Full download ebooks at https://ebookgrade.

com

Essentials of Economics 4th Australia Edition

Hubbard R.; Garnett Anne; Lewis Philip

For dowload this book click link below

https://ebookgrade.com/product/essentials-of-economics-4th-
australia-edition-hubbard-r-garnett-anne-lewis-philip/

OR CLICK BUTTON

DOWLOAD NOW
More products digital (pdf, epub, mobi) instant
download maybe you interests ...

(Solution manual) Essentials of Economics 4th Australia

Edition by R. Hubbard

https://ebookgrade.com/product/solution-manual-essentials-of-
economics-4th-australia-edition-by-r-hubbard/

Essentials of Economics 4th Edition by Glenn P. Hubbard

https://ebookgrade.com/product/essentials-of-economics-4th-
edition-by-glenn-p-hubbard/

Economics 4th Edition by R. Glenn Hubbard

https://ebookgrade.com/product/economics-4th-edition-by-r-glenn-
hubbard/

(PowerPoint) Essentials of Economics 5th Edition by R.

Glenn Hubbard

https://ebookgrade.com/product/powerpoint-essentials-of-
economics-5th-edition-by-r-glenn-hubbard/
(PowerPoint) Essentials of Economics 5th Edition by R.
Glenn Hubbard

https://ebookgrade.com/product/powerpoint-essentials-of-
economics-5th-edition-by-r-glenn-hubbard-2/

(Solution Manual) Essentials of Economics 4th Ediiton

by Hubbard

https://ebookgrade.com/product/solution-manual-essentials-of-
economics-4th-ediiton-by-hubbard/

Macroeconomics 3rd Edition by Anne M. Garnett

https://ebookgrade.com/product/macroeconomics-3rd-edition-by-
anne-m-garnett/

Essentials of Economics 3rd Edition by R. Glenn Hubbard

Wei Zhi

https://ebookgrade.com/product/essentials-of-economics-3rd-
edition-by-r-glenn-hubbard-wei-zhi/
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
The Project Gutenberg eBook of Listen,
children ... listen!
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United
States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away
or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License
included with this ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you
are not located in the United States, you will have to check the
laws of the country where you are located before using this
eBook.

Title: Listen, children ... listen!

Author: Wallace West

Release date: December 25, 2023 [eBook #72506]

Language: English

Original publication: New York, NY: King-Size Publications, Inc,

1953

Credits: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed

Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LISTEN,

CHILDREN ... LISTEN! ***
listen, children ... listen!

By Wallace West

The old man was long dead—but

his widow still awaited his return.
And one night she heard....

