The Tale of: The Kind Boy
(A Minnesota North Woods Story)
Let me call the kind boy, for the present, Tommy T. Thompson. The fair story or tale which now is lying before me (and now lying before you) need not be desecrated with my real designation, for he was a kind boy in heart indeed, to the uttermost regions of his young life. Although indignant winds, along with unparalleled calamity followed him. And a cloud of dense gloom would prevail. But I suppose I am telling you too much too quick, I must if I can, keep the eternal, unpardonable crime, a secret until the end of the story; lest I give it away, and you lose all interest. But hold on to your seats, unspeakable misery is on its way, whose origin alone is the purpose of this tale.
So feeble and ill-directed was his mind (not his heart or intended deed)—Tommy T. Thompson, the orphan boy, of twelve, who worked part time, at the hamlet’s one and only restaurant, in the deep of the Minnesota North Woods, and this was of course the age when a boy abandons his leading-strings, he thinks for himself, and as a result, left to the guidance of his own will, went out one fair morning and collected a bushel, of berries, red berries, nice and juicy berries. It was a misty-looking morning—and the woods were a spirit-soothing place to be, and so was the respected old hamlet that had a sum total population of one-hundred and sixty-six citizens, and his heart was full of a kind and refreshing chilliness, he inhaled the fragrance of the berries —those very cherished berries he picked and placed one by one into that bushel upon the stillness of the misty atmosphere, it gave him perhaps as much pleasure as any person might have—alas! This was just the beginning.
However slight and temporary, he felt loyalty to the town’s folks, for they all went to this one and only restaurant, each and every Sunday to eat a hearty meal, and the desert was always jello, he wanted to contribute something, anything, and show he was worthy of their respect. He was fully overshadowed by his elation to contribute to the extensive and whole domain of the township, and when he arrived back into the kitchen part of the restaurant, he put all the red berries into the red jello, as was it was thickening.
Oh, what a gigantic paradox, to utterly never find out this was such monstrous mistake! I well remember the story for the boy told me, in his old age, although it had no bearing at the time, nor have I had ever seen anything similar thereafter.
Oh want a good afternoon that lunch was and dinner, and the whole town as usual came to eat, and they had each a double portion of that jello, with those red berries in it. It was likened to a half-holiday. Yet, in point of fact, in the fact that the whole picture was not visible—how little there was to celebrate.
In truth, the enthusiasm, and the boy’s imperiousness, commanded the moment, it was bravado for the boy, and he told the owners and the customers when he served them, “I made this simple jello into a supreme desert (and of course unqualified)
It was no doubt a strange state of affairs, and they all went home to their own endeavors thereafter, and on his head, and in his mind, was success.
In the morning, he awake early as usual, found that
His employer and the employer’s wife, both elder persons, were dead in their beds. The feeling of confusion, detestable coincidence confounded him, thus producing a vexation of sorts, he wanted to make more jello, get more inevitable consideration, acknowledgement. But they were old, perhaps this was what happens to old folks, they just up and die one day, just like that, like this; he concealed any other such disturbance his mind might want to create for personal reasons, perhaps out of self-interests.
He then went out into the hamlet; he was going to report the deaths to the constable. But there was an odd condition existing between him and the town-let. It was empty. He kind of wanted to discover in such circumstances, the elation he felt the afternoon before, and it was all quite an annoyance, no one was around, no one, not even one person, of the 166-citizens that lived in the town-let. His emotions were becoming identical to that of seeing his employers’ deaths.
Perhaps this all was a dream, an elusion, however vivid it was; he walked by the huge houses noisily into them, his once tranquil breathing turned sour. He walked by and then into the other countless houses, and stores, even inside of apartments, all occupants were dead in their bed.
He slowly and quietly withdrew; it didn’t dawn on him then, but would later, that his good intentions, his so called kindness killed the whole hamlet with his red poisonous berries.
In Short, I do not wish, however, to trance the course of this depressing extravagance any further (let it be where dead dogs lie), now and forever, which defies all laws, I have said enough; but for the readers beware of children who need attention, and mean well, but are unqualified to compete.
No: 504 (10-27-2009) EAP (Inspired during lunch at the Mia Mamma, Restaurant, after eating ‘Mini’s Jello, which I have eaten so often, the story popped right out of it, almost took a bite out of my nose.)
