Daily Short Stories - Children's Stories

Max and Maurice

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Duration:: 25m
Broadcast on:: 29 Jun 2024
Audio Format:: mp3

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Max and Maurice, a juvenile history in seven tricks, by William Bush. How often we read or hear of boys we almost stand in fear of, for example, take these stories of two youths, Max and Maurice, who, instead of early turning their young minds to useful learning, often leered with horrid features at their lessons and their teachers. Look now at the empty head. He is for mischief, always ready. Teasing creatures, climbing fences, stealing apples, pears and quences is, of course, a deal more pleasant and far easier for the present than to sit in schools or churches, fix like roosters on their perches. But oh, dear, oh, dear, oh, dearie, when the income, sad and dreary, 'tis a dreadful thing to tell that on Max and Maurice fell. All they did, this book rehearses, both in pictures and in verses. Trick first. To most people who have leisure, Raising poultry gives us pleasure; first, because the eggs they lay us, for the care we take, repay us; secondly, that now and then we can dine on roasted hen. Thirdly, of the hens and goose's feathers, men make various uses. Some folks like to rest their heads in the night on feather beds. One of these was widow Tibbets, whom the cut you see exhibits. Hens were hers in number three, and a cock of majesty Max and Maurice took a view, fell to thinking what to do. One, two, three, as soon as said, they have sliced a loaf of bread, cut each piece again and four, each a finger thick, no more. These two, two cross threads they tie, like a letter X they lie, in the widow's yard, his care, stretched by those two rascals there. Scared the cock had seen the sight, when he up and crew with might, cock, a doodle doodle doo, tack, tack, tack, the trio flew. Cock and hens, like fouls, unfed, gobbled each a piece of bread. What they found on taking thought, each of them was badly caught. Every way they pull and twitch, this strange cat's cradle, two on hitch, up into the air they fly, Jimini, oh Jimini. On a tree behold them dangling, in the agony of strangling, and their necks grow long and longer, and their groans grow strong and stronger, each lays quickly one egg more, then they cross to the other shore. Widow Tibbets in her chamber, by these death cries, wait from slumber, rushes out with bodeful thought, heavens, what sight her vision caught. From her eyes the tears are streaming, oh my dears, my toil, my dreaming awe, life's fairest hope, says she, hangs upon that apple tree. Heart sick, you may well suppose, for the carving knife she goes, cuts the bodies from the bow, hanging cold and lifeless now, and in silence bathed in tears, through her house-door disappears, this was the bad boy's first trick, but the second follows quick. Trick second, when the worthy widow Tibbets, whom the cut below exhibits, had recovered on the morrow, from the dreadful shock of sorrow, she, as soon as grief would let her think, began to think, to her better, just to take the dead, the dear ones who in life were walking here once, and in a still noon-day hour them well-roasted to devour. True, it did seem almost wicked when they lay so bare and naked, picked and singed before the blaze, they that once in happier days, in the yard or garden-ground, all day long went scratching round, ah, Frau Tibbets wept anew, and poor Spitz was with her too. Max and Maurice smelled the saver, Clined the roof cried each young shaver. Through the chimney now, with pleasure, they behold the tempting treasure, headless, in the pan they're lying, hissing, Browning, steaming, frying. At that moment, down the cellar, Dreaming not what soon befell her, widow Tibbets went for sour-crowd, which she would off devour with exceeding great desire, warmed a little at the fire. Up there on the roof, meanwhile, they are doing things in style. Max already, with forethought, a long fishing-line has brought. Shnapdiwup, there goes, oh, Jiminy, one hen dangling up the chimney. Shnapdiwup, a second bird, Shnapdiwup, up comes the third. Presto, number four they haul, Shnapdiwup, we have them all. Spitz looks on, we must allow, but he barks, ra ra ra. But the rogues are down, instant-ter, from the roof and off they canter. Ha, I guess there'll be a humming, here's the widow Tibbets coming. Rooted, stood she to the spot, when the pan her vision caught. Gone was every blessed bird. Horrid Spitz was her first word, oh, you Spitz, you monster you, let me beat you black and blue, and the heavy ladle Thwak comes down on poor Spitz's back, loud he yells with agony, for he feels