The Ugly Ducking by A. A. Milne

Nope, this is not my play. Wish it was--'cause I love it--but it isn't. It's a play by A. A. Milne that I found while I was looking through my friend's schoolbook, and I cannot find it on the Internet, which I thought was an absolute shame, and so I am posting it. It is my absolute FAVORITE play (ahem....seeing as I haven't really read very many, that's not the greatest of accomplishments, but it's still GREAT!)

THE UGLY DUCKLING

BY A. A. MILNE

Characters
THE KING
THE QUEEN
THE PRINCESS CAMILLA
THE
DULCIBELLA
PRINCE SIMON
CARLO

The Scene is the Throne Room of the Palace; a room of many doors, or, if preferred, curtain openings: simply furnished with three thrones for Their Majesties and Her Royal Highness the PRINCESS CAMILLA—in other words, with three handsome chairs. At each side is a long seat: reserved, as it might be, for His Majesty’s Council (if any), but useful, as to-day, for other purposes. The KING is asleep on his throne with a handkerchief over his face. He is a king of any country from any storybook, in whatever costume you please. But he should be wearing his crown.

A VOICE (announcing). His Excellency the CHANCELLOR! (The CHANCELLOR, an elderly man in horn-rimmed spectacles, enters, bowing. The KING wakes up with a start and removes the handkerchief from his face.)
KING (with simple dignity). I was thinking.
CHANCELLOR (bowing). Never, Your Majesty, was greater need for thought that now.
KING. That’s what I was thinking. (He struggles into a more dignified position) Well, what is it? More trouble?
CHANCELLOR. What we might call the old trouble, Your Majesty.
KING. It’s what I was saying last night to the Queen. “Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown,” was how I put it.
CHANCELLOR. A profound and original thought, which may well go down to posterity.
KING. You mean it may go down well with posterity. I hope so. Remind me to tell you some time of another little thing I said to Her Majesty: something about a fierce light beating on a throne. Posterity would like that, too. Well, what is it?
CHANCELLOR. It is in the matter of Her Royal Highness’ wedding.
KING. Oh . . . yes.
CHANCELLOR. As Your Majesty is aware, the young Prince Simon arrives to-day to seek Her Royal Highness’ hand in marriage. He has been traveling in distant lands and, as I understand, has not—er—has not—
KING. You mean he hasn’t heard anything.
CHANCELLOR. It is a little difficult to put this tactfully, Your Majesty.
KING. Do your best, and I will tell you afterwards how you got on.
CHANCELLOR. Let me put it this way. The Prince Simon will naturally assure that Her Royal Highness has the customary—so customary as to be, in my own poor opinion, slightly monotonous—has what one might call the inevitable—so inevitable as to be, in my opinion again, almost mechanical—will assume, that she has the, as I think of it, faultily faultless, icily regular, splendidly—
KING. What you are trying to say in the fewest words possible is that my daughter is not beautiful.
CHANCELLOR. Her beauty is certainly elusive, your Majesty.
KING. It is. It has eluded you, it has eluded me, it has eluded everybody who has seen her. It even eluded the Court Painter. His last words were, “Well, I did my best.” His successor is now painting the view across the water-meadows from the West Turret. He says that his doctor has advised him to keep to landscape.
CHANCELLOR. It is unfortunate, Your Majesty, but there it is. One just cannot understand how it can have occurred.
KING. You don't think she takes after me, at all? You don’t detect a likeness?
CHANCELLOR. Most certainly not, Your Majesty.
KING. Good. . . . Your predecessor did.
CHANCELLOR. I have often wondered what happened to my predecessor.
KING. Well. . . now you know. (A small silence follows)
CHANCELLOR. Looking at the bright side, although Her Royal Highness is not, strictly speaking, beautiful—
KING. Not, truthfully speaking, beautiful—
CHANCELLOR. Yet she has great beauty of character.
KING. My dear Chancellor, we are not considering Her Royal Highness’ character, but her chances of getting married. You observe that there is a distinction.
CHANCELLOR. Yes, Your Majesty.
KING. Look at it from the suitor’s point of view. If a girl is beautiful, it is easy to assume that she has, tucked away inside her, an equally beautiful character. But it is impossible to assume that an unattractive girl, however elevated in character, has, tucked away inside her, an equally beautiful face. That is, so to speak, not where you want it—tucked away.
CHANCELLOR. Quite so, You Majesty.
KING. This doesn’t, of course, alter the fact that the Princess Camilla is quite the nicest person in the Kingdom.
CHANCELLOR (enthusiastically). She is indeed, Your Majesty. (Hurriedly.) With the exception, I need hardly say, of Your Majesty—and Her Majesty.
KING. Your exceptions are tolerated for their loyalty and condemned for their extreme fatuity.
CHANCELLOR. Thank you, You Majesty.
KING. As an adjective for your King, the word “nice” is ill-chosen. As an adjective for Her Majesty, it is—ill-chosen. (At which moment HER MAJESTY comes in. The KING rises. The CHANCELLOR puts himself at right angles.)
QUEEN (briskly). Ah. Talking about Camilla? (She sits down)
KING (returning to his throne). As always, my dear, you are right.
QUEEN (to CHANCELLOR). This fellow, Simon—What’s he like?
CHANCELLOR. Nobody has seen him, Your Majesty.
QUEEN. How old is he?
CHANCELLOR. Five-and-twenty, I understand.
QUEEN. In twenty-five years he must have been seen by somebody.
KING (to the CHANCELLOR). Just a fleeting glimpse.
CHANCELLOR. I meant, Your Majesty, that no detailed report of him has reached this country, save that he has the usual personal advantages and qualities expected of a Prince, and has been traveling in distant and dangerous lands.
QUEEN. Ah! Nothing gone wrong with his eyes? Sunstroke or anything?
CHANCELLOR. Not that I am aware of, Your Majesty. A the same time, as I was venturing to say to His Majesty, Her Royal Highness’ character and disposition are so outstandingly—
QUEEN. Stuff and nonsense. You remember what happened when we had the Tournament of Love last year.
CHANCELLOR. I was not myself present, Your Majesty. I had not them the honor of—I was abroad, and never heard the full story.
QUEEN. No; it was the other fool. They all rode up to Camilla to pay their homage—it was the first time they had seen her. The heralds blew their trumpets and announced that she would marry whichever Prince was left master of the field when all but one had been unhorsed. The trumpets were blown again, they charged enthusiastically into the fight, and— (the KING looks nonchalantly at the ceiling and whistles a few bars)—don’t do that.
KING. I’m sorry, my dear.
QUEEN (to CHANCELLOR). And what happened? They all simultaneously fell off their horses and assumed a posture of defeat.
KING. One of them was not quite so quick as the others. I was very quick. I proclaimed him the victor.
QUEEN. At the Feast of Betrothal held that night—
KING. We were all very quick.
QUEEN. The Chancellor announced that by the laws of the country the successful suitor had to pass a further test. He had to give the correct answer to a riddle.
CHANCELLOR. Such undoubtedly is the fact, Your Majesty.
KING. There are times for announcing facts, and times for looking at things in a broadminded way. Please remember that, Chancellor.
CHANCELLOR. Yes, Your Majesty.
QUEEN. I invented the riddle myself. Quite an easy one. What is it which has four legs and barks like a dog? The answer is, “A dog.”
KING (to CHANCELLOR). You see that?
CHANCELLOR. Yes, Your Majesty.
KING. It isn’t difficult.
QUEEN. He, however, seemed to find it so. He said an eagle. Then he said a serpent; a very high mountain with slippery sides; two peacocks; a moonlight night; the day after to-morrow—
KING. Nobody could accuse him of not trying.
QUEEN. I did.
KING. I should have said that nobody could fail to recognize in his attitude an appearance of doggedness.
QUEEN. Finally, he said “Death.” I nudged the King—
KING. Accepting the word “nudge” for the moment, I rubbed my ankle with one hand, clapped him on the shoulder with the other, and congratulated him on the correct answer. He disappeared under the table, and, personally, I never saw him again.
QUEEN. His body was found in the moat next morning.
CHANCELLOR. But what was he doing in the moat, Your Majesty?
KING. Bobbing about. Try not to ask needless questions.
CHANCELLOR. It all seems so strange.
QUEEN. What does?
CHANCELLOR. That Her Royal Highness, alone of all the Princesses one has ever heard of, should lack that invariable attribute of Royalty, supreme beauty.