Let me call the kind boy, for the present, Tommy T. Thompson. The fair story or tale which now is lying before me (and now lying before you) need not be desecrated with my real designation, for he was a kind boy in heart indeed, to the uttermost regions of his young life. Although indignant winds, along with unparalleled calamity followed him. And a cloud of dense gloom would prevail. But I suppose I am telling you too much too quick, I must if I can, keep the eternal, unpardonable crime, a secret until the end of the story; lest I give it away, and you lose all interest. But hold on to your seats, unspeakable misery is on its way, whose origin alone is the purpose of this tale.
So feeble and ill-directed was his mind (not his heart or intended deed)—Tommy T. Thompson, the orphan boy, of twelve, who worked part time, at the hamlet’s one and only restaurant, in the deep of the Minnesota North Woods, and this was of course the age when a boy abandons his leading-strings, he thinks for himself, and as a result, left to the guidance of his own will, went out one fair morning and collected a bushel, of berries, red berries, nice and juicy berries. It was a misty-looking morning—and the woods were a spirit-soothing place to be, and so was the respected old hamlet that had a sum total population of one-hundred and sixty-six citizens, and his heart was full of a kind and refreshing chilliness, he inhaled the fragrance of the berries —those very cherished berries he picked and placed one by one into that bushel upon the stillness of the misty atmosphere, it gave him perhaps as much pleasure as any person might have—alas! This was just the beginning.
However slight and temporary, he felt loyalty to the town’s folks, for they all went to this one and only restaurant, each and every Sunday to eat a hearty meal, and the desert was always jello, he wanted to contribute something, anything, and show he was worthy of their respect. He was fully overshadowed by his elation to contribute to the extensive and whole domain of the township, and when he arrived back into the kitchen part of the restaurant, he put all the red berries into the red jello, as was it was thickening.
Oh, what a gigantic paradox, to utterly never find out this was such monstrous mistake! I well remember the story for the boy told me, in his old age, although it had no bearing at the time, nor have I had ever seen anything similar thereafter.
Oh want a good afternoon that lunch was and dinner, and the whole town as usual came to eat, and they had each a double portion of that jello, with those red berries in it. It was likened to a half-holiday. Yet, in point of fact, in the fact that the whole picture was not visible—how little there was to celebrate.
In truth, the enthusiasm, and the boy’s imperiousness, commanded the moment, it was bravado for the boy, and he told the owners and the customers when he served them, “I made this simple jello into a supreme desert (and of course unqualified)
It was no doubt a strange state of affairs, and they all went home to their own endeavors thereafter, and on his head, and in his mind, was success.
In the morning, he awake early as usual, found that
His employer and the employer’s wife, both elder persons, were dead in their beds. The feeling of confusion, detestable coincidence confounded him, thus producing a vexation of sorts, he wanted to make more jello, get more inevitable consideration, acknowledgement. But they were old, perhaps this was what happens to old folks, they just up and die one day, just like that, like this; he concealed any other such disturbance his mind might want to create for personal reasons, perhaps out of self-interests.
He then went out into the hamlet; he was going to report the deaths to the constable. But there was an odd condition existing between him and the town-let. It was empty. He kind of wanted to discover in such circumstances, the elation he felt the afternoon before, and it was all quite an annoyance, no one was around, no one, not even one person, of the 166-citizens that lived in the town-let. His emotions were becoming identical to that of seeing his employers’ deaths.
Perhaps this all was a dream, an elusion, however vivid it was; he walked by the huge houses noisily into them, his once tranquil breathing turned sour. He walked by and then into the other countless houses, and stores, even inside of apartments, all occupants were dead in their bed.
He slowly and quietly withdrew; it didn’t dawn on him then, but would later, that his good intentions, his so called kindness killed the whole hamlet with his red poisonous berries.
In Short, I do not wish, however, to trance the course of this depressing extravagance any further (let it be where dead dogs lie), now and forever, which defies all laws, I have said enough; but for the readers beware of children who need attention, and mean well, but are unqualified to compete.
No: 504 (10-27-2009) EAP (Inspired during lunch at the Mia Mamma, Restaurant, after eating ‘Mini’s Jello, which I have eaten so often, the story popped right out of it, almost took a bite out of my nose.)
posted by Dennis and Rosa Siluk at 6:40 AM
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