The Gift of the Magi
A Story by O.Henry
One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher until one's cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty-seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas.
There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and howl. So Della did it. Which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating.
While the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding from the first stage to the second, take a look at the home. A furnished flat at $8 per week. It did not exactly beggar description, but it certainly had that word on the lookout for the mendicancy squad.
In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no letter would go, and an electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring. Also appertaining thereunto was a card bearing the name "Mr. James Dillingham Young."
The "Dillingham" had been flung to the breeze during a former period of prosperity when its possessor was being paid $30 per week. Now, when the income was shrunk to $20, the letters of "Dillingham" looked blurred, as though they were thinking seriously of contracting to a modest and unassuming D. But whenever Mr. James Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat above he was called "Jim" and greatly hugged by Mrs. James Dillingham Young, already introduced to you as Della. Which is all very good.
Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the powder rag. She stood by the window and looked out dully at a grey cat walking a grey fence in a grey backyard. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and she had only $1.87 with which to buy Jim a present. She had been saving every penny she could for months, with this result. Twenty dollars a week doesn't go far. Expenses had been greater than she had calculated. They always are. Only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim. Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him. Something fine and rare and sterling—something just a little bit near to being worthy of the honour of being owned by Jim.
There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you have seen a pier-glass in an $8 flat. A very thin and very agile person may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks. Della, being slender, had mastered the art.
Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. Her eyes were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its colour within twenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to its full length.
Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in which they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim's gold watch that had been his father's and his grandfather's. The other was Della's hair. Had the Queen of Sheba lived in the flat across the airshaft, Della would have let her hair hang out the window some day to dry just to depreciate Her Majesty's jewels and gifts. Had King Solomon been the janitor, with all his treasures piled up in the basement, Jim would have pulled out his watch every time he passed, just to see him pluck at his beard from envy.
So now Della's beautiful hair fell about her, rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters. It reached below her knee and made itself almost a garment for her. And then she did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet.
On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a whirl of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street.
Where she stopped the sign read: "Mme. Sofronie. Hair Goods of All Kinds." One flight up Della ran, and collected herself, panting. Madame, large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the "Sofronie."
"Will you buy my hair?" asked Della.
"I buy hair," said Madame. "Take yer hat off and let's have a sight at the looks of it."
Down rippled the brown cascade. "Twenty dollars," said Madame, lifting the mass with a practised hand.
"Give it to me quick," said Della.
Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forget the hashed metaphor. She was ransacking the stores for Jim's present.
She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else. There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a platinum fob chain simple and chaste in design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not by meretricious ornamentation—as all good things should do. It was even worthy of The Watch. As soon as she saw it she knew that it must be Jim's. It was like him. Quietness and value—the description applied to both. Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she hurried home with the 87 cents. With that chain on his watch Jim might be properly anxious about the time in any company. Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly on account of the old leather strap that he used in place of a chain.
When Della reached home her intoxication gave way a little to prudence and reason. She got out her curling irons and lighted the gas and went to work repairing the ravages made by generosity added to love. Which is always a tremendous task, dear friends—a mammoth task.
Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, close-lying curls that made her look wonderfully like a truant schoolboy. She looked at her reflection in the mirror long, carefully, and critically.
"If Jim doesn't kill me," she said to herself, "before he takes a second look at me, he'll say I look like a Coney Island chorus girl. But what could I do—oh! what could I do with a dollar and eighty-seven cents?"
At 7 o'clock the coffee was made and the frying-pan was on the back of the stove hot and ready to cook the chops.
Jim was never late. Della doubled the fob chain in her hand and sat on the corner of the table near the door that he always entered. Then she heard his step on the stair away down on the first flight, and she turned white for just a moment. She had a habit for saying little silent prayers about the simplest everyday things, and now she whispered: "Please God, make him think I am still pretty."
The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and very serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two—and to be burdened with a family! He needed a new overcoat and he was without gloves.
Jim stopped inside the door, as immovable as a setter at the scent of quail. His eyes were fixed upon Della, and there was an expression in them that she could not read, and it terrified her. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments that she had been prepared for. He simply stared at her fixedly with that peculiar expression on his face.