QUEEN (to the KING). That was your Great-Aunt Malkin. She came to the christening. You know what she said.
KING. It was cryptic. Great-Aunt Malkin’s besetting weakness. She came to my christening—she was one hundred and one then, and that was fifty-one years ago. (To the CHANCELLOR.) How old would that make her?
CHANCELLOR. One hundred and fifty-two, Your Majesty.
KING (after thought). About that, yes. She promised me that when I grew up I should have all the happiness which my wife deserved. It struck me at the time—well, when I say “at the time,” I was only a week old—but it did strike me as soon as anything could strike me—I mean of that nature—well, work it out for yourself, Chancellor. It opens up a most interesting field of speculation. Though naturally I have not liked to go into it at all deeply with Her Majesty.
QUEEN. I never heard anything less cryptic. She was wishing you extreme happiness.
KING. I don’t think she was wishing me anything. However.
CHANCELLOR (to the QUEEN). But what, Your Majesty, did she wish Her Royal Highness?
QUEEN. Her other godmother—on my side—had promised her the dazzling beauty for which all the women in my family are famous—(She pauses, and the KING snaps his fingers surreptitiously in the direction of the CHANCELLOR.)
CHANCELLOR (hurriedly). Indeed, yes, Your Majesty. (The KING relaxes)
QUEEN. And Great-Aunt Malkin said—(to the KING)—what were the words?
KING. I give you with this kiss
A wedding day surprise,
Where ignorance is bliss,
‘tis folly to be wise.
I thought the last two lines rather neat. But what it meant—
QUEEN. We can all see what it meant. She was given beauty—and where is it? Great-Aunt Malkin took it away from her. The wedding-day surprise is that there will never be a wedding day.
KING. Young men being what they are, my dear, it would be much more surprising if there were a wedding day. So how—
(The PRINCESS comes in. She is young, happy, healthy, but not beautiful. Or let us say that by some trick of makeup or arrangement of hair she seems plain to us: unlike the Princess of the storybooks.)
PRINCESS (to the KING). Hallo, darling! (Seeing the others.) Oh, I say! Affairs of state? Sorry.
KING (holding out his hand). Don’t go, Camilla. (She takes his hand)
CHANCELLOR. Shall I withdraw, Your Majesty?
QUEEN. You are aware, Camilla, that Prince Simon arrives to-day?
PRINCESS. He has arrived. They're just letting down the drawbridge.
KING (jumping up). Arrived! I must—
PRINCESS. Darling, you know what the drawbridge is like. It takes at least half an hour to let it down.
KING (sitting down). It wants oil. (To the CHANCELLOR.) Have you been grudging it oil?
PRINCESS. It wants a new drawbridge, darling.
CHANCELLOR. Have I Your Majesty’s permission—
KING. Yes, yes. (The CHANCELLOR bows and goes out.)
QUEEN. You’ve told him, of course? It’s the only chance.
KING. Er—no. I was just going to, when—
QUEEN. Then I’d better. (She goes to the door.) You can explain it to the girl; I’ll have her sent to you. You’ve told Camilla?
KING. Er—no. I was just going to, when—
QUEEN. Then you’d better tell her now.
KING. My dear, are you sure—
QUEEN. It’s the only chance left. (Dramatically to heaven) My daughter! (She goes out.) (There is a little silence when she is gone.)
KING. Camilla, I want to talk seriously to you about marriage.
PRINCESS. Yes, father.
KING. It is time that you learnt some of the facts of life.
PRINCESS. Yes, father.
KING. Now the great fact about marriage is that once you’re married you live happy ever after. All our history books affirm this.
PRINCESS. And your own experience too, darling.
KING (with dignity). Let us confine ourselves to history for the moment.
PRINCESS. Yes, father.
KING. Of course, there may be an exception here and there, which, as it were, proves the rule; just as—oh, well, never mind.
PRINCESS. Go on, darling. You were going to say that an exception here and there proves the rule that all princesses are beautiful.
KING. Well—leave that for the moment. The point is that it doesn’t matter how you marry, or who you marry, as long as you get married. Do you follow me so far?
PRINCESS. Yes, father.
KING. Well, your mother and I have a little plan—
PRINCESS. Was that it, going out of the door just now?
KING. Er—yes. It concerns your waiting maid.
PRINCESS. Darling, I have several.
KING. Only one that leaps to the eye, so to speak. The one the—well, with everything.
PRINCESS. Dulcibella?
KING. That’s the one. It is our little plan that at the first meeting she should pass herself off as the Princess—a harmless ruse, of which you will find frequent record in the history books—and allure Prince Simon to his—that is to say, bring him up to the—In other words, the wedding will take place immediately afterwards, and, as quietly as possible—well, naturally in view of the fact that your Aunt Malkin is one hundred and fifty-two; and since you will be wearing the family bridal veil—which is no doubt how the custom arose—the surprise after the ceremony will be his. Are you following me at all? Your attention seems to be wandering.
PRINCESS. I was wondering why you needed to tell me.
KING. Just a precautionary measure, in case you happened to meet the Prince or his attendant before the ceremony; in which case, of course, you would pass yourself off as the maid—
PRINCESS. A harmless ruse, of which, also, you will find frequent record in the history books.
KING. Exactly. But the occasion need not arise.
A VOICE (announcing). The woman Dulcibella!
KING. Ah! (To the PRINCESS) Now, Camilla, if you will just retire to your own apartments, I will come to you when we are ready for the actual ceremony. (He leads her out as he is talking; and as he returns calls out.) Come in, my dear! (Dulcibella comes in. She is beautiful, but dumb.) Now don’t be frightened, there is nothing to be frightened about. Has Her Majesty told you what you have to do?
DULCIBELLA. Y—yes, Your Majesty.
KING. Well now, let’s see how well you can do it. You are sitting here, we will say. (He leads her to a seat.) Now imagine that I am Prince Simon. (He curls his moustache and puts his stomach in. She giggles.) You are the beautiful Princess Camilla whom he has never seen. (She giggles again.) This is a serious moment in your life, and you will find that a giggle will not be helpful. (He goes to door.) I am announced: “His Royal Highness Prince Simon!” That’s me being announced. Remember what I said about giggling. You should have a far-away look upon the face. (She does her best.) Farther away than that. (She tries again.) No, that’s too far. You are sitting there, thinking beautiful thoughts—in maiden meditation, fancy-free, as I remember saying to Her Majesty once. . . .speaking of somebody else . . . fancy-free, but with the mouth definitely shut—that’s better. I advance and fall upon one knee. (He does so.) You extend your hand graciously—graciously, you’re not trying to push him in the face—that’s better, and I raise it to my lips—so—and I kiss it—(he kisses it warmly)—no, perhaps not so ardently as that, more like this (he kisses it again), and I say, “Your Royal Highness, this is the most—er—Your Royal Highness, I shall ever be—no—Your Royal Highness, it is the proudest—” Well, the point is that he will say it, and it will be something complimentary, and then he will take your hand in both of his, and press it to his heart. (He does so.) And then—what do you say?
DULCIBELLA. Coo!
KING No, not Coo.
DULCIBELLA. Never had anyone do that to me before.
KING. That also strikes the wrong note. What you want to say is, “Oh, Prince Simon!” . . . Say it.
DULCIBELLA (loudly). Oh, Prince Simon!
KING. No, no. You don’t need to shout until he has said “What?” two or three times. Always consider the possibility that he isn’t deaf. Softly, and giving the words a dying fall, letting them play around his head like a flight of doves.
DULCIBELLA (still a little over-loud). O-o-o-o-h, Prinsimon!
KING. Keep the idea in your mind of a flight of doves rather than the flight of panic-stricken elephants, and you will be all right. Now I’m going to get up, and you must, as it were, waft me into a seat by your side. (She stars wafting) Not rescuing a drowning man, that’s another idea altogether, useful at times, but at the moment inappropriate. Wafting. Prince Simon will put the necessary muscles into play—all you require to do is to indicate by a gracious movement of the hand the seat you require him to take. Now! (He gets up, a little stiffly, and sits next to her.) That was better. Well, here we are. Now, I think you give me a look: something, let us say, half-way between the breathless adoration of a nun and the voluptuous abandonment of a woman of the world; with an undertone of regal dignity, touched, as it were, with good comradeship. Now try that. (She gives him a vacant look of bewilderment.) Frankly, that didn’t quite get it. There was just a little something missing. An absence, as it were, of all the qualities I asked for, and in their place an odd resemblance to an unsatisfied fish. Let us try to get at it another way. Dulcibella, have you a young man of your own?
