Sparrow Publishing Magazine - Issue 11

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Sparrow Publication

This publication is issued four times a year. Current publication is issued on January 2023. Next publication is April 2023


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ABig Thank You to our Contributors!


of Contents

That Time of the Year – New Year’s Resolution Page 4


Summer went on a Vacation Page 10

Poetry & Its Many Insights Page 11

Commuting Hell – a poem Page 12

The December Years Page 13

I Go to Styes from the Mysterious Affair at Styles Page 18

Story of the Door from the Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde Page 27

Quick and Easy 5-Ingredient Pasta Recipes Page 16

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That Time of the Year

New Year Resolution


As every year passes, we look forward to the new magical year filled with positive surprises, gifts, opportunities, and more. To some of us, each year is different, and we accomplish a lot, and that is a good feeling to look back at our accomplishments and achievements and look forward to more.

May all the remarkable achievements and accomplishments be with you this year.

Yet to some, each year is the same. Was this year a lot like five years ago or ten? There is always an opportunity to make every day enjoyable and different from the previous day. You may choose to paint one day and the other to learn a musical instrument. How one may ask. There is not enough time. Too many responsibilities engulf every ounce of energy. Brian Tracy once gave an excellent idea that if you allocate time for your daily activities, you will have that 15 minutes for reading a book, learning new things and making your year a better one.

Brainstorming this year to make your upcoming year a great one is key.

You may think of it as counterintuitive, but it is pretty simple and easy to follow.

Steps to Your New Year's Resolution

1. Take paper and a pen

2. Write down 100 things you want; it could be anything from what you want to have, like a new laptop, to learning a new language or a new skill. If you are like me, after five items, you may exhaust your ideas entirely and sit with the piece of paper for hours, not knowing what else to add. My best suggestion is to continue with your list.

Even if the following ideas are whimsical or as unrealistic as being an acrobat, living on the moon, drawing cartoons, creating a viral meme, being the most famous and best MasterChef, and visitingplanets, you maywrite them down. Once the whimsical list is exhausted, you will have more realistic ideas, like learning how to cook your first dinner from a complex recipe, drawing a sketch, taking your first art lessons, or even observing stars on clear evening skies.

3. Choose 1-3 items from the list that seem the least whimsical and most realistic,followingyourbudgetandtime allowance of 15-30 minutes.

4. Allocate three 15-30 minutes time slots throughout the week; even if you have an ultra-busy schedule, you have those 15-30 minutes, I can assure you, even 10 minutes will do.

5. If you chose 1 item from the list, stick with it. If you chose three things from the list, you could alternate each item to avoid boredom.

6. Stick with your plan and create checkpoints, so if you forget your New Year's Resolution, you will have a reminder here and there and a second to look back and see how well you did.

How would the whole process look?

For instance, if one chooses to exercise (just because it's fun (it could be dancing, aerobics, going for a nice walk

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with your best friends, etc.)) this year, one may allocate 15 minutes in the evening on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. Choose a series of exercises and change them up every month. Stick with the plan for the whole year. Create a checkpoint every four months to see if one still does the exercise. If not, then one wouldkeep on going again. Thenby the year's end, there will be a good feeling about the accomplishment.

Now, if you also want to learn French, or Spanish, or even learn Finances, one day could be for exercising, the next day could be learning French (or Spanish), and yet the following day could be for studying Finances. Look back, and you have learned something and exercised too.Whatagoodgiftyougaveyourself.

If spending more time with your family/relativesisyouraim,allocatethis time for a game night, going for a walk together, or a family fun activity that you all may come up with for 15-30 minutes, three days a week (or five). Then, look back, and you will have spent more time with your family/relatives than the previous year, and what an accomplishment.

Now you, too, have something to accomplish this new year and look back at the achievements by the end of 2023 and feel all good about yourself.

What is your New Year's Resolution? How would 2023 year look for you?

Have a Wonderful Year, Everyone!

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Summer Went on a Vacation


The birds are chirping up on a tree And the air is warm - all summery. You are sitting in front of me, Chewing incessantly, the whole day on that old celery.

A hug from all the favourite people around you,

A hug of the sweet smell of a flower.

A hug of all the favourite events that will empower.

A nag, a snag, an invitation to a nature retreat.

To have a vacation just about now sounds like a treat. You look at the window, eager with a smug, I know you need a warm big hug. A hug of the energy-filled summery force around you,

All cozied, you sit there with a warm cup of tea,

Not even singing a song outside by a tree.

Are you still watching those old re-runs on the dusty tv?

We are twins, but I know what’s better as I am older than thee!

The falling orange foliage and migrating birds pave their new ways;

I am Summer, noticing the shorter days.

Winter, stay home - use your imagination,

While I go on my coastal beaches, sun-filled warm vacation

Poetry and Its Many Insights

Poetry is often seen as the most personal and mysterious of literary forms. Poetry, in fact, helps us to embrace the mystery of life. We can talk about the "inside" of poetry (ideas, images, and feelings) and about the "outside" of poetry (appearance and form). Attention to form, that is, to the very structure of the text, is the starting point for its interpretation. However, when studying the poetic text, care must be taken not to lose sight of the whole, the unity of the poem.

By awakening imaginative powers, poetry makes life fuller and more radiant. Every poem has an emotional appeal. Without emotion, there is no poetry. Lyricism can sometimes have nothingtodowithreasoning.Itwillthen belikeawoundedbirdsinging.Thepoet is not subordinate to the laws of logical thinking. Lyric poetry is emotional and reflective, as it expresses an inner meditation. It expresses feelings of one kind or another, and these feelings are universal. In revealing his understanding of the world, the poet makes a confession that is transfigured by art.

