ONLY IF

Ada and Smith knew each other from the estate their parents shared. They were close, although they attended different schools because Smith's parents are well to do, they still find time for each other.
Best friends forever they promised but that was not to be as Smith's parents completed their house and had to move away.

Many years after, Ada and Smith met, and their affection ignited. Smith an only child of his parent was due to take over from his Mother as MD of Tanko oil; a multimillion naira oil company. The only condition his mother gave him was marriage. He had to be married before she will make the MD.

So the reunion with Ada came at the right time. Ada, beautiful as ever, met all his criteria for a wife. He planned to propose at a candlelight dinner but she insisted on cooking at her place.
On the D-day, Smith dressed in a suit and armed with a beautiful diamond ring proceeded to Ada's residence. He was so agitated, nervous and happy at the same time.
Halfway to Ada's house, he placed a call to brief Ada of his imminent arrival. She told him to get her house key from under the doormat because she was running late as she quickly went to get some items from the other street.

Abel a squatter with a neighour of Ada is elated. He just received a mail from the company that had conducted series of interviews for him over the past three months. He's been informed to resume in two weeks, and the salary is nothing short of a miracle. Abel a Petrochemical Engineer, have been jobless since graduation. And for years, he maintained himself by washing cars. A venture that barely feeds him. So this job meant a lot to him. He is happy and thankful to his stars. As a smoker, he whips out a cigarette, sat on the doorsteps smoking away.

Smith, seated and nervous in Ada's room, knew there was trouble immediately he perceived the cigarette smell. He checked his pockets for his inhaler, alas, he left it at home. He quickly made to get up but he felt light headed as his breathing became difficult. He collapsed, whizzing on the floor. Inhaler far from reach, no help in sight, few minutes later, Smith died.

Smith's mother was devastated. Her only joy after her husband's death is gone. As the MD and Chairman of Tanko oil she decided to move abroad away from the sorrow. She sold Tanko oil to her competitor.

My readers, I hope we still remember Abel the guy that smoked the cigarette. Yes he committed suicide. Not because of the guilt; he did not even know his smoking killed someone, rather he committed suicide because Tanko oil the only company willing to give him a new lease of life was sold to another company. And his employment canceled. He could not hide the frustration and disappointment hence the suicide. What goes around..

Tired Heart

At 29 and not yet married, I was tired of games and unnecessary time wasting from time wasters who are just after me to eat and clean mouth. I broke up with my boyfriend of 3 years because the journey to the alter with him seems like pregnancy to a wombless dog.

I was done with love, I switched it with common sense and great discerning attitude. I was giving out my phone number to any eligible bachelor who seek it and accepting dates like I was the calendar itself. But I was smart to sieve the wheat from the chaff. I ask them serious questions, questions about future and what they want with me. Anyone without a concrete plan of meeting my people within six months is relegated and substituted immediately.
And did it yield fruit? Yes. Because not long into my search for a husband I found Tolu. A tall handsome guy, a geek and shy but nonetheless he was perfect for me. Tolu approached me on Instagram, he slide into my DM and ladies, I shut the door immediately he was in, such a fine man cannot escape. After a couple of dates, Tolu the computer security expert was a perfect match with a plan to marry in less than a year, and within a month, he used the word "love" for me.

Oh yes his love making was exceptional, boy, how did I get so lucky. He was virtually in my house every evening as I couldn't go to his place often cos he mostly sleeps in the company's lodge and that is not comfortable. He has a house in lekki, OH yes, I have been there, slightly furnished to the taste of a man rarely home, but my Tolu was a gem. A man of little words but of great sexual appetite.

He rarely gives me money apart from occasional gifts. He told me, he was saving for our wedding and building a house. Tolu was eager to get me pregnant but I told him it's against my parents' wish. The urge for pregnancy alone made me realize he was not a pretender like other men, wow I am finally going to join the married gang. His parents are based in Canada and by December I would meet them officially and to set a wedding date, a news he told me his parents have been anticipating since.