DULCIBELLA (eagerly, seizing his hand). Oo, yes, he’s ever so smart, he’s an archer, not as you might say a real archer, he works in the armoury, but old Bottlenose, you know who I mean, the Captain of the Guard, says the very next man they ever has to shoot, my Eg shall take his place, knowing Father and how it is with Eg and me, and me being maid to Her Royal Highness and can’t marry me till he’s a real soldier, but ever so loving, and funny like, the things he says, I said to him once, “Eg,” I said—
KING (getting up). I rather fancy, Dulcibella, that if you think of Eg all the time, say as little as possible, and, when thinking of Eg, see that the mouth is not more than partially open, you will do very well. I will show you where you are to sit and wait for His Royal Highness. (He leads her out. On the way he is saying) Now remember—waft—waft—not hoick.
(PRINCE SIMON wanders in from the back unannounced. He is a very ordinary-looking young man in rather dusty clothes. He gives a deep sigh of relief as he sinks into the King’s throne. . . .
CAMILLA, a new and strangely beautiful CAMILLA, comes in.)
PRINCESS (surprised). Well!
PRINCE. Oh, hallo!
PRINCESS. Ought you?
PRINCE (getting up). Do sit down, won’t you?
PRINCESS. Who are you and how did you get here?
PRINCE. Well, that’s rather a long story. Couldn’t we sit down? You could sit here if you liked, but it isn’t very comfortable.
PRINCESS. That is the King’s Throne.
PRINCE. Oh, is that what it is?
PRINCESS. Thrones are not meant to be comfortable.
PRINCE. Well, I don’t know if they’re meant to be, but they certainly aren’t.
PRINCESS. Why were you sitting on the King’s Throne, and who are you?
PRINCE. My name is Carlo.
PRINCESS. Mine is Dulcibella.
PRINCE. Good. And now couldn’t we sit down?
PRINCESS (sitting down on the long seat to the left of the throne, and, as it were, wafting him to a place next to her). You may sit here, if you like. Why are you so tired? (He sits down)
PRINCE. I’ve been taking very strenuous exercise.
PRINCESS. Is that part of the long story?
PRINCE. It is.
PRINCESS (settling herself). I love stories.
PRINCE. This isn’t a story really. You see, I’m attendant on Prince Simon, who is visiting here.
PRINCESS. Oh? I’m attendant on Her Royal Highness.
PRINCE. Then you know what he’s here for.
PRINCESS. Yes.
PRINCE. She’s very beautiful, I hear.
PRINCESS. Did you hear that? Where have you been lately?
PRINCE. Traveling in distant lands—with Prince Simon.
PRINCESS. Ah! All the same, I don’t understand. Is Prince Simon in the Palace now? The drawbridge can’t be down yet!
PRINCE. I don’t suppose it is. And what a noise it makes coming down!
PRINCESS. Isn’t it terrible?
PRINCE. I couldn’t stand it any more. I just had to get away. That’s why I’m here.
PRINCESS. But how?
PRINCE. Well, there’s only way, isn’t there? That beech tree, and then a swing and a grab for the battlements, and don’t ask me to remember it all—(He shudders)
PRINCESS. You mean you came across the moat by that beech tree?
PRINCE. Yes. I got so tried of hanging about.
PRINCESS. But it’s terribly dangerous!
PRINCE. That’s why I’m so exhausted. Nervous shock. (He lies back and breathes loudly.)
PRINCESS. Of course, it’s different for me.
PRINCE (sitting up). Say that again. I must have got it wrong.
PRINCESS. It’s different for me, because I’m used to it. Besides, I’m so much lighter.
PRINCE. You don’t mean that you—
PRINCESS. Oh yes, often.
PRINCE. And I thought I was a brave man! At least, I didn’t until five minutes ago, and now I don’t again.
PRINCESS. Oh, but you are! And I think it’s wonderful to do it straight off the first time.
PRINCE. Well, you did.
PRINCESS. Oh no, not the first time. When I was a child.
PRINCE. You mean that you crashed?
PRINCESS. Well, you only fall into the moat.
PRINCE. Only! Can you swim?
PRINCESS. Of course.
PRINCE. So you swam to the castle walls, and yelled for help, and they fished you out and walloped you. And next day you tried again. Well if that isn’t pluck—
PRINCESS. Of course I didn’t. I swam back, and did it at once; I mean, I tried again at once. It wasn’t until the third time that I actually did it. You see, I was afraid I might lose my nerve.
PRINCE. Afraid she might lose her nerve!
PRINCESS. There’s a way of getting over from this side, too; a tree grows out from the wall and you jump into another tree—I don’t think it’s quite so easy.
PRINCE. Not quite so easy. Good. You must show me.
PRINCESS. Oh, I will.
PRINCE. Perhaps it might be as well if you taught me how to swim first. I’ve often heard about swimming, but never—
PRINCESS. You can’t swim?
PRINCE. No. Don’t look so surprised. There are a lot of other things which I can’t do. I’ll tell you about them as soon as you have a couple of years to spare.
PRINCESS. You can’t swim and yet you crossed by the beech tree! And you’re ever so much heavier than I am! Now who’s brave?
PRINCE (getting up). You keep talking about how light you are. I must see if there’s anything in it. Stand up! (She stand obediently and he picks her up.) You’re right, Dulcibella. I could hold you here for ever. (Looking at her.) You’re very lovely. Do you know how lovely you are?
PRINCESS. Yes. (She laughs suddenly and happily.)
PRINCE. Why do you laugh?
PRINCESS. Aren’t you tired of holding me?
PRINCE. Frankly, yes. I exaggerated when I said I could hold you for ever. When you’ve been hanging by the arms for ten minutes over a very deep moat, wondering if it’s too late to learn how to swim—(he puts her down)—what I meant was that I should like to hold you for ever. Why did you laugh?
PRINCESS. Oh, well, it was a little private joke of mine.
PRINCE. If it comes to that, I’ve got a private joke, too. Let’s exchange them.
PRINCESS. Mine’s very private. One other woman in the whole world knows, and that’s all.
PRINCE. Mine’s just as private. One other man knows, and that’s all.
PRINCESS. What fun. I love secrets. . . . Well, here’s mine. When I was born, one of my godmothers promised that should be very beautiful.
PRINCE. How right she was.
PRINCESS. But the other one said this:
“I give you with this kiss
A wedding day surprise,
Where ignorance is bliss,
‘tis folly to be wise.”
And nobody knew what it meant. And I grew up very plain. And then, when I was about ten, I met my godmother in the forest one day. It was my tenth birthday. Nobody knows this—except you.
PRINCE. Except us.
PRINCESS. Except us. And she told me what her gift meant. It meant that I was beautiful—but everybody else was to go on being ignorant, and thinking me plain, until my wedding day. Because, she said, she didn’t want me to grow up spoilt and willful and vain, as I should have done if everybody had always been saying how beautiful I was; and the best thing in the world, she said, was to be quite sure of yourself, but not to expect admiration from other people. So ever since then my mirror has told me I’m beautiful, and everybody else thinks me ugly, and I get a lot of fun out of it.
PRINCE. Well, seeing that Dulcibella is the result, I can only say that your godmother was very, very wise.
PRINCESS. And now tell me your secret.
PRINCE. It isn’t such a pretty one. You see, Prince Simon was going to woo Princess Camilla, and he’d heard that she beautiful and haughty and imperious—all you would have been if your godmother hadn’t been so wise. And being a very ordinary-looking fellow himself, he was afraid that she wouldn’t think much of him, so he suggested to one of his attendants, a man called Carlo, of extremely attractive appearance, that he should pretend to be the Prince, and win the Princess’ hand; and then at the last moment they would change places—
PRINCESS. How would they do that?
PRINCE. The Prince was going to have been married in full armor—with his visor down.
PRINCESS (laughing happily). Oh, what fun!
PRINCE. Neat, isn’t it?
PRINCESS (laughing). Oh, very . . . very . . . very.
PRINCE. Neat, but not so terribly funny. Why do you keep laughing?
PRINCESS. Well, that’s another secret.
PRINCE. If it comes to that, I’ve got another one up my sleeve. Shall we exchange again?
PRINCESS. All right. You go first this time.
PRINCE. Very well. . . . I am not Carlo. (Standing up and speaking dramatically) I am Simon!—ow! (He sits down and rubs his leg violently.)
PRINCESS (alarmed). What is it?