The elements of horror are as

many and varied as the
threads in a Gobelin tapestry
—with special stimuli for each
of us. Perhaps terror lies in
the howl of a coyote, in the
noises of an old house, in a
blaze of fire. Or perhaps it
responds to the mournful
creak of wheels on a gravel
road, to moonlight reflected
from a huge old mirror.
 [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Fantastic Universe October-November 1953.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
My grandmother was fey. At least that's what the neighbors said.
She could predict the weather by the way her left heel "eetched."
She always knew by some sixth sense when any of her blood was
coming down from Indianapolis to visit our tumbledown farm. She
insisted she heard angels singing (or sounds considerably more
terrifying) during funerals at the New Harmony Church over the hill.
In the eyes of myself and my sister Annette Maw was as old as the
gullies which cut up our clay fields. Probably she was about sixty
when I first remember her. She still carried her lean body proudly
though her back was bowed. She had a gift for mimicry and a merry
smile marred by the fact that she had been salivated by taking too
much calomel to fight off fever'n'aiger. This misfortune had caused
her gums to recede and gave her a snaggle-toothed look. Some of
her fangs moved when she ate but, to our eternal wonder, they
never fell out.
She had the untiring wreck of a fine alto voice and regaled us with
renditions of bloody old hymns or ballads like "The Ship's Carpenter"
(And three times 'round went our gallant ship e'er she sank to the
bottom of the sea) or an endless garbled song about a girl who
masqueraded as a soldier to join her sweetheart in the wars
between "Tors and Highlanzer."
I still have nightmares about those childhood years. The Brown
murder was a recent memory—Patriarch Brown and his blind wife
had been slaughtered by "persons unknown" in a hemlock-shrouded
farmhouse half a mile from our cabin. Repercussions of the trial had
hardly died away.
There was talk of another investigation and the persons—well known
to everyone but the law—were prowling the countryside, flashing
dark lanterns under doors and shouting threats of what would
happen to neighbors who dared tell what they knew. Paw woke one
night and fired his squirrel rifle at what he thought was a lantern but
which was only a suddenly-flaming fireplace ember. The bullet
knocked a newel post off my bed.
Despite the campaign of terror Paw just had to drive to the county
seat once a month for supplies. Always he promised to be back by
sundown. Always he met some old Butternut cronies—comrades-at-
arms in the Knights of the Golden Circle during Civil War days. And
in talking about how they had outfoxed and outfought the National
Guard sent to punish them for desertion from the Union Army he
usually would be delayed until the night closed in.
Then, as Annette and I lay in our bed beside the fireplace, refusing
to go to sleep because we knew Paw would bring us presents, Maw
would open the front door, hook her bare foot around it and listen,
tense with a fear which communicated itself to us.
The katydids might be quarreling. Or the baying of Mr. Morningstar's
coon dogs might drift through the fall or winter air. A screechowl's
sobbing might cause us to cling together in a shiver.
Finally we'd start whimpering. Then Maw would twist her wrinkled
head back through the crack in the door and whisper, "Shhh! Listen,
children.... Listen! I think I hear Josiah's wagon. They hain't got him
this time."
Often the belated team turned down some side road. And she would
murmur, hardly louder than the katydids, as she resumed her vigil,
"Shhh! Listen, children.... Listen!"
When the hours of tension had set my whole body aching with what
folks who don't know call "growing pains" and when the half-opened
door had made the room almost as chill as the night, we would
actually hear the faraway mournful creak of wheels on the gravel
road, the jingle of trace chains, the rumble of a half-empty jolt-
wagon bed.
"Thank you, dear just God!" Maw would breathe at last. Then she
would follow her bare foot through the door and bustle about
reheating the supper coffee and fixing a snack for Paw.
We would hear the wagon rumble into the yard. Next Paw would
cuss Old Nell for her contrariness as he unhitched and led her to the
stable. And at last a great grey-bearded man, his arms laden with
bundles, would stumble through the front door to be greeted by two
elves in long underwear, dancing about him and screaming,
"Whatcha got for me, Paw? Whatcha got this time?"
Usually it was jawbreakers or peppermint sticks. Once, when we sold
the hogs, it was a store doll for Annette and a marvelous steamboat
for me that you wound up with a key and sank the first time I tried it
in the branch.

