R. Holmes and Co. : By John Kendrick Bangs

you can read the whole book here: (there are a few pages missing from the middle, but it looks and feels like a real book) and here, which has the missing pages but doesn't look as nice.

Chapter One: 
INTRODUCING MR. RAFFLES HOLMES

It was a blistering night in August. All day long the mercury in the
thermometer had been flirting with the figures at the top of the tube, and
the promised shower at night which a mendacious Weather Bureau had been
prophesying as a slight mitigation of our sufferings was conspicuous wholly
by its absence. I had but one comfort in the sweltering hours of the day,
afternoon and evening, and that was that my family were away in the
mountains, and there was no law against my sitting around all day clad only
in my pajamas, and otherwise concealed from possibly intruding eyes by the
wreaths of smoke that I extracted from the nineteen or twenty cigars which,
when there is no protesting eye to suggest otherwise, form my daily
allowance. I had tried every method known to the resourceful flat-dweller
of modern times to get cool and to stay so, but alas, it was impossible.
Even the radiators, which all winter long had never once given forth a
spark of heat, now hissed to the touch of my moistened finger. Enough
cooling drinks to float an ocean greyhound had passed into my inner man,
with no other result than to make me perspire more profusely than ever,
and in so far as sensations went, to make me feel hotter than before.
Finally, as a last resource, along about midnight, its gridiron floor
having had a chance to lose some of its stored-up warmth, I climbed out
upon the fire-escape at the rear of the Richmere, hitched my hammock from
one of the railings thereof to the leader running from the roof to the
area, and swung myself therein some eighty feet above the concealed
pavement of our backyard--so called, perhaps, because of its dimensions
which were just about that square. It was a little improvement, though
nothing to brag of. What fitful zephyrs there might be, caused no doubt by
the rapid passage to and fro on the roof above and fence-tops below of
vagrant felines on Cupid's contentious battles bent, to the disturbance of
the still air, soughed softly through the meshes of my hammock and gave
some measure of relief, grateful enough for which I ceased the perfervid
language I had been using practically since sunrise, and dozed off. And
then there entered upon the scene that marvelous man, Raffles Holmes, of
whose exploits it is the purpose of these papers to tell.

I had dozed perhaps for a full hour when the first strange sounds grated
upon my ear. Somebody had opened a window in the kitchen of the first-floor
apartment below, and with a dark lantern was inspecting the iron platform
of the fire-escape without. A moment later this somebody crawled out of the
window, and with movements that in themselves were a sufficient indication
of the questionable character of his proceedings, made for the ladder
leading to the floor above, upon which many a time and oft had I too
climbed to home and safety when an inconsiderate janitor had locked me out.
Every step that he took was stealthy--that much I could see by the dim
starlight. His lantern he had turned dark again, evidently lest he should
attract attention in the apartments below as he passed their windows in his
upward flight.

"Ha! ha!" thought I to myself. "It's never too hot for Mr. Sneak to get in
his fine work. I wonder whose stuff he is after?"

Turning over flat on my stomach so that I might the more readily observe
the man's movements, and breathing pianissimo lest he in turn should
observe mine, I watched him as he climbed. Up he came as silently as the
midnight mouse upon a soft carpet--up past the Jorkins apartments on the
second floor; up stealthily by the Tinkletons' abode on the third; up past
the fire-escape Italian garden of little Mrs. Persimmon on the fourth; up
past the windows of the disagreeable Garraways' kitchen below mine, and
then, with the easy grace of a feline, zip! he silently landed within reach
of my hand on my own little iron veranda, and craning his neck to one
side, peered in through the open window and listened intently for two full
minutes.

"Humph!" whispered my inner consciousness to itself. "He is the coolest
thing I've seen since last Christmas left town. I wonder what he is up to?
There's nothing in my apartment worth stealing, now that my wife and
children are away, unless it be my Jap valet, Nogi, who might make a very
excellent cab driver if I could only find words to convey to his mind the
idea that he is discharged."

And then the visitor, apparently having correctly assured himself that
there was no one within, stepped across the window sill and vanished into
the darkness of my kitchen. A moment later I too entered the window in
pursuit, not so close a one, however, as to acquaint him with my proximity.
I wanted to see what the chap was up to; and also being totally unarmed and
ignorant as to whether or not he carried dangerous weapons, I determined to
go slow for a little while. Moreover, the situation was not wholly devoid
of novelty, and it seemed to me that here at last was abundant opportunity
for a new sensation. As he had entered, so did he walk cautiously along the
narrow bowling alley that serves for a hallway connecting my drawing-room
and library with the dining-room, until he came to the library, into which
he disappeared. This was not reassuring to me, because, to tell the truth,
I value my books more than I do my plate, and if I were to be robbed I
should much have preferred his taking my plated plate from the dining-room
than any one of my editions-deluxe sets of the works of Marie Corelli, Hall
Caine, and other standard authors from the library shelves. Once in the
library, he quietly drew the shades at the windows thereof to bar possible
intruding eyes from without, turned on the electric lights, and proceeded
to go through my papers as calmly and coolly as though they were his own.
In a short time, apparently, he found what he wanted in the shape of a
royalty statement recently received by me from my publishers, and, lighting
one of my cigars from a bundle of brevas in front of him, took off his coat
and sat down to peruse the statement of my returns. Simple though it was,
this act aroused the first feeling of resentment in my breast, for the
relations between the author and his publishers are among the most sacred
confidences of life, and the peeping Tom who peers through a keyhole at the
courtship of a young man engaged in wooing his fiancée is no worse an
intruder than he who would tear aside the veil of secrecy which screens the
official returns of a "best seller" from the public eye. Feeling,
therefore, that I had permitted matters to proceed as far as they might
with propriety, I instantly entered the room and confronted my uninvited
guest, bracing myself, of course, for the defensive onslaught which I
naturally expected to sustain. But nothing of the sort occurred, for the
intruder, with a composure that was nothing short of marvelous under the
circumstances, instead of rising hurriedly like one caught in some
disreputable act, merely leaned farther back in the chair, took the cigar
from his mouth, and greeted me with:

"Howdy do, sir. What can I do for you this beastly hot night?"

The cold rim of a revolver-barrel placed at my temple could not more
effectually have put me out of business than this nonchalant reception.
Consequently I gasped out something about its being the sultriest 47th of
August in eighteen years, and plumped back into a chair opposite him. "I
wouldn't mind a Remsen cooler myself," he went on, "but the fact is your
butler is off for to-night, and I'm hanged if I can find a lemon in the
house. Maybe you'll join me in a smoke?" he added, shoving my own bundle of
brevas across the table. "Help yourself."

"I guess I know where the lemons are," said I. "But how did you know my
butler was out?"

"I telephoned him to go to Philadelphia this afternoon to see his brother
Yoku, who is ill there," said my visitor. "You see, I didn't want him
around to-night when I called. I knew I could manage you alone in case you
turned up, as you see you have, but two of you, and one a Jap, I was afraid
might involve us all in ugly complications. Between you and me, Jenkins,
these Orientals are pretty lively fighters, and your man Nogi particularly
has got jiu-jitsu down to a pretty fine point, so I had to do something to
get rid of him. Our arrangement is a matter for two, not three, anyhow."

"So," said I, coldly. "You and I have an arrangement, have we? I wasn't
aware of it."

"Not yet," he answered. "But there's a chance that we may have. If I can
only satisfy myself that you are the man I'm looking for, there is no
earthly reason that I can see why we should not come to terms. Go on out
and get the lemons and the gin and soda, and let's talk this thing over man
to man like a couple of good fellows at the club. I mean you no harm, and
you certainly don't wish to do any kind of injury to a chap who, even
though appearances are against him, really means to do you a good turn."

"Appearances certainly are against you, sir," said I, a trifle warmly, for
the man's composure was irritating. "A disappearance would be more likely
to do you credit at this moment."

"Tush, Jenkins!" he answered. "Why waste breath saying self-evident things?
Here you are on the verge of a big transaction, and you delay proceedings
by making statements of fact, mixed in with a cheap wit which, I must
confess, I find surprising, and so obvious as to be visible even to the
blind. You don't talk like an author whose stuff is worth ten cents a
word--more like a penny-a-liner, in fact, with whom words are of such small
value that no one's the loser if he throws away a whole dictionary. Go out
and mix a couple of your best Remsen coolers, and by the time you get back
I'll have got to the gist of this royalty statement of yours, which is all
I've come for. Your silver and books and love letters and manuscripts are
safe from me. I wouldn't have 'em as a gift."

"What concern have you with my royalties?" I demanded.

"A vital one," said he. "Mix the coolers, and when you get back I'll tell
you. Go on. There's a good chap. It'll be daylight before long, and I want
to close up this job if I can before sunrise."

What there was in the man's manner to persuade me to compliance with his
wishes, I am sure I cannot say definitely. There was a cold, steely glitter
in his eye, for one thing. With it, however, was a strengthfulness of
purpose, a certain pleasant masterfulness, that made me feel that I could
trust him, and it was to this aspect of his nature that I yielded. There
was something frankly appealing in his long, thin, ascetic looking face,
and I found it irresistible.

"All right," said I with a smile and a frown to express the conflicting
quality of my emotions. "So be it. I'll get the coolers, but you must
remember, my friend, that there are coolers and coolers, just as there are
jugs and jugs. The kind of jug that remains for you will depend upon the
story you have to tell when I get back, so you'd better see that it's a
good one."

"I am not afraid, Jenkins, old chap," he said with a hearty laugh as I
rose. "If this royalty statement can prove to me that you are the literary
partner I need in my business, I can prove to you that I'm a good man to
tie up to--so go along with you."


With this he lighted a fresh cigar and turned to a perusal of my statement,
which, I am glad to say, was a good one, owing to the great success of my
book, Wild Animals I Have Never Met--the seventh-best seller at
Rochester, Watertown, and Miami in June and July, 1905--while I went out
into the dining-room and mixed the coolers. As you may imagine, I was not
long at it, for my curiosity over my visitor lent wings to my corkscrew,
and in five minutes I was back with the tempting beverages in the tall
glasses, the lemon curl giving it the vertebrate appearance that all stiff
drinks should have, and the ice tinkling refreshingly upon the sultry air.

"There," said I, placing his glass before him. "Drink hearty, and then to
business. Who are you?"