PRINCE. Cramp. (In a mild voice, still rubbing) I was saying that I was Prince Simon.
PRINCESS. Shall I rub it for you? (She rubs.)
PRINCE (still hopefully). I am Simon.
PRINCESS. Is that better?
PRINCE (despairingly). I am Simon.
PRINCESS. I know.
PRINCE. How did you know?
PRINCESS. Well, you told me.
PRINCE. But oughtn’t you to swoon or something?
PRINCESS. Why? History records very similar ruses.
PRINCE (amazed). Is that so? I’ve never read history. I thought I was being profoundly original.
PRINCESS. Oh, no! Now I’ll tell you my secret. For reasons very much like your own, the Princess Camilla, who is held to be extremely plain, feared to meet Prince Simon. Is the drawbridge down yet?
PRINCE. Do your people give a faint, surprised cheer every time it gets down?
PRINCESS. Naturally.
PRINCE. Then it came down about three minutes ago.
PRINCESS. Ah! Then at this very moment your man Carlo is declaring his passionate love for my maid Dulcibella. That, I think, is funny. (So does the PRINCE. He laughs heartily.) Dulcibella, by the way, is in love with a man she calls Eg, so I hope Carlo isn’t getting carried away.
PRINCE. Carlo is married to a girl he calls “the little woman,” so Eg has nothing to fear.
PRINCESS. By the way, I don’t know if you heard, but I said, or as good as said, that I am the Princess Camilla.
PRINCE. I wasn’t surprised. History, of which I read a great deal, records many similar ruses.
PRINCESS (laughing). Simon!
PRINCE (laughing). Camilla! (He stands up.) May I try holding you again? (She nods. He takes her in his arms and kisses her.) Sweetheart!
PRINCESS. You see, when you lifted me up before, you said, “You’re very lovely,” and my godmother said that the first person to whom I would seem lovely was the man I should marry; so I knew then that you were Simon and I should marry you.
PRINCE. I knew directly I saw you that I should marry you, even if you were Dulcibella. By the way, which of you am I marrying?
PRINCESS. When she lifts her veil, it will be Camilla. (Voices are heard outside.) Until then it will be Dulcibella.
PRINCE (in a whisper). Then good-bye, Camilla, until you lift your veil.
PRINCESS. Good-bye, Simon, until you raise your visor.
(The KING and QUEEN come in arm-in-arm, followed by CARLO and DULCIBELLA, also arm-in-arm. The CHANCELLOR precedes them, walking backwards, at a loyal angle.)
PRINCE (supporting the CHANCELLOR as an accident seems inevitable). Careful! (The CHANCELLOR turns indignantly around.)
KING. Who and what is this? More accurately who and what are all these?
CARLO. My attendant, Carlo, Your Majesty. He will, with Your Majesty’s permission, prepare me for the ceremony. (The PRINCE bows.)
KING. Of course, of course!
QUEEN (To DULCIBELLA). Your maid, Dulcibella, is it not, my love? (DULCIBELLA nods violently.) I thought so. (To CARLO) She will prepare Her Royal Highness. (The PRINCESS curtsies.)
KING. Ah, yes. Yes. Most important.
PRINCESS (curtsying). I beg pardon, Your Majesty, if I’ve done wrong, but I found the gentleman wandering—
KING (crossing to her). Quite right, my dear, quite right. (He pinches her cheek, and takes advantage of this kingly gesture to say in a loud whisper) We’ve pulled it off!
(They sit down; the KING and QUEEN on their thrones, DULCIBELLA on the PRINCESS’ throne. CARLO stands behind DULCIBELLA, the CHANCELLOR on the right of the QUEEN, and the PRINCE and PRINCESS behind the long seat on the left.)
CHANCELLOR (consulting documents). H’r’m! Have I Your Majesty’s authority to put the final test to His Royal Highness?
QUEEN (whispering to KING). Is this safe?
KING (whispering). Perfectly, my dear. I told him the answer a minute ago. (Over his shoulder to CARLO.) Don’t forget. Dog. (Aloud) Proceed, Your Excellency. It is my desire that the affairs of my country should ever be conducted in a strictly constitutional manner.
CHANCELLOR (oratorically). By the constitution of the country, a suitor to Her Royal Highness’ hand cannot be deemed successful until he has given the correct answer to a riddle. (Conversationally) The last suitor answered incorrectly, and thus failed to win his bride.
KING. By a coincidence he fell into a moat.
CHANCELLOR (To CARLO). I have now to ask Your Royal Highness if you are prepared for the ordeal?
CARLO (cheerfully). Absolutely.
CHANCELLOR. I may mention, as a matter, possibly, of some slight historical interest to our visitor, that by the constitution of the country the same riddle is not allowed to be asked on two successive occasions.
KING (startled). What’s that?
CHANCELLOR. This one, it is interesting to recall, was propounded exactly a century ago, and we must take it as a fortunate omen that it was well and truly solved.
KING (to QUEEN.) I may want my sword directly.
CHANCELLOR. The riddle is this. What is it which has four legs and mews like a cat?
CARLO (promptly). A dog.
KING (still more promptly). Bravo, bravo! (He claps loudly and nudges the QUEEN, who claps too.)
CHANCELLOR (peering at his documents). According to the records of the occasion to which I referred, the correct answer would seem to be—
PRINCESS (to PRINCE). Say something, quick!
CHANCELLOR. —not dog, but—
PRINCE. Your Majesty, have I permission to speak? Naturally His Royal Highness could not think of justifying himself on such an occasion, but I think that with Your Majesty’s gracious permission, I could—
KING. Certainly, certainly.
PRINCE. In our country, we have an animal to which we have given the name “dog,” or, in the local dialect of the more mountainous districts, “doggie.” It sits by the fireside and purrs.
CARLO. That’s right. It purrs like anything.
PRINCE. When it needs milk, which is its staple food, it mews.
CARLO (enthusiastically). Mews like nobody’s business.
PRINCE. It also has four legs.
CARLO. One on each corner.
PRINCE. In some countries, I understand, this animal is called a “cat.” In one distant country to which His Royal Highness and I penetrated it was called by the very curious name of “hippopotamus.”
CARLO. That’s right. (To the PRINCE.) Do you remember that ginger-coloured hippopotamus which used to climb on my shoulder and lick my ear?
PRINCE. I shall never forget it, sir. (To the KING.) So you see, Your Majesty—
KING. Thank you. I think that makes it perfectly clear. (Firmly to the CHANCELLOR.) You are about to agree?
CHANCELLOR. Undoubtedly, Your Majesty. May I be the first to congratulate His Royal Highness on solving the riddle so accurately?
KING. You may be the first to see that all is in order for an immediate wedding.
CHANCELLOR. Thank you, Your Majesty. (He bows and withdraws. The KING rises, as do the QUEEN and DUCIBELLA.)
KING (to CARLO). Doubtless, Prince Simon, you will wish to retire and prepare yourself for the ceremony.
CARLO. Thank you, sir.
PRINCE. Have I Your Majesty’s permission to attend His Royal Highness? It is the custom of his country for Princes of royal blood to be married in full armor, a matter which requires a certain adjustment—
KING. Of course, of course. (CARLO bows to the KING and QUEEN and goes out. As the PRINCE is about to follow, the KING stops him.) Young man, you have a quality of quickness which I admire. It is my pleasure to reward it in any way which commends itself to you.
PRINCE. Your Majesty is ever gracious. May I ask for my reward after the ceremony? (He catches the eye of the PRINCESS, and they give each other a secret smile.)
KING. Certainly. (The PRINCE bows and goes out. To DULCIBELLA) Now, young woman, make yourself scarce. You’ve done your work excellently, and we will see that you and your—what was his name?
DULCIBELLA. Eg, Your Majesty.
KING. —that you and your Eg are not forgotten.
DULCIBELLA. Coo! (She curtsies and goes out.)
PRINCESS (calling). Wait for me, Dulcibella!
KING (to QUEEN). Well, my dear, we may congratulate ourselves. As I remember saying to somebody once, “You have not lost a daughter, you have gained a son.” How does he strike you?
QUEEN. Stupid.
KING. They make a very handsome pair, I thought, he and Dulcibella.
QUEEN. Both stupid.
KING. I said nothing about stupidity. What I said was that they were both extremely handsome. That is the important thing. (Struck by a sudden idea.) Or isn’t it?
QUEEN. What do you think of him, Camilla?
PRINCESS. I adore him. We shall be so happy together.
KING. Well, of course you will. I told you so. Happy ever after.
QUEEN. Run along now and get ready.
PRINCESS. Yes, mother. (She throws a kiss to them and goes out.)
KING (anxiously). My dear, have we been wrong about Camilla all this time? It seemed to me that she wasn’t looking quite so plain as usual just now. Did you notice anything?
QUEEN (carelessly). Just the excitement of the marriage.
KING (relieved). Ah, yes, that would account for it.