He always brought something pretty and useless for Maw too. And
she always scolded and loved him for buying it. Then he'd go over to
the creaky chair where Aunt Ellen rocked slowly, pat her plump
shoulder and hold out a shell comb, a cheap ring or a handkerchief.
And Aunt Ellen would look away from the mirror—for the first time
that day, perhaps—take the thing in her plump white hand, and
smile.
I should have mentioned Aunt Ellen before but I forgot. In fact,
everybody forgot Aunt Ellen. She wanted it so. She had been deeply
in love when she was a girl, they said. But her young man had had
to see the world before he settled down. So he set out for that
strange half-mythical land called Europe. And he never returned.
After she was sure he would not come back Aunt Ellen stopped
speaking to people. She took her seat and just looked into the
mirror. I remember the rockers of that chair were worn almost
through from constant use.
The mirror fascinated Annette and me. It was big—big as our front
door and placed against the wall directly across from the entrance,
so that if you didn't look closely you thought it was another door.
And it had a great deeply-polished frame carved with intricate
lacelike patterns that hurt your eyes if you looked at them too long.
I now know that it was the only thing of real value in the draughty
log cabin. Maw said it was a "hear-loom," brought from Virginia by
her parents, the Whites, who had been "quality" in the Old Dominion
before they migrated after the war of 1812, were stampeded by land
agents into "locating" in the wrong part of the state and rapidly
dissipated their means on an unproductive wilderness.
Maw had made up a song about that mirror. "The Whites, 'tis said,
were privateers when England ruled the waves ..." was the way it
started. And it went on to tell how the mirror was part of their loot
when they sacked and scuttled some tall merchantman.
To corroborate this story we had another relic, a "treasure chest" of
the same dark wood, iron-bound and strong, which was used as a
hens' nest beneath the house. Annette and I crawled under the floor
from time to time to see if we could find any treasure still in it. But
all we ever found were eggs.
After Paw had taken off his overcoat and Maw had put his packages
in the leanto kitchen he would sit before the fire, suck coffee
through his beard and regale us with news from the outside—how
Uncle Joe Cannon's control of Congress was about to be broken,
what the Young Turks were up to, how T.R.'s trust-busting would
boost farm prices and make us all rich again and how they had just
found a rusted and bloody monkey wrench in Brown's well.
At last, tired and happy, with our mouths puckered from too many
jawbreakers, we'd go back to bed. And we'd wake to a humdrum
world which included school, collecting wood, milking our cow, riding
Old Nell when she would let us and maybe going to an ice cream
social at New Harmony, until it was time for Paw to make another
epic trip to Martinsville.
But life was never completely humdrum when Paw was around. He
knew every bird by its call, could lead us unerringly to the best
raspberry patches and made marvelous popguns, slingshots and "fly
killers" out of elder bushes and bits of string. When he tired of such
things as the sun went down his tales about Napoleon and Hannibal
crossing the Alps would hold us spellbound.
Openhanded to a fault Paw had lost most of his farm through the
years by going on neighbors' worthless notes or lending them money
and not having the heart to ask for its return. Yet he was the
materialist of the family and never tired of poking fun at Maw's
voices and premonitions.
Dressed in overalls, shaggy, massive and not always clean, he looked
like a poor white. Nevertheless he had had a good education and
once confessed to me, when Maw's back was turned, that in his
youth he had made a tour of the state lecturing on atheism. And he
had an endless fund of slightly bawdy sacrilegious stories which
made May click her teeth at him and mourn that he would never go
to heaven when he died.
Years slip past like water when one is young. We hardly noticed,
Annette and I, that the bend in Maw's back was growing more
pronounced and that Paw stopped oftener for breath when he
plowed our stubby fields or sawed the endless cords of wood which
still could not keep the living room warm when wintry winds swept
down from some place that he called Medicine Hat. (Annette and I
used to pretend we were on a ship as we walked across the rag
carpet in the living room while it billowed upward as air blew under
it through cracks in the floor.)
And then one night, after the usual period of listening, when Maw
finally had heard the wagon creaking, closed the door and put on
the bitter coffee, Old Nell jogtrotted into the yard and stopped
without the usual accompaniment of curses. For a while Maw noticed
nothing wrong. Then she slowly faced the door, lips firmly drawn
over those wobbly teeth.
Annette and I, all ready for our jump out of the warm bed onto the
icy floor, watched her uncomprehendingly until we saw that Aunt
Ellen had given over her unending vigil at the mirror and turned her
head questioningly. Then we too knew that something was very
strange.
As though moved by strings, placing one foot before the other with
obvious effort, Maw started toward the door. After an eternity she
reached it, opened it, closed it against her bare shank in the old
accustomed gesture.
"Josiah!" we heard her scream as the foot disappeared.
With a sigh Aunt Ellen rose and waddled after her.
Maw—she was still strong as an ox and could swing an axe like a
man—backed through the door after awhile, holding Paw under the
armpits. Aunt Ellen carried his feet as they brought him in.
"The old fool!" Maw was whimpering. "I knew they'd get him. The
old fool! I told him not to stay so danged late."
Her eyes were dry and glittering.

