Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. The Jolliest School of All by Angela Brazil (the best ebook reader for android TXT) 📖
- Author: Angela Brazil
Book online «The Jolliest School of All by Angela Brazil (the best ebook reader for android TXT) 📖». Author Angela Brazil
Tea was set out on little basket tables in the veranda, and there were all the delicious home-made things for which the Villa Bleue had gained a just reputation—brown scones and honey, potato cakes, Scotch shortbread, buttered oatmeal biscuits, iced lemon sandwich cake, and chocolate fingers.
When tea was taken away and the basket tables were once more free, Mrs. Clark produced dainty cards and scarlet pencils and organized a competition. It was entitled "Nursery Rhymes," and contained twenty questions to be answered by the competitors. These ran as follows:
Some of the questions seemed easy and some were difficult. The girls sat puzzling over them, and writing the answers when they got inspiration. Irene scribbled away delightedly, but Lorna, who had almost forgotten the nursery rhymes of her childhood, was in much mystification, and only filled in a few of the vacant spaces. Numbers 6, 7, 13 and 14 proved the most baffling and no one was able to solve all twenty.[197]
After allowing a considerable laxity in respect of time Mrs. Clark rang the bell and declared the competition closed. The girls changed cards, and waited with interest while their hostess read out the answers.
ANSWERS TO NURSERY RHYMES COMPETITION
I, said the beetle,
With my thread and needle.
2.
The old woman who lived in a shoe. 3.
Miss Muffet.
4.
Mary, Mary, quite contrary. 5.
Old King Cole, who called for his fiddlers three.
6.
Froggie would a-wooing go,
Whether his mother would let him or no. 7.
Goosey goosey gander,
Whither do you wander,
Upstairs, downstairs,
In my lady's chamber.
There I met an old man
Who wouldn't say his prayers,
So I took him by the left leg
And threw him down the stairs.
8.
Taffy was a Welshman,
Taffy was a thief,
Taffy came to my house
And stole a piece of beef. 9.
Three little kittens
Lost their mittens
[198] And they began to cry.
10.
Johnny shall have a new master
And he shall have but a penny a day,
Because he won't work any faster. 11.
Dickery, dickery, dock!
The mouse ran up the clock!
12.
The cow jumped over the moon. 13.
The fair lady of Banbury Cross.
Rings on her fingers and bells on her toes
She shall have music wherever she goes.
14.
The Queen of Heart's tarts. 15.
Little Tommy Trout.
16.
Little Boy Blue. 17.
Little Jack Horner.
18.
Little Bo Peep. 19.
Jack and Jill.
20.
The maid was in the garden
Hanging out the clothes,
When by came a blackbird
And nipped off her nose.
There was a good deal of laughter over the competition and much counting up of marks. Irene, who had scored eighteen out of the possible twenty, came out top, and was accordingly handed the pretty little photograph frame which formed the prize.
"I only got six," mourned Lorna. "I was a perfect duffer at it."
"I had fifteen," purred Sheila, "but I couldn't for the life of me remember who made Cock Robin's shroud, or who pulled Pussy out of the well."
"It's such ages since I read any nursery rhymes," said Monica.[199]
"That's just the fun of it, of course!" declared Mary. "Did you make up the questions, Mrs. Clark?"
"No, I got the Canon to compose them. He'll be glad you liked them. Oh, here he comes. He had to go to a committee meeting this afternoon. Did you get tea, dear, at Major Littleton's?" (to her husband). "That's right! Then sit down on this comfy chair and entertain us, please."
"Rather a big order," laughed Canon Clark, shaking hands with his young visitors, and taking the proffered seat. "How do you want to be entertained? No sermons to-day?" and his eyes twinkled. "Don't all speak at once. I'm beginning to get nervous!"
"You can tell the most beautiful stories," suggested Sheila, who had paid visits before to the Villa Bleue and knew the capabilities of her host.
"Oh, yes, please, do tell us a story!" agreed the others. "We'd like it better than anything."
"I have one inside my desk which is just ready to send off to a magazine. If it won't bore you to listen to it, I'll read it aloud and let you judge whether it has any interest in it or not. An audience of schoolgirls ought to be severe critics. As a rule they're omnivorous readers of fiction. If you turn it down I shall tear it up."
"Oh, but we shan't!"
"Please begin!"
