being hypnotised. “I’m worried about what things will come out of my subconscious mind!” she said.
“Are there any other methods?” asked my friend,
“Well”, said the psychiatrist, “There is what we call the ‘behavioural’ approach.”
“What’s the behavioural approach?” asked my friend.
“Well,” said the psychiatrist, “It’s like this...”

The psychiatrist got out a small spider from his desk. It wasn’t a real spider. It was made of plastic. Even though it was only a plastic spider, my friend screamed when she saw it.

“Don’t worry,” said the psychiatrist. “It’s not a real spider.”
“I know,” said my friend. “But I’m afraid of it just the same.”
“Hmmmm,” said the psychiatrist. “A serious case...” He put the rubber spider on the desk. When my friend stopped screaming, the psychiatrist told her to touch it. When she stopped screaming again – the idea of touching the plastic spider was enough to make her scream – she touched it. At first she touched it for just one second. She shivered all over, but at least she managed to touch it.

“OK,” said the psychiatrist. “That’s all for today. Thanks. You can go home now.”
“That’s it?” asked my friend.
“Yes.”
“That’s all?”
“Yes, for today. This is the behavioural approach. Come back tomorrow.”

My friend went back the next day, and this time the plastic spider was already on the doctor’s desk. This time she touched it and held it for five minutes. Then the doctor told her to go home and come back the next day. The next day she went back and the plastic spider was on her chair. She had to move the spider so she could sit down. The next day she held the spider in her hand while she sat in her chair. The next day, the doctor gave her the plastic spider and told her to take it home with her.

“Where do spiders appear in your house?” asked the psychiatrist.
“In the bath, usually,” said my friend.
“Put the spider in the bath,” he told her.

My friend was terrified of the spider in the bath, but she managed not to scream when she saw it there.
“It’s only a plastic spider,” she told herself.

The next day the psychiatrist told her to put the spider in her living room. My friend put it on top of the television. At first she thought the spider was watching her, and she felt afraid. Then she told herself that it was only a plastic spider.

The next day the psychiatrist told her to put the spider in her bed.
“No way!” she said. “Absolutely not!”
“Why not?” asked the psychiatrist.
“It’s a spider!” replied my friend.
“No it’s not,” said the psychiatrist, “It’s a plastic spider. It’s not a real one.” My friend realised that her doctor was right. She put the plastic spider in her bed, and she slept there all night with it in her bed. She only felt a little bit afraid.

The next day, she went back to the psychiatrist. This time, she had a shock, a big shock. Sitting in the middle of the doctor’s desk there was a spider. And this time it was a real spider.

My friend was about to scream and run away, but she didn’t. She sat on the other side of the room, as far away as possible from the spider, for about five minutes, then she got up and left the room.
“See you tomorrow!” shouted the psychiatrist to her as she left.

The next day she went back and this time the psychiatrist let the spider run around on his desk. Again, my friend stayed about five minutes, then left. The next day she stayed for ten minutes, and the day after that, fifteen. Eventually, the psychiatrist held the spider, the real spider with long furry legs and little eyes, in his hand. He asked my friend to come and touch it. At first she refused, but the doctor insisted. Eventually she touched the spider, just for a second. The next day she touched it for a few seconds, then for a few minutes, and after that she held the spider in her own hand.

Then she took the spider home, and let it run around in her house. She didn’t feel afraid. Well, OK, she did feel afraid, but only a tiny bit.
“So now I’ve got a pet spider!” she told me again.
“Well done!” I said.
“There’s only one problem,” she said, and as she spoke I noticed that she was shivering all over. Then she screamed and climbed up on the chair. She was pointing to something on the floor.
“Over there!” she screamed. “Look! It’s a beetle...!!”

Hit the Floor!

Jenny and Robert Slater were on holiday in America. They were young and it was their first time away from home in England. They had a car and visited many famous and interesting places.

‘I want to see New York,’ Jenny said one morning. ‘Let’s go there.’

‘Mmm, I don’t know, love. Everybody says New York’s a dangerous place and there are a lot of very strange people there,’ her husband answered.