"There is my card," he replied, swallowing a goodly half of the cooler and
smacking his lips appreciatively, and tossing a visiting card across to me
on the other side of the table. I picked up the card and read as follows:
"Mr. Raffles Holmes, London and New York."

"Raffles Holmes?" I cried in amazement.

"The same, Mr. Jenkins," said he. "I am the son of Sherlock Holmes, the
famous detective, and grandson of A. J. Raffles, the distinguished--er--ah--
cricketer, sir."

I gazed at him, dumb with astonishment.

"You've heard of my father, Sherlock Holmes?" asked my visitor.

I confessed that the name of the gentleman was not unfamiliar to me.

"And Mr. Raffles, my grandfather?" he persisted.

"If there ever was a story of that fascinating man that I have not read, Mr.
Holmes," said I, "I beg you will let me have it."

"Well, then," said he with that quick, nervous manner which proved him a
true son of Sherlock Holmes, "did it never occur to you as an extraordinary
happening, as you read of my father's wonderful powers as a detective, and
of Raffles' equally wonderful prowess as a--er--well, let us not mince
words--as a thief, Mr. Jenkins, the two men operating in England at the same
time, that no story ever appeared in which Sherlock Holmes's genius was
pitted against the subtly planned misdeeds of Mr. Raffles? Is it not
surprising that with two such men as they were, working out their destinies
in almost identical grooves of daily action, they should never have crossed
each other's paths as far as the public is the wiser, and in the very nature
of the conflicting interests of their respective lines of action as foemen,
the one pursuing, the other pursued, they should to the public's knowledge
never have clashed?"

"Now that you speak of it," said I, "it was rather extraordinary that
nothing of the sort happened. One would think that the sufferers from the
depredations of Raffles would immediately have gone to Holmes for assistance
in bringing the other to justice. Truly, as you intimate, it was strange
that they never did."

"Pardon me, Jenkins," put in my visitor. "I never intimated anything of the
sort. What I intimated was that no story of any such conflict ever came to
light. As a matter of fact, Sherlock Holmes was put upon a Raffles case in
1883, and while success attended upon every step of it, and my grandfather
was run to earth by him as easily as was ever any other criminal in Holmes's
grip, a little naked god called Cupid stepped in, saved Raffles from jail,
and wrote the word failure across Holmes's docket of the case. I, sir, am
the only tangible result of Lord Dorrington's retainers to Sherlock
Holmes."

"You speak enigmatically, after the occasional fashion of your illustrious
father," said I. "The Dorrington case is unfamiliar to me."

"Naturally so," said my vis-à-vis. "Because, save to my father, my
grandfather, and myself, the details are unknown to anybody. Not even my
mother knew of the incident, and as for Dr. Watson and Bunny, the scribes
through whose industry the adventures of those two great men were
respectively narrated to an absorbed world, they didn't even know there had
ever been a Dorrington case, because Sherlock Holmes never told Watson and
Raffles never told Bunny. But they both told me, and now that I am satisfied
that there is a demand for your books, I am willing to tell it to you with
the understanding that we share and share alike in the profits if perchance
you think well enough of it to write it up."

"Go on!" I said. "I'll whack up with you square and honest."

"Which is more than either Watson or Bunny ever did with my father or my
grandfather, else I should not be in the business which now occupies my time
and attention," said Raffles Holmes with a cold snap to his eyes which I
took as an admonition to hew strictly to the line of honor, or to subject
myself to terrible consequences. "With that understanding, Jenkins, I'll
tell you the story of the Dorrington Ruby Seal, in which some crime, a good
deal of romance, and my ancestry are involved."

you can read the whole book here: (there are a few pages missing from the middle, but it looks and feels like a real book) and here, which has the missing pages but doesn't look as nice.

The Pirates and the Sun

Once upon a long ago time

When lemon trees fell in love with lime,

And all the fairy tales were true (if only in your mind)

A pirate sailed the seven seas to find the treasure.

The treasure sat on the rim of the sun,

At the edge of the sea, number 101,

At the edge of the night, just before it’s done,

And there sat the treasure, the only one.

The pirate’s flag was big and black,

It billowed and whipped and sometimes lay slack,

It was made of (don’t tell) a regular sack,

But it was the flag of a pirate.

The pirate smiled and twirled his moustache,

He grinned and rubbed his hands at the sight of the stash,

And one gold tooth in his mouth did flash,

And every pirate got gold, from the first to the last.

Now the pirates sailed back, for a year and a day,

And they met an old monk, who taught them how to pray,

And they had many adventures, don’t ever say

They weren’t the greatest pirates who lived.

Yes they sailed away, and now they came home,

With a bag of gold, and a horse from Rome,

And a parrot, a stick, and a wrinkled old gnome,

A drum and a harp and a broken trombone.

But the world had changed when they sailed to the sun,

To the last ever sea (number 101)

And the pirates’ fleet was sunken and gone,

And the world was round in the minds of everyone.

So the pirates took one look at the cities of the day,

From London to New York to the coast of Malay,

To the skyscrapers high and the waters grey,

And they turned right around, and went back where they came.

And now they do sail, past the coasts one by one,

Forever looking for the treasure, the only one,

And the edge of the sea right next to the sun,

And the time they left behind long ago.

For what use is gold if your world is gone?