It would therefore not be an exaggeration to say that a great poem is always the account of its author's spiritual adventure. Personal motives are thus the lyric elements in poetry. They constitute the background and the

framework of lyric poetry. The verse manifestations are classified in the following poetic forms: lyrical, epic or tragic (they revolve around a historical event, presenting, in general, images of superior men) and dramatic.

Poetry is a compact language. Poetry use words to communicate ideas and emotions. Poetic language is believed to be one of the oldest forms of human expression.

There, this poetic language called Sicilian literary, in its written form, was borninSicily.ItwasattheSiciliancourt that the sonnet genre emerged in the 13th century. The Sicilian sonnet is a traditional type of poem formed by 14 verses divided into four verses: the first two with four verses and the others with three verses each. Its origin is in the poetry of the Provencal troubadours.

The choice of words, images and sounds affects the atmosphere (general feeling or emotion) and the meaning of the poem. Sound and meaning combine to express feelings, thoughts and ideas. When writing, the poet can adopt a sentimental, interrogative, allusive, cheerful, macabre, fantasist tone, etc. Music communicates ideas and affects

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When thinking about written language, it is interestingtonotethatin some countries, such as Italy, the language of poetry was born before thelanguageofprose.”

the mood. The melody of the poem can be pleasant or threatening, happy or sad, romantic or expressionless. It reaches the mind and heart, intensifying the impact of words and images. The word is something complex and mysterious. Each word is a complex of associations and can have several meanings. Its meaning depends on the human being, that is, on its use.

Commuting Hell!Poem

John Roberts

It's dark, it's cold, its' just six thirty, thoughts of sleep still dull my brain, As I huddle down, inside my coat, a commuter clone, just waiting for a train.

Insidious rain, just drizzling down, through weak light of creeping dawn, Paper sandwich bags and old coffee cups, blowing past, look so forlorn. We huddle together, like a colony of penguins, sheltering from the rain, As we struggle through, another stressful day, wait for the downtown train.

Alien voices, from hidden speakers, Say there is a change, go to platform four, Some move fast, must be beginners, Veterans stay still, heard it all before. Styrofoam flavoured coffee, "Giant cup for 10 cents saving!"

Smells like an accident, in a science lab, But quells my caffeine craving. Lurid posters, on the wall, Sell things, we just don't need. Early morning papers rustle, As some attempt to read. Alien voices, another problem, With the downtown train, "Can all commuters, on platform four, go back to platform one again! " Those that stayed, have a knowing smirk, written wide upon their face. While all the 'new boys', like compliant sheep, Back across the station race. In the distance, the lights of a train, Raise commuters hopes so high. But it's just a local freight train,

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That mockingly thunders by.

But then at last, a train pulls up, And we fight to claim a seat.

Lay back relax, in steaming clothes, Commuter hell, finally complete.

The December Years

Shirley had just finished her shower when she heard the phone ringing off the hook.

She wrapped the towel quickly around her body and ran to answer it.

"Hello. Is this Shirley? This is Laura Giancarlo, the property manager at the Raintree Senior Living Center in Fairfield."

"Oh Hi, nice to hear from you," Shirley responded.

"It looks like I will have a one bedroom available for you but you won't be able to move in until the first of November." Laura went on hurriedly, "Can you handle it?"

"Wow that is close," said Shirley, hesitatingly. She glanced at the calendar and looked at the packed boxes around her house. "Two weeks?

Hmm... Sure, perfect timing. I have to move out of here by the tenth anyway. All my boxes are nearly packed and ready to go."

"Great! I need you to come in tomorrow to sign the lease," Laura responded with sudden warmth. "I also will need two cashier checks: one for the security deposit of $450.00 and another for $350.00 for the rent." Laura added. "Please bring in your original birth certificate as well. That is a must!"

"Okay," Shirley said." "See you tomorrow." She turned quickly with the phone still glued to her hand, stubbing her toe badly on the edge of the box she left near her desk the night before.

"Ooouuuuccchhh! Damn it! I hope I didn't break my toe. I can't tell if it's broken," Shirley yelled hopping around. "Geez, but it sure hurts." Shirley moved across to her desk and sat down on the brown leather chair.

She immediately placed an ice cube on her toe, tears streaming down her face.

Everywhere she stepped there was a clutter of packed boxes and furniture in her way. Her living room looked like a storage closet.

Shirley always knew her living room had a lot of potential, but not this much.

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She rinsed out the coffee pot and measured several spoons of coffee into the basket.

Shirley sat waiting for the coffee to perk while she nursed her toe.

She couldn't believe her spot on the waiting list finally came up and that she would be moving in just two weeks. Two years ago she had applied to many affordable housing units and now one of them finally came through under a HUD sponsorship. She just made it too, since the new waiting list was now three to five years long.

Thankfully she was just short of being tossed out by her ungrateful son. She hadn't even seen her new apartment yet to get the feel of it or where to put her belongings.

There was nothing plush about this sixfloor building with three hundred units. From the outside it seemed alright but inside it looked shabby and dirty. She had always had her hopes set on having a balcony from where she could breathe in a scenic view. Her face bore a worried expression. Her thin lips were compressed and sullen. Shirley's income had dwindled drastically and, after 39 years, she was forced to move. She was making a strong effort to repress her anger and aggravation. She looked like a different being from the soft and timid person that she was. She was nervous about the apartment, about her circumstances. Her son had already

rented her room out. Who needs enemies when you have kids?

She still hadn't finished packing before the stranger climbed her steps and was at the door.

"OMG! I have to call the movers to confirm the date. I hope they are available for that day." Wrapping her fingers around the cup, she popped two aspirins into her mouth and sipped her hot coffee while she dialed their number. She loved the way the coffee warmed her insides when she swallowed it. There was nothing better than that first cup of coffee in the morning.