‘We'll be careful,’ said Jenny. ‘Then we won’t have any problems.’

So they arrived in New York early in the evening and found a hotel. Later they went out and drove round the streets. They didn’t have any problems. ‘See,’ Jenny said. ‘Nothing to be afraid of.’

They had dinner in a good restaurant and then went to a cinema. They arrived back at their hotel at midnight. Under the hotel was a garage so they drove into it and left the car. It was quite dark there and they couldn’t see very well.

‘Where's the lift?’ Jenny asked.

'Over there, I think, near the door,' Robert answered. 'Come on, let's go. I don't like this dark place.'

Suddenly they saw a very tall young man with a big black dog. They were nervous and walked past him as fast as they could to the lift. The door of the lift opened and Jenny and Robert got in. Before the doors closed the man and the dog jumped in – three people and one big black dog in the lift.

'On the floor, Girl!' the tall man said. Jenny and Robert were afraid now, so they quickly got down on the floor. When the lift stopped at the next floor, they stood up, gave the man all their money and got out fast.

'That man was a robber! Perhaps he had a gun... It’s dangerous here!' Robert said. ‘We’re going to leave New York now!'

'Yes, you're right.' Jenny answered. ‘There are some dangerous people in New York.'

First thing next morning they took their room key to the desk and gave it to the woman.

‘There’s nothing to pay, Mr Slater,’ she said. 'A tall young man with a nice dog came to the desk late last night and paid for your room. Oh, wait a minute – he left this for you, too.' She gave Robert an envelope.

He opened it carefully and took out a letter. They read it together: 'Here's your money and I’m very sorry you wire afraid in the lift last night. “Girl” is the name of my dog.’

 

A Magic Ring

Once upon a time there lived a young farmer. He worked very hard but was very poor. One day when he was far from home in the forest, an old woman looking like a peasant came up to him and said, "I know you work very hard, and all for nothing. I will give you a magic ring! It will make you rich, and your work won't be in vain. When you turn the ring on your finger and say what you wish to have, you'll have it at once! But there is only one wish in the ring, so think carefully before you wish."

The astonished farmer took the ring given to him by the peasant woman, and went home. In evening he came to a big city. There he went to a merchant and showed him the magic ring. When the merchant heard the astonishing story, he thought of a plan. He invited the farmer to stay in his house for the night. At night he came up to the sleeping peasant, carefully took the ring off the man's finger, and put on another ring, which looked exactly like the one he had taken off.

In the morning when the farmer had gone away, the merchant ran into his shop, shut the door, and said while turning the ring on his finger, "I wish to have a hundred thousand pieces of gold." And down they came, on his head, shoulders, and arms, like a rain of gold! The frightened merchant tried to get out of the shop, but in vain. In a few minutes he was dead.

When the farmer returned home, he showed the ring to his wife. "Take a look at this ring," he said. "It's a magic ring! It will make us happy.”

The astonished woman could hardly say a word "Let's try. Maybe the ring will bring us more land," she said at last.

“We must be careful about our wish. Don't forget there's only one thing that we may ask for," he explained. "Let's better work hard for another year, and we'll have more land.”

So they worked as hard as they could and got enough money to buy the land they wished to have. "What happy people we are!" said the farmer.

“I don't understand you," answered his wife angrily. "There's nothing in the world that we can't have, and still we spend days and nights working as hard as before, because you don't want to use your magic ring!”

Thirty, then forty years had gone by. The farmer and his wife had grown old. Their hair became as white as snow. They were happy and had everything they wanted. Their ring was still there. Although it was not a magic ring, it had made them happy. For you see, my dear friends, a poor thing in good hands is better than a fine thing in bad hands.