CURTAIN

Oh my God....

Oh my God...
For the majority of my short life, I have disapproved of the criminally legal practice of abortion.
Horrible, I thought. that anyone could participate in the murdering of an innocent child!
How little did I know how accurate I was when I used the word "murder".
As it is so predictably prone to be, the world is divided in the matter of abortion. Some rightly repel this crime, others alarmingly couldn't care less, and others yet shamefully advocate it.
Why?
That is my question to anyone who reads this.
Why would anyone advocate this bloody carnage, this slaughter......this butchery?
Many people in this "modern" day and selfish age might deem these doctors (I should not even call them doctors...the whole idea of a doctor is one who saves lives, not one who smothers them) saviors. Many might deem these bloodshedders messiahs after they "save" their daughters or their lovers or even just themselves from the "horrible" fate of motherhood.
But, tell me, is becoming a murderer any more pleasant a fate?
You may think it harsh when I use the term "murder". Is it? I think it flawlessly correct.
There are many cruel and horribly inventive ways to kill an infant, it seems. The most common method in the United States is currently the suction cutterage. To quote A Beka Book:

"A tube connected to a suction device is inserted into the mother's womb. The force created by the device tears the child's body apart and draws the pieces into a tube and into a container for disposal."

Put into a container and disposed of like rotten fruit. Is this what we defend at times? Is this what we blindly ignore?
But, there's more. There is the D & C (dilation and curettage) method, in which a curette is used to sever the child's attachment to the mother by scraping away at the womb, after which the child's body is cut into little pieces and--if the child's head is too large--the head will be crushed to fit through the womb's opening.
Or, to quote A Beka Book once more: "...abortionists occasionally use salt poisoning (saline abortion)...Using a long needle, they inject a salt solution (or sometimes urea) into the amniotic sac. This concentrated salt solution is swallowed and inhaled by the child, causing hemorrhaging, shock, and often painful burning of the skin. The child thrashes about as it slowly dies, usually within an hour and a half. The dead child is then delivered through the birth canal within 2-3 days."
Do people really advocate this?
The most common method of all abortion involves an insertion of forceps into the womb to lacerate the baby, drag it out of the womb by way of birth canal, and then after still reassembling the diminutive remains to confirm that no part of the child is left floating in the mother. This method is called D & E (dilation and evacuation).
Of course, there are cases when it is too late to even attempt any of these methods. In these cases, hysterotomy or partial-birth abortions would be performed.
ProChoice.com describes hysterotomy abortion:

"Similar to the Cesarean section, the hysterotomy abortion is a surgical procedure whereby the baby is removed from the mother's womb and allowed to die by neglect or killed by a direct act."

Partial-birth abortion is, I think, the cruelest of them all; because the child comes so close to being able to truly live, comes so close to being born, but is then subjected to a cruel death.
Quoting Brenda Pratt Shafer, who witnessed several partial-birth abortions while working for an Ohio abortionist:

July 9th, 1995
"The baby's body was moving. His little fingers were clasping together. He was kicking his feet. All the while his little head was still stuck inside. Dr. haskell took a pair of scissors and inserted them into the back of the baby's head. Then he opened the scissors up. Then he stuck the high-powered suction tube into the hole and sucked the baby's brains out." (Eternal Word Television Network---http://www.ewtn.com/library/ISSUES/PART.BIRT.TXT)

That sounds to me like a graphic murder scene in a horror novel.
And it sickens me.
According to a recent study done by SoulPants on WordPress, 46 million babies die annually from abortion worldwide. Approximately, one baby aborted every two seconds.
"In the US, an estimated 50 million babies have been aborted since 1973. Approximately, 24% of all US pregnancies end in abortion."

Despite the horror of it, despite the heart-wrenching barbarity of it all, people still advocate it, still perform it, and I think it's shameful.
Their reasons?
The top three would be: negative impact on the mother's life, financial instability, but most abortions are performed because of women's unwillingness to become mothers.
I find these horrible reasons to commit murder.
Overall, I find abortion to be barbarous, animalistic, demoniac, callous, and brutal.

Tell me, is all this truly human?

Funny Quotes

Time is a great teacher, but unfortunately it kills all its pupils ... - Louis Hector Berlioz

Whatever women do they must do twice as well as men to be thought half as good. Luckily, this is not difficult.

If Barbie is so popular, why do you have to buy her friends?

A computer once beat me at chess, but it was no match for me at kick boxing.

Everyone is entitled to their own opinion. It's just that yours is stupid.

"One of the great things about books is sometimes there are some fantastic pictures." -George W. Bush (Lol...he is so dumb)

Always remember you're unique, just like everyone else.

[These quotes from a 2001 Washington TV/Radio Correspondents dinner]

As you know, we're studying safe levels for arsenic in drinking water to base our decision on sound science, the scientists told us we need to test the water glasses of about 3,000 people. Thank you for participating.