Della wriggled off the table and went for him.
"Jim, darling," she cried, "don't look at me that way. I had my hair cut off and sold because I couldn't have lived through Christmas without giving you a present. It'll grow out again—you won't mind, will you? I just had to do it. My hair grows awfully fast. Say 'Merry Christmas!' Jim, and let's be happy. You don't know what a nice—what a beautiful, nice gift I've got for you."
"You've cut off your hair?" asked Jim, laboriously, as if he had not arrived at that patent fact yet even after the hardest mental labor.
"Cut it off and sold it," said Della. "Don't you like me just as well, anyhow? I'm me without my hair, ain't I?"
Jim looked about the room curiously.
"You say your hair is gone?" he said, with an air almost of idiocy.
"You needn't look for it," said Della. "It's sold, I tell you—sold and gone, too. It's Christmas Eve, boy. Be good to me, for it went for you. Maybe the hairs of my head were numbered," she went on with sudden serious sweetness, "but nobody could ever count my love for you. Shall I put the chops on, Jim?"
Out of his trance Jim seemed quickly to wake. He enfolded his Della. For ten seconds let us regard with discreet scrutiny some inconsequential object in the other direction. Eight dollars a week or a million a year—what is the difference? A mathematician or a wit would give you the wrong answer. The magi brought valuable gifts, but that was not among them. This dark assertion will be illuminated later on.
Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon the table.
"Don't make any mistake, Dell," he said, "about me. I don't think there's anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that could make me like my girl any less. But if you'll unwrap that package you may see why you had me going a while at first."
White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And then an ecstatic scream of joy; and then, alas! a quick feminine change to hysterical tears and wails, necessitating the immediate employment of all the comforting powers of the lord of the flat.
For there lay The Combs—the set of combs, side and back, that Della had worshipped long in a Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell, with jewelled rims—just the shade to wear in the beautiful vanished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew, and her heart had simply craved and yearned over them without the least hope of possession. And now, they were hers, but the tresses that should have adorned the coveted adornments were gone.
But she hugged them to her bosom, and at length she was able to look up with dim eyes and a smile and say: "My hair grows so fast, Jim!"
And then Della leaped up like a little singed cat and cried, "Oh, oh!"
Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him eagerly upon her open palm. The dull precious metal seemed to flash with a reflection of her bright and ardent spirit.
"Isn't it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You'll have to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I want to see how it looks on it."
Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands under the back of his head and smiled.
"Dell," said he, "let's put our Christmas presents away and keep 'em a while. They're too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to get the money to buy your combs. And now suppose you put the chops on."
The magi, as you know, were wise men—wonderfully wise men—who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. Of all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Mukhtar Mai-The Story(Reality) of a rape
Her name is Mukhtaran Bibi, but she has come to be known as Mukhtar Mai, which means "respected big sister," after her story first became known.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
Mukhtaran Bibi was in the news for a brief time in 2002 and then was forgotten until recently. She is the Pakistani woman who was sentenced by a tribal council to be gang-raped for an alleged offense of her younger brother. Several of her neighbors carried out the sentence, brutally raping her and forcing her to walk naked through her village. She was meant to be so shamed that she would commit suicide, but instead she found the courage to overcome her disgrace. She demanded the prosecution of her attackers, and six were sentenced to death.
Mukhtaran received $8300 in compensation, a substantial sum in her remote region of Pakistan. Instead of using the funds to move to Islamabad where she could escape from her shame, she decided to start a school for girls in her village. With additional contributions from many who learned of her efforts through the media, the school now provides elementary education and literacy training to 130 poor and orphan girls. Mai and her friends operate the school themselves, and until now they have been supplying books, uniforms, and shoes to the girls without assistance from the Pakistani government or any non-profit organizations.
Mukhtaran’s story might have ended here, except that on March 3, 2005 a Pakistani court overturned the death sentences of all six men who raped her and ordered five of them freed. The case has become an embarrassment for the Pakistani government as her story became more widely known, forcing the courts to reverse themselves.