Every Saturday evening we always spend time together mostly indoors as he was a really shy and indoor person. But this Saturday, he called to say he is coming for a quickie as he misses me but he won't stay more than 20 minutes.
Immediately he entered my room, he started devouring me as he rid me of every pieces of fabrics on my body. I love it when a man is a gentle lion. Our love making was divine as I came multiple times. I kissed him after and thanked him for the perfume he got me. Because of time, he told me not to bother escorting him downstairs to his car. He dashed down and I laid on my bed still recovering from the awesome joy my Tolu just delivered to my loins when I heard screams and wailing downstairs, I peeped at my window but I couldn't decipher what is causing the commotion.
I dashed downstairs and as I was exiting the gate I saw Usman our gate man shaking his head with a really sad face.

"Usman wetin dey cause the noise outside" I enquired

"Aunty Susu, na accident fà, tipper I jam am for one motor with two children inside for there" Usman said pointing to the source of the commotion
"And the children don die walahi" he added.

I felt sadness. Innocent children and I shook my head as I made my way to the accident scene. At the scene what I saw and heard was both shocking and unbelievable.

My Tolu was on the floor, crying, bearing the two children to his chest weeping shouting "Dare, Tola wake up you know daddy loves you"

Did he just say "daddy loves you, Am I hearing correctly?

" Oga Na your pickin dem be" a policeman asked Tolu

Tolu amidst tears and to the the great shattering of my heart answered "Yes they are my children, what will my wife say, how will she cope..."

Tolu's voice fade in my ears as I withdrew into the crowd of sympathisers with my body shaking seriously homeward to ask my head serious questions of how unfortunate I have turned out in life.

Written by Segun Solomon Longe

The Lost Wallet: A Great Love Story

As I walked home one freezing day, I stumbled on a wallet someone had lost in the street. I picked it up and looked inside to find some identification so I could call the owner. But the wallet contained only three dollars and a crumpled letter that looked as if it had been in there for years.

The envelope was worn and the only thing that was legible on it was the return address. I started to open the letter, hoping to find some clue. Then I saw the dateline–1924. The letter had been written almost 60 years ago.

It was written in a beautiful feminine handwriting on powder blue stationery with a little flower in the left-hand corner. It was a “Dear John” letter that told the recipient, whose name appeared to be Michael, that the writer could not see him anymore because her mother forbade it. Even so, she wrote that she would always love him.

It was signed, Hannah.

It was a beautiful letter, but there was no way except for the name Michael, that the owner could be identified. Maybe if I called information, the operator could find a phone listing for the address on the envelope.

“Operator,” I began, “this is an unusual request. I’m trying to find the owner of a wallet that I found. Is there anyway you can tell me if there is a phone number for an address that was on an envelope in the wallet?”

She suggested I speak with her supervisor, who hesitated for a moment then said, “Well, there is a phone listing at that address, but I can’t give you the number.” She said, as a courtesy, she would call that number, explain my story and would ask them if they wanted her to connect me.

I waited a few minutes and then she was back on the line. “I have a party who will speak with you.”

I asked the woman on the other end of the line if she knew anyone by the name of Hannah. She gasped, “Oh! We bought this house from a family who had a daughter named Hannah. But that was 30 years ago!”

“Would you know where that family could be located now?” I asked.

“I remember that Hannah had to place her mother in a nursing home some years ago,” the woman said. “Maybe if you got in touch with them they might be able to track down the daughter.”

She gave me the name of the nursing home and I called the number. They told me the old lady had passed away some years ago but they did have a phone number for where they thought the daughter might be living.

I thanked them and phoned. The woman who answered explained that Hannah herself was now living in a nursing home.

This whole thing was stupid, I thought to myself. Why was I making such a big deal over finding the owner of a wallet that had only three dollars and a letter that was almost 60 years old?

Nevertheless, I called the nursing home in which Hannah was supposed to be living and the man who answered the phone told me, “Yes, Hannah is staying with us.”

Even though it was already 10 p.m., I asked if I could come by to see her. “Well,” he said hesitatingly, “if you want to take a chance, she might be in the day room watching television.”