"Rarely is the question asked, is our children learning?" Let us analyze that sentence for a moment. If you're a stickler, you probably think the singular verb "is" should have been the plural "are," but if you read it closely, you'll see I'm using the intransitive plural subjunctive tense. So the word "is" are correct.

In my sentences I go where no man has gone before...I am a boon to the English language.
-- George W. Bush

In view of the fact that God limited the intelligence of man, it seems unfair that he did not also limit his stupidity.
-- Konrad Adenauer

Everything is funny as long as it is happening to somebody else.
-- Will Rogers

“I just broke up with someone and the last thing she said to me was "You'll never find anyone like me again!" I'm thinking, "I should hope not! If I don't want you, why would I want someone like you?"”

“Life is one fool thing after another whereas love is two fool things after each other.”
--Oscar Wilde

“I am ready to meet my Maker. Whether my Maker is prepared for the ordeal of meeting me is another matter.”
--Winston Churchill

“Friends are like bras: close to your heart and there for support.”

“Before you criticize someone, you should walk a mile in their shoes. That way when you criticize them, you are a mile away from them and you have their shoes.”
--Jack Handey

“Suppose you were an idiot and suppose you were a member of Congress. But I repeat myself”
--Mark Twain

“An archaeologist is the best husband a woman can have. The older she gets the more interested he is in her.”

Agatha Christie

Mari and Phillip

And these are all of Mari, the oldest, who is now twenty-eight, I believe. Except for that one where she's with Julia (Nine). As you can probably deduct from these pictures, she's weird, but absolutely hilarious, and sweet, and she's really great. Love her.







































This is the second child, Phillip Mitsuru. He's...26? I think so, anyhow. He's tough but sweet, and he is great fun to be around. This is him and Joe, my nephew.

Alina

This is the twin of Johnny (Jonathan Keitaro), Alina Akimi. She's twenty-three, hilarious, sweet, cool, and a great sister to have. Love her.
This is her and her son Joe.


Alina again...........






Alina again............except, this is her when she's seventeen. She loves snakes, by the way.

Pictures

My nephew, Joseph Alexander (More famously known as "Baby Joe"), at two years old. Adorable!











This is my youngest brother, Justin Suguru. He's five, cute features, but being the youngest is starting to rub off on him, and he's becoming a little bratty. But, as long as we're just looking at pictures, he's wonderful.







Justin and--off in the distance--my nine-year-old sister Julia Erika. She's sweet, a little spacey, and is the baby of the family. She's the eleventh child.

This is the tenth child, Michael Minoru, and he's ten. He looks a little weird in this picture, but in real life he's really cute, I just couldn't find a good picture of him. He's a genuine Taurus. Possessive, adorably sweet when he feels like it, but overall LOUD!








And, I cannot find a picture of the ninth (Jeffrey Naoki, thirteen) and the seventh child (David Akira, seventeen). I wish I could put a picture of the eighth child (Me) inside, but I can't.....because I don't want to.
About Jeffrey and David, though. I guess I'll just describe them.
Jeffrey Naoki: Thirteen. Getting a stiff backbone, if you know what I mean. Used to be a major Star Wars fan, now is into Indiana Jones. Very funny, but a little weird sometimes.
David Akira: Seventeen. One of those sweet, generous, quiet guys you see in the movies who are the point of every woman's fantasy...I think. Anyhow, he's a great guy.




And this...........is Alfred Yuuichiro. He's the sixth child, and he is absolutely nuts. He's nineteen (turning twenty...ahahaha!) and he's a great big tease. He's a goofball, in short terms, but you can kind of tell that from the picture.



And these people are....oh. Okay. The guy who looks like he's getting strangled is Shane (but he's not it my family.) The guy who's strangling him is Ricky--we'll get to him later--, the guy in the background who nobody can really see is...oh! There he is! That's David Akira, the seventh child. The woman in the red sweater is Alina, the boy whose arm she is clinging to is Daichi (not in my family), and the guy remaining is Alfred.


And these two guys... Well, the one in the cowboy hat and leather jacket with the squinting eyes is Richard Takashi (Twenty-one, funny, but mainly just ridiculous), and the one who...well, the other one, is Jonathan Keitaro (mainly known as Johnny. Twenty-three, annoyingly strong, quick-tempered, funny.)





And....it's Johnny and Ricky again.















I think I'm going to finish this in another post.

Short Story

What do you know! This is from about a year ago, when my brothers and a friend suggested we do our own little contest of who could write the best love story. Some people hate this one, some people love it.
But, hey, can you really judge something that was written in an hour?



-----UNTITLED-----


Charlie McEvan watched the rain pound the windows, and tried to keep his mind on the road. He just couldn’t understand the weather. In all the twenty-six years of his life he had never seen so much rain, and especially not on Christmas Eve. There should have been knee-deep snow covering the fields by now, and a snowman or snow fort where that muddy puddle now stood. But, it didn’t matter. If the hen laid brown eggs, you didn’t throw them away.
He breathed in relief to sight the big red barn. Home at last.
He parked the truck slowly, careful to not smash the new fences he had just put up. He took one last look out the windshield, and then opened the car door. Covering his head with his coat, he dashed out into the pouring rain. The rain poured freely onto his coat, trying in vain to wash away the eagerness he held to get inside. When he got to the porch, he wiped his muddy shoes on the carpet—Jonny had been very insistent about that—and opened the door.
As soon as he entered the house, he expected to be hit by a sudden shock of warmth, but found it strangely cold inside. He removed his wraps hastily, and ventured deeper inside the house. Then, he saw her.
A short, slender woman sat in an old wooden chair, her hands cupping tightly a homely red mug that he felt would soon break for the tightness with which she held it. She wore a thin dark green shirt that had sleeves that stretched a mile past her hands, and a long white apron that was partially covered by the thick green shawl that was draped loosely about her arms.
Her small face was framed by two strands of dark brown hair that had escaped the bun gathered at the back of her head and fallen across her abnormally high cheekbones. Her dimpled chin was fallen low, and her tall nose seemed almost protruding compared to the smallness of her face. She possessed large light brown eyes that he had seen so joyful and full of life so many times, yet now were filled with sadness as she stared at the rain outside.
Charlie gazed at the woman tenderly, and then let his lips curl into a smile.
“Merry Christmas Eve, Jonny.”
Startled by the sudden intrusion, Jonny spun around, and then her pensive frown heated into a small smile.
“Merry Christmas Eve, my husband.” She answered, and put her mug down as he took a seat beside her.
Charlie grinned at his wife, and patted his knee. “Come, Jonny.”
Obediently, Jonny rose from her chair and settled on his lap; the smallest of smiles painted her face, but he could see the inevitable sadness evident in her eyes. He felt the coldness of her small, slender hands, and wondered why she did not dress warmer.
“Aren’t you cold?” He asked concernedly, and thought it strange when she gave a small jump.
“Oh!” She exclaimed, and gathered the shawl about her. “Oh… I didn’t notice.”
Charlie looked at her pensively, trying to figure out why she was so jumpy.
“What’s wrong?” He inquired quietly as her eyes wandered back to the window.
“Wrong?” Jonny jumped again. “Oh, there’s… there’s nothing wrong, Charlie. Just a little tired.” Still, her eyes wandered back to the window.
Charlie saw the smile fade from her lips, and felt his own smile fade away. “Really, Jonny. What’s wrong?”
Jonny finally tore her eyes away from the window, and stared into Charlie’s. Seeing he was waiting for her, she gave a little sigh.
“It’s just this rain.” She confessed, clutching the shawl tighter. “It’s going to be our first Christmas together, Charlie. I wanted it to be perfect; but it’s raining, Charlie… raining! On Christmas Eve!”
Charlie’s expression reflected her troubled one, and he shifted a little in his seat.
“Jonny…” He tried to make his voice reassuring. “It doesn’t matter if it’s raining or if it’s snowing. We’re going to make this Christmas one to remember, you and I, so don’t you forget it. Besides, it’s not Christmas yet; we have six hours yet. So, why don’t you go set the table while I go wash up, and, maybe, when we wake up tomorrow morning, we’ll have snow.”
It was such a simple suggestion, such a simple little talk, but that was the way Jonny liked it. No big speeches, no large words, just simple and to the point.
Jonny sighed, and put on a brave smile.
“Alright.” She slid off his lap, and straightened her apron. Charlie rose in turn, and was about to go wash when Jonny let out a sudden exclamation.
“I forgot to feed Della!” She exclaimed, a horrified expression painted on her face.
Charlie laughed. “The horse can wait, Jonny.”
“Oh, no, Charlie!” Jonny protested. “I can’t… what will Della think?”
Charlie nearly rolled his eyes, remembering the fondness Jonny had for horses.
“Alright.” He resigned. “But be quick.”
Jonny laughed at that, and donned her coat. Then, she went to face the rain.
Charlie shook his head at the retreating figure, and then left to wash.

