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003 - Three Paragraphs · O. Henryana

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  Speaker 1: Section three of O. Henry Anna by O. Henry This
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  Speaker 1: LibriVox recording as in the public Domain recording by Phil Shemp.
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  Speaker 1: Three paragraphs copy yelled the small boy at the door.
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  Speaker 1: The sick woman, lying on the bed began to move
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  Speaker 1: her fingers aimlessly upon the worn counterpane. Her eyes were
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  Speaker 1: bright with fever. Her face, once beautiful, was thin and
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  Speaker 1: pain drawn. She was dying. But neither she nor the
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  Speaker 1: man who held her hand and wrote on a paper
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  Speaker 1: tablet knew that the end was so near. Three paragraphs
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  Speaker 1: were lacking to fill the column of humorous matter that
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  Speaker 1: the foreman had sent for the small pay. It brought
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  Speaker 1: them barely furnished shelter and food. Medicine was lacking, but
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  Speaker 1: the need for that was nearly over. The woman's mind
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  Speaker 1: was wandering. She spoke quickly and unceasingly, and the man
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  Speaker 1: bit his pencil and stared at the pad of paper,
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  Speaker 1: holding her limb hot hand. Oh, Jack, Jack, Papa says, No.
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  Speaker 1: I cannot go with you, not love you Jack. Do
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  Speaker 1: you want to break my heart? Oh? Look, look the
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  Speaker 1: fields are like heaven, so filled with flowers. Why have
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  Speaker 1: you no ice? I had ice when I was at
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  Speaker 1: home can't you give me just a little piece? My
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  Speaker 1: throat is burning, the humorist wrote. When a man puts
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  Speaker 1: a piece of ice down a girl's back at a picnic,
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  Speaker 1: does he give her the cold shoulder? The woman feverishly
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  Speaker 1: put back the loose masses of brown hair from her
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  Speaker 1: burning face.
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  Speaker 2: Jack, Jack, I don't want to die. Who is that
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  Speaker 2: climbing in the window. Oh, it's only Jack? And here
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  Speaker 2: is Jack holding my hand too? How funny. We are
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  Speaker 2: going to the river tonight, the quiet, broad, dark whispering river.
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  Speaker 2: Hold my hand tight, Jack, I can feel the water
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  Speaker 2: coming in. It is so cold. How queer it seems
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  Speaker 2: to be dead dead, And see the trees above you,
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  Speaker 2: the humorist wrote, on the dead square a cemetery lot copy.
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  Speaker 2: Sir yelled the small boy again forms locked. In half
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  Speaker 2: an hour, the man bit his pencil into splinters. The
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  Speaker 2: hand he held was growing cooler. Surely her fever must
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  Speaker 2: be leaving. She was singing now, a little crooning song
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  Speaker 2: she might have learned at her mother's knee. And her
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  Speaker 2: fingers had ceased moving. They told me, she said, weakly
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  Speaker 2: and sadly, that hardships and suffering would come upon me
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  Speaker 2: for disobeying my parents and marrying Jack. Oh, dear, my
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  Speaker 2: head aches, so I can't think. No, no, the white
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  Speaker 2: dress with lace sleeves, not that black, dreadful thing. Sailing, sailing, sailing?
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  Speaker 2: Where does this river go? You are not Jack, You
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  Speaker 2: are too cold and stern. What is that red mark
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  Speaker 2: on your brow? Come, sister, Let's make some daisy chains
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  Speaker 2: and then hurry home. There is a great black cloud
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  Speaker 2: above us. I'll be better in the morning, Jack, if
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  Speaker 2: you'll hold my hand tight. Jack, I feel light as
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  Speaker 2: a feather. I'm just floating, floating right into the cloud,
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  Speaker 2: and I can't feel your hand.
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  Speaker 1: Oh. I see her now, and there is the old
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  Speaker 1: love and tenderness in her face. I must go to her,
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  Speaker 1: Jack mother mother, The man wrote quickly, A woman generally
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  Speaker 1: likes her husband's mother in law the best of all
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  Speaker 1: his relatives. Then he sprang to the door, dashed a
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  Speaker 1: column of copy into the boy's hand, and moved swiftly
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  Speaker 1: to the bed. He put his arm softly under the
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  Speaker 1: brown head that had suffered so much, but it turned
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  Speaker 1: heavily aside. The fever was gone. The humorist was alone
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  Speaker 1: in the section three