Mistaken identity (by Mark Twain)

Years ago I arrived one day at Salamanca, New York, where I was to change trains and take the sleeper. There were crowds of people on the platform, and they were all trying to get into the long sleeper train which was already packed. I asked the young man in the booking-office if I could have a sleeping-berth and he answered: "No." I went off and asked another local official if I could have some poor little corner somewhere in a sleeping-car, but he interrupted me angrily saying, "No, you can't, every corner is full. Now, don't bother me any more," and he turned his back and walked off. I felt so hurt that I said to my companion, "If these people knew who I was, they..."1 But my companion stopped me there,— "Don't talk such nonsense, we'll have to put up with this," he said, "If they knew who you were, do you think it would help you to get a vacant seat1 in a train which has no vacant seats in it?"
This did not improve my condition at all, but just then I noticed that the porter of a sleeping-car had his eye on me. I saw the expression of his face suddenly change. He whispered to the uniformed conductor, pointing to me, and I realized I was being talked about. Then the conductor came forward, his face all politeness.
"Can I be of any service to you?" he asked. "Do you want a place in a sleeping-car?"
"Yes," I said, "I'll be grateful to you if you can give me a place, anything will do."
"We have nothing left except the big family compartment," he continued, "with two berths and a couple of armchairs in it, but it is entirely at your disposal. Here, Tom, take these suitcases aboard!"
Then he touched his hat, and we moved along.3 I was eager to say a few words to my companion, but I changed my mind. The porter made us comfortable in the compartment, and then said, with many bows and smiles:
"Now, is there anything you want, sir? Because you can have just anything you want."
"Can I have some hot water?" I asked.
"Yes, sir, I'll get it myself."
"Good! Now, that lamp is hung too high above the berth. Can I have a better lamp fixed just at the head of my bed below the luggage rack, so that I can read comfortably?"
"Yes, sir. The lamp you want is just being fixed in the next compartment. I'll get it from there and fix it here. It'll burn all night. Yes, sir, you can ask for anything you want, the whole railroad will be turned inside out to please you." And he disappeared.
I smiled at my companion, and said:
"Well, what do you say now? Didn't their attitude change the moment they understood I was Mark Twain? You see the result, don't you?" My companion did not answer. So I added, "Don't you like the way you are being served? And all for the same fare."
As I was saying this, the porter's smiling face appeared in the doorway and this speech followed:
"Oh, sir, I recognized you the minute I set my eyes on you. I told the conductor so."
"Is that so, my boy?" I said handing him a good tip. "Who am I?"
"Mr McCleilan, Mayor of New York", he said and disappeared again.

The Christmas Presents

 

One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. Every day, when she went to the shops, she spent very little money. She bought the cheapest meat, the cheapest vegetables. And when she was tired, she still walked round and round the shops to find the cheapest food. She saved every cent possible.

Delia counted the money again. There was no mistake. One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And the next day was Christmas.

She couldn't do anything about it. She could only sit down and cry. So she sat there, in the poor little room, and she cried.

Delia lived in this poor little room, in New York, with her husband, James Dillingham Young. They also had a bedroom, and a kitchen and a bathroom – all poor little rooms. James Dillingham Young was lucky, because he had a job, but it was not a good job. These rooms took most of his money. Delia tried to find work, but times were bad, and there was no work for her. But when Mr James Dillingham Young came home to his rooms, Mrs James Dillingham Young called him 'Jim' and put her arms round him. And that was good.

Delia stopped crying and she washed her face. She stood by the window, and looked out at a grey cat on a grey wall in the grey road. Tomorrow was Christmas Day, and she had only one dollar and eighty-seven cents to buy Jim a Christmas present. Her Jim. She wanted very much to buy him something really fine, something to show how much she loved him.

Suddenly, Delia turned round and ran over to look in the glass on the wall. Her eyes were bright.

Now, the James Dillingham Youngs had two very special things. One was Jim's gold watch. It once belonged to his father, and, before that, to his grandfather. The other special thing was Delia's hair.

Quickly, Delia let down her beautiful, long hair. It fell down her back, and it was almost like a coat around her. Then she put her hair up again, quickly. For a second or two she stood still, and cried a little.

Then she put on her old brown coat, and her old brown hat, turned, and left the room. She went downstairs and out into the road, and her eyes were bright.

She walked along by the shops, and stopped when she came to a door with 'Madame Eloise - Hair' on it. Inside there was a fat woman. She did not look like an 'Eloise'.

'Will you buy my hair?' Delia asked.

'I buy hair,' Madame replied. 'Take your hat off, then, and show me your hair.'