Mukhtaran's story of heartbreak and triumph is sadly typical of countless stories of women and girls in poor countries around the world. The exploitation of women, particularly in poor countries, is the most serious abuse of human rights in the world today. Tens of millions of women and girls in Asia alone are exploited for their labor, working long hours for pennies a day to supply cheap goods to discount stores like Wal-Mart. Countless thousands of young girls in poor countries are trafficked for sex, the most heinous crime in the world today. Women (and girls) in poor countries die at a rate of one per minute from complications of childbirth without the most basic of health services.
Concerned persons should make every effort to commit their resources and advocacy to issues of gender equity. Wealthy nations should be held accountable for their role in the exploitation of the world’s poor women and girls. Each of us should find a way to make a contribution, however small, to the health, welfare, education, and dignity of our sisters.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
Mukhtaran Bibi was in the news for a brief time in 2002 and then was forgotten until recently. She is the Pakistani woman who was sentenced by a tribal council to be gang-raped for an alleged offense of her younger brother. Several of her neighbors carried out the sentence, brutally raping her and forcing her to walk naked through her village. She was meant to be so shamed that she would commit suicide, but instead she found the courage to overcome her disgrace. She demanded the prosecution of her attackers, and six were sentenced to death.
Mukhtaran received $8300 in compensation, a substantial sum in her remote region of Pakistan. Instead of using the funds to move to Islamabad where she could escape from her shame, she decided to start a school for girls in her village. With additional contributions from many who learned of her efforts through the media, the school now provides elementary education and literacy training to 130 poor and orphan girls. Mai and her friends operate the school themselves, and until now they have been supplying books, uniforms, and shoes to the girls without assistance from the Pakistani government or any non-profit organizations.
Mukhtaran’s story might have ended here, except that on March 3, 2005 a Pakistani court overturned the death sentences of all six men who raped her and ordered five of them freed. The case has become an embarrassment for the Pakistani government as her story became more widely known, forcing the courts to reverse themselves.
Mukhtaran's story of heartbreak and triumph is sadly typical of countless stories of women and girls in poor countries around the world. The exploitation of women, particularly in poor countries, is the most serious abuse of human rights in the world today. Tens of millions of women and girls in Asia alone are exploited for their labor, working long hours for pennies a day to supply cheap goods to discount stores like Wal-Mart. Countless thousands of young girls in poor countries are trafficked for sex, the most heinous crime in the world today. Women (and girls) in poor countries die at a rate of one per minute from complications of childbirth without the most basic of health services.
Concerned persons should make every effort to commit their resources and advocacy to issues of gender equity. Wealthy nations should be held accountable for their role in the exploitation of the world’s poor women and girls. Each of us should find a way to make a contribution, however small, to the health, welfare, education, and dignity of our sisters.
[All these things published here are from internet]
The Story Of Narcissus-A Tragic love story
The story of Narcissus in Greek mythology begins with the story of Echo, a beautiful nymph who lived in the woods and often accompanied the goddess Artemis on her chase for deer and other wildlife. Echo’s shortfall was that she loved to talk a lot.
One day when goddess Hera was looking for her husband,Zeus,in the woods.Zeus was at that time amusing himself with the other beautiful nymphs in the woods.Echo came that way and met Hera,the queen of gods.Echo tried to stall her by continually speaking with her.As a result Zeus was able to enjoy with other nymphs.Angry Hera placed a curse on Echo. This curse did not allow Echo to say anything except to repeat what she had heard.
Narcissus was a handsome young man and had been since he was just a child.Narcissus was quite famous for rejecting the many nymphs that wanted to show him love.
One day Echo was in the woods when she saw Narcissus and immediately fell in love with him. She was invisible but Narcissus heard some sounds and he asked, “Who’s there?”
She tried to answer,but the only sound she could produce was “there”,which she heard.So she came out in front of him so that Narcissus could see her and return her love.She was surely very beautiful but Narcissus rejected her. She fled into the mountains, scorned by him.
One day Narcissus was walking in the woods when he came by a pond that had water so clear it could have been crystal. The water was free of debris and no one ever came by to disturb the peaceful waters. Narcissus bent down to take a drink from the beautiful pond and saw his own reflection looking back at him.
