Bartleby Inglethorpe

Sometimes, in the days of old as morning dawned on a sleepy English village and the sun peered around the horizon like an anxious child on a chilly Christmas morn, the songbirds would begin to sing, the cottage doors would begin to open, and the whole earth would seem to yawn and rub it's tired eyes. It was on a morning such as this that a young boy could oft be seen walking the cobbled streets of the village, past the thatched roofed cottages and smoking chimneys, past the weather beaten oak doors and moss covered fences, past the dimly lit street lights and strange-looking merchandise in the windows of Mrs. Binghamton's Curio Shop, and finally down the country lane to Bancroft Cottage. To see the boy strolling along with an apple and bundle of newspapers was nothing unusual, but on this particular morning he carried with him only a shiny blue pebble and a neatly folded linen tucked under his arm. The curious items weren't the only things odd about the boy that morning, however, as he seemed rather more in a hurry than usual. He took neither the time nor the energy to notice Mrs. Binghamton's trinkets or the funny shapes the smoke made as it billowed from the cottage chimneys. Once he reached the end of the village and started up the country lane, he very nearly broke into a run. As he went, he could feel both the warmth of the sun and the chill of the morning air on his face, and he noticed the stinging pinch of gravel through the worn soles of his shoes. When he came to the point where the road forked, by the old oak tree, he took the path to the left toward Bancroft Cottage (the path to the right wound up to Old Man Bisby's house and only the bravest of children would dare venture that way for a glimpse of it). But Bancroft Cottage was only a short way from the oak tree and before very long, the boy burst through the front door. At the kitchen table sat his father with his head in his hands, who looked up only at the sound of his son's hasty intrusion. At the very same moment, the doctor emerged from a door to the left and nodded at him for the linen. The boy joined his father at the kitchen table and the two sat in silence and waited. They waited for the sound of a crying babe, for it was on that quiet, chilly morning that Bartleby Inglethorpe was born.