The beautiful brown hair fell down.

'Twenty dollars,' Madame said, and she touched the hair with her hand.

'Quick! Cut it off! Give me the money!' Delia said.

The next two hours went quickly. Delia was happy because she was looking round the shops for Jim's present. At last she found it. It was a gold chain for The Watch. Jim loved his watch, but it had no chain. When Delia saw this gold chain, she knew immediately that it was right for Jim. She must have it. The shop took twenty-one dollars from her for it, and she hurried home with the eighty-seven cents. When she arrived there, she looked at her very short hair in the glass. 'What can I do with it?' she thought. For the next half an hour she was very busy.

Then she looked again in the glass. Her hair was now in very small curls all over her head. 'Oh, dear. I look like a schoolgirl!' she said to herself. 'What's Jim going to say when he sees me?'

At seven o'clock the dinner was nearly ready and Delia was waiting. 'Oh, I hope he thinks that I'm still beautiful!' she thought.

The door opened and Jim came in and closed it. He looked very thin and he needed a new coat. His eyes were on Delia. She could not understand the look on his face, and she was afraid. He was not angry or surprised. He just watched her, with that strange look on his face. Delia ran to him.

'Jim,' she cried. 'Don't look at me like that. I sold my hair because I wanted to give you a present. It will soon be long again. I had to do it, Jim. Say "Happy Christmas", please. I have a wonderful present for you!'

'You've cut off your hair?' asked Jim.

'Yes. I cut it off and sold it,' Delia said. 'But don't you love me any more, Jim? I'm still me.'

Jim looked round the room.

'You say your hair has gone?' he said, almost stupidly.

'Yes. I told you. Because I love you! Shall I get the dinner now, Jim?'

Suddenly Jim put his arms round his Delia. Then he took something from his pocket and put it on the table.

'I love you, Delia,' he said. 'It doesn't matter if your hair is short or long. But if you open that, you'll see why I was unhappy at first.'

Excited, Delia pulled off the paper. Then she gave a little scream of happiness. But a second later there were cries of unhappiness. Because there were The Combs - the combs for her beautiful hair. When she first saw these combs in the shop window, she wanted them. They were beautiful combs, expensive combs, and now they were her combs. But she no longer had her hair!

 Delia picked them up and held them. Her eyes were full of love.

'But my hair will soon be long again, Jim.'

And then Delia remembered. She jumped up and cried, 'Oh! Oh!' She ran to get Jim's beautiful present,

and she held it out to him.

'Isn't it lovely, Jim? I looked everywhere for it. Now you'll want to look at your watch a hundred times a day. Give it to me! Give me your watch, Jim! Let's see it with its new chain.'

But Jim did not do this. He sat down, put his hands behind his head, and he smiled.

'Delia,' he said. 'Let's keep our presents for a time. They're so nice. You see, I sold the watch to get the

money to buy your combs. And now, let's have dinner.'

And this was the story of two young people who were very much in love.

The interesting most boring man in the world

People often said that Thierry Boyle was the most boring man in the world. Thierry didn’t know why people thought he was so boring. Thierry thought he was quite interesting. After all, he collected stamps. What could be more interesting than stamps? It was true that he didn’t have any other hobbies or interests, but that didn’t matter for Thierry. He had his job, after all. He had a very interesting job. At least Thierry thought it was interesting. Everybody else said that his job was boring. But he was an accountant! Why do people think that accountants are boring? thought Thierry. Thierry thought his job was fascinating. Everyday, he went to his office, switched on his computer and spent seven and a half hours looking at spreadsheets, and moving numbers around on them. What could be more interesting than that?

But Thierry was unhappy. He was unhappy because people thought he was boring. He didn’t want to be boring. He wanted people to think that he was a very interesting person. He tried to talk to people about his stamp collection. But every time he talked about his stamp collection he saw that people were bored. Because people were bored when he talked about his stamp collection, he talked about his job instead. He thought people would be very interested when he talked about his job, but no. People thought his job was even more boring than his stamp collection. Sometimes, people even went to sleep when he talked to them.