What use is a ship when it’s old and down-run?

What use is a crew of pirates who come

To the deck always looking for the thing which they long?

--Sara n.b.

Afterword

Arthur Conan Doyle sat in his study. For the first time since Sherlock Holmes had come into his life he did not have to worry about him taking over, like he always did. Yes, some people were unhappy—he’d gotten many letters, not very flattering ones, but nothing could change his mind. Sherlock Holmes was dead, and dead he would stay. There would be no more stories about Sherlock Holmes—at least, none written by him.

He felt a breeze on the back of his neck, though there were no windows open.

No. Please. It couldn’t be…

He turned his head. Sherlock Holmes lounged by the desk, smoking his pipe.

“Sherlock. Holmes. You are supposed to be dead!” would he never be rid of him?

“I am dead.” Sherlock Holmes answered. “You killed me. You murdered me.”

“Look, Holmes, I’m sorry about that, really, but I have a life that doesn’t revolve around you.”

“So you decided to kill me.”

“It was the only way.”

Holmes didn’t answer.

Finally, he shook his head.  “I just want to be rid of you.”

“Once, you didn’t feel that way about me.”

“Once, you were not taking over my life. Look, if I am to be remembered, I want it to be for my serious work. But all the public cares about is you!”

“Have you ever thought there might be a reason for that?”

“Holmes.”

Holmes shrugged.

There was a long, awkward silence. “You never wanted to kill off any other of your creations,” Holmes said in sudden asperity. “Why is it always me? I almost died at the Copper Beeches. Do you think I don’t know it was your mother who saved me?”

“My mother doesn’t have to write about you.”

“It’s not the writing part, is it. You’re tired of me.”

“So what if I am?!” Doyle stood up. “I don’t have to explain myself to a creation who’s dead, anyway.”

He looked out the window. Holmes stood next to him.

“It won’t work, you know. They’ll get you to write about me again, someday.”

“When I need the money?”

Holmes shot Doyle an amused look.

“Well, maybe someday I’ll tell the world of another of your exploits. Maybe in a few years I will be able to stand the sight of you again, but right now—”

Holmes sighed. “You’re not going to change your mind, are you.”

“No.”

“Poor Watson. —I watched, as he found the note. You know how sad he was. You wrote the story.”

“Really, Holmes, was it such a bad way to go? Ridding the world of the greatest criminal of your generation?”

Holmes was inscrutable. He shrugged. “There have been worse ways.”

“I gave you a fitting end.”

“Oh, very well. So maybe you did. That doesn’t change the fact—”

“Holmes—”

“—that you killed me.”

“Authors have that privilege, you know.”

“Well.” Holmes walked over to the desk, knocked out his pipe. “I suppose I should be saying goodbye.” He waited, and looked to the window, as if he expected Doyle to say more; but the room was silent.

As Arthur Conan Doyle watched, Sherlock Holmes grew slowly transparent, wavered as if he were on the other side of a glass of clear water, and disappeared, leaving nothing but the smell of his pipe filling the room.

THE END

 -Sara n. b. 

Some Things About Me

I haven't actually written much for awhile, and i've never actually used this blog to write anything other than stories...I use it as a gallery or a storeroom, but what use is that?
I should just write to whoever may be reading this.
first of all...I love to read. I love stores, how each one is so different, so unique.
I love stories in any form... books mostly, but also good movies or TV shows. I love visual art as well--really, art of any sort.
I have read every Sherlock Holmes story by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and a lot of pastiches--that's what they call it--Sherlockians and Holmesians are very...like that. They'll write monographs on some trifling part of the canon they are interested and make it fascinating, and argue about all the stories, and everything is very old and serious and at the same time lighthearted and fun.
I also like Star Trek: The Original Series, and i've read--and written--a bit about that too, though i've written only for myself in a journal. Somehow, it is easier for me than the Holmes stories...maybe because I can never get the voices right.
Because the Holmes stories are so...formidable. every time I read them they are still as good as I remembered them...better, since after awhile I tend to forget.
Star Trek is easier, because anything you write is going to be totally different anyway.
I have also watched some old episodes of Dr. Who.
They are sometimes unbearably boring, and sometimes so great that it is like reading a novel by someone who writes as if everything flows along... with a strange sense of rightness. Those are the "perfect" books--the ones I remember forever as brilliant, transcendent.
I also like to run. I don't especially like sports (they bore me, watching or doing them) but I love to run--it feels like i'm flying when I run.
Someday I want to fly. Maybe in a glider plane or something, maybe on a zipline, but the one thing i've always wished to do is to fly. When I run or ride my bike I feel different that I ever feel anywhere else. Not happy, but better...completely at peace.

Relic Master, (a series) by Catherine Fisher

                            Illustration by Sara n b

Books in the series:

The Dark City

The Lost Heiress

The Hidden Coronet

The Margrave

MULAN

  

I've watched it at least seven times but unlike some movies, it doesn't get less interesting, just better. It's a great story, and it's funny too, It goes back and forth between dramatic and hilarious and makes something even better. The animation, too, is absolutely amazing. I think it's the best Disney movie; this time they got it perfect.

The story is based on a chinese legend--the ballad of Mulan. Click here to find out about the ballad of Mulan. Click here to read the ballad.