"What did you say?" Shirley screamed. "You can't move me on the first? OMG! I can't believe this. Now, what am I supposed to do?" She hurriedly washed the cup, spoon and coffee pot and called her friend Nellie. Nellie had four healthy sons. "Of course, we will help you move. The boys won't mind." Nellie Said.

Shirley let out a deep sigh, relieved that the problem was solved.

"Are you free tomorrow? Can you go with me to the rental office and see the apartment?"

"Sure Shirley," Nellie said." I know how long you have been waiting for this since your husband died. It has been tough for you. I'll bring my tape measure to see if everything will fit."

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Shirley and her friend Nellie finally arrived at the building's large parking lot. There was quite a distance to walk to the entrance so Nellie let her friend off at the entrance and parked her car.

Shirley quickly pressed the button that said OFFICE and with a loud buzzing noise the inner door unlocked. Shirley and Nellie quickly slipped in, closing the door behind them.

The entrance to the building led to a lobby and sitting area.

Only one elevator seemed to be working as it hung onto its last breath. "Ugh!" She murmured. The other one had been dead for two years. There was a rest in peace sign in front of it. The lobby was alive with activity.

Tenants jammed the lobby area to catch the senior bus to go shopping.

A moment later the wailing of a police car and ambulance siren arriving at the building drowned everything else out. Two paramedics came rushing into the building pushing a stretcher to the elevator to pick up an emergency care patient who had fallen.

Two women pushing shopping carts full of groceries were coming from the side entrance to wait their turn to get on the elevator. One of them kept pushing the elevator button repeatedly, thinking that it would hurry up on her command.

A tenant with a dog on her way out greeted Shirley before the dog, after sniffing around, decided to lift his leg on the door, leaving a puddle.

"No... No, bad puppy dog," the tenant said, and then continued on her way leaving the pool behind.

"Geez," Shirley mumbled, "that's disgusting. I don't think I am going to like this place."

The Janitor, in a foul mood, came out with his smelly dirty mop, cursing under his breath as he wiped away dog urine for the umpteenth time. “Screw it" same garbage every day, I'm so tired of this. Why don't these dog owners clean up their dog's piss and crap on the floor? I'm stuck right here, all day, working for my measly take-home pay. The janitor mumbled to himself.

A Hispanic woman quickly introduced herself to Shirley, excited for someone new to share her juicy gossip with on some of the tenants and the place itself.

"OMG. This place is an insane asylum." Shirley said to herself.

When they reached the office Shirley knocked on the door.

"Yyyyeeeeesssssss?" Laura's assistant responded. "Come in."

She was sitting behind her desk wearing reading glasses and perusing a stack of papers. She seemed dedicated

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to her work but her lips were pressed together in a frown that told Shirley she didn't like her job.

Shirley immediately stated that she had a ten o'clock appointment with Laura.

"She is not here right now; she should be arriving soon." Laura's assistant replied. She was always late. "If it has to do with apartment rental, I have nothing to do with that. That's her job. I have enough to do without adding more to my tasks."

"Can you both wait outside? I have a couple of calls to make?" The assistant spoke abruptly. Feeling the stinging tone in her voice, Shirley and Nellie removed themselves from the inner office and waited outside for Laura.

At that moment Laura greeted everyone as she entered the room, all flustered. She awkwardly made her way to her desk. She hadn't been in the office that early in the morning in almost a week. Laura's assistant nodded her head in the direction of the two women sitting outside. Laura got up and went outside to welcome Shirley.

"Please come in," Laura said.

"Do you have the checks that I requested? Oh good, I have all the paperwork here for you to sign. Did you also bring your original birth certificate showing that you are a U.S. citizen? I have your initial application. Raintree Senior Living is a state-funded

project designed to assist you with your rent. I have to emphasize that you MUST be the only one occupying the unit. If you add someone else without including them in the lease, we have every right to take action against you. Understood?" Laura explained.

Shirley had introduced her friend, Nellie, to mention that she needed her to see the apartment to take measurements as to where the furniture should go when she moved. There was no visible floor plan.

Shirley handed the property manager the two checks, signed the year's lease and received the key. She immediately went to view her apartment on the second floor. She walked down the long corridor covered with sidebars, which reminded her of a nursing home.

Shirley was shocked when she opened the door to her one-bedroom apartment. She loved the largeness of her rooms. The kitchen was small. But for her it was perfect. She had new appliances and cabinets. Everything was clean and shiny, ready to move into. She was very pleased. She was expecting the worst scenario after her painful introduction to the place. After Nellie had taken the measurements, they both went home to wait for 'Moving Day.'

As soon as her son arrived home from work, she immediately told him she was moving on the first of November. She was caught off guard by the

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surprise expression on his face. She guessed he hadn't taken her seriously.

Nellie's sons were all there at 9 AM on the dot. They began to load the truck, putting the larger pieces of furniture on first, and then followed it up with the smaller pieces and boxes. They expertly moved everything out of the apartment within the hour. They were energetic, organized and young. She felt a significant weight finally lift off of her shoulders when she saw them drive away. Nellie stayed at the housing complex, directing her sons where to place everything. The oversized sofa did not fit in the elevator so they had to carry it up the stairs to the second floor. Nellie and her sons left as soon as they brought in the last of Shirley's belongings.

Shirley was overwhelmed with the mess displayed before her, but she was resolved to make life resume with a semblance of normality once again.

She stood in the middle of the bedroom and wondered where to start. The first furniture piece that caught her eye was the empty full-sized bookcase standing in the corner of the room. Turning to the boxes marked BOOKS she began to unpack several of them, arranging and rearranging them on the shelves. 'One bookcase down and two more to go,' she thought to herself.

Shirley began to feel fatigue and hunger pangs and decided to stop what she was doing to shop for groceries.