Thierry thought about how to make himself more interesting. He decided that he needed to be famous for something. He thought about his stamp collection, and decided that perhaps his stamp collection could make him famous. Perhaps he had the biggest stamp collection in the world, or perhaps he had a very valuable stamp. Yes, this was it, he decided.

He wrote a letter to a local newspaper, and asked them if they wanted to come and write an article about a local man with the biggest stamp collection in the world. The local newspaper wrote a letter back to Thierry telling him that actually the Queen of England had the biggest stamp collection in the world. Thierry was very sad to learn this, but wrote back to the newspaper telling them that he thought he had the most valuable stamp in the world. The newspaper wrote back to him telling him that the most valuable stamp in the world cost 2, 240, 000 dollars, and asking him if he was sure that he had it. Thierry wasn’t sure that he had it. In fact, he was sure that he didn’t have it. Perhaps his whole collection was very valuable though…
“Is it worth 10 million dollars?” asked the man from the newspaper on the telephone when Thierry called him.
“Erm, no, I don’t think so…”
“Forget it then” said the man from the newspaper.

Thierry thought about other things to make himself famous. Perhaps he could be the best accountant in the world! Yes, this was it, he decided. He told a friend that he was the best accountant in the world.
“How do you know?” asked his friend.
“Well” thought Thierry, “I have a good job, I like it …it’s very interesting … spreadsheets … numbers … taxes … finance …” He saw his friend going to sleep. “Hmmm” he thought.  “Perhaps I’m not the best or the most interesting accountant in the world.”

“Listen Thierry” said his friend when he woke up again. “Perhaps you don’t have the biggest or the most valuable stamp collection in the world. Perhaps you aren’t the best or the most interesting accountant in the world. But there is one thing – Thierry, you are probably the most boring man in the world.”

Yes!  Of course! This was it. Thierry could be famous because he was the most boring man in the world. Now he saw that his friends were right. He phoned the newspaper again.
“Hello!” he said. “Would you like to do an interview with the most boring man in the world?”
“The most boring man in the world...?” said the man from the newspaper. “Now that’s interesting!”

Next week there was a big article in the newspaper. “The Most Boring Man in the World!” There was a picture of Thierry in his office. There was a picture of Thierry with his stamp collection. There was an interview with Thierry, and interviews with his friends. His friends said they went to sleep when Thierry talked about his job or his stamp collection.

The next day the BBC and CNN called Thierry. They wanted stories about the most boring man in the world. “The most boring man in the world!” they said. “That’s so interesting!”

And so, finally, Thierry Boyle, became the official Most Boring Man in the World. You won’t find his name in the Guinness Book of Records, because they said that it was impossible to decide exactly how boring somebody is, but it was no problem for Thierry. Now he was famous, now he was so boring that he was interesting.

 

The Memento

The window of Miss D'Armande's room looked out onto Broadway and its theatres. But Lynette D'Armande turned her chair round and sat with her back to Broadway. She was an actress, and needed the Broadway theatres, but Broadway did not need her.

She was staying in the Hotel Thalia. Actors go there to rest for the summer and then try to get work for the autumn when the little theatres open again. Miss D'Armande's room in this hotel was a small one, but in it there were many mementoes of her days in the theatre, and there were also pictures of some of her best friends. She looked at one of these pictures now, and smiled at it.

'I'd like to know where Lee is now,' she said to herself.

She was looking at a picture of Miss Rosalie Ray, a very beautiful young woman. In the picture, Miss Ray was wearing a very short skirt and she was sitting on a swing. Every night in the theatre she went high in the air on her swing, over the heads of all the people.

When she did this, all the men in the theatre got very excited and stood up. This was because, when her long beautiful legs were high in the air, her yellow garter flew off and fell down to the men below. She did this every evening, and every evening a hundred hands went up to catch the garter. She did other things. She sang, she danced, but when she got onto her swing, all the men stood up. Miss Ray did not have to try very hard to find work in the theatre.

After two years of this, Miss D'Armande remembered, Miss Ray suddenly left the theatre and went to live in the country.

And seventeen minutes after Miss D'Armande said, 'I'd like to know where Lee is now', somebody knocked on the door.