I thanked him and drove over to the nursing home. The night nurse and a guard greeted me at the door. We went up to the third floor of the large building. In the day room, the nurse introduced me to Hannah.

She was a sweet, silver-haired oldtimer with a warm smile and a twinkle in her eye. I told her about finding the wallet and showed her the letter. The second she saw the powder blue envelope with that little flower on the left, she took a deep breath and said, “Young man, this letter was the last contact I ever had with Michael.”

She looked away for a moment deep in thought and then said softly, “I loved him very much. But I was only 16 at the time and my mother felt I was too young. Oh, he was so handsome. He looked like Sean Connery, the actor.”

“Yes,” she continued. “Michael Goldstein was a wonderful person. If you should find him, tell him I think of him often. And,” she hesitated for a moment, almost biting her lip, “tell him I still love him. You know,” she said smiling as tears began to well up in her eyes, “I never did marry. I guess no one ever matched up to Michael…”

I thanked Hannah and said goodbye. I took the elevator to the first floor and as I stood by the door, the guard there asked, “Was the old lady able to help you?”

I told him she had given me a lead. “At least I have a last name. But I think I’ll let it go for a while. I spent almost the whole day trying to find the owner of this wallet.”

I had taken out the wallet, which was a simple brown leather case with red lacing on the side. When the guard saw it, he said, “Hey, wait a minute! That’s Mr. Goldstein’s wallet. I’d know it anywhere with that bright red lacing. He’s always losing that wallet. I must have found it in the halls at least three times.”

“Who’s Mr. Goldstein?” I asked as my hand began to shake.

“He’s one of the oldtimers on the 8th floor. That’s Mike Goldstein’s wallet for sure. He must have lost it on one of his walks.” I thanked the guard and quickly ran back to the nurse’s office. I told her what the guard had said. We went back to the elevator and got on. I prayed that Mr. Goldstein would be up.

On the eighth floor, the floor nurse said, “I think he’s still in the day room. He likes to read at night. He’s a darling old man.”

We went to the only room that had any lights on and there was a man reading a book. The nurse went over to him and asked if he had lost his wallet. Mr. Goldstein looked up with surprise, put his hand in his back pocket and said, “Oh, it is missing!”

“This kind gentleman found a wallet and we wondered if it could be yours?”

I handed Mr. Goldstein the wallet and the second he saw it, he smiled with relief and said, “Yes, that’s it! It must have dropped out of my pocket this afternoon. I want to give you a reward.”

“No, thank you,” I said. “But I have to tell you something. I read the letter in the hope of finding out who owned the wallet.”

The smile on his face suddenly disappeared. “You read that letter?”

“Not only did I read it, I think I know where Hannah is.”

He suddenly grew pale. “Hannah? You know where she is? How is she? Is she still as pretty as she was? Please, please tell me,” he begged.

“She’s fine…just as pretty as when you knew her.” I said softly.

The old man smiled with anticipation and asked, “Could you tell me where she is? I want to call her tomorrow.” He grabbed my hand and said, “You know something, Mister? I was so in love with that girl that when that letter came, my life literally ended. I never married. I guess I’ve always loved her.”

“Mr. Goldstein,” I said, “Come with me.”

We took the elevator down to the third floor. The hallways were darkened and only one or two little night-lights lit our way to the day room where Hannah was sitting alone watching the television. The nurse walked over to her.

“Hannah,” she said softly, pointing to Michael, who was waiting with me in the doorway. “Do you know this man?”

She adjusted her glasses, looked for a moment, but didn’t say a word. Michael said softly, almost in a whisper, “Hannah, it’s Michael. Do you remember me?”

She gasped, “Michael! I don’t believe it! Michael! It’s you! My Michael!” He walked slowly towards her and they embraced. The nurse and I left with tears streaming down our faces.

“See,” I said. “See how the Good Lord works! If it’s meant to be, it will be.”

About three weeks later I got a call at my office from the nursing home. “Can you break away on Sunday to attend a wedding? Michael and Hannah are going to tie the knot!”

It was a beautiful wedding with all the people at the nursing home dressed up to join in the celebration. Hannah wore a light beige dress and looked beautiful. Michael wore a dark blue suit and stood tall. They made me their best man.