Thus urged, Canon Clark fetched a manuscript[200] from his study, and after passing round the plate of taffy, to "sweeten his narrative" as he put it, he sat down in his basket-chair on the veranda and began to read.
"I had known Jack Musgrave out East; we had chummed at Mandalay, messed together at Singapore, hunted big game up in Kashmir, and shot tigers in Bengal, and, when we said good-by, as he boarded the homeward-bound steamer at Madras, it was with a cordial invitation on his part that I should look him up if ever I happened to penetrate into the remote corner of Cumberland where his family acres were situated.
"For a year or two my affairs kept me in India, and nothing seemed more unlikely than that—for the present, at any rate—Jack and I should cross paths again, but by one of those strange chances which sometimes occur in this world I found myself, on the Christmas Eve of 190-, standing on the platform of Holdergate Station, having missed the connection for Scotland, and with the pleasing prospect before me of spending the night, and possibly—if trains were not available—the ensuing Christmas Day at the one very second-rate inn in the village.
"It was then that I remembered that Holdergate was the nearest station to Dacrepool Grange, and that, if Jack's memory still held good, I might find a[201] hearty welcome and spend a pleasant evening recalling old times and discussing past shots, instead of putting up with the inferior accommodation offered by the landlady of the King's Arms. As no one either at the station or in the village seemed willing to vouchsafe me definite information as to whether the owner of Dacrepool was at home or abroad, parrying my inquiries with such scant courtesy and in so uncouth and unintelligible a dialect as to be scarce understood, I resolved to chance it, and with some difficulty hiring a farmer's gig, I started out on a six-mile drive over the bleak moorlands, which seemed to stretch as far as the eye could reach in a dim vista of brown heath and distant snow-clad fell. It was a dreary and unseasonable evening, with a damp mist rising from the sodden ground, and occasional falls of sleet, mingled with rain that chilled one to the bone. I buttoned my coat closely round my throat, and braced my nerves to meet the elements, hoping I might find my reward at the end of my journey, and inwardly cursing every mile of the rough road.
"But even Cumberland miles cannot wind on forever, and my Jehu at length drew up at a massive stone gateway, which he assured me formed the entrance to Dacrepool Grange. There was neither light nor sound in the lodge, nor did any one come out in answer to our impatient calls, so we had perforce to open the gates for ourselves. They creaked on their rusty hinges, as if they had not been un[202]closed for many a day, and when I noted the neglected drive, where the overhanging trees swept our faces as we passed, I began to fear that I had come on a fool's errand, and that I should find the house shut up and my friend abroad.
"On this point, however, my driver reassured me. 'Nay, oo'be to home, theer's a light i' yon winder,' he said, pointing with his whip where a faint streak of yellow shone like a beacon into the surrounding gloom. The moon was struggling through the clouds, and I could dimly discern the outline of the quaint gabled front of the house, with its mullioned windows, and masses of clinging ivy. Dismounting at the old stone porch, I seized the knocker and beat a mighty tattoo. There was no reply. Even the light had disappeared from the window almost simultaneously with the approach of our carriage wheels, and though I hammered for fully five minutes I failed to obtain the slightest response to my knocks. I was on the point of turning away in despair and driving back in the gig to Holdergate, when a sound of footsteps was heard within, together with an unbolting and unbarring, the door was opened about six inches on the chain, and a hard-featured woman peeped cautiously out into the darkness.
"I at once proclaimed my identity and my errand, but, by the light of the candle which she held in her hand, she looked me up and down with a glance of keen distrust and evident disfavor. 'How am I to[203] know it is as you say?' she replied guardedly, and without making any move to grant me admittance.
"'Then fetch your master,' I exclaimed with some heat, thrusting my card into her hand. 'He should know my name at any rate, though he seems to have trained you in strange notions of hospitality to keep a guest standing on the doorstep on a bitter evening in December.'
"Grumbling under her breath she went away, and I was half inclined to follow her example and quit this very unpromising spot, when a quick step resounded in the hall, the door was flung open wide, and I was dragged forcibly into the house by my friend Jack, who hailed me with such unfeigned delight and enthusiasm that there could be little doubt of the genuineness of his welcome.
"'You've sprung upon us at a queer time, as it happens, old man, but if you don't mind taking pot-luck we'll spend a ripping night together,' he cried, hauling me into
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