As she walked from the elevator to leave the building, she passed several gloomy looking women sitting in the lobby. Shirley decided to say hello to them.

The women did not respond, ignoring her presence.

Their expressionless faces were cemented in Shirley's mind, reflecting too many stories with unhappy endings.

Is this what happens when one becomes old? One becomes abandoned by families and friends? Across the lobby were sounds of happy voices and merry laughter heard from the other tenants. It was like music to her ears.

Shirley said to herself, "will their laughter and joy eventually be replaced by a more pessimistic outlook as time and disappointment invades their daily lives?

She shuddered at the thought. Shirley decided to give up the effort to continue observing what was happening and concentrate on bracing herself for the final chapter of her life.

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The Mysterious Affair at Styles


The intense interest aroused in the public by what was known at the time as “The Styles Case” has now somewhat subsided. Nevertheless, in view of the world-wide notoriety which attended it, I have been asked, both by my friend Poirot and the family themselves, to write an account of the whole story. This, we trust, will effectually silence the sensational rumours which still persist.

I will therefore briefly set down the circumstances which led to my being connected with the affair.

I had been invalided home from the Front; and, after spending some months in a rather depressing Convalescent Home, was given a month’s sick leave. Having no near relations or friends, I was trying to make up my mind what to do, when I ran across John Cavendish. I had seen very little of him for some years. Indeed, I had never known him particularly well. He was a good fifteen years my senior, for one thing, though he hardly looked his forty-five years. As a boy, though, I had often stayed at Styles, his mother’s place in Essex.

We had a good yarn about old times, and it ended in his inviting me down to Styles to spend my leave there.

“The mater will be delighted to see you again after all those years,” he added.

“Yourmotherkeepswell?”Iasked. “Oh, yes. I suppose you know that shehas married again?”

I am afraid I showed my surprise rather plainly. Mrs. Cavendish, who hadmarriedJohn’sfatherwhen he was a widower with two sons, had been a handsome woman of middle-age as I remembered her. She certainly could not be a day less than seventy now. I recalled her as an energetic, autocratic personality, somewhat inclined to charitable and social notoriety, with a fondness for opening bazaars and playing the Lady Bountiful. She was a most generous woman, and possessed a considerable fortune of her own.

Their country-place, Styles Court, had been purchased by Mr. Cavendish early in their married life. He had been completely under his wife’s ascendancy, so much so that, on dying, he left the place to her for her lifetime, as well as thelarger part ofhis income; an arrangement that was distinctly unfair to his two sons. Their stepmother, however, had always been most generous to them; indeed, they were so young at the time of their father’s remarriage that they always thought of her as their own mother.

Lawrence, the younger, had been a delicate youth. He had qualified as a doctor but early relinquished the profession of medicine, and lived at home while pursuing literary ambitions; though his verses never had any marked success.

John practised for some time as a barrister, but had finally settled down to the more congenial life of a country squire. He had married two years ago, and had taken his wife to live at Styles, though I entertained a shrewd suspicion that he would have preferred his mother to increase his allowance, which would have enabled him to have a home of his own. Mrs. Cavendish, however, was a lady who liked to make her own plans, and expected other people to fall in with them, and in this case she certainly had the whip hand, namely: the purse strings.

John noticed my surprise at the news of his mother’s remarriage and smiled rather ruefully.

“Rotten little bounder too!” he said savagely. “I can tell you, Hastings, it’s making life jolly difficult for us. As for Evie you remember Evie?”


“Oh, I suppose she was after your time. She’s the mater’s factotum, companion, Jack of all trades! A great sport old Evie! Not precisely young and beautiful, but as game as they make them.”

“You were going to say ?”

“Oh, this fellow! He turned up from nowhere, on the pretext of being a second cousin or something of Evie’s,

thoughshedidn’tseemparticularlykeen to acknowledge the relationship. The fellow is an absolute outsider, anyone can see that. He’s got a great black beard, and wears patent leather boots in all weathers! But the mater cottoned to him at once, took him on as secretary you know how she’s always running a hundred societies?”

I nodded.

“Well, of course the war has turned the hundreds into thousands. No doubt the fellow was very useful to her. But you could have knocked us all down with a feather when, three months ago, she suddenly announced that she and Alfred were engaged! The fellow must beatleasttwentyyearsyoungerthanshe is! It’s simply bare-faced fortune hunting; but there you are she is her own mistress, and she’s married him.”

“It mustbe adifficult situationforyou all.”

“Difficult! It’s damnable!”

Thus it came about that, three days later,IdescendedfromthetrainatStyles St.Mary,anabsurdlittlestation,withno apparent reason for existence, perched up in the midst of green fields and country lanes. John Cavendish was waiting on the platform, and piloted me out to the car.

“Got a drop or two of petrol still, you see,” he remarked. “Mainly owing to the mater’s activities.”

The village of Styles St. Mary was situated about two miles from the little station, and Styles Court lay a mile the other side of it. It was a still, warm day in early July. As one looked out over the

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flat Essex country, lying so green and peaceful under the afternoon sun, it seemed almost impossible to believe that, not so very far away, a great war was running its appointed course. I felt I hadsuddenlystrayedintoanotherworld. As we turned in at the lodge gates, John said:

“I’m afraid you’ll find it very quiet down here, Hastings.”

“My dear fellow, that’s just what I want.”

“Oh, it’s pleasant enough if you want to lead the idle life. I drill with the volunteerstwiceaweek,andlendahand at the farms. My wife works regularly ‘on the land’. She is up at five every morning to milk, and keeps at it steadily until lunchtime. It’s a jolly good life taking it all round if it weren’t for that fellow Alfred Inglethorp!” He checked the car suddenly, and glanced at his watch. “I wonder if we’ve time to pick up Cynthia. No, she’ll have started from the hospital by now.”