After the funeral—Annette and I boasted at school that the Brown

murderers had done for Paw although a stroke undoubtedly was
responsible—the old cabin never felt quite like home again. First a
deluge of uncles, aunts and cousins descended upon us and insisted
we sell the farm and move to town.
"Josiah would not have it so," Maw told them while Aunt Ellen
nodded corroboration. So they compromised by having a hired hand
in to do the plowing and heavier work.
At the start nothing seemed vitally wrong except the absence of
Paw's explosive laughter and endless stories, plus a growing dearth
of first-class popguns and slingshots. Then, one rainy day when I
had been brooding over one of his dog-eared books—"Vanity Fair," I
think it was—I looked up, caught sight of Maw, her potato peeling
forgotten, sitting tense beside the kitchen table.
I knew what it was that had been bothering me. Maw was still
listening ... always listening now. What I did not realize was that,
without Paw's quizzical common sense to balance her, she was
slipping imperceptibly into that never-never land which had so often
beckoned.
Not long after this discovery I awakened, chilled, as the decrepit
Seth Thomas clock clinked midnight. The door was open a crack and
I could glimpse, by the last flickering embers, Maw's foot in its
accustomed place.
"Maw," I called.
"Shhh! Listen! I think I hear a wagon."
"Maw," I screamed. "Maw!"
"What is it, honey?" she asked in her normal voice as she came
inside, crossed the room and placed a horny hand on my forehead in
one of her rare caresses.
"You'll catch cold," I mumbled, somehow ashamed.
"I was just listening to the katydids. They sound—fresh, like spring-
water," she lied.
"Don't listen any more."
"All right, honey, I'll go to bed. Don't worrit yourself."
But she did not keep her promise.
Several months later I came home from school ahead of Annette,
who was dusting erasers for the teacher. At the front door I stopped
as I heard animated conversation inside. Thinking it was one of the
neighbor women, who called occasionally to gossip, I rushed in,
eager not to miss anything, then stopped, heart in mouth, terrified.
Aunt Ellen was out of the house on one of the chores to which she
now condescended to put her white hands and Maw was occupying
the old rocker before the mirror. But what frightened me was the
chatter in two distinct voices which still continued.
"Maw," I gulped. "Who—who you talking to?"
"Why, with Mrs.—Mrs. Jones here, of course." She laughed although
her eyes refused to meet mine. "Mrs. Jones, this is my grandson I
was telling you about. Take off your cap, son, and say—"
"But Maw," I gulped. "There's no one there. It's just your reflection
in the looking glass."
"Why—why so it is," she stammered, brushing one brown hand
across her eyes. "I was just fooling." She jumped to her feet and
started bustling about like her old indefatigable self. "Now run along
and fill the wood box. Then wash your hands and help me peel
these 'taters. I'm way late with supper, what with having to stop to
talk—I mean I must have set down to rest and went to sleep."
Then began one of the strangest battles in the history of fairie—two
children against a mirror, for of course I enlisted poor Annette on my
side. I tried to explain to Aunt Ellen but she merely smiled
understandingly and patted me with one fat hand while her
prominent eyes fluttered back to the glass.
I wrote a scrawl to Uncle Bill, my favorite, and he left his hardware
store the next weekend and came down from the city with a little
chinwhiskered doctor. Since psychiatry was almost unknown in those
days the physician looked at Maw's tongue, thumped her chest,
asked her a few questions, which she answered with sly humor, and
pronounced her sound.
"I think it's you that's imagining things, boy," said Uncle Bill when he
took me for a walk in the woods after one of Maw's wonderful
chicken dinners. "We're all upset by Paw's going. Just don't worry
about things."
"But Uncle Bill," I protested. "I heard what I saw."
"I know—I know." His lean shrewd face had a worried look, I noticed
with an upward glance. "You're a highstrung youngster. Write me
often, though. And I'll come down every time I can. Say—look!" I
could almost hear him sigh with relief at an opportunity to change
the subject. "There's a patch of violets already. Let's pick some and
take them back to Maw and Ellen. It'll make them happy."
After that, of course, I had to carry on the fight with only Annette to
help.
We tried everything—went right home when we could have been
playing with the other kids after school—got Maw to sing for us by
the hour—read out loud to her—inveigled her into the spring woods
to pick flowers and look for birds' nests. Oh, it was a brave battle put
up by a twelve- and a ten-year-old against something alien and,
somehow, far wiser than we.