P.S. about Mulan II. It's definitely not as good as the first one. It's entertaining, but it's also sad--it's what happened after, but there shouldn't be any after...even if it's nice. It's an anticlimax, and there is tension that makes the movie hard to watch. It's better to believe Mulan was the only movie...that they all stayed suspended in time forever, happily ever after. And no one can say it's wrong, anyway--with imagination, time doesn't have to count, and things can be perfect in the end.

In Black

Sylvie and Bruno, by Lewis Carrol: Chapter 1

LESS BREAD! MORE TAXES!

--and then all the people cheered again, and one man, who was more excited than the rest, flung his hat high into the air, and shouted (as well as I could make out) "Who roar for the Sub-Warden?" Everybody roared, but whether it was for the Sub-Warden, or not, did not clearly appear: some were shouting "Bread!" and some "Taxes!", but no one seemed to know what it was they really wanted.

All this I saw from the open window of the Warden's breakfast-saloon, looking across the shoulder of the Lord Chancellor, who had sprung to his feet the moment the shouting began, almost as if he had been expecting it, and had rushed to the window which commanded the best view of the market-place.

"What can it all mean?" he kept repeating to himself, as, with his hands clasped behind him, and his gown floating in the air, he paced rapidly up and down the room. "I never heard such shouting before-- and at this time of the morning, too! And with such unanimity! Doesn't it strike you as very remarkable?"

I represented, modestly, that to my ears it appeared that they were shouting for different things, but the Chancellor would not listen to my suggestion for a moment. "They all shout the same words, I assure you!" he said: then, leaning well out of the window, he whispered to a man who was standing close underneath, "Keep'em together, ca'n't you? The Warden will be here directly. Give'em the signal for the march up!" All this was evidently not meant for my ears, but I could scarcely help hearing it, considering that my chin was almost on the Chancellor's shoulder.

The 'march up' was a very curious sight:

a straggling procession of men, marching two and two, began from the other side of the market-place, and advanced in an irregular zig-zag fashion towards the Palace, wildly tacking from side to side, like a sailing vessel making way against an unfavourable wind so that the head of the procession was often further from us at the end of one tack than it had been at the end of the previous one.

Yet it was evident that all was being done under orders, for I noticed that all eyes were fixed on the man who stood just under the window, and to whom the Chancellor was continually whispering. This man held his hat in one hand and a little green flag in the other: whenever he waved the flag the procession advanced a little nearer, when he dipped it they sidled a little farther off, and whenever he waved his hat they all raised a hoarse cheer. "Hoo-roah!" they cried, carefully keeping time with the hat as it bobbed up and down. "Hoo-roah! Noo! Consti! Tooshun! Less! Bread! More! Taxes!"

"That'll do, that'll do!" the Chancellor whispered. "Let 'em rest a bit till I give you the word. He's not here yet!" But at this moment the great folding-doors of the saloon were flung open, and he turned with a guilty start to receive His High Excellency. However it was only Bruno, and the Chancellor gave a little gasp of relieved anxiety.

"Morning!" said the little fellow, addressing the remark, in a general sort of way, to the Chancellor and the waiters. "Doos oo know where Sylvie is? I's looking for Sylvie!"

"She's with the Warden, I believe, y'reince!" the Chancellor replied with a low bow. There was, no doubt, a certain amount of absurdity in applying this title (which, as of course you see without my telling you, was nothing but 'your Royal Highness' condensed into one syllable) to a small creature whose father was merely the Warden of Outland: still, large excuse must be made for a man who had passed several years at the Court of Fairyland, and had there acquired the almost impossible art of pronouncing five syllables as one.

But the bow was lost upon Bruno, who had run out of the room, even while the great feat of The Unpronounceable Monosyllable was being triumphantly performed.

Just then, a single voice in the distance was understood to shout "A speech from the Chancellor!" "Certainly, my friends!" the Chancellor replied with extraordinary promptitude. "You shall have a speech!" Here one of the waiters, who had been for some minutes busy making a queer-looking mixture of egg and sherry, respectfully presented it on a large silver salver. The Chancellor took it haughtily, drank it off thoughtfully, smiled benevolently on the happy waiter as he set down the empty glass, and began. To the best of my recollection this is what he said.

"Ahem! Ahem! Ahem! Fellow-sufferers, or rather suffering fellows--" 

("Don't call 'em names!" muttered the man under the window. "I didn't say felons!" the Chancellor explained.) "You may be sure that I always sympa--" ("'Ear, 'ear!" shouted the crowd, so loudly as quite to drown the orator's thin squeaky voice) "--that I always sympa--" he repeated. ("Don't simper quite so much!" said the man under the window. "It makes yer look a hidiot!" And, all this time, "'Ear, 'ear!" went rumbling round the market-place, like a peal of thunder.) "That I always sympathise!" yelled the Chancellor, the first moment there was silence. "But your true friend is the Sub-Warden! Day and night he is brooding on your wrongs--I should say your rights-- that is to say your wrongs--no, I mean your rights--" ("Don't talk no more!" growled the man under the window. "You're making a mess of it!") 