his conscience free. Max and Maurice, dinner over, in a hedge snored under cover, and of that great hen feast now each has but a leg to show. This was now the second trick, but the third will follow quick. Trick third, through the town and country round, was one Mr. Buck, renowned, Sunday coats and weekday sack coats, bobtails, swallowtails, and frock coats, gators, breeches, hunting jackets, waistcoats with commodious pockets, and other things, too long to mention, claimed Mr. Taylor Buck's attention, or if anything wanted doing in the way of darning, sewing, piecing, patching, if a button needed to be fixed or put on, anything of any kind, anywhere, or behind, Mr. Buck could do the same, for it was his life's great aim, therefore all the population held him high in estimation. Max and Maurice tried to invent ways to plague this worthy gent. Right before the Sartours dwelling ran a swift stream, roaring, swelling. This swift stream abridged in span, and the road across it ran. Max and Maurice not could all them, took a saw, when no one saw them, ritzy ritzy riddle riddle, sawed a gap across the middle. When this feat was finished well, suddenly was heard a yell. "Hello there! come out, you Buck! Taylor! Taylor!" "Muck, muck, muck!" Buck could hear all sorts of jeering, jibes and jokes in silence, hearing, but this insult roused such anger nature couldn't stand it longer. Wild with fury, up he started, with his yardstick out he darted, for once more that frightful jeer, "Muck, muck, muck!" rang loud and clear. On the bridge one leap he makes, "Crash!" beneath his weight it breaks. Once more rings the cry, "Muck, muck!" in, head foremost, plump's poor Buck. While the scared boys were skedaddling, down the brook two geese came, paddling. On the legs of these two geese with a death-clutch buck did seize, and, with both geese well in hand, flutters out upon dry land. For the rest he did not find things exactly to his mind. Soon it proved poor Buck had brought a dreadful bellyache from the water. Noble Mrs. Buck, she rises fully equal to the crisis, with a hot flat iron she draws the cold out famously. Soon it was in the mouths of men all through the town, "Bucks up again!" This was the bad boys third trick, but the fourth will follow quick. Quick fourth. An old saw runs somewhat so. Man must learn, while here below. Not alone the ABC raises man in dignity. Not alone in reading, writing, reason finds a work in biting. Not alone to solve the double rule of three shall man take trouble. Not must hear with pleasure sages teach the wisdom of the ages. Of this wisdom an example to the world was Master Lample. For this cause, to Max and Maurice, this man was the chief of horrors. For a boy who loves bad tricks, wisdom's friendship never seeks. With the clerical profession, smoking always was a passion. And this habit without question, while it helps promote digestion, is a comfort no one can well regrug a good old man. When the days vexations close and he sits to seek, repose Max and Maurice, flinty-hearted, what another trick have started, thinking how they may attack a poor old man through his tobacco. Once when Sunday morning breaking, pious hearts to gladness, waking, poured its light, where in the temple at his organ, Saint Air Lample. These bad boys for mischief ready, stole into the good man's study, where his darling Mearsham stands, this Max holds in both his hands, while young Maurice, scape-grace-born, climbs and gets the powder horn, and with speed, the wicked soul pours the powder in the bowl, hush and quick, now right about, for already church is out. Michael closes the church-door, glad to seek his home once more. All his service well got through, take his keys and music too, and his way delighted wends homeward to his silent friends. Full of gratitude, he there lights his pipe and takes his chair. Ah, he says, no joy is found, like contentment on earth's round. Fizz whiz, bam! The pipe is burst, almost shattered into dust, coffee pot and water jug, snuff box, ink stand, tumbler, mug, table, stove and easy chair, all are flying through the air, in a lightning powder flash, with the most tremendous crash. When the smoke-cloud lifts and clears, lample on his back appears. God be praised, still breathing there, only somewhat worse for wear. Nose, hands, eyebrows, once like yours, now are black as any moors, burned the last thin spear of hair, and his paint is holy bear. Who shall now the children guide lead their steps to wisdom's side? Who shall now, for master lample, lead the service in the temple? Now that his old pipe is out, shattered, smashed, gone up the spout. Time will heal the rest once more, but the pipes best days are oar. This was the bad boy's