The hospital gave them their own room and if you ever wanted to see a 76-year-old bride and a 79-year-old groom acting like two teenagers, you had to see this couple.

A perfect ending for a love affair that had lasted nearly 60 years.

RAPE: MY SWEET EXPERIENCE

The evening is calm and darkness has swallowed the sun. The wind is gentle and that is a joy to me as the Atupa that is illuminating the shop produces a flame that dances seductively and dangerously close to extinction yet alive to cast it's light on the noodles business I am overseeing for my mother.
It was a slow day and so is business. Arike my friend had gone to hawk peppered ponmo for her mother so I am all alone with my thoughts. My name is Tinuade, a 16 year old girl. The only child of my mother, who never knew her father because my mother does not know him too. Anyway the story of my conception is so complex that I could not even tell it.
Although 16, I posses the body of an adult so attractive that uncle Thomas the mathematics teacher ogled at me one day till he walked into a pole. Letters of affection and requests for relationship flood my locker daily. Even some NYSC Corp Members attached to my school never fails to invite me to their house. Male antics are well known to me, thanks to my mother who drummed it into my head how unwanted pregnancy ruined her chance for a better life. She told me they would come with sweet tales of affection and boy, did they come?

As I reminisce the days event, someone covered my eyes from the back. I knew it was Brother Yemi our jovial neighbour. Brother Yemi a graduate who works at the bottling company is very free and well loved by everyone.
I have been expecting him. I smiled as he turn to sit beside me.

"How are you my wife" he asked

I giggled "I am fine bro Yemi"

"How was work" I added

"Work is fine"

Bro Yemi looked at me skeptically as he touched my chin then he asked "hope you are no longer angry with me"

I smiled and replied "it's okay, after all you have apologized"

"Should I bring your noodles to your room later?" I asked to reassure him that I am no longer angry.

"Yes, make it two eggs this time" bro Yemi said as he stood to leave.

He touched my cheek playfully and I held his hand against my cheek and smiled.
Bro Yemi is such a fine and attractive young man. Standing tall, one wonders why he does not have a woman in his life.
After he left, I fired on the stove, prepared his noodles and fried the eggs the way he likes it with lot of pepper; packaged it, quenched the Atupa and advanced to bro Yemi's room in the face to face house that he shares with my mother and numerous other tenants.

I entered into his room quickly without knocking to avoid being detected by the neighbours. He beamed with smiles and hugged me tightly. I handed the noodles to him as I sat beside him.

"Bro Yemi please can I use your phone to Google an assignment we were given today at school?" I pleaded

"Of course Tinuade, you are my girl now and a good girl who knows what's up" he said as he handed over the phone to me.

He opened the noodles and starts eating while I type on his phone. Halfway into the food he coughed, I handed over a sachet of pure water to him and I began to type frantically on his phone.

Not quite long, bro Yemi grabbed his stomach and began to groan in pain, I quickly walked towards his sound system, increased the volume and then crossed over to him.

I crouched low, looked into bro Yemi's eyes as he grows increasingly weak and his pains intensify, I raised his chin and began to speak as tears stream down my face.
"Do you remember what you did to me last month? Of course you remember. You were the hunter and I was the prey. You took advantage of my innocence and robbed me of my hymen. You raped me and begged me with promise of money and a phone not to cry or tell my mother. Yemi! Can money or phone equate the pain you gave to me and my virginity that you stole? Oh you thought you won right? No I won. Inside your noodles is a potent poison that is currently ripping apart your internal organs. No do not bother to scream as you won't find the voice to. I have composed a well written suicide note for you explaining how you are tired of this life and want to tap out."

Bro Yemi's eyes revealed real fear as he realises the implications of what I just said. He struggled to get up but his feet couldn't find the strength as blood oozes from his nose. I brought out the bottle of sniper and place it beside his food, I hit send on the phone to deliver the suicide note to his Facebook wall. As I closed his door careful not be seen, Bro Yemi breathed his last and I felt a weight lifted off my shoulder. He had stolen my virginity and ruined my life, and I have stolen his life and gave him a quick passage to hell. Trade by barter.

