Short Fiction Edgar Allan Poe (books for men to read .txt) đ
- Author: Edgar Allan Poe
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âThin,â says he, the willian, âOch hon! and a wolly-wou, pully-wou,â and then wid that he shoved up his two shoulders till the divil the bit of his hid was to be diskivered, and then he let down the two corners of his purraty-trap, and thin not a haporth more of the satisfaction could I git out oâ the spalpeen.
Belave me, my jewel, it was Sir Pathrick that was unreasonable mad thin, and the more by token that the Frinchman kipt an wid his winking at the widdy; and the widdy she kept an wid the squazing of my flipper, as much as to say, âAt him again, Sir Pathrick OâGrandison, mavourneen;â so I just ripped out wid a big oath, and says I:
âYe little spalpeeny frog of a bog-throtting son of a bloody noun!ââ âand jist thin what dâye think it was that her leddyship did? Troth she jumped up from the sofy as if she was bit, and made off through the door, while I turned my head round afther her, in a complate bewilderment and botheration, and followed her wid me two peepers. You percave I had a reason of my own for knowing that she couldnât git down the stares althegither and intirely; for I knew very well that I had hould of her hand, for the divil the bit had I iver lit it go. And says I:
âIsnât it the laste little bit of a mistake in the world that yeâve been afther the making, yer leddyship? Come back now, thatâs a darlint, and Iâll give ye yur flipper.â But aff she wint down the stairs like a shot, and thin I turned round to the little Frinch furrenner. Och hon! if it wasnât his spalpeeny little paw that I had hould of in my ownâ âwhy thinâ âthin it wasnâtâ âthatâs all.
And maybe it wasnât mesilf that jist died then outright wid the laffinâ, to behold the little chap when he found out that it wasnât the widdy at all at all that he had had hould of all the time, but only Sir Pathrick OâGrandison. The ould divil himself niver behild sich a long face as he pet an! As for Sir Pathrick OâGrandison, Barronitt, it wasnât for the likes of his riverence to be afther the minding of a thrifle of a mistake. Ye may jist say, though (for itâs Godâs thruth), that afore I left hould of the flipper of the spalpeen (which was not till afther her leddyshipâs futman had kicked us both down the stairs), I givâd it such a nate little broth of a squaze as made it all up into raspberry jam.
âWouly-wou,â says he, âpully-wou,â says heâ ââCot tam!â
And thatâs jist the thruth of the rason why he wears his lift hand in a sling.
The Business ManMethod is the soul of business.
ââ Old sayingI am a business man. I am a methodical man. Method is the thing, after all. But there are no people I more heartily despise than your eccentric fools who prate about method without understanding it; attending strictly to its letter, and violating its spirit. These fellows are always doing the most out-of-the-way things in what they call an orderly manner. Now here, I conceive, is a positive paradox. True method appertains to the ordinary and the obvious alone, and cannot be applied to the outrĂ©. What definite idea can a body attach to such expressions as âmethodical Jack oâ Dandy,â or âa systematical Will oâ the Wispâ?
My notions upon this head might not have been so clear as they are, but for a fortunate accident which happened to me when I was a very little boy. A good-hearted old Irish nurse (whom I shall not forget in my will) took me up one day by the heels, when I was making more noise than was necessary, and swinging me round two or three times, dâ âžșâ d my eyes for âa skreeking little spalpeen,â and then knocked my head into a cocked hat against the bedpost. This, I say, decided my fate, and made my fortune. A bump arose at once on my sinciput, and turned out to be as pretty an organ of order as one shall see on a summerâs day. Hence that positive appetite for system and regularity which has made me the distinguished man of business that I am.
If there is anything on earth I hate, it is a genius. Your geniuses are all arrant assesâ âthe greater the genius the greater the assâ âand to this rule there is no exception whatever. Especially, you cannot make a man of business out of a genius, any more than money out of a Jew, or the best nutmegs out of pine-knots. The creatures are always going off at a tangent into some fantastic employment, or ridiculous speculation, entirely at variance with the âfitness of things,â and having no business whatever to be considered as a business at all. Thus you may tell these characters immediately by the nature of their occupations. If you ever perceive a man setting up as a merchant or a manufacturer, or going into the cotton or tobacco trade, or any of those eccentric pursuits; or getting to be a drygoods dealer, or soap-boiler, or something of that kind; or pretending to be a lawyer, or a blacksmith, or a physicianâ âanything out of the usual wayâ âyou may set him down at once as a genius, and then, according to the rule-of-three, heâs an ass.
Now I am not in any respect a genius, but a regular business man. My daybook and ledger will evince this in a minute. They are well kept, though I say it myself; and, in my general habits of accuracy and punctuality, I am not to be beat by a clock. Moreover, my occupations have been always made to chime in with the ordinary habitudes of my fellowmen. Not that I feel the least indebted, upon this score, to my
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