It was, of course, Rosalie Ray.

'Come in,' Miss D'Armande called, and Miss Ray came in. Yes, it was Rosalie. She took off her hat, and Miss D'Armande could see that she looked very tired and unhappy.

'I've got the room above you,' Rosalie said. 'They told me at the desk downstairs that you were here.'

'I've been here since the end of April,' Lynnette replied. 'I begin work again next week, out in a small town. But you left the theatre three months ago, Lee. Why are you here?'

'I'll tell you, Lynn, but give me a drink first.' Miss D'Armande passed a bottle to her friend.

'Ah, that's good!' said Rosalie. 'My first drink for three months. Yes, Lynn, I left the theatre because I was tired of the life, and because I was tired of men - well, the men who come to the theatre. You know we have to fight them off all the time. They're animals! They ask you to go out with them, they buy you a drink or two - and then they think that they can do what they want! It's terrible! And we work hard, we get very little money for it, we wait to get to the top - and it never happens. But most of all, I left because of the men.

'Well, I saved two hundred dollars and when summer came, I left the theatre and went to a little village by the sea on Long Island. I planned to stay there for the summer, and then learn how to be a better actress.

'But there was another person who was staying in the same house - the Reverend Arthur Lyle. Yes, Lynn, a man of the church! When I saw him for the first time, I fell in love with him at once. He was a fine man and he had a wonderful voice!

'Well, it's only a short story, Lynn. A month later we decided to marry. We planned to live in a little house near the church, with lots of flowers and animals.

'No, I didn't tell him that I was an actress. I wanted to forget it and to put that life behind me.

THE PACK OF BISCUITS

One night there was a woman at the airport who had to wait for several hours before catching her next flight. While she waited she bought a book and a pack of biscuits to spend the time. She looked for a place to sit and waited. She was deep into her book, when suddenly she realized that there was a young man sitting next to her who was stretching his hand, with no concern whatsoever, and grabbing the pack of cookies lying between them. He started to eat them one by one. Not wanting to make a fuss about it she decided to ignore him. The woman, slightly bothered, ate the cookies and watched the clock, while the young and shameless thief of biscuits was also finishing them. The woman started to get really angry at this point and thought, "If I wasn't such a good and educated person, I would have given this daring man a black eye by now." Every time she ate a biscuit, he had one too. The dialogue between their eyes continued and when only one biscuit was left, she wondered what was he going to do. Softly and with a nervous smile, the young man grabbed the last biscuit and broke it in two. He offered one half to the woman while he ate the other half. Briskly she took the biscuit and thought, "What an insolent man! How uneducated! He didn't even thank me!" She had never met anybody so fresh and sighed relieved to hear her flight announced. She grabbed her bags and went towards the boarding gate refusing to look back to where that insolent thief was seated. After boarding the plane and nicely seated, she looked for her book which was nearly finished by now. While looking into her bag she was totally surprised to find her pack of biscuits nearly intact. If my biscuits are here, she thought feeling terribly, those others were his and he tried to share them with me. Too late to apologize to the young man, she realized with pain, that it was her who had been insolent, uneducated and a thief, and not him!

THE SHOEBOX

A man and woman had been married for more than 60 years. They had shared everything. They had talked about everything. They had kept no secrets from each other except that the little: old woman had a shoebox in the top of her closet that she had cautioned her husband never to open or ask her about.

 

For all of these years, he had never thought about the box, but one day the little old woman got very sick and the doctor said she would not recover.  

 

In trying to sort out their affairs, the little old man took down the shoebox and took it to his wife's bedside. She agreed that it was time that he should know what was in the box. When he opened it, he found two knitted dolls and a stack of money totaling $95,000.  

He asked her about the contents.  

 

'When we were to be married,' she said, ' my grandmother told me the secret of a happy marriage was to never argue. She told me that if I ever got angry with you, I should just keep quiet and knit a doll.'  

 

The little old man was so moved; he had to fight back tears. Only two precious dolls were in the box. She had only been angry with him two times in all those years of living and loving. He almost burst with happiness.  

 

'Honey,' he said, 'that explains the dolls, but what about all of this money?  