Joan rushed into the barn, shutting the doors behind her. She couldn’t believe she had forgotten about Della!
Her buckskin mare saw her enter, and neighed softly as Jonny approached. Jonny reached out a hand to stroke Della’s long nose, and whispered softly:
“Now, don’t you fret, Della. I won’t let mean old Charlie starve you; Jonny will always take care of you.” She patted the mare once more before grabbing the pitchfork lying against the ladder leading upstairs, and climbed into the hayloft.
She could still hear the rain outside, but she tried to ignore it. She had to be happy for Charlie. Christmas had always meant so much to him, and she didn’t want to ruin it for him.
She stabbed the pitchfork into a pile of hay, and then flung the yellow straws down the stairway. She wondered if Charlie would like the new hat she had gotten him for Christmas. It really was lovely, and she thought it would suit him well. His old hat was getting old, and he couldn’t go around without one.
Another stab, and then she readied to fling it downstairs. For a moment—just a moment—she thought that she had felt a slight…push against the pitchfork, but brushed it off. This would be the last load, and then she could give it to Della and be off. Charlie was waiting for her, and he had never been a patient man.
The hay flew down the stairway, but when she looked ahead of her and saw what lay upon the hay, the pitchfork went clattering down the stairway, too.
She felt a sudden catch appear in her throat, and her body gave a violent, involuntary jerk. She needed to move—God, she wanted to run!—but she couldn’t. Her boots were glued to the hayloft, and she was trapped.
Suddenly, she felt an excruciating pain shoot up her leg, and then everything started to get hazy. The last thing she saw before drifting off was the blurry picture of the copperhead’s glazed bronze eyes, and then:
Darkness…

Charlie scrubbed his head with the towel, waiting. What was taking Jonny so long? He had set the table for her, for Heaven’s sake! He knew she had a tendency to lose track of time whenever she was around horses, but she knew he was waiting, and wouldn’t normally take so long.
Grumbling, he threw back on his coat and headed outside. The rain greeted him with a rude shower of wet raindrops, and did not cease it’s pelting until he reached the barn.
He opened the doors wearily, wishing Jonny would remember him once in a while instead of paying so much attention to that horse.
When he entered, his eyes widened momentarily in shock at the piles of hay strewn across the bottom of the stairway. What was Jonny doing?
“Jonny?” He called, trying to keep the edge out of his voice. “Joan?”
She didn’t appear.
He rolled his eyes, suddenly realizing that she was probably hiding. He sometimes wished she could be a little less childish at times, but, then again, that was one of the things he liked about her. But, this was not the time/
“Jonny? Come on… not now. Let’s eat.”
No answer.
She must have been in an extreme hurry to hide, for she had not even filled Della’s manger yet. He chuckled to himself, and began to ascend the ladder that led to the hayloft. She would probably try to jump him; ever since they had been children, she had never been good at hide-and-seek. She had always preferred surprising the unfortunate seeker to winning the game.
He stepped onto the sturdy surface as the smell of hay filled his nostrils.
“Jo—”
Her name died on his lips.
There lay Jonny, sprawled on the floor of the hayloft, her face pale and her lips turning blue from the cold. Her face was frozen in an expression of stark terror, but her eyelids hid the horror that he was sure lay in her eyes.
His mind was a whirlwind of terrified thoughts.
“Jonny!”
He rushed to her, and bent near, straining to hear a word, a sound…anything! His ears barely picked up the near inaudible sound of her weak, shallow breathing, and he breathed in relief. She was alive.
Relief lasted only a moment, however, and he realized the urgency of the situation.
Wasting no time, he scooped her up in his arms, and sped as fast as he could without dropping her to the pickup.
He laid her gently down in the passenger seat, and clambered behind the wheel. He had to hurry.
God, let it not be too late! He prayed desperately, and started the car.

Her eyes lifted open slowly, and it took a moment to see shapes in the pale colors that surrounded her. White. White everywhere. What had happened?
Then, she remembered the hayloft, and the copperhead. Was she alright?
She shifted uncomfortably. The bed she was lying on was hard; where was she?
Then she realized something as she gazed around. This was a hospital room. She was in a hospital bed. Somehow, she had gotten to a hospital.
Where was Charlie?
Little beeping noises were sounding quietly, but it wasn’t the beeps that made her head turn.
Charlie’s voice was almost distant, but she could hear it. He sounded worried. He was talking to someone. Who was Charlie talking to?
“…not good.” She heard the other voice say. She couldn’t see anyone. Where were the voices coming from?
“Will she be alright, doctor?”
She. They were talking about her. Charlie was asking if she was going to be alright. Would she be? She kept quiet, trying to hear.
The other voice hesitated.
“It’s too late for her, Mr. McEvan.” He finally said.
Boom! She felt something hard hit her. But it didn’t hit her body, else she would have felt it…differently. No, it came from somewhere else… from within. She could feel a wound, a wound so deep that she felt almost numb. But she had no wound… no wound anywhere, but on her heart.
Charlie sounded horrified now. “But… but copperheads don’t—”
“Not normally, Mr. McEvan.” The doctor interrupted. “There are cases, however. If you had brought her sooner….” The doctor didn’t finish the thought.
There was silence.
“How long does she have, doctor?” Charlie sounded different. Oh, so different than she had ever heard before. But she, too, felt different. She was going to die. But she couldn’t! She wanted more time… more time to be with Charlie. It was too soon… this seemed so wrong!
“She has a few hours at most.” The doctor answered. Jonny froze. A few more hours…
“Can I—” Charlie’s voice sounded strangled. “Can I take her home? She’ll want to be home.”
“You may, Mr. McEvan.” The doctor consented. “There’s nothing more we can do for her.”
How could he sound so calm? She was going to die!
Her thoughts were interrupted when Charlie broke in.
“Doctor,” He hesitated, and then went on. “Please don’t tell Jonny… my wife. I…I don’t want her to be afraid. I want her to be happy.”
“I understand, Mr. McEvan.” The doctor said. “I’m sorry.”
Charlie didn’t answer.
She suddenly heard a click as the doorknob to her room turned, and she quickly shut her eyes. She was going to…
“Jonny?”
Charlie’s voice broke the silence.
Jonny fought within. Should she tell him?
“My sweet?” He gently shook her, and her eyelids fluttered open. She inhaled deeply, and gave him a weak smile, as if she had just awoken.
“Hello, Charlie.” She smiled, faking a yawn.
Charlie’s eyes had tears. “Hello, Jonny.”
Jonny shifted in the bed, and sat up, taking deep breaths.
“Where am I, Charlie?” She asked, although she knew very well where she was.
Charlie smiled, but his eyes were so full of sadness. “You’re in a hospital, but you’re gonna be just fine. You got bit by a copperhead, but the doctor says that you’ll be alright. Ready to go home?”
Jonny heard his lie, but ignored it. He was doing it for her, and she just had to remember that.
“A copperhead?” Her eyes widened. “Oh my, Charlie! Did you catch it? Oh, never mind. We still haven't eaten!”
She quickly slid out of the bed, happy to see that she was not wearing one of the dreadful hospital robes.
Charlie gave her a grin, but it seemed empty. “No, we haven’t. Let’s go while we still have time, eh?”
Those words sounded strangely ironic in Jonny’s ears. She quickly nodded.
“Alright, let’s go.”