At this moment the Sub-Warden entered the saloon. He was a thin man, with a mean and crafty face, and a greenish-yellow complexion; and he crossed the room very slowly, looking suspiciously about him as if be thought there might be a savage dog hidden somewhere. "Bravo!" he cried, patting the Chancellor on the back. "You did that speech very well indeed. Why, you're a born orator, man!"

"Oh, that's nothing! the Chancellor replied, modestly, with downcast eyes. "Most orators are born, you know."

The Sub-Warden thoughtfully rubbed his chin. "Why, so they are!" he admitted. "I never considered it in that light. Still, you did it very well. A word in your ear!"

The rest of their conversation was all in whispers: so, as I could hear no more, I thought I would go and find Bruno.

I found the little fellow standing in the passage, and being addressed by one of the men in livery, who stood before him, nearly bent double from extreme respectfulness, with his hands hanging in front of him like the fins of a fish. "His High Excellency," this respectful man was saying, "is in his Study, y'reince!" (He didn't pronounce this quite so well as the Chancellor.) Thither Bruno trotted, and I thought it well to follow him.

The Warden, a tall dignified man with a grave but very pleasant face, was seated before a writing-table, which was covered with papers, and holding on his knee one of the sweetest and loveliest little maidens it has ever been my lot to see. She looked four or five years older than Bruno, but she had the same rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes, and the same wealth of curly brown hair. Her eager smiling face was turned upwards towards her father's, and it was a pretty sight to see the mutual love with which the two faces--one in the Spring of Life, the other in its late Autumn--were gazing on each other.

"No, you've never seen him," the old man was saying: "you couldn't, you know, he's been away so long--traveling from land to land, and seeking for health, more years than you've been alive, little Sylvie!" Here Bruno climbed upon his other knee, and a good deal of kissing, on a rather complicated system, was the result.

"He only came back last night," said the Warden, when the kissing was over: "he's been traveling post-haste, for the last thousand miles or so, in order to be here on Sylvie's birthday. But he's a very early riser, and I dare say he's in the Library already. Come with me and see him. He's always kind to children. You'll be sure to like him."

"Has the Other Professor come too?" Bruno asked in an awe-struck voice.

"Yes, they arrived together. The Other Professor is--well, you won't like him quite so much, perhaps. He's a little more dreamy, you know."

"I wiss Sylvie was a little more dreamy," said Bruno.

"What do you mean, Bruno?" said Sylvie.

Bruno went on addressing his father. "She says she ca'n't, oo know. But I thinks it isn't ca'n't, it's wo'n't."

"Says she ca'n't dream!" the puzzled Warden repeated.

"She do say it," Bruno persisted. "When I says to her 'Let's stop lessons!', she says 'Oh, I ca'n't dream of letting oo stop yet!'"

"He always wants to stop lessons," Sylvie explained, "five minutes after we begin!"

"Five minutes' lessons a day!" said the Warden. "You won't learn much at that rate, little man!"

"That's just what Sylvie says," Bruno rejoined. "She says I wo'n't learn my lessons. And I tells her, over and over, I ca'n't learn 'em. And what doos oo think she says? She says 'It isn't ca'n't, it's wo'n't!'"

"Let's go and see the Professor," the Warden said, wisely avoiding further discussion. The children got down off his knees, each secured a hand, and the happy trio set off for the Library--followed by me. I had come to the conclusion by this time that none of the party (except, for a few moments, the Lord Chancellor) was in the least able to see me.

"What's the matter with him?" Sylvie asked, walking with a little extra sedateness, by way of example to Bruno at the other side, who never ceased jumping up and down.

"What was the matter--but I hope he's all right now--was lumbago, and rheumatism, and that kind of thing. He's been curing himself, you know: he's a very learned doctor. Why, he's actually invented three new diseases, besides a new way of breaking your collar-bone!"

"Is it a nice way?" said Bruno.

"Well, hum, not very," the Warden said, as we entered the Library. "And here is the Professor. Good morning, Professor! Hope you're quite rested after your journey!"

A jolly-looking, fat little man, in a flowery dressing-gown, with a large book under each arm, came trotting in at the other end of the room, and was going straight across without taking any notice of the children. "I'm looking for Vol. Three," he said. "Do you happen to have seen it?"

"You don't see my children, Professor!" the Warden exclaimed, taking him by the shoulders and turning him round to face them.

The Professor laughed violently: then he gazed at them through his great spectacles, for a minute or two, without speaking.

At last he addressed Bruno. "I hope you have had a good night, my child?" Bruno looked puzzled. "I's had the same night oo've had," he replied. "There's only been one night since yesterday!"

It was the Professor's turn to look puzzled now. He took off his spectacles, and rubbed them with his handkerchief. Then he gazed at them again. Then he turned to the Warden. "Are they bound?" he enquired.

"No, we aren't," said Bruno, who thought himself quite able to answer this question.

The Professor shook his head sadly. "Not even half-bound?"

"Why would we be half-bound?" said Bruno. "We're not prisoners!"

But the Professor had forgotten all about them by this time, and was speaking to the Warden again. "You'll be glad to hear," he was saying, "that the Barometer's beginning to move--"

"Well, which way?" said the Warden--adding, to the children, "Not that I care, you know. Only he thinks it affects the weather. He's a wonderfully clever man, you know. Sometimes he says things that only the Other Professor can understand. Sometimes he says things that nobody can understand! Which way is it, Professor? Up or down?"