Written by Segun Solomon Longe

A Cosmopolite In a Cafe

Before you start the story, it's important to understand that a "cosmopolite" is someone that fashions themselves as a person or citizen of the world, one that is truly at home in any location or setting. Such a person would be free from local attachments and prejudice, and be free of provincial affections.

At midnight the cafe was crowded. By some chance the little table at which I sat had escaped the eye of incomers, and two vacant chairs at it extended their arms with venal hospitality to the influx of patrons.
And then a cosmopolite sat in one of them, and I was glad, for I held a theory that since Adam no true citizen of the world has existed. We hear of them, and we see foreign labels on much luggage, but we find travellers instead of cosmopolites.
I invoke your consideration of the scene--the marble-topped tables, the range of leather-upholstered wall seats, the gay company, the ladies dressed in demi-state toilets, speaking in an exquisite visible chorus of taste, economy, opulence or art; the sedulous and largess-loving garcons, the music wisely catering to all with its raids upon the composers; the melange of talk and laughter--and, if you will, the Wurzburger in the tall glass cones that bend to your lips as a ripe cherry sways on its branch to the beak of a robber jay. I was told by a sculptor from Mauch Chunk that the scene was truly Parisian.
My cosmopolite was named E. Rushmore Coglan, and he will be heard from next summer at Coney Island. He is to establish a new "attraction" there, he informed me, offering kingly diversion. And then his conversation rang along parallels of latitude and longitude. He took the great, round world in his hand, so to speak, familiarly, contemptuously, and it seemed no larger than the seed of a Maraschino cherry in a table d'hote grape fruit. He spoke disrespectfully of the equator, he skipped from continent to continent, he derided the zones, he mopped up the high seas with his napkin. With a wave of his hand he would speak of a certain bazaar in Hyderabad. Whiff! He would have you on skis in Lapland. Zip! Now you rode the breakers with the Kanakas at Kealaikahiki. Presto! He dragged you through an Arkansas post-oak swamp, let you dry for a moment on the alkali plains of his Idaho ranch, then whirled you into the society of Viennese archdukes. Anon he would be telling you of a cold he acquired in a Chicago lake breeze and how old Escamila cured it in Buenos Ayres with a hot infusion of the chuchula weed. You would have addressed a letter to "E. Rushmore Coglan, Esq., the Earth, Solar System, the Universe," and have mailed it, feeling confident that it would be delivered to him.
I was sure that I had found at last the one true cosmopolite since Adam, and I listened to his worldwide discourse fearful lest I should discover in it the local note of the mere globe-trotter. But his opinions never fluttered or drooped; he was as impartial to cities, countries and continents as the winds or gravitation. And as E. Rushmore Coglan prattled of this little planet I thought with glee of a great almost-cosmopolite who wrote for the whole world and dedicated himself to Bombay. In a poem he has to say that there is pride and rivalry between the cities of the earth, and that "the men that breed from them, they traffic up and down, but cling to their cities' hem as a child to the mother's gown." And whenever they walk "by roaring streets unknown" they remember their native city "most faithful, foolish, fond; making her mere-breathed name their bond upon their bond." And my glee was roused because I had caught Mr. Kipling napping. Here I had found a man not made from dust; one who had no narrow boasts of birthplace or country, one who, if he bragged at all, would brag of his whole round globe against the Martians and the inhabitants of the Moon.
Expression on these subjects was precipitated from E. Rushmore Coglan by the third corner to our table. While Coglan was describing to me the topography along the Siberian Railway the orchestra glided into a medley. The concluding air was "Dixie," and as the exhilarating notes tumbled forth they were almost overpowered by a great clapping of hands from almost every table.
It is worth a paragraph to say that this remarkable scene can be witnessed every evening in numerous cafes in the City of New York. Tons of brew have been consumed over theories to account for it. Some have conjectured hastily that all Southerners in town hie themselves to cafes at nightfall. This applause of the "rebel" air in a Northern city does puzzle a little; but it is not insolvable. The war with Spain, many years' generous mint and watermelon crops, a few long-shot winners at the New Orleans race-track, and the brilliant banquets given by the Indiana and Kansas citizens who compose the North Carolina Society have made the South rather a "fad" in Manhattan. Your manicure will lisp softly that your left forefinger reminds her so much of a gentleman's in Richmond, Va. Oh, certainly; but many a lady has to work now--the war, you know.
When "Dixie" was being played a dark-haired young man sprang up from somewhere with a Mosby guerrilla yell and waved frantically his soft- brimmed hat. Then he strayed through the smoke, dropped into the vacant chair at our table and pulled out cigarettes.
The evening was at the period when reserve is thawed. One of us mentioned three Wurzburgers to the waiter; the dark-haired young man acknowledged his inclusion in the order by a smile and a nod. I hastened to ask him a question because I wanted to try out a theory I had.
"Would you mind telling me," I began, "whether you are from--"