“Cynthia! That’s not your wife?”

“No, Cynthia is a protégée of my mother’s, the daughter of an old schoolfellow of hers, who married a rascally solicitor. He came a cropper, and the girl was left an orphan and penniless. My mother came to the rescue, and Cynthia has been with us nearly two years now. She works in the RedCrossHospitalatTadminster,seven miles away.”

As he spoke the last words, we drew up in front of the fine old house. A lady in a stout tweed skirt, who was bending

overaflowerbed,straightenedherselfat our approach.

“Hullo, Evie, here’s our wounded hero! Mr. Hastings Miss Howard.”

Miss Howard shook hands with a hearty, almost painful, grip. I had an impression of very blue eyes in a sunburnt face. She was a pleasantlooking woman of about forty, with a deep voice, almost manly in its stentoriantones,andhadalargesensible square body, with feet to match these last encased in good thick boots. Her conversation,Isoonfound,wascouched in the telegraphic style.

“Weeds grow like house afire. Can’t keep even with ’em. Shall press you in. Better be careful.”

“I’m sure I shall be only too delighted to make myself useful,” I responded.

“Don’t say it. Never does. Wish you hadn’t later.”

“You’re a cynic, Evie,” said John, laughing. “Where’s tea to-day inside or out?”

“Out. Too fine a day to be cooped up in the house.”

“Come on then, you’ve done enough gardening for to-day. ‘The labourer is worthy of his hire’, you know. Come and be refreshed.”

“Well,” said Miss Howard, drawing off her gardening gloves, “I’m inclined to agree with you.”

She led the way round the house to where tea was spread under the shade of a large sycamore.

A figure rose from one of the basket chairs, and came a few steps to meet us.

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“My wife, Hastings,” said John.

I shall never forget my first sight of Mary Cavendish. Her tall, slender form, outlined against the bright light; the vivid sense of slumbering fire that seemed to find expression only in those wonderful tawny eyes of hers, remarkable eyes, different from any other woman’s that I have ever known; the intense power of stillness she possessed,whichneverthelessconveyed the impression of a wild untamed spirit in an exquisitely civilised body all these things are burnt into my memory. I shall never forget them.

She greeted me with a few words of pleasant welcome in a low clear voice, and I sank into a basket chair feeling distinctlygladthatIhadacceptedJohn’s invitation. Mrs. Cavendish gave me some tea, and her few quiet remarks heightened my first impression of her as a thoroughly fascinating woman. An appreciative listener is always stimulating, and I described, in a humorous manner, certain incidents of my Convalescent Home, in a way which, I flatter myself, greatly amused my hostess.John,ofcourse,good fellow though he is, could hardly be called a brilliant conversationalist.

At that moment a well remembered voice floated through the open French window near at hand:

“Then you’ll write to the Princess after tea, Alfred? I’ll write to Lady Tadminster for the second day, myself. Or shall we wait until we hear from the Princess? In case of a refusal, Lady Tadminster might open it the first day,

and Mrs. Crosbie the second. Then there’s the Duchess about the school fête.”

There was the murmur of a man’s voice, and then Mrs. Inglethorp’s rose in reply:

“Yes, certainly. After tea will do quite well. You are so thoughtful, Alfred dear.”

The French window swung open a little wider, and a handsome whitehaired old lady, with a somewhat masterful cast of features, stepped out of it on to the lawn. A man followed her, a suggestion of deference in his manner.

Mrs. Inglethorp greeted me with effusion.

“Why, if it isn’t too delightful to see you again, Mr. Hastings, after all these years. Alfred, darling, Mr. Hastings my husband.”

I looked with some curiosity at “Alfred darling”. He certainly struck a rather alien note. I did not wonder at John objecting to his beard. It was one of the longest and blackest I have ever seen. He wore gold-rimmed pince-nez, and had a curious impassivity of feature. It struck me that he might look natural onastage,butwasstrangelyoutofplace in real life. His voice was rather deep and unctuous. He placed a wooden hand in mine and said:

“This is a pleasure, Mr. Hastings.” Then, turning to his wife: “Emily dearest, I think that cushion is a little damp.”

She beamed fondly on him, as he substituted another with every demonstration of the tenderest care.

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Strange infatuation of an otherwise sensible woman!

With the presenceofMr. Inglethorp, a sense of constraint and veiled hostility seemed to settle down upon the company. Miss Howard, in particular, took no pains to conceal her feelings. Mrs. Inglethorp, however, seemed to notice nothing unusual. Her volubility, which I remembered of old, had lost nothing in the intervening years, and she poured out a steady flood of conversation, mainly on the subject of the forthcoming bazaar which she was organizing and which was to take place shortly. Occasionally she referred to her husband over a question of days or dates.Hiswatchfulandattentivemanner never varied. From the very first I took a firm and rooted dislike to him, and I flattermyselfthatmyfirstjudgmentsare usually fairly shrewd.

Presently Mrs. Inglethorp turned to give some instructions about letters to Evelyn Howard, and her husband addressed me in his painstaking voice:

“Is soldiering your regular profession, Mr. Hastings?”

“No, before the war I was in Lloyd’s.”

“And you will return there after it is over?”

“Perhaps. Either that or a fresh start altogether.”

Mary Cavendish leant forward.

“What would you really choose as a profession, if you could just consult your inclination?”

“Well, that depends.”

“No secret hobby?” she asked. “Tell me you’re drawn to something? Everyone is usually something absurd.”

“You’ll laugh at me.” She smiled. “Perhaps.”

“Well, I’ve always had a secret hankering to be a detective!”

“The real thing Scotland Yard? Or Sherlock Holmes?”

