Read Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) Online
Authors: Travelers In Time
"Filled
and
sealed,
eh?"
said
the
Squire.
"If
I
could
bring
myself
to touch
it,
I
dare
say
we
should
find
the
seal.
So
that's
what
came
of
his boiling
and
distilling,
is
it?
Old
Ghoul!"
"What
in
the
world
do
you
mean?"
"Don't
you
see,
my
good
man?
Remember
what
he
said
to
the doctor
about
looking
through
dead
men's
eyes?
Well,
this
was
another
way
of
it.
But
they
didn't
like
having
their
bones
boiled,
I
take it,
and
the
end
of
it
was
they
carried
him
off
whither
he
would
not. Well,
I'll
get
a
spade,
and
we'll
bury
this
thing
decently."
As
they
smoothed
the
turf
over
it,
the
Squire,
handing
the
spade
to Patten,
who
had
been
a
reverential
spectator,
remarked
to
Fanshawe: "It's
almost
a
pity
you
took
that
thing
into
the
church:
you
might have
seen
more
than
you
did.
Baxter
had
them
for
a
week,
I
make
out, but
I
don't
see
that
he
did
much
in
the
time."
"I'm
not
sure,"
said
Fanshawe,
"there
is
that
picture
of
Fulnaker Priory
Church."
From
My World and Welcome to It,
by James Thurber, with permission from the
author.
A
Friend to Al
exan
der
By JAMES THURBER
"I
HAVE TAKEN TO DREAMING ABOUT AARON BURR EVERY NIGHT," AN-
drews
said.
"What
for?"
said
Mrs.
Andrews.
"How
do
I
know
what
for?"
Andrews
snarled.
"What
for,
the woman
says."
Mrs.
Andrews
did
not
flare
up;
she
simply
looked
at
her
husband
as he
lay
on
the
chaise
longue
in
her
bedroom
in
his
heavy
blue
dressing gown,
smoking
a
cigarette.
Although
he
had
just
got
out
of
bed,
he looked
haggard
and
tired.
He
kept
biting
his
lower
lip
between
puffs.
"Aaron
Burr
is
a
funny
person
to
be
dreaming
about
nowadays—I mean
with
all
the
countries
in
the
world
at
war
with
each
other.
I wish
you
would
go
and
see
Dr.
Fox,"
said
Mrs.
Andrews,
taking
her thumb
from
between
the
pages
of
her
mystery
novel
and
tossing
the book
toward
the
foot
of
her
bed.
She
sat
up
straighter
against
her pillow.
"Maybe
haliver
oil
or
B
x
is
what
you
need,"
she
said.
"B
1
does wonders
for
people.
I
don't
see
why
you
see
him
in
your
dreams. Where
do
you
see
him?"
"Oh,
places;
in
Washington
Square
or
Bowling
Green
or
on
Broadway.
I'll
be
talking
to
a
woman
in
a
victoria,
a
woman
holding
a
white lace
parasol,
and
suddenly
there
will
be
Burr,
bowing
and
smiling
and smelling
like
a
carnation,
telling
his
stories
about
France
and
getting •off
his
insults."
Mrs.
Andrews
lighted
a
cigarette,
although
she
rarely
smoked
until after
lunch.
"Who
is
the
woman
in
the
victoria?"
she
asked.
"What?
How
do
I
know?
You
know
about
people
in
dreams,
don't you?
They
are
nobody
at
all,
or
everybody."
"You
see
Aaron
Burr
plainly
enough,
though.
I
mean
he
isn't
nobody
or
everybody."
"All
right,
all
right,"
said
Andrews.
"You
have
me
there.
But
I don't
know
who
the
woman
is,
and
I
don't
care.
Maybe
it's
Madame Jumel
or
Mittens
Willett
or
a
girl
I
knew
in
high
school.
That's
not important."
"Who
is
Mittens
Willett?"
asked
Mrs.
Andrews. "She
was
a
famous
New
York
actress
in
her
day,
fifty
years
ago
or so.
She's
buried
in
an
old
cemetery
on
Second
Avenue." "That's
very
sad,"
said
Mrs.
Andrews.
"Why
is
it?"
demanded
Andrews,
who
was
now
pacing
up
and down
the
deep-red
carpet.
"I
mean
she
probably
died
young,"
said
Mrs.
Andrews.
"Almost
all women
did
in
those
days."
Andrews
ignored
her
and
walked
over
to
a
window
and
looked
out at
a
neat,
bleak
street
in
the
Fifties.
"He's
a
vile,
cynical
cad,"
said Andrews,
suddenly
turning
away
from
the
window.
"I
was
standing talking
to
Alexander
Hamilton
when
Burr
stepped
up
and
slapped him
in
the
face.
When
I
looked
at
Hamilton,
who
do
you
suppose
he was?"