At first Maw managed to banish her visions when she heard us come
into the yard. Then we had to strive hard and harder to break the
spell.
And one day we both became twins!
It happened when Annette and I came home one time the teacher
took sick. It was much earlier than usual and we caught Maw
rocking happily before the mirror, gossiping with her reflection.
"I'm so glad you brought your own children to visit me today, Mrs.
Jones," she exclaimed the moment our images appeared in the glass
behind hers. "My Tommy and Annette don't have many playmates,
we live so far from any neighbors. I'm sure they'll be much happier
now."
"Aw, Maw," Annette protested as we instinctively ducked out of
range. "Those ain't teal children. You're just looking at us in the
looking glass."
But the damage had been done. For once in my life I saw
grandmother grow really angry.
"I'll have none of your sass, Annette," she stormed, rising and
straightening her back until it cracked. "Mrs. Jones, I don't know
what has come over my younguns. Now, will you two say you're
sorry or must I whip you right before company?"
Shamefaced and shaken, we apologized to the empty air. And from
that hour Mrs. Jones and her ghostly brats became our constant
companions.
At first we hated and resented them, then, childlike, accepted the
inevitable and even made the best of it. Sometimes, so real did Maw
make the delusion become, we almost believed with her that the
shadows were real. On rainy weekends we found ourselves inventing
games to play with them. Perhaps, in time, we might have gone to
inhabit her world of dreams.
But Maw's health was failing rapidly. We tried to ignore the fact as
she did, though it soon became pitifully obvious that Paw's loss had
broken the iron will which had sustained her through so many
adversities. Aunt Ellen more and more ceded her place before the
mirror as she helped Annette and me do the lighter chores and even
some of the cooking.
Bill Pailey came over every day now—Maw never paraded her
shadows when he was around, knowing that the bluff farmer was
somehow not to be trusted with such dream stuff. And the money
which aunts and uncles contributed, willingly or grudgingly, was
more and more needed to fill the gaps in our finances.
"Tommy," Annette said to me one afternoon as we were plodding
home from school along the muddy dogwood-bordered road. "What
happens to people when they die?"
"Aw, I don't know," I muttered, kicking a loose stone with my
copper-toed shoe. "Maw says the angels come and get 'em and take
'em to heaven."
"But the angels didn't come and get Dickie." Dickie was a wry-
necked pin-feathered rooster that Paw had taught to come when we
called, dig fishing worms for us and jump through a barrel hoop. "I
went to look at Dickie's grave the other day. A dog had dug him up.
There were just feathers—and bones."
"Aw," I said. "Chickens don't have souls. But Maw says that when
Miz Pailey died last year she was there and she saw—"
"We're going to be awful lonesome, though," my sister sighed. "And
you'll have to get up and make the fire every morning."
"What you mean?" I challenged.
"Nothing. Let's run. I'm cold." And she was off in a flutter of long
legs, gingham and pale yellow braids.
After such a conversation I hardly dared enter the house that day.
When I did go in, after fooling around at the barn as long as
possible, I found Maw singing lustily about some man who had gone
to the gallows with a white dove riding on his shoulder to prove him
innocent of the murder of his sweetheart.
"Where's Mrs. Jones and her kids?" I asked, flabbergasted.
"They went home," said Maw. "I told them to. Can't spend all my
time gassing with a ugly old woman like that when I've got
housecleaning to do."
And until long after sunset she made the feathers fly from the old
pillows, beat up the crackling corn-shuck mattresses, sprinkled and
swept the floors and polished the meager kitchen utensils till they
shone. Annette and I, feeling as if we had been released from jail,
helped with a will. Aunt Ellen, reinstated in her rocking chair,
frowned and sneezed by turns and said nothing as always.
"There," said Maw at last as she hung the home-made broom behind
the kitchen range and sank into a chair, looking suddenly more worn
and old than I had ever seen her. "There. It's all swept and
garnished for when the bridegroom cometh."
"The bridegroom?" I glanced at her sharply.
"I was just fooling again, son." She stared down at her big-veined
hands as they lay clasped in her lap. "Must be getting old, I guess. I
just meant that I have a feeling your Uncle Bill will come tomorrow.
And you know how fussy he is about everything being neat and
clean." She rose reluctantly with a sigh, half of weariness, half of
content. "Come. You and Annette get undressed and get to bed. I'll
sing you to sleep like I used to when you were little."

"You look just like my daughter, sir,

Who from me ran away...."

Her old cracked voice still had its hypnotic quality and I felt my
eyelids drooping despite my certain knowledge that this night, of all
nights, I should stay awake.
"Maw," I mumbled. "I wanna drink."
Her bare feet padded into the kitchen. I heard the rattle of tin cup
against galvanized bucket. Then she was back at my side again and
the spring-water was fresh on my dry lips and gums.
"Maw," I rambled on. "I don't wanna sleep. Tell me about when you
were a little girl back in Virginia—and the big white horse and the
black people...."
"Not tonight, honey. You're all tuckered out," she crooned, stroking
my forehead and picking up the thread of that interminable song.

"I a-am not your daughter, sir,

And neither do I know.
I a-am from Highlanzer
And they call me Jack Monroe...."

I woke with a start, those last lugubrious lines still ringing in my

ears.
 "She dre-ew out her broadsword.
She bid this world adieu.
Saying 'Goodbye to Jack Highlanzer'
And 'Goodbye to Jack Monroe.'"