He instantly became mesmerized by it and sat for some time staring into his own beautiful face. He continually tried to reach down and embrace the image that he saw in the water, and he also tried to bend down and kiss the image. As soon as he touched it however, it fled from him. Echo saw Narcissus admiring himself in a clear pond. Looking at his reflection, he vainly said to the face in the water, "I love you."
Echo repeated, "I love you," and meant it. But Narcissus thought it was his reflection that spoke and stood gazing at himself until he died.When the elders had prepared a funeral for him and went to gather the body however, it could not be found.
But in the exact same place that Narcissus had sat for all that time, grew a beautiful flower that we know today as Narcissus flower.Echo's voice that can still be heard in certain hollow places, senselessly repeating the words of others.
Duty And Friendship
After Twenty Years-A story by O.HENRY
The policeman on the beat moved up the avenue impressively. The impressiveness was habitual and not for show, for spectators were few. The time was barely 10 o'clock at night, but chilly gusts of wind with a taste of rain in them had well nigh de-peopled the streets.
Trying doors as he went, twirling his club with many intricate and artful movements, turning now and then to cast his watchful eye adown the pacific thoroughfare, the officer, with his stalwart form and slight swagger, made a fine picture of a guardian of the peace. The vicinity was one that kept early hours. Now and then you might see the lights of a cigar store or of an all-night lunch counter; but the majority of the doors belonged to business places that had long since been closed.
When about midway of a certain block the policeman suddenly slowed his walk. In the doorway of a darkened hardware store a man leaned, with an unlighted cigar in his mouth. As the policeman walked up to him the man spoke up quickly.
"It's all right, officer," he said, reassuringly. "I'm just waiting for a friend. It's an appointment made twenty years ago. Sounds a little funny to you, doesn't it? Well, I'll explain if you'd like to make certain it's all straight. About that long ago there used to be a restaurant where this store stands—'Big Joe' Brady's restaurant."
"Until five years ago," said the policeman. "It was torn down then."
The man in the doorway struck a match and lit his cigar. The light showed a pale, square-jawed face with keen eyes, and a little white scar near his right eyebrow. His scarfpin was a large diamond, oddly set.
"Twenty years ago to-night," said the man, "I dined here at 'Big Joe' Brady's with Jimmy Wells, my best chum, and the finest chap in the world. He and I were raised here in New York, just like two brothers, together. I was eighteen and Jimmy was twenty. The next morning I was to start for the West to make my fortune. You couldn't have dragged Jimmy out of New York; he thought it was the only place on earth. Well, we agreed that night that we would meet here again exactly twenty years from that date and time, no matter what our conditions might be or from what distance we might have to come. We figured that in twenty years each of us ought to have our destiny worked out and our fortunes made, whatever they were going to be."
"It sounds pretty interesting," said the policeman. "Rather a long time between meets, though, it seems to me. Haven't you heard from your friend since you left?"
"Well, yes, for a time we corresponded," said the other. "But after a year or two we lost track of each other. You see, the West is a pretty big proposition, and I kept hustling around over it pretty lively. But I know Jimmy will meet me here if he's alive, for he always was the truest, stanchest old chap in the world. He'll never forget. I came a thousand miles to stand in this door to-night, and it's worth it if my old partner turns up."
The waiting man pulled out a handsome watch, the lids of it set with small diamonds.
"Three minutes to ten," he announced. "It was exactly ten o'clock when we parted here at the restaurant door."
"Did pretty well out West, didn't you?" asked the policeman.
"You bet! I hope Jimmy has done half as well. He was a kind of plodder, though, good fellow as he was. I've had to compete with some of the sharpest wits going to get my pile. A man gets in a groove in New York. It takes the West to put a razor-edge on him."
The policeman twirled his club and took a step or two.
"I'll be on my way. Hope your friend comes around all right. Going to call time on him sharp?"
"I should say not!" said the other. "I'll give him half an hour at least. If Jimmy is alive on earth he'll be here by that time. So long, officer."
"Good-night, sir," said the policeman, passing on along his beat, trying doors as he went.
