The Collected Works of Ambrose Bierce

桦The Collected Works of Ambrose Bierce

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Volume 8, by Ambrose Bierce This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net
Title: The Collected Works of Ambrose Bierce, Volume 8 Epigrams, On With the Dance, Negligible Tales
Author: Ambrose Bierce
Release Date: April 11, 2005 [EBook #15599]
Language: English
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[Illustration: Title Page]
* * * * *
THE COLLECTED
WORKS OF
AMBROSE BIERCE

VOLUME VIII

NEGLIGIBLE TALES
ON WITH THE DANCE
EPIGRAMS

NEW YORK
GORDIAN PRESS, INC.
1966
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Originally Published 1911
Reprinted 1966

Published by
GORDIAN PRESS, INC.

Library of Congress Card Catalog No 66-14638

Printed in the U.S.A. by
EDWARD BROTHERS INC.
Ann Arbor, Michigan
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CONTENTS
NEGLIGIBLE TALES A BOTTOMLESS GRAVE 9 JUPITER DOKE, BRIGADIER-GENERAL 23 THE WIDOWER TURMORE 41 THE CITY OF THE GONE AWAY 52 THE MAJOR'S TALE 63 CURRIED COW 76 A REVOLT OF THE GODS 89 THE BAPTISM OF DOBSHO 95 THE RACE AT LEFT BOWER 104 THE FAILURE OF HOPE & WANDEL 110 PERRY CHUMLY'S ECLIPSE 115 A PROVIDENTIAL INTIMATION 122 MR. SWIDDLER'S FLIP-FLAP 131 THE LITTLE STORY 138
THE PARENTICIDE CLUB MY FAVORITE MURDER 147 OIL OF DOG 163 AN IMPERFECT CONFLAGRATION 171 THE HYPNOTIST 177
THE FOURTH ESTATE MR. MASTHEAD, JOURNALIST 187 WHY I AM NOT EDITING "THE STINGER" 195 CORRUPTING THE PRESS 204 "THE BUBBLE REPUTATION" 211
THE OCEAN WAVE A SHIPWRECKOLLECTION 219 THE CAPTAIN OF "THE CAMEL" 226 THE MAN OVERBOARD 239 A CARGO OF CAT 258
"ON WITH THE DANCE!" A REVIEW THE PRUDE IN LETTERS AND LIFE 267 THE BEATING OF THE BLOOD 270 THERE ARE CORNS IN EGYPT 276 A REEF IN THE GABARDINE 282 ENTER A TROUPE OF ANCIENTS, DANCING 285 CAIRO REVISITED 296 JAPAN WEAR AND BOMBAY DUCKS 299 IN THE BOTTOM OF THE CRUCIBLE 311 COUNSEL FOR THE DEFENSE 316 THEY ALL DANCE 321 LUST, QUOTH'A 330 OUR GRANDMOTHERS' LEGS 332
EPIGRAMS 343

NEGLIGIBLE TALES

A BOTTOMLESS GRAVE
My name is John Brenwalter. My father, a drunkard, had a patent for an invention, for making coffee-berries out of clay; but he was an honest man and would not himself engage in the manufacture. He was, therefore, only moderately wealthy, his royalties from his really valuable invention bringing him hardly enough to pay his expenses of litigation with rogues guilty of infringement. So I lacked many advantages enjoyed by the children of unscrupulous and dishonorable parents, and had it not been for a noble and devoted mother, who neglected all my brothers and sisters and personally supervised my education, should have grown up in ignorance and been compelled to teach school. To be the favorite child of a good woman is better than gold.
When I was nineteen years of age my father had the misfortune to die. He had always had perfect health, and his death, which occurred at the dinner table without a moment's warning, surprised no one more than himself. He had that very morning been notified that a patent had been granted him for a device to burst open safes by hydraulic pressure, without noise. The Commissioner of Patents had pronounced it the most ingenious, effective and generally meritorious invention that had ever been submitted to him, and my father had naturally looked forward to an old age of prosperity and honor. His sudden death was, therefore, a deep disappointment to him; but my mother, whose piety and resignation to the will of Heaven were conspicuous virtues of her character, was apparently less affected. At the close of the meal, when my poor father's body had been removed from the floor, she called us all into an adjoining room and addressed us as follows:
"My children, the uncommon occurrence that you have just witnessed is one of the most disagreeable incidents in a good man's life, and one in which I take little pleasure, I assure you. I beg you to believe that I had no hand in bringing it about. Of course," she added, after a pause, during which her eyes were cast down in deep thought, "of course it is better that he is dead."
She uttered this with so evident a sense of its obviousness as a self-evident truth that none of us had the courage to brave her surprise by asking an explanation. My mother's air of surprise when any of us went wrong in any way was very terrible to us. One day, when in a fit of peevish temper, I had taken the liberty to cut off the baby's ear, her simple words, "John, you surprise me!" appeared to me so sharp a reproof that after