Have you ever awakened in a strange place—a hotel room perhaps—

tried to locate a familiar lamp, the dim outlines of your own bed-
chamber, the tick of a friendly clock? Or have you, perhaps, sought
frantically for a door with your hands sliding vainly along black and
forbidding walls?
This was the same room in which I had gone to sleep. The fire was
almost out. By my side Annette breathed deep and slow. I could
hear Aunt Ellen snoring not far away. Through the open door a full
moon stretched its carpet almost to my bed. Yet, despite these
comforting sights and sounds, everything about me seemed topsy
turvy and utterly horribly wrong.
My bare toes curled with terror as I realized what it was. Our front
door was in the south wall of the cabin. The moonshine was pouring
in through a wide opening in the north wall—through the place
where the mirror stood! And a cold wind was pouring in with it.
"Maw," I whispered, sitting up and rubbing my eyes.
Only the chorus of katydids answered.
But this was spring! Katydids sang only in the fall!
At the same moment I saw a bare foot and ankle etched in
moonlight as it hooked around the age-darkened frame of the
opening.
"Please, Maw." I still struggled between dream and waking. "You'll
catch cold out there."
She came partially inside the "door" then and smiled at me. And I
noticed, with the lack of surprise which accompanies nightmares,
that her teeth were white and firm in the moonglow.
"Shhh!" she admonished. "I think I hear a wagon."
"But Paw is...." I began, then stopped spellbound.
Far in the distance, across rolling hills which lay bathed in beauty
and above the fresh staccato mutter of katydids, I too caught the
creak of wheels on a gravel road, the jingle of trace chains and the
rumble of a half-empty jolt-wagon bed.
I crouched, hardly breathing, until I heard the wagon stop briefly at
our sagging gate—we always kept it closed now—heard the rusty
hinges squeak and then the friendly thump, thumptey, thump of the
wagon as it resumed its progress into the yard.
"It's Uncle Bill, ain't it, Maw?" I pleaded.
"Bill's not due till tomorrow, honey," she answered softly as she
shaded her eyes against the moonlight. "No, it's...."
"But it can't be," I sobbed. "He—the angels took him."
"Not Josiah! Angels wouldn't touch him with a ten-foot pole, thank
the dear just God," she chuckled. "He'll have a whole raft of
packages after all this while." She started forward briskly. "I'll go
help pack them in."
"No, Maw! Don't leave—wait for me!" I screamed, plunging from bed
and racing wildly after her receding back.
I regained consciousness to find Aunt Ellen bathing my forehead
with hot vinegar. Annette was sobbing. My face was badly cut—I still
wear the scar—and the mirror was shattered in its frame.
"Maw!" I struggled to get up. "She...."
"I know," said Aunt Ellen in just the thread of a voice unused for
years as her plump white hands continued to apply the compress. "I
understand."
When Uncle Bill arrived next morning there was a great to-do and
the neighbors organized a search of the surrounding woods and the
creek bottom. Of course they found nothing. I knew they wouldn't.
Annette and Aunt Ellen knew they wouldn't. And I think Uncle Bill
knew it too after he heard my story, although of course he wouldn't
let on.
The rest of them patted my head and said, "Too bad, poor boy. He's
under an awful strain," when I tried to tell them.
Several months later a woman's body was found in White River, full
fifteen miles away. People said it must be grandmother, that she
must have wandered that far before she died of exposure. Our
aunts, uncles, cousins and nephews had a big funeral at the New
Harmony Church over the hill.
But Annette and I wouldn't go.
*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LISTEN, CHILDREN
... LISTEN! ***

Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions

will be renamed.

Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S.

copyright law means that no one owns a United States
copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy
and distribute it in the United States without permission and
without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the
General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and
distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the
PROJECT GUTENBERG™ concept and trademark. Project
Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if
you charge for an eBook, except by following the terms of the
trademark license, including paying royalties for use of the
Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for
copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is
very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such
as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and
research. Project Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and
printed and given away—you may do practically ANYTHING in
the United States with eBooks not protected by U.S. copyright
law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark license, especially
commercial redistribution.

START: FULL LICENSE

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE
 PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the

free distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this
work (or any other work associated in any way with the phrase
“Project Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of
the Full Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or
online at www.gutenberg.org/license.

