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Every crime which you can think of; the entire Ten Commandments broken in a general smash; such rogueries and knaveries as no storyteller could invent; such murders and robberies as Thurtell or Turpin scarce ever perpetrated; were by my informant accurately remembered, and freely related, respecting his nearest kindred, to any one who chose to hear him.
"Then I did come over the pass," he agreed; and after a pause added: "But there was no Pete Leddy." "Yes, oh, yes there was a Pete Leddy!" "But he will not be there this time!" And now his voice, in a transport that seemed to touch the cloud heights, was neither like the voice of the easy traveller on the pass, nor the voice of his sharp call to Leddy to disarm, nor the voice of the storyteller.
"This, also have I not seen," the storyteller continued, "nor do I hope ever to see it. But it has been known that at certain intervals of time a mysterious spirit appears in the forest a huge black being, so powerful and so ferocious that every living thing shrinks from it in terror. Our sharpest arrows, shot from the most powerful bows do not harm it.
That night I lay awake a long time committing to memory the tradition I had heard, and the next day I boasted to my playmate, Little Rainbow, about my first lesson from the old storyteller. To this he replied: "I would rather have Weyuhah for my teacher. I think he remembers more than any of the others.
The children who had listened to the stories now crowded about the book shelves, eager for "any book about fairies," "a funny book," or "a book about animals." The little girl who had seen the fairies was not the only one who had fallen under the spell of the storyteller. "I always knew Pandora was a nice story, but she never seemed like a live girl before," said one of the older girls.
It was afterward learned that his clerk, twenty-five years dead, had all the time been personated by a twin brother, who was an idiot from birth and knew no law. Listening to the history of the golden statue in the great square, as related by a Tortirran storyteller, I fell asleep. On waking I found myself lying in a cot-bed amidst unfamiliar surroundings.
The querist, whoever he or she might be, had unconsciously struck upon the explanation of the whole matter. Yes, it was the name: it had a great deal to do with it. And if you will allow me to step back a little into the past, and thence begin over again in good storyteller fashion, I will endeavor to make you understand how it all came about.
The British and American line had run near it during the war; it had therefore been the scene of marauding and infested with refugees, cow-boys, and all kinds of border chivalry. Just sufficient time had elapsed to enable each storyteller to dress up his tale with a little becoming fiction, and in the indistinctness of his recollection to make himself the hero of every exploit.
Gudrun Thorne- Thomsen has been known for some years in this country as a storyteller of great power in the field of her inheritance, Scandinavian literature.
But all this Hermas had renounced. He cleft his way through the crowd slowly, like a reluctant swimmer weary of breasting the tide. At the corner of the street where the narrow, populous Lane of the Camel-drivers crossed the Colonnades, a storyteller had bewitched a circle of people around him.
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