The fist of E. Rushmore Coglan banged the table and I was jarred into silence.
"Excuse me," said he, "but that's a question I never like to hear asked. What does it matter where a man is from? Is it fair to judge a man by his post-office address? Why, I've seen Kentuckians who hated whiskey, Virginians who weren't descended from Pocahontas, Indianians who hadn't written a novel, Mexicans who didn't wear velvet trousers with silver dollars sewed along the seams, funny Englishmen, spendthrift Yankees, cold-blooded Southerners, narrow- minded Westerners, and New Yorkers who were too busy to stop for an hour on the street to watch a one-armed grocer's clerk do up cranberries in paper bags. Let a man be a man and don't handicap him with the label of any section."
"Pardon me," I said, "but my curiosity was not altogether an idle one. I know the South, and when the band plays 'Dixie' I like to observe. I have formed the belief that the man who applauds that air with special violence and ostensible sectional loyalty is invariably a native of either Secaucus, N.J., or the district between Murray Hill Lyceum and the Harlem River, this city. I was about to put my opinion to the test by inquiring of this gentleman when you interrupted with your own--larger theory, I must confess."
And now the dark-haired young man spoke to me, and it became evident that his mind also moved along its own set of grooves.
"I should like to be a periwinkle," said he, mysteriously, "on the top of a valley, and sing tooralloo-ralloo."
This was clearly too obscure, so I turned again to Coglan.
"I've been around the world twelve times," said he. "I know an Esquimau in Upernavik who sends to Cincinnati for his neckties, and I saw a goatherder in Uruguay who won a prize in a Battle Creek breakfast food puzzle competition. I pay rent on a room in Cairo, Egypt, and another in Yokohama all the year around. I've got slippers waiting for me in a tea-house in Shanghai, and I don't have to tell 'em how to cook my eggs in Rio de Janeiro or Seattle. It's a mighty little old world. What's the use of bragging about being from the North, or the South, or the old manor house in the dale, or Euclid avenue, Cleveland, or Pike's Peak, or Fairfax County, Va., or Hooligan's Flats or any place? It'll be a better world when we quit being fools about some mildewed town or ten acres of swampland just because we happened to be born there."
"You seem to be a genuine cosmopolite," I said admiringly. "But it also seems that you would decry patriotism."
"A relic of the stone age," declared Coglan, warmly. "We are all brothers--Chinamen, Englishmen, Zulus, Patagonians and the people in the bend of the Kaw River. Some day all this petty pride in one's city or State or section or country will be wiped out, and we'll all be citizens of the world, as we ought to be."
"But while you are wandering in foreign lands," I persisted, "do not your thoughts revert to some spo--some dear and--"
"Nary a spot," interrupted E. R. Coglan, flippantly. "The terrestrial, globular, planetary hunk of matter, slightly flattened at the poles, and known as the Earth, is my abode. I've met a good many object-bound citizens of this country abroad. I've seen men from Chicago sit in a gondola in Venice on a moonlight night and brag about their drainage canal. I've seen a Southerner on being introduced to the King of England hand that monarch, without batting his eyes, the information that his grandaunt on his mother's side was related by marriage to the Perkinses, of Charleston. I knew a New Yorker who was kidnapped for ransom by some Afghanistan bandits. His people sent over the money and he came back to Kabul with the agent. 'Afghanistan?' the natives said to him through an interpreter. 'Well, not so slow, do you think?' 'Oh, I don't know,' says he, and he begins to tell them about a cab driver at Sixth avenue and Broadway. Those ideas don't suit me. I'm not tied down to anything that isn't 8,000 miles in diameter. Just put me down as E. Rushmore Coglan, citizen of the terrestrial sphere."
My cosmopolite made a large adieu and left me, for he thought he saw some one through the chatter and smoke whom he knew. So I was left with the would-be periwinkle, who was reduced to Wurzburger without further ability to voice his aspirations to perch, melodious, upon the summit of a valley.
I sat reflecting upon my evident cosmopolite and wondering how the poet had managed to miss him. He was my discovery and I believed in him. How was it? "The men that breed from them they traffic up and down, but cling to their cities' hem as a child to the mother's gown."
Not so E. Rushmore Coglan. With the whole world for his--
My meditations were interrupted by a tremendous noise and conflict in another part of the cafe. I saw above the heads of the seated patrons E. Rushmore Coglan and a stranger to me engaged in terrific battle. They fought between the tables like Titans, and glasses crashed, and men caught their hats up and were knocked down, and a brunette screamed, and a blonde began to sing "Teasing."
My cosmopolite was sustaining the pride and reputation of the Earth when the waiters closed in on both combatants with their famous flying wedge formation and bore them outside, still resisting.
I called McCarthy, one of the French garcons, and asked him the cause of the conflict.
"The man with the red tie" (that was my cosmopolite), said he, "got hot on account of things said about the bum sidewalks and water supply of the place he come from by the other guy."
"Why," said I, bewildered, "that man is a citizen of the world--a cosmopolite. He--"
"Originally from Mattawamkeag, Maine, he said," continued McCarthy, "and he wouldn't stand for no knockin' the place."


