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 Upas Tree by Florence Louisa Barclay (free ebooks for android .TXT) 📖
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* * *
As midnight drew very near, the door of the studio was pushed softly open, and Helen came in, wearing a soft white wrapper; a lighted candle in her hand.
She placed the candle on a table; then, stooping, carefully lifted Ronnie's 'cello from the floor, laid it in its rosewood case, and stood looking down upon it. Then, smiling, touched its silver strings, with loving fingers.
"Poor Infant of Prague!" she said. "Has Ronnie forgotten even to put you to bed? Never mind! To-morrow you and he shall sing Christmas hymns together, while I and his little son listen and admire."
She closed the case. Then some impulse made her open it again. Her sweet eyes filled with tears. No one was there to see. Ronnie's wife knelt down and gently kissed the unconscious, shining face of the Infant of Prague.
* * * * *
Turning from the settee beneath the window, she saw herself reflected in the mirror--a tall fair figure in trailing garments, soft and white.
She held the candle high above her head, looked at her own reflection, and smiled.
She was glad she was so lovely--for Ronnie's sake.
Ronnie's love to-night was very wonderful.
She moved towards the door, but paused in passing, to look into the smouldering embers of the fire.
At that moment the clocks struck midnight. She heard the Westminster chimes, up on the landing.
It was Christmas Day.
"Unto us a Child is born; unto us a Son is given," murmured Helen. "Oh, holy Christ of Christmas, may the new life to come be very perfect for my Ronnie, my baby, and me."
* * * * *
"Helen!" came Ronnie's eager happy voice, shouting over the stairs. "I say, _Helen_! Where are you?"
"Coming, darling!" she called, passing out of the studio, and moving swiftly down the corridor.
Ronnie, on the landing, was leaning over the banisters, an expression of comic dismay on his face.
"Oh, I say!" he whispered. "I've done it now! I believe I've woke the baby!"
Helen, mounting the stairs, paused to look up at him, love and laughter in her eyes.
"Undoubtedly you have, you naughty boy! No shouting allowed here now, after dark. But what do you think I was doing? Why, I was in the studio, putting to bed the Infant of Prague."
THE END.
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As midnight drew very near, the door of the studio was pushed softly open, and Helen came in, wearing a soft white wrapper; a lighted candle in her hand.
She placed the candle on a table; then, stooping, carefully lifted Ronnie's 'cello from the floor, laid it in its rosewood case, and stood looking down upon it. Then, smiling, touched its silver strings, with loving fingers.
"Poor Infant of Prague!" she said. "Has Ronnie forgotten even to put you to bed? Never mind! To-morrow you and he shall sing Christmas hymns together, while I and his little son listen and admire."
She closed the case. Then some impulse made her open it again. Her sweet eyes filled with tears. No one was there to see. Ronnie's wife knelt down and gently kissed the unconscious, shining face of the Infant of Prague.
* * * * *
Turning from the settee beneath the window, she saw herself reflected in the mirror--a tall fair figure in trailing garments, soft and white.
She held the candle high above her head, looked at her own reflection, and smiled.
She was glad she was so lovely--for Ronnie's sake.
Ronnie's love to-night was very wonderful.
She moved towards the door, but paused in passing, to look into the smouldering embers of the fire.
At that moment the clocks struck midnight. She heard the Westminster chimes, up on the landing.
It was Christmas Day.
"Unto us a Child is born; unto us a Son is given," murmured Helen. "Oh, holy Christ of Christmas, may the new life to come be very perfect for my Ronnie, my baby, and me."
* * * * *
"Helen!" came Ronnie's eager happy voice, shouting over the stairs. "I say, _Helen_! Where are you?"
"Coming, darling!" she called, passing out of the studio, and moving swiftly down the corridor.
Ronnie, on the landing, was leaning over the banisters, an expression of comic dismay on his face.
"Oh, I say!" he whispered. "I've done it now! I believe I've woke the baby!"
Helen, mounting the stairs, paused to look up at him, love and laughter in her eyes.
"Undoubtedly you have, you naughty boy! No shouting allowed here now, after dark. But what do you think I was doing? Why, I was in the studio, putting to bed the Infant of Prague."
THE END.
Imprint
Publication Date: 08-02-2010
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