“Oh, Sherlock Holmes by all means. But really, seriously, I am awfully drawn to it. I came across a man in Belgium once, a very famous detective, and he quite inflamed me. He was a marvellous little fellow. He used to say that all good detective work was a mere matter of method. My system is based on his though of course I have progressed rather further. He was a funny little man, a great dandy, but wonderfully clever.”

“Like a good detective story myself,” remarked Miss Howard. “Lots of nonsense written, though. Criminal discovered in last chapter. Everyone dumbfounded. Real crime you’d know at once.”

“There have been a great number of undiscovered crimes,” I argued.

“Don’t mean the police, but the people that are right in it. The family. You couldn’t really hoodwink them. They’d know.”

“Then,” I said, much amused, “you think that if you were mixed up in a crime, say a murder, you’d be able to spot the murderer right off?”

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“Of course I should. Mightn’t be able to prove it to a pack of lawyers. But I’m certain I’d know. I’d feel it in my fingertips if he came near me.”

“It might be a ‘she’,” I suggested.

“Might. But murder’s a violent crime. Associate it more with a man.”

“Not in a case of poisoning.” Mrs. Cavendish’s clear voice startled me. “Dr. Bauerstein was saying yesterday that, owing to the general ignorance of the more uncommon poisons among the medical profession, there were probably countless cases of poisoning quite unsuspected.”

“Why, Mary, what a gruesome conversation!” criedMrs. Inglethorp.“It makes me feel as if a goose were walking over my grave. Oh, there’s Cynthia!”

A young girl in V.A.D. uniform ran lightly across the lawn.

“Why, Cynthia, you are late to-day. This is Mr. Hastings Miss Murdoch.”

Cynthia Murdoch was a fresh-looking young creature, full of life and vigour. She tossed off her little V.A.D. cap, and I admired the great loose waves of her auburn hair, and the smallness and whiteness of the hand she held out to claim her tea. With dark eyes and eyelashes shewouldhavebeen abeauty.

She flung herself down on the ground beside John, and as I handed her a plate of sandwiches she smiled up at me.

“Sit down here on the grass, do. It’s ever so much nicer.”

I dropped down obediently.

“You work at Tadminster, don’t you, Miss Murdoch?”

She nodded.

“For my sins.”

“Do they bully you, then?” I asked, smiling.

“I should like to see them!” cried Cynthia with dignity.

“I have got a cousin who is nursing,” I remarked. “And she is terrified of ‘Sisters’.”

“I don’t wonder. Sisters are, you know, Mr. Hastings. They simp-ly are! You’ve no idea! But I’m not a nurse, thank heaven, I work in the dispensary.”

“How many people do you poison?” I asked, smiling.

Cynthia smiled too.

“Oh, hundreds!” she said.

“Cynthia,” called Mrs. Inglethorp, “do you think you could write a few notes for me?”

“Certainly, Aunt Emily.”

She jumped up promptly, and something in her manner reminded me that her position was a dependent one, and that Mrs. Inglethorp, kind as she might be in the main, did not allow her to forget it.

My hostess turned to me.

“John will show you your room. Supper is at half-past seven. We have given up late dinner for some time now. Lady Tadminster, our Member’s wife she was the late Lord Abbotsbury’s daughter does the same. She agrees with me that one must set an example of economy.Wearequiteawarhousehold; nothing is wasted here every scrap of

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waste paper, even, is saved and sent away in sacks.”

I expressed my appreciation, and John took me into the house and up the broad staircase, which forked right and left half-way to different wings of the building. My room was in the left wing, and looked out over the park.

John left me, and a few minutes later I saw him from my window walking slowly across the grass arm in arm with Cynthia Murdoch. I heard Mrs. Inglethorp call “Cynthia” impatiently, and the girl started and ran back to the house. At the same moment, a man stepped out from the shadow of a tree andwalkedslowlyinthesamedirection. He looked about forty, very dark with a melancholy clean-shaven face. Some violent emotion seemed to be mastering him. He looked up at my window as he passed, and I recognized him, though he had changed much in the fifteen years thathadelapsedsincewelastmet.Itwas John’s younger brother, Lawrence Cavendish. I wondered what it was that had brought that singular expression to his face.

Then I dismissed him from my mind, and returned to the contemplation of my own affairs.

The evening passed pleasantly enough; and I dreamed that night of that enigmatical woman, Mary Cavendish.

The next morning dawned bright and sunny, and I was full of the anticipation of a delightful visit.

I did not see Mrs. Cavendish until lunch-time, when she volunteered to take me for a walk, and we spent a

charming afternoon roaming in the woods,returningtothehouseaboutfive.

As we entered the large hall, John beckoned us both into the smokingroom. I saw at once by his face that something disturbing had occurred. We followed him in, and he shut the door after us.

“Look here, Mary, there’s the deuce of a mess. Evie’s had a row with Alfred Inglethorp, and she’s off.”

“Evie? Off?”

John nodded gloomily.

“Yes; you see she went to the mater, and Oh, here’s Evie herself.”

Miss Howard entered. Her lips were set grimly together, and she carried a small suit-case. She looked excited and determined, and slightly on the defensive.

“At any rate,” she burst out, “I’ve spoken my mind!”

“My dear Evelyn,” cried Mrs. Cavendish, “this can’t be true!”

Miss Howard nodded grimly.

“True enough! Afraid I said some things to Emily she won’t forget or forgive in a hurry. Don’t mind if they’ve only sunk in a bit. Probably water off a duck’s back, though. I said right out: ‘You’re an old woman, Emily, and there’s no fool like an old fool. The man’s twenty years younger than you, anddon’tyoufoolyourselfastowhathe married you for. Money! Well, don’t let him have too much of it. Farmer Raikes has got a very pretty young wife. Just ask your Alfred how much time he spends over there.’ She was very angry.