There was now a fine, cold drizzle falling, and the wind had risen from its uncertain puffs into a steady blow. The few foot passengers astir in that quarter hurried dismally and silently along with coat collars turned high and pocketed hands. And in the door of the hardware store the man who had come a thousand miles to fill an appointment, uncertain almost to absurdity, with the friend of his youth, smoked his cigar and waited.
About twenty minutes he waited, and then a tall man in a long overcoat, with collar turned up to his ears, hurried across from the opposite side of the street. He went directly to the waiting man.
"Is that you, Bob?" he asked, doubtfully.
"Is that you, Jimmy Wells?" cried the man in the door.
"Bless my heart!" exclaimed the new arrival, grasping both the other's hands with his own. "It's Bob, sure as fate. I was certain I'd find you here if you were still in existence. Well, well, well!—twenty years is a long time. The old restaurant's gone, Bob; I wish it had lasted, so we could have had another dinner there. How has the West treated you, old man?"
"Bully; it has given me everything I asked it for. You've changed lots, Jimmy. I never thought you were so tall by two or three inches."
"Oh, I grew a bit after I was twenty."
"Doing well in New York, Jimmy?"
"Moderately. I have a position in one of the city departments. Come on, Bob; we'll go around to a place I know of, and have a good long talk about old times."
The two men started up the street, arm in arm. The man from the West, his egotism enlarged by success, was beginning to outline the history of his career. The other, submerged in his overcoat, listened with interest.
At the corner stood a drug store, brilliant with electric lights. When they came into this glare each of them turned simultaneously to gaze upon the other's face.
The man from the West stopped suddenly and released his arm.
"You're not Jimmy Wells," he snapped. "Twenty years is a long time, but not long enough to change a man's nose from a Roman to a pug."
"It sometimes changes a good man into a bad one," said the tall man. "You've been under arrest for ten minutes, 'Silky' Bob. Chicago thinks you may have dropped over our way and wires us she wants to have a chat with you. Going quietly, are you? That's sensible. Now, before we go on to the station here's a note I was asked to hand you. You may read it here at the window. It's from Patrolman Wells."
The man from the West unfolded the little piece of paper handed him. His hand was steady when he began to read, but it trembled a little by the time he had finished. The note was rather short.
"Bob: I was at the appointed place on time. When you struck the match to light your cigar I saw it was the face of the man wanted in Chicago. Somehow I couldn't do it myself, so I went around and got a plain clothes man to do the job."
-JIMMY.
The policeman on the beat moved up the avenue impressively. The impressiveness was habitual and not for show, for spectators were few. The time was barely 10 o'clock at night, but chilly gusts of wind with a taste of rain in them had well nigh de-peopled the streets.
Trying doors as he went, twirling his club with many intricate and artful movements, turning now and then to cast his watchful eye adown the pacific thoroughfare, the officer, with his stalwart form and slight swagger, made a fine picture of a guardian of the peace. The vicinity was one that kept early hours. Now and then you might see the lights of a cigar store or of an all-night lunch counter; but the majority of the doors belonged to business places that had long since been closed.
When about midway of a certain block the policeman suddenly slowed his walk. In the doorway of a darkened hardware store a man leaned, with an unlighted cigar in his mouth. As the policeman walked up to him the man spoke up quickly.
"It's all right, officer," he said, reassuringly. "I'm just waiting for a friend. It's an appointment made twenty years ago. Sounds a little funny to you, doesn't it? Well, I'll explain if you'd like to make certain it's all straight. About that long ago there used to be a restaurant where this store stands—'Big Joe' Brady's restaurant."
"Until five years ago," said the policeman. "It was torn down then."
The man in the doorway struck a match and lit his cigar. The light showed a pale, square-jawed face with keen eyes, and a little white scar near his right eyebrow. His scarfpin was a large diamond, oddly set.
"Twenty years ago to-night," said the man, "I dined here at 'Big Joe' Brady's with Jimmy Wells, my best chum, and the finest chap in the world. He and I were raised here in New York, just like two brothers, together. I was eighteen and Jimmy was twenty. The next morning I was to start for the West to make my fortune. You couldn't have dragged Jimmy out of New York; he thought it was the only place on earth. Well, we agreed that night that we would meet here again exactly twenty years from that date and time, no matter what our conditions might be or from what distance we might have to come. We figured that in twenty years each of us ought to have our destiny worked out and our fortunes made, whatever they were going to be."