fourth trick, but the fifth will follow quick. Trick fifth, if in village or in town, you've an uncle settled down, always treat him courteously. Uncle will be pleased, thereby, in the morning, morning to you, any errand I can do you? Fetch whatever he may need, pipe to smoke, and news to read. Or should some confounded thing prick his back, or bite or sting, nephew then will be nearby, ready to his help, to fly, or a pinch of snuff, maybe. That's him sneezing violently. Prose it, uncle, good health to you, God be praised, much good may it do you. Or he comes home late, for chance, pull his boots off then at once. Fetch his slippers, and his cap, and warm gown his limbs to wrap. Be your constant care, good boy. What shall give your uncle joy? Max and Maurice, need I mention, had not any such intention. See now how they tried their wits, these bad boys on uncle Fritz. What kind of a bird a maybug was they knew, I dare say, in the trees they may be found, lying, crawling, wriggling round, Max and Maurice, great pains taking, from a tree these bugs are shaking. In their cornucopia papers they collect these pinching creepers, soon they are deposited, in the foot of uncle's bed. With his piqued nightcap on, uncle Fritz to bed has gone, tucks the clothes in, shuts his eyes, and in sweetest slumber lies. Crits, crats, come the charters, single file from their night-quarters, and the captain boldly goes straight at uncle Fritz's nose. "Bach!" he cries, "what have we here?" Seizing that grim grenadier, uncle wild with fright, up springeth, and the bed-close from him flingeth. "Ouch!" He seizes two more escape-graces from his chin and nape, crawling, flying to and fro, round the buzzing rascals go, wild with fury uncle Fritz stamps and slashes them to bits. "Oh, be joyful, all gone by," is the Maybug's devil tree. Uncle Fritz, his eyes can close, once again in sweet repose. This was the bad boy's fifth trick, but the sixth will follow quick. Trick sixth, Easter days have come again, when the pious baker men bake all sorts of sugar things, plum cakes, ginger cakes, and rings. Max and Maurice feel an ache in their sweet tooth for some cake. But the baker thoughtfully locks his shop and takes his key. Who would steal, then, this must do, wriggle down the chimney-flu rash? There come the boys by Jiminy, black as ravens, down the chimney. Puff into a chest they drop, full of flour up to the top. But they crawl from under cover, just as white as chalk all over. But the cracknalls, precious treasure, on a shelf they spy with pleasure. Next, the chair breaks, down they go, Schwap, into a trow of dough. All enveloped, now in dough, see them, monuments of woe. In the baker comes and snickers, when he sees the sugar-lickers, one, two, three. The brats behold, into two good brats are rolled. There's the oven, all red, hot, shove 'em in, as quick as thought. Ruff, out with them, from the heat, they are brown and good to eat. Now you think they've paid the debt. No, my friend, they're living yet. Nusper, Nesper, like two mice, through their roofs, they gnaw in a trice. And the baker cries, you bet there's the rascals living yet. This was the boy's sixth trick, but the last will follow quick. Max and Maurice, I grow sick when I think on your last trick. Why must these two scallow eggs cut those gashes in the bags? See the farmer on his back carries corn off in a sack. Scares has he begun to travel when the corn runs out like gravel. All at once he stops and cries. Darn it, I see where it lies. Ha, with what delighted eyes, Max and Maurice, he aspies. Rabs, he opens wide, his sack, shoves the rogues in, huckapack. It grows warm with Max and Maurice, four to mill, the farmer hurries. Master Miller, hello, man, grind me that as quick as you can. In with them each wretched flopper headlong goes into the hopper. As the farmer turns his back, he hears the mill go creaky, cracky. Here you see the bits post mortem, just as fate was pleased to sort him. Master Miller's ducks with speed gobbled up the coarse-grained feed. Conclusion. In the village, not a word, not a sign of grief was heard. Widow Tibbets, speaking low, said, I thought it would be so. None but self, cried Buck, to blame, mischief is not life's true aim. Then said gravely, teacher Lample. There again is an example, to be sure, bad thing for youth, said the baker, a sweet tooth. Even uncle says, good folks, see what comes of stupid jokes. But the honest farmer, guy, what concern is that to I? Through the place, in short, there went one wide murmur of content. God be praised, the town is free from this great resicality. End of Max and Maurice, a juvenile history in seven tricks. 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