Where did it come from?'  

 

'Oh,' she said, 'that's the money I made from selling the dolls.'

 

Tildy’s Moment

Bogle's Family Restaurant on Eighth Avenue is not a famous place, but if you need a large cheap meal, then Bogle's is the place for you. There are twelve tables in the room, six on each side. Bogle himself sits at the desk by the door and takes the money. There are also two waitresses and a Voice. The Voice comes from the kitchen.

At the time of my story, one of the waitresses was called Aileen. She was tall, beautiful and full of life. The name of the other waitress was Tildy. She was small, fat and was not beautiful.

Most of the people who came to eat at Bogle's were men, and they loved the beautiful Aileen. They were happy to wait a long time for their meals because they could look at her. Aileen knew how to hold a conversation with twelve people and work hard at the same time. And all the men wanted to take Aileen dancing or give her presents. One gave her a gold ring and one gave her a little dog.

And poor Tildy?

In the busy, noisy restaurant men's eyes did not follow Tildy. Nobody laughed and talked with her. Nobody asked her to go dancing, and nobody gave her presents. She was a good waitress, but when she stood by the tables, the men looked round her to see Aileen.

But Tildy was happy to work with no thanks, she was happy to see the men with Aileen, she was happy to know that the men loved Aileen. She was Aileen's friend. But deep inside, she, too, wanted a man to love her.

Tildy listened to all Aileen's stories. One day Aileen came in with a black eye. A man hit her because she did not want to kiss him. 'How wonderful to have a black eye for love!' Tildy thought.

One of the men who came to Bogle's was a young man called Mr Seeders. He was a small, thin man, and he worked in an office. He knew that Aileen was not interested in him, so he sat at one of Tildy's tables, said nothing, and ate his fish.

One day when Mr Seeders came in for his meal, he drank too much beer. He finished his fish, got up, put his arm round Tildy, kissed her loudly, and walked out of the restaurant.

For a few seconds Tildy just stood there. Then Aileen said to her, 'Why, Tildy! You bad girl! I must watch you. I don't want to lose my men to you!'

Suddenly Tildy's world changed. She understood now that men could like her and want her as much as Aileen. She, Tildy, could have a love-life, too. Her eyes were bright, and her face was pink. She wanted to tell everybody her secret. When the restaurant was quiet, she went and stood by Bogle's desk.

'Do you know what a man in the restaurant did to me today?' she said. 'He put his arm round me and he kissed me!'

'Really!' Bogle answered. This was good for business. 'Next week you'll get a dollar a week more.'

And when, in the evening, the restaurant was busy again, Tildy put down the food on the tables and said quietly, 'Do you know what a man in the restaurant did to me today? He put his arm round me and kissed me!'

Some of the men in the restaurant were surprised; some of them said, 'Well done!' Men began to smile and say nice things to her. Tildy was very happy. Love was now possible in her grey life.

For two days Mr Seeders did not come again, and in that time Tildy was a different woman. She wore bright clothes, did her hair differently, and she looked taller and thinner. Now she was a real woman because someone loved her. She felt excited, and a little afraid. What would Mr Seeders do the next time he came in?

At four o'clock in the afternoon of the third day, Mr Seeders came in. There were no people at the tables, and Aileen and Tildy were working at the back of the restaurant. Mr Seeders walked up to them.

Tildy looked at him, and she could not speak. Mr Seeders' face was very red, and he looked uncomfortable.

'Miss Tildy,' he said, 'I want to say that I'm sorry for what I did to you a few days ago. It was the drink, you see. I didn't know what I was doing. I'm very sorry.'

And Mr Seeders left.

But Tildy ran into the kitchen, and she began to cry. She could not stop crying. She was no longer beautiful. No man loved her. No man wanted her. The kiss meant nothing to Mr Seeders. Tildy did not like him very much, but the kiss was important to her – and now there was nothing.

But she still had her friend, and Aileen put her arm round Tildy. Aileen did not really understand, but she said, 'Don't be unhappy, Tildy. That little Seeders has got a face like a dead potato! He's nothing. A real man never says sorry!'