Author: O. Henry

Selfish Giant

Long ago, there was an exquisite garden which not only had lively trees, but also had a collection of flowers that gave out a wonderful fragrance. The birds that used to regularly visit the garden sang the most melodious songs. It was truly a lovely garden.

There were some children who regularly played in this beautiful garden. It was their play area, where they used to spend some lovely afternoons after school and the even more time during holidays. The birds that lived in this magnificent garden, used to sing melodious tunes, which even made the kids stop their games and listen to them.

However, there was a truth that no one knew, not until the day when a giant, returned one day. The garden, in fact, belonged to the giant who had gone away for a long time, and no one knew about him. At times the little ones used to talk among themselves, wishing that the owner never returned.

One day, the kid's fears came true as the owner of the garden returned.

The owner, a big fat giant, came back stamping his feet with a loud thud. The children playing in the garden felt themselves being lifted from the ground and back as the sound got stronger.

When the giant saw kids playing in his garden, he became very angry and then built a huge wall all around it and put a notice board, which said that any trespasser will be punished.

The selfish giant had closed the door on the kids. They would come back from school, and would talk about the garden. The children were sad and wished that the giant had never returned.

Then spring came, beautiful flowers bloomed everywhere. An array of colors was spread all over the country, but what was the garden like, no one could see.

The reality was that spring did not visit the garden this time. It was still winter in the selfish giants' garden. The trees had forgotten to blossom and the birds were in no mood to sing. Even the little flowers were so annoyed with the sign to ban children from coming in, that they slipped back into the ground, as they were as sad as they could be.

The only ones who were happy were snow and frost. Having the whole space to them, both were happy to be up in spring. They thought that spring had overlooked this garden, and considered themselves as the undisputed master of the now "frozen" garden.

The snow had painted everything white and the frost had turned all the trees silver. Both rulers of this white world now invited the north wind, who came roaring in furs and moaned over the garden day in and day out. He roared so much that he blew all the chimney- pots down. And, if this was not enough, one day the north wind had an idea. Since we are having so much fun here, is it not a good idea that we invite hail.