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Natural! I went on, ‘I’m going to warn you,whetheryoulikeitornot.Thatman would as soon murder you in your bed as look at you. He’s a bad lot. You can say what you like to me, but remember what I’ve told you. He’s a bad lot!’”

“What did she say?”

Miss Howard made an extremely expressive grimace.

“‘Darling Alfred’ ‘dearest Alfred’ ‘wicked calumnies’ ‘wicked lies’ ‘wicked woman’ to accuse her ‘dear husband!’ The sooner I left her house the better. So I’m off.”

“But not now?”

“This minute!”

For a moment we satand stared ather. Finally John Cavendish, finding his persuasions of no avail, went off to look up the trains. His wife followed him, murmuring something about persuading Mrs. Inglethorp to think better of it.

As she left the room, Miss Howard’s face changed. She leant towards me eagerly.

“Mr. Hastings, you’re honest. I can trust you?”

Iwasalittlestartled.She laidherhand on my arm, and sank her voice to a whisper.

“Look after her, Mr. Hastings. My poor Emily. They’re a lot of sharks all of them. Oh, I know what I’m talking about. There isn’t one of them that’s not hard up and trying to get money out of her. I’ve protected her as much as I could. Now I’m out of the way, they’ll impose upon her.”

“Of course, Miss Howard,” I said, “I’ll do everything I can, but I’m sure you’re excited and overwrought.”

She interrupted me by slowly shaking her forefinger.

“Young man, trust me. I’ve lived in the world rather longer than you have. All I ask you is to keep your eyes open. You’ll see what I mean.”

The throb of the motor came through the open window, and Miss Howard roseandmovedtothedoor.John’svoice sounded outside. With her hand on the handle, she turned her head over her shoulder, and beckoned to me.

“Above all, Mr. Hastings, watch that devil her husband!”

There was no time for more. Miss Howard was swallowed up in an eager chorus of protests and good-byes. The Inglethorps did not appear.

As the motor drove away, Mrs. Cavendish suddenly detached herself from the group, and moved across the drive to the lawn to meet a tall bearded man who had been evidently making for the house. The colour rose in her cheeks as she held out her hand to him.

“Who is that?” I asked sharply, for instinctively I distrusted the man.

“That’s Dr. Bauerstein,” said John shortly.

“And who is Dr. Bauerstein?”

“He’s staying in the village doing a rest cure, after a bad nervous breakdown. He’s a London specialist; a very clever man one of the greatest living experts on poisons, I believe.”

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“And he’s a great friend of Mary’s,” put in Cynthia, the irrepressible.

John Cavendish frowned and changed the subject.

“Come for a stroll, Hastings. This has been a most rotten business. She always had a rough tongue, but there is no stauncher friend in England than Evelyn Howard.”

He took the path through the plantation, and we walked down to the village through the woods which bordered one side of the estate.

As we passed through one of the gates on our way home again, a pretty young woman of gipsy type coming in the opposite direction bowed and smiled.

“That’s a pretty girl,” I remarked appreciatively.

John’s face hardened.

“That is Mrs. Raikes.”

“The one that Miss Howard ”

“Exactly,” said John, with rather unnecessary abruptness.

I thought of the white-haired old lady in the big house, and that vivid wicked little face that had just smiled into ours, and a vague chill of foreboding crept over me. I brushed it aside.

“Styles is really a glorious old place,” I said to John.

He nodded rather gloomily.

“Yes, it’s a fine property. It’ll be mine some day should be mine now by rights, if my father had only made a decent will. And then I shouldn’t be so damned hard up as I am now.”

“Hard up, are you?”

“My dear Hastings, I don’t mind telling you that I’m at my wits’ end for money.”


“Lawrence? He’s gone through every penny he ever had, publishing rotten verses in fancy bindings. No, we’re an impecunious lot. My mother’s always been awfully good to us, I must say. That is, up to now. Since her marriage, of course ” he broke off, frowning. For the first time I felt that, with Evelyn Howard, something indefinable had gone from the atmosphere. Her presence had spelt security. Now that security was removed and the air seemed rife with suspicion. The sinister face of Dr. Bauerstein recurred to me unpleasantly. A vague suspicion of everyone and everything filled my mind. Just for a moment I had a premonition of approaching evil.

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your brother help you?”

The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde


Mr. Utterson the lawyer was a man of a rugged countenance that was never lighted by a smile; cold, scanty and embarrassed in discourse; backward in sentiment; lean, long, dusty, dreary and yet somehow lovable. At friendly meetings, and when the wine was to his taste, something eminently human beaconed from his eye; something indeed which never found its way into his talk, but which spoke not only in these silent symbols of the after-dinner face, but more often and loudly in the acts of his life. He was austere with himself; drank gin when he was alone, to mortify a taste for vintages; and though he enjoyed the theatre, had not crossed the doors of one for twenty years. But he had an approved tolerance for others; sometimes wondering, almost with envy, at the high pressure of spirits involved in their misdeeds; and in any extremity inclined to help rather than to reprove. “I incline to Cain’s heresy,” he used to say quaintly: “I let my brother go to the devil in his own way.”In this character, it was frequently his fortune to be the last reputable acquaintance and the lastgood influence in the lives of down-going men. And to such as these, so long as they came

about his chambers, he never marked a shade of change in his demeanour.