"Neither!" said the Professor, gently clapping his hands. "It's going sideways--if I may so express myself."

"And what kind of weather does that produce?" said the Warden. "Listen, children! Now you'll hear something worth knowing!"

"Horizontal weather," said the Professor, and made straight for the door, very nearly trampling on Bruno, who had only just time to get out of his way.

"Isn't he learned?" the Warden said, looking after him with admiring eyes. "Positively he runs over with learning!"

"But he needn't run over me!" said Bruno.

The Professor was back in a moment: he had changed his dressing-gown for a frock-coat, and had put on a pair of very strange-looking boots, the tops of which were open umbrellas. "I thought you'd like to see them," he said. "These are the boots for horizontal weather!"

"But what's the use of wearing umbrellas round one's knees?"

"In ordinary rain," the Professor admitted, "they would not be of much use. But if ever it rained horizontally, you know, they would be invaluable--simply invaluable!"

"Take the Professor to the breakfast-saloon, children," said the Warden. "And tell them not to wait for me. I had breakfast early, as I've some business to attend to." The children seized the Professor's hands, as familiarly as if they had known him for years, and hurried him away. I followed respectfully behind.

you can read the rest of the book here. Book two is called Sylvie and Bruno Concluded.

Harry Potter : By J. K. Rowling

Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone
Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets
Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban
Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire
Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix
Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

The books always have an ending you don't expect, they are funny, the characters are good, the stories are really well written, and most of the covers look nice too.

P.S. The movies are also good. The last one (Deathly Hallows part two) might actually be better than the corresponding part of the book.

The Big Huge Evil Rat

a story

the rat sat on the cat and then he got bored so he ate it. the rat was very fat from eating so many cats. he grinned an evil smile, showing bloodstained teeth. the rat was big. it ate my aunt. i was not sad. i am the rat. ha! (you would not like my aunt anyway, she was twice as big as i am. and twice as hungry, and twice as evil.)

the end.

to you

hello. my name is not u but i don't care. are u really so evil as all that?

are u really a rat? why did you eat your aunt?

yes. of course i am a rat. i ate my aunt because i was hungry. why are you not scared?

should i be scared?

i'm evil. i'm a rat. i'm a stranger.

so?

who are you?

:) who do u think i am?

you are someone evil. more evil than i am. more evil than my aunt. bigger, hungrier, and scarier. are you a rat?

no.

who then?

guess again.

i don't know.

i'm a writer.

--by Sara n. b.

Tryptych: Purple Flower, Red-haired Girl, and Woman in Blue

Merlock Stones, Magician

( inspired by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Sherlock Holmes)

One Morning not very long ago I heard a furious ringing on my front doorbell, and when I finally ventured to open it someone fell through the door, shut it, and turned the bolt.
"Very sorry for the inconvenience," the intruder said brightly, shaking my hand as I stared at him in incomprehension. "I just--oh, no." He looked out the window and ducked away. "They're here!" he hissed,  crouching down behind the coatrack.

A strange noise was emanating from beyond the door. It sounded almost like an angry crowd of people. At that moment I heard awful bangs on the door and muffled shouts, that sounded like "Hurt his bones! Hurt his bones!"

"What on earth?" I asked. Turning to my unexpected visitor I saw he was looking quite carefully at a painting on my wall. When he saw me looking he hurriedly stuffed his hands into the pockets of his voluminous ivy-green coat with an embarrassed expression. "They're out for blood," he said apologetically.

"What are you talking about?"

"Can't you hear? They're chanting my name."

"Oh! Your name. What is your name?"

He bowed with a flourish. "Merlock Stones, magician."

"And why do I have an angry mob outside my door?" I inquired, staring hard at the man.

"Well..." his eyes slid away from mine. "I believe they took objection to my magic show."

"Ah." I gathered my thoughts together. "Well, i'll show you out the back, then. You should have a decent head start that way."

Merlock Stones blanched. "Oh no. Thank you. But they will certainly find me... there are none so insistent as those who have been disappointed in their expectations."

I shook my head. "What did you do to get them riled up like this?"

"I don't have a clue."

"Surely you must have some idea?"

"They first began to get restless when I did my vanishing act," he said, looking around. "I asked everyone to put their valuables on a table, and watch it every moment. I presently made the objects disappear.  After they finished clapping I went to pack up my things, but someone shouted that I was a thief."

"Why did you think they wouldn't come after you?"

"Because, if they had thought to look,  they would have found everything right where it was supposed to be! That is the problem with people! They don't use their brains!" He appeared very put out. "If you will just lend me a coat or two of yours I can go out the back in disguise."

"I have a better idea," I said. "Hide in the closet." I opened the door and faced the crowd. 'Excuse me, " I asked. "Why are you banging on my door?"

"That thief stole our valuables!" someone wailed. The man in front tried to push past me, but I blocked the entrance. "If you will just look in your pockets, I believe you will find everything in order."

Slowly, angry shouts changed to muttered apology, and the crowd dispersed. Merlock edged out of the closet and stood beside me. "Brilliant!" he said. "My eternal thanks. I never did catch your name."

"It's John," I said distractedly.

"Goodbye, then," Merlock Stones said with a grin, and handed me back the painting from my wall.