"It sounds pretty interesting," said the policeman. "Rather a long time between meets, though, it seems to me. Haven't you heard from your friend since you left?"
"Well, yes, for a time we corresponded," said the other. "But after a year or two we lost track of each other. You see, the West is a pretty big proposition, and I kept hustling around over it pretty lively. But I know Jimmy will meet me here if he's alive, for he always was the truest, stanchest old chap in the world. He'll never forget. I came a thousand miles to stand in this door to-night, and it's worth it if my old partner turns up."
The waiting man pulled out a handsome watch, the lids of it set with small diamonds.
"Three minutes to ten," he announced. "It was exactly ten o'clock when we parted here at the restaurant door."
"Did pretty well out West, didn't you?" asked the policeman.
"You bet! I hope Jimmy has done half as well. He was a kind of plodder, though, good fellow as he was. I've had to compete with some of the sharpest wits going to get my pile. A man gets in a groove in New York. It takes the West to put a razor-edge on him."
The policeman twirled his club and took a step or two.
"I'll be on my way. Hope your friend comes around all right. Going to call time on him sharp?"
"I should say not!" said the other. "I'll give him half an hour at least. If Jimmy is alive on earth he'll be here by that time. So long, officer."
"Good-night, sir," said the policeman, passing on along his beat, trying doors as he went.
There was now a fine, cold drizzle falling, and the wind had risen from its uncertain puffs into a steady blow. The few foot passengers astir in that quarter hurried dismally and silently along with coat collars turned high and pocketed hands. And in the door of the hardware store the man who had come a thousand miles to fill an appointment, uncertain almost to absurdity, with the friend of his youth, smoked his cigar and waited.
About twenty minutes he waited, and then a tall man in a long overcoat, with collar turned up to his ears, hurried across from the opposite side of the street. He went directly to the waiting man.
"Is that you, Bob?" he asked, doubtfully.
"Is that you, Jimmy Wells?" cried the man in the door.
"Bless my heart!" exclaimed the new arrival, grasping both the other's hands with his own. "It's Bob, sure as fate. I was certain I'd find you here if you were still in existence. Well, well, well!—twenty years is a long time. The old restaurant's gone, Bob; I wish it had lasted, so we could have had another dinner there. How has the West treated you, old man?"
"Bully; it has given me everything I asked it for. You've changed lots, Jimmy. I never thought you were so tall by two or three inches."
"Oh, I grew a bit after I was twenty."
"Doing well in New York, Jimmy?"
"Moderately. I have a position in one of the city departments. Come on, Bob; we'll go around to a place I know of, and have a good long talk about old times."
The two men started up the street, arm in arm. The man from the West, his egotism enlarged by success, was beginning to outline the history of his career. The other, submerged in his overcoat, listened with interest.
At the corner stood a drug store, brilliant with electric lights. When they came into this glare each of them turned simultaneously to gaze upon the other's face.
The man from the West stopped suddenly and released his arm.
"You're not Jimmy Wells," he snapped. "Twenty years is a long time, but not long enough to change a man's nose from a Roman to a pug."
"It sometimes changes a good man into a bad one," said the tall man. "You've been under arrest for ten minutes, 'Silky' Bob. Chicago thinks you may have dropped over our way and wires us she wants to have a chat with you. Going quietly, are you? That's sensible. Now, before we go on to the station here's a note I was asked to hand you. You may read it here at the window. It's from Patrolman Wells."
The man from the West unfolded the little piece of paper handed him. His hand was steady when he began to read, but it trembled a little by the time he had finished. The note was rather short.
"Bob: I was at the appointed place on time. When you struck the match to light your cigar I saw it was the face of the man wanted in Chicago. Somehow I couldn't do it myself, so I went around and got a plain clothes man to do the job."
-JIMMY.
A TRUE LOVE STORY...........!!!!
A boy and a girl were in love.
{The story is taken from internet}
When the girl’s father came to know about their love, he did not like it at all, and so began to protest about it.
Now it happened that the two lovers decided to leave their homes for a happy future.