Charlie stared solemnly at the figure sleeping soundly beside him, and tried not to think about the future. It was hard…too hard.
He didn’t dare shut his eyes. He couldn’t. He could not stand the darkness of blindness, could not stand not being able to see Jonny. Whenever his eyes shut and she disappeared from his sight, he suddenly felt so overwhelmed by grief, so utterly alone. Whenever he could not see Jonny, his eyes filled with tears, knowing that soon the time would come when she would be gone from his sight forever, and he wished that he would then be blind. He didn’t want to see anything else but Jonny, nothing else but his wife.
He remembered a day twelve years ago, the day he had fallen off his horse Pie while riding with his father. He had broken his arm, but he had refused to shed tears. Not one tear. He had howled, he had felt the pain, but he had not wept. Yet now, here he was, letting out enough tears to fill the Grand Canyon.
Jonny slept soundly, quietly. Her face held peace, so unaware of the calamity to befall her… and him.
She had rolled over the far side of the bed as she usually did, but, this time, he wished that she hadn’t. Even the small space between him and Jonny killed him, and was killing him quickly.
He reached out a tentative yet yearning hand to stroke her tangled brown hair, and he felt more tears coming. The number of raindrops falling down upon the earth now or in the future could never number the many tears he had shed that night, while Jonny slept. He wanted more time.
“God, I need more time.” He whispered desperately.
Jonny gave a sudden stir, and his hand jerked back hastily. He hadn’t meant to wake her up.
Jonny’s groggy eyes opened slowly, and her disarrayed hair lifted from the pillow as her small head rose.
“Charlie?” She whispered, her voice hoarse. “Why are you still awake?”
Charlie willed back tears. “Just worrying about you, my wife.”
His wife. Those words echoed through his head with a desolate ring. How many times had he uttered or listened to those words, without realizing the true depth and love he felt for those two words? He wanted to tell her all, to tell her the truth, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. She couldn’t know.
Jonny gave him a weary but contented smile. “You worry about me too much, my love.”
Her head dropped back on the pillow, but her eyes did not close. For a brief moment he thought he saw something flicker through her eyes; an indescribable sadness, a look of wanting and of regret. Yet, the next moment, her eyes were filled with that same contented look.
He stared at her quietly. How long did she have? An hour? Did she have till morning? Would she be able to see the new set of jeweled pins he had bought her for Christmas? He hoped she did not see the tears he knew would never leave his eyes.
“Hold me, Charlie.”
Her voice beckoned him, and it was the sweetest harmony that would ever fall upon his ears. He drew closer, and gathered his arms about her.
She lay against him softly, silently. She did not utter a word.
He fought his inner turmoil, and vowed to himself that he would not weep. Grown men did not weep. He could not weep. He had to be strong. If not for Jonny, than for himself.

Charlie’s eyelids slammed open as the crow of a lone rooster reached his ears. He prayed that it had all been a dream, but Jonny peacefully sleeping in his arms dashed that hope.
She wore a smile on her lips, a secret smile that emanated joy that he tried so hard to feel. Her hands rested comfortably on his shoulders as her head lay against his chest. She looked so beautiful, and no one else could convince him otherwise.
Not wanting to awake her, he gently slid his arm from beneath her and rose gently from the bed. She did not even twitch.
He sighed, and turned with a heavy heart. He walked to the window and threw open the curtains, waiting to see the muddy landscape that he had been seeing for the past week. Instead, his eyes nearly dropped out of his head.
There was white everywhere, in every corner, and every crack and cranny. The trees branches were covered, the barn roof was piled over. The back of his pick-up truck was filled, and so were his fields. He could hardly believe it.
“Jonny!”
No matter that she was sleeping. She would want to see this. It was worth it.
“Jonny!”
He rushed over to the bed, and touched her face warmly. His hand drew back jerkily. She was cold. She was so cold.
He panicked, and lifted her up. She fell into his arms, her skin cold, her body drooping lifeless and limp against his chest. Charlie stared at her in horror.
“No, Jonny… no! Jonny, get up! Oh, please, Jonny!”
It was no use. No matter how many times he shook her, no matter how hard he pleaded or how many times he kissed her cold lips, she would not awake. She was dead. Jonny was gone.
“No!” He shouted tearfully. “No, God!”
Jonny just smiled at him, her smile froze on her lips for eternity.

Charlie knelt in front of the Christmas tree, not even bothering to hide his pained, dismal expression. Who would see it but him, now that Jonny was gone?
The funeral had been a simple one… just how he knew Jonny would have wanted it. Her parents had come, and so had his. Still, no one had shed as many tears as Charlie. Not even her softhearted mother. It was he who was pained the most; it was he who had lost the most.
He stared at the few Christmas presents under the tree, trying to make himself touch them. Jonny had left a box, but he couldn’t bring himself to open it. He was afraid that, if he saw what she had given him, he would start crying again. He couldn’t cry again. He had to forget Jonny, forget what they had shared. But, how could he?
Painfully, he reached for the present. It was wrapped in a bright red box, and her favorite green ribbon held it all together. Slowly, he untied the bow, and lifted the lid of the box. He could hardly bring himself to look into the box, but he did, and he inhaled sharply as he saw it.
It wasn’t large, it wasn’t fancy, but he couldn’t have wished for more.
Resting easily at the bottom of the box lay a small beige envelope, it’s corners embroidered with hard-drawn flowers and it’s face covered in Jonny’s elegant writing. His heart gave a violent wrench.
His hands trembled as they reached for the envelope, too afraid to see what lay inside. When had she written this? Was this the present that she had been so eager that she nearly broke out the secret every time he even brought it up? Somehow he doubted it.
He tore the envelope open, not sparing a moment to strain his anticipation. The letter unfolded easily, and he tried to force down the lump that suddenly arose in his throat as he began to read.

My dear, dear Charlie,
Merry Christmas. I couldn’t tell you how much it means to me to write those words to you. I would tell them to you in person, but I’m too afraid that I won’t wake up tomorrow to be able to say it to you.
Yes, Charlie, I know. I heard you and the doctor talking while I was in the hospital. Forgive me for pretending to be asleep; I did not want to pain you. You were so kind, trying to let my last moments be happy and carefree. I love you just for that, Charlie. But, I was happy even knowing.
I was-—am—-so blessed to have had even a moment to share with you, Charlie. I had always imagined growing old with you, but maybe this way is better. Maybe, this way, our love will never die; it will never have a chance. It will burn on forever.
I don’t want you to grieve for me, Charlie. I know you’ll cry; all people do. It’s not wrong to cry, Charlie, but don’t let those tears drown your life. Find another to share your love with; I know it will be hard for you, but Heaven will never be Heaven for me if you’re not happy.
Remember that time you fell off Pie, Charlie? You were so brave; you didn’t even cry. I wanted to be brave like you… I’ve never been brave. I suppose God had other plans for me. Perhaps the Lord needs the weak people so the brave can be courageous for them.
I don’t know what to write. There is so much I want to say, but that I cannot express. All I can say is that I love you, Charlie, and never will stop loving you. Even when I die.
Heaven could never stop my missing you, Charlie. I’ll never stop missing you, and I’ll never stop loving you.
Goodbye, Charlie. Merry Christmas.
Jonny

Charlie held the paper so tightly that the middle of the letter started to crinkle.
You don’t know how brave you were, Jonny. He thought inwardly.
Charlie McEvan could not help it.
He cried.


―The End