Then came Hail, dressed in grey with icy cold breadth. Every day for hours, it rattled on the roof on the roof of the castle, until most of the slates on the roof were broken. He ran and ran, around the garden like the fastest roller coaster ride, casting havoc on the once beautiful garden.

One day the giant heard lovely music while lying on his bed. He thought that it must be some of the king's musicians, who were passing by the garden.

However, as the giant went towards the window, he saw a bird singing. He thought that spring had finally arrived and even a little bird's song, felt like the most melodious music in the world to him.

The north wind stopped dancing, the hail stopped roaring, and a deliciously sweet perfume came to him through the open window.

The giant jumped out of his bed and looked out of the window, but what did he see?

He saw the most beautiful sight; a few children had come in through a small hole in the gardens wall.

The children were on every tree, the trees were happy that they covered themselves with flowers.

The grass was happy and so were the flowers, each one of them was waiting for the kids to come back and here they were laughing with glee at the sight of innocent children playing around the garden. The birds tweeted, as they had never done before.

However, in a corner of the garden, there was a little boy, who could not reach the branches of a tree.

The tree was still covered in snow and frost and hail was still roaring around it. The tree bent its branches to help the boy climb up, but to no avail. The child was too tiny to do so himself.

The giant felt guilty about his selfish behavior, and was very sorry for what he had done. I should have let the children play in my garden, he thought to himself. The giant was indeed very sorry and he decided to help the small boy.

He then proclaimed, "From now on the garden will be the children's playground forever and ever, and I will knock down the walls of my garden, and I'll do that for sure."

The giant slowly went down stairs, softly opened the door, and slowly went into the garden.

All the children ran away except for the one who was crying, he could not see the garden because of his tears. The giant picked the boy up and placed him on a branch of the tree. The flowers and birds came back and so did the other children, when they saw the giant being kind to the boy. The boy hugged the giant and kissed him.

From that day on, the giant played with all the children every day, until he grew old and week, that was when he confined himself in his room and used to watch the children play.

The boy, who had kissed him, the giants' first friend, never came back and he longed for him to come. He used to ask the other children about him, but they had the faintest clue as to who he was and where he lived.

One winter morning, the giant was getting ready, he saw the most wonderful sight from the window, the boy was standing in the farthest corner of the garden, the same boy the giant loved the most. The tree above the boy had blossoms on it and silver fruits hung from the tree.

The giant ran towards the boy and hugged him, he saw blood in his palms, the giant was angry because the boy was hurt. The giant asked the boy to name the person who hurt him and that he shall punish him.

The boy calmed him down and asked him not to worry, as they were wounds of love. An unusual calmness came on the giants' face.

The little boy then took his hand and told the giant he was taking him to the garden of paradise.

Later, that afternoon, when the children came to play in the garden, they saw the giant lying on the ground with a calm smile on his face. On closer inspection, they realized that he was dead, his body covered with white flowers.

The Poor Man's Wealth

Ramchand and Premchand were neighbours. Ramchand was a poor farmer. Premchand was a landlord.
Ramchand used to be very relaxed and happy. He never bothered to close the doors and windows of his house at night. He had deep sound sleeps. Although he had no money he was peaceful.

Premchand used to be very tense always. He was very keen to close the doors and windows of his house at night. He could not sleep well. He was always bothered that someone might break open his safes and steal away his money. He envied the peaceful Ramchand.

One day, Premchand call Ramchand and gave him a boxful of cash saying, “Look my dear friend. I am blessed with plenty of wealth. I find you in poverty. So, take this cash and live in prosperity.”

Ramchand was overwhelmingly happy. He was joyful throughout the day. Night came. Ramchand went to bed as usual. But, to-day, he could not sleep. He went and closed the doors and windows. He still could not sleep. He began to keep on looking at the box of cash. The whole night he was disturbed.

As soon as day broke, Ramchand took the box of cash to Premchand. He gave away the box to Premchand saying, “Dear Friend, I am poor. But, your money took away peace from me. Please bear with me and take back your money.”

Moral: Money can not get everything. Learn to be satisfied with what you have and you will always be happy.