The girl’s father started searching for the two lovers but could not find them .
At last, he accepted their love and asked them to come back home thru a local newspaper. Her father said “If you both come back I will allow you to marry the guy you love, I accept that you loved each other truly.”
So in this way, their love won and they returned home.
The couple next day went to town to shop for the wedding dress. He was dressed in a white shirt that day. While he was crossing the road to the other side to get some drinks for his wife, a car came and hit him and he died on the spot.
The girl was devastated and lost her senses. It was only after sometime that she recovered from her shock.
The funeral and cremation was the very next day because he had died horribly.
Two nights later, the girl’s mother had a dream in which she saw an old lady. The old lady asked her mother to wash the blood stains of the guy from her daughter’s dress as soon as possible. But her mother ignored the dream.
The next night her father had the same dream , he also ignored it. Then the girl had the same dream the next night, she woke up in fear and told her mother about the dream. Her mother asked her to wash the clothes with the blood stains immediately.
She washed the stains but some remained. Next night she again had the same dream. She again washed the stains but some still remained. But again the next night she had the same dream and this time the old lady gave her a last warning to wash the blood stain, or else something terrible would happen.
This time the girl tried her best to wash the stains, and the clothes nearly tore, but some stains still remained.
She was very tired. In the late evening the same day while she was alone at home, someone knocked on the door. When she opened the door she saw the same old lady of her dream standing at her door. She got very scared and fainted.
The old lady woke her up… and gave her a blue object, which shocked the girl. She asked “What is this…?” The old lady replied…
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;
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“This is Nirma Washing Powder” “Washing powder nirma,Washing powder nirma… Doodh si safedi nirma se aaye,
Rangeen kapde bhi khil khil jaye, sabki pasand nirma Washing powder nirma,Washing powder nirma.Nirma”
10 ka 1, do pe ek free
I know how you all are feeling now… I have been through this too. I’m also hunting for the idiot who mailed this to me
{The story is taken from internet}
When the girl’s father came to know about their love, he did not like it at all, and so began to protest about it.
Now it happened that the two lovers decided to leave their homes for a happy future.
The girl’s father started searching for the two lovers but could not find them .
At last, he accepted their love and asked them to come back home thru a local newspaper. Her father said “If you both come back I will allow you to marry the guy you love, I accept that you loved each other truly.”
So in this way, their love won and they returned home.
The couple next day went to town to shop for the wedding dress. He was dressed in a white shirt that day. While he was crossing the road to the other side to get some drinks for his wife, a car came and hit him and he died on the spot.
The girl was devastated and lost her senses. It was only after sometime that she recovered from her shock.
The funeral and cremation was the very next day because he had died horribly.
Two nights later, the girl’s mother had a dream in which she saw an old lady. The old lady asked her mother to wash the blood stains of the guy from her daughter’s dress as soon as possible. But her mother ignored the dream.
The next night her father had the same dream , he also ignored it. Then the girl had the same dream the next night, she woke up in fear and told her mother about the dream. Her mother asked her to wash the clothes with the blood stains immediately.
She washed the stains but some remained. Next night she again had the same dream. She again washed the stains but some still remained. But again the next night she had the same dream and this time the old lady gave her a last warning to wash the blood stain, or else something terrible would happen.
This time the girl tried her best to wash the stains, and the clothes nearly tore, but some stains still remained.
She was very tired. In the late evening the same day while she was alone at home, someone knocked on the door. When she opened the door she saw the same old lady of her dream standing at her door. She got very scared and fainted.
The old lady woke her up… and gave her a blue object, which shocked the girl. She asked “What is this…?” The old lady replied…
…
….
…
…
…
…
…
:
;
;
;
;
;
;
;
;
;
;
;
;
;
;
;
;
;
“This is Nirma Washing Powder” “Washing powder nirma,Washing powder nirma… Doodh si safedi nirma se aaye,
Rangeen kapde bhi khil khil jaye, sabki pasand nirma Washing powder nirma,Washing powder nirma.Nirma”
10 ka 1, do pe ek free
I know how you all are feeling now… I have been through this too. I’m also hunting for the idiot who mailed this to me
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