No doubt the feat was easy to Mr. Utterson; for he was undemonstrative at the best, and even his friendship seemed to be founded in a similar catholicity of good-nature. It is the mark of a modest man to accept his friendly circle readymadefromthehandsofopportunity;and that was the lawyer’s way. His friends were those of his own blood or those whom he had known the longest; his affections, like ivy, were the growth of time, they implied no aptness in the object. Hence, no doubt the bond that united him to Mr. Richard Enfield, his distant kinsman, the well-known man about town. It was a nut to crack for many, what these two could see in each other, or what subject they could find in common. It was reported by those who encounteredthemintheirSundaywalks, that they said nothing, looked singularly dull and would hail with obvious relief the appearance of a friend. For all that, the two men put the greatest store by these excursions, counted them the chief jewel of each week, and not only set aside occasions of pleasure, but even resisted the calls of business, that they might enjoy them uninterrupted.

It chanced on one of these rambles that their way led them down a by-street in a busy quarter of London. The street was small and what is called quiet, but it drove a thriving trade on the weekdays. The inhabitants were all doing well, it seemed and all emulously hoping to do better still, and laying out the surplus of their grains in coquetry; so that the shop fronts stood along that thoroughfare

with an air of invitation, like rows of smiling saleswomen. Even on Sunday, when it veiled its more florid charms andlaycomparativelyemptyofpassage, the street shone out in contrast to its dingy neighbourhood, like a fire in a forest; and with its freshly painted shutters, well-polished brasses, and general cleanliness and gaiety of note, instantly caught and pleased the eye of the passenger.

Twodoorsfromonecorner,ontheleft hand going east the line was broken by the entry of a court; and just at that point a certain sinister block of building thrust forward its gable on the street. It was two storeys high; showed no window, nothing but a door on the lower storey and a blind forehead of discoloured wall on the upper; and bore in every feature, the marks of prolonged and sordid negligence. The door, which was equipped with neither bell nor knocker, was blistered and distained. Tramps slouched into the recess and struck matches on the panels; children kept shop upon the steps; the schoolboy had tried his knife on the mouldings; and for close on a generation, no one had appeared to drive away these random visitors or to repair their ravages.

Mr. Enfield and the lawyer were on the other side of the by-street; but when they came abreast of the entry, the former lifted up his cane and pointed.

“Did you ever remark that door?” he asked; and when his companion had replied in the affirmative, “It is connected in my mind,” added he, “with a very odd story.”

“Indeed?” said Mr. Utterson, with a slight change of voice, “and what was that?”

“Well, it was this way,” returned Mr. Enfield:“Iwascominghomefromsome place atthe end ofthe world, about three o’clock of a black winter morning, and my way lay through a part of town where there was literally nothing to be seen but lamps. Street after street and all the folks asleep street after street, all lighted up as if for a procession and all as empty as a church till at last I got into that state of mind when a man listens and listens and begins to long for the sight of a policeman. All at once, I saw two figures: one a little man who was stumping along eastward at a good walk, and the other a girl of maybe eight or ten who was running as hard as she was able down a cross street. Well, sir, the two ran into one another naturally enough at the corner; and then came the horrible part of the thing; for the man trampled calmly over the child’s body and left her screaming on the ground. It soundsnothingtohear,butitwashellish to see. It wasn’t like a man; it was like some damned Juggernaut. I gave a few halloa, took to my heels, collared my gentleman, and brought him back to where there was already quite a group about the screaming child. He was perfectly cool and made no resistance, but gave me one look, so ugly that it brought out the sweat on me like running. The people who had turned out were the girl’s own family; and pretty soon, the doctor, for whom she had been sent put in his appearance. Well, the child was not much the worse, more

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frightened, according to the sawbones; and there you might have supposed would be an end to it. But there was one curious circumstance. I had taken a loathing to my gentleman at first sight. So had the child’s family, which was only natural. But the doctor’s case was what struck me. He was the usual cut and dry apothecary, of no particular age and colour, with a strong Edinburgh accent and about as emotional as a bagpipe.Well, sir, he was like the restof us; every time he looked at my prisoner, I saw that sawbones turn sick and white with the desire to kill him. I knew what was in his mind, just as he knew what was in mine; and killing being out of the question, we did the next best. We told the man we could and would make such a scandal out of this as should make his name stink from one end of London to the other. If he had any friends or any credit, we undertook that he should lose them. And all the time, as we were pitching it in red hot, we were keeping the women off him as best we could for theywere as wild as harpies. Inever saw a circle of such hateful faces; and there was the man in the middle, with a kind of black sneering coolness frightened too, I could see that but carrying it off, sir, really like Satan. ‘If you choose to make capital out of this accident,’ said he, ‘I am naturally helpless. No gentleman but wishes to avoid a scene,’ says he. ‘Name your figure.’ Well, we screwed him up to a hundred pounds for thechild’sfamily;hewouldhaveclearly liked to stick out; but there was something about the lot of us that meant mischief, and at last he struck. The next

thing was to get the money; and where do you think he carried us but to that place with the door? whipped out a key, went in, and presently came back withthematteroftenpoundsingoldand a cheque for the balance on Coutts’s, drawn payable to bearer and signed with a name that I can’t mention, though it’s one of the points of my story, but it was a name at least very well-known and often printed. The figure was stiff; but the signature was good for more than that if it was only genuine. I took the liberty of pointing out to my gentleman that the whole business looked apocryphal, and that a man does not, in real life, walk into a cellar door at four in the morning and come out with another man’s cheque for close upon a hundred pounds. But he was quite easy and sneering. ‘Set your mind at rest,’ says he, ‘I will stay with you till the banksopenandcashthecheque myself.’ So we all set off, the doctor, and the child’sfather,andourfriendandmyself, and passed the rest of the night in my chambers; and next day, when we had breakfasted, went in a body to the bank. I gave in the cheque myself, and said I had every reason to believe it was a forgery. Not a bit of it. The cheque was genuine.”

“Tut-tut!” said Mr. Utterson.

“I see you feel as I do,” said Mr. Enfield. “Yes, it’s a bad story. For my man was a fellow that nobody could