He ducked out the door and was soon lost to sight.

--by Sara n. b.

Fairy

she had raven's wing hair
and amethyst eyes
and birds' wings black as pitch,
a shirt the color of a moonless midnight,
a necklace of clear white dewdrop diamonds,
a cloak of purple like a burning flame
a skirt like charred leaves in a rain,
skin the color of porcelain, 
gloves as black as shadows painted in,
with rings of rubies, red as raspberries
twined between thorns and poison ivy,
earrings like the fire in a dragon's eye
shoes the color of a twilight sky,
lips the color of a bead of blood,
teeth as white as the moon
reflected in a flood,
and a voice as soft as a whisper of wind
to wash round the door and be invited in.

by Sara n. b.

Merlin Pirates

(the idea for this poem came because we had been watching something on netflix and mommy asked "why are you typing Merlin pirates?" Daddy said "I was trying to type pirates but I can't get the word Merlin to go away")

It was a pirated version of a Merlin movie
(I watched it on a widescreen TV)
he was head of some pirates and led them to sea
to a Model Modern Major General of the Military
who taught them how to be
proper, and always say please.
"When you chop off people's heads,"
he said,
"or walk someone off the plank,
you must never never never spit on the deck;
blow your nose with your hanky,
cover your mouth if you sneeze,
call ladies madame, not by their names, even if it's Eloise.
I think that's it for today, and my, what a breeze."
So those pirates went away;
to terrorize the sea for 10 years and a day.
They never ate with their fingers or cursed,
never cut someone's purse
(just took it by force),
never called ladies but by madame,
ate their scones with strawberry jam,
shot people with a polite farewell,
and always rang the doorbell,
first.
So it's proof,
that's the truth,
that pirates can be
just as polite as you and me.

by Sara n. b.

Glowing Ball

Genesis, Chapter 1--the third day

Genesis, chapter 1--the second day

ARM

The Professor Moriarty Novels, by Michael Kurland

The Infernal Device
Death by Gaslight
The Great Game
The Empress of India
(along with a few short stories)

Out of four novels, two manage to be brilliant, and one manages to be perfect. They are the kind of book you are always interested in, and never know what will happen next; with the answer being a complete surprise, while at the same time seeming like it should have been obvious. The only other series of books that good at doing it is Harry Potter. And, even while being nerve-wracking and suspenseful it has parts that make you laugh, and in the end will make you think and question and discover things.

written on the subject of Sherlock Holmes

All the stories listed below are brilliant, I wouldn't be able to pick a favourite. 

Novels and series

The original stories, by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (of course) click here and go to end of post for list of books (I think it's better to read these first, you will know things that make the experience of reading the stories richer, like you'll get all the clever references and stuff, but the stories below are also just good  stories.)

The Mary Russell Novels, (A series) by Laurie R. King (click here for list of books)
(this series is beautifully written, especially the first book.)

The Last Sherlock Holmes Story, (a very great book) by Michael Dibdin
(this one you definitely can't read the end first or anything like that, the power of it depends on the not knowing, but it's one of the most amazing, extraordinary books ever.)

The Boy Sherlock Holmes, (a series) by Shane Peacock (click here for list of books)
(this series is the type a kid and an adult could read and both discover something, it's masterfully done, and it's also suspenseful no matter how many times you read it.)

the Enola Holmes Mysteries, (series) by Nancy Springer (click here for list of books)
(The people in it just as much as the mysteries make this series awesome.)
the Professor Moriarty novels and short stories, by Michael Kurland
(original, and funny, as well as being suspenseful. when in first person the narrator is one of my absolute favourites.) click here for list of novels
Dust and Shadow: an account of the ripper killings by Dr. John H. Watson, by Lyndsay Faye
(One of the greatest and most awful books ever.)
The Seven-Per-Cent Solution, by Nicholas Meyer

Anthologies

The Misadventures of Sherlock Holmes, by Ellery Queen
(I think you can only get this in libraries?)

The Improbable Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, by John Joseph Adams
(really good stories)

Sherlock Holmes In Orbit, by Mike Resnick and Martin Harry Greenberg
(more really good stories- i'm running out of things to say, but look at the top- all the stories are great.)

Sherlock Holmes: The American Years, by Michael Kurland
(I like it!)
Sherlock Holmes: The Hidden Years, by Michael Kurland (even better)
Shadows Over Baker Street: New Tales of Terror, by Michael Reaves and John Pelan
(more really great stories- most of the stories aren't actually terrifying.)

commentaries

Sherlock Holmes For Dummies, by Steven Doyle and David A. Crowder

the Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson entries on Wikipedia 

A Basic Timeline of Terra 221B (really interesting and different)

The Sherlock Holmes Companion: An Elementary Guide, by Daniel Smith

Sherlock Holmes was Wrong, by Pierre Bayard (translated from french)
Eliminate the Impossible: an examination of the world of Sherlock Holmes on page and screen, by Alistair Duncan

and all these are interesting, too, or they wouldn't be here!


other
The Sherlock Holmes Scrapbook, by Peter Haining
(stories and newspaper articles on the subject - very interesting. A lot of them are funny!)
Sherlock Holmes: The Unauthorized Biography, by Nick Rennison ( just what it says it is, written as if he were real)