Section 1. General Terms of Use and

Redistributing Project Gutenberg™
electronic works
1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand,
agree to and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual
property (trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree
to abide by all the terms of this agreement, you must cease
using and return or destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™
electronic works in your possession. If you paid a fee for
obtaining a copy of or access to a Project Gutenberg™
electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the terms
of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or
entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only

be used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by
people who agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement.
There are a few things that you can do with most Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works even without complying with the
full terms of this agreement. See paragraph 1.C below. There
are a lot of things you can do with Project Gutenberg™
electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement and
help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™
electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.
1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the
Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the
collection of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the
individual works in the collection are in the public domain in the
United States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright
law in the United States and you are located in the United
States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from copying,
distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative works
based on the work as long as all references to Project
Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope that you will
support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting free
access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™
works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for
keeping the Project Gutenberg™ name associated with the
work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement
by keeping this work in the same format with its attached full
Project Gutenberg™ License when you share it without charge
with others.

1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also
govern what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most
countries are in a constant state of change. If you are outside
the United States, check the laws of your country in addition to
the terms of this agreement before downloading, copying,
displaying, performing, distributing or creating derivative works
based on this work or any other Project Gutenberg™ work. The
Foundation makes no representations concerning the copyright
status of any work in any country other than the United States.

1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project

Gutenberg:

1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other

immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must
appear prominently whenever any copy of a Project
Gutenberg™ work (any work on which the phrase “Project
Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project
Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed,
viewed, copied or distributed:

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United

States and most other parts of the world at no cost and
with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it,
give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project
Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United
States, you will have to check the laws of the country
where you are located before using this eBook.

1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is

derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not
contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of
the copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to
anyone in the United States without paying any fees or charges.
If you are redistributing or providing access to a work with the
phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the
work, you must comply either with the requirements of
paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use
of the work and the Project Gutenberg™ trademark as set forth
in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is

posted with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and
distribution must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through
1.E.7 and any additional terms imposed by the copyright holder.
Additional terms will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™
License for all works posted with the permission of the copyright
holder found at the beginning of this work.

1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project

Gutenberg™ License terms from this work, or any files
 containing a part of this work or any other work associated with
Project Gutenberg™.

1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute

this electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1
with active links or immediate access to the full terms of the
Project Gutenberg™ License.

1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form,
including any word processing or hypertext form. However, if
you provide access to or distribute copies of a Project
Gutenberg™ work in a format other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or
other format used in the official version posted on the official
Project Gutenberg™ website (www.gutenberg.org), you must,
at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a copy,
a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy
upon request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or
other form. Any alternate format must include the full Project
Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,

performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™
works unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or

providing access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™
electronic works provided that:

• You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive
from the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the
method you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The
fee is owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark,
but he has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to
the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty
 payments must be paid within 60 days following each date on
which you prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your
periodic tax returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked
as such and sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive
Foundation at the address specified in Section 4, “Information
about donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive
Foundation.”

• You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who

notifies you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt
that s/he does not agree to the terms of the full Project
Gutenberg™ License. You must require such a user to return or
destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium
and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of
Project Gutenberg™ works.

• You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of

any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in
the electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90
days of receipt of the work.

• You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.

1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project

Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different
terms than are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain
permission in writing from the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, the manager of the Project Gutenberg™
trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3
below.

1.F.

1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend

considerable effort to identify, do copyright research on,
transcribe and proofread works not protected by U.S. copyright
law in creating the Project Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these
efforts, Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, and the medium
on which they may be stored, may contain “Defects,” such as,
but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or corrupt data,
transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual property
infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a
computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be
read by your equipment.

1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except

for the “Right of Replacement or Refund” described in
paragraph 1.F.3, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive
Foundation, the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark,
and any other party distributing a Project Gutenberg™ electronic
work under this agreement, disclaim all liability to you for
damages, costs and expenses, including legal fees. YOU AGREE
THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT
EXCEPT THOSE PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE
THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY
DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE LIABLE
TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL,
PUNITIVE OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE
NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGE.

1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you

discover a defect in this electronic work within 90 days of
receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any) you
paid for it by sending a written explanation to the person you
received the work from. If you received the work on a physical
medium, you must return the medium with your written
explanation. The person or entity that provided you with the
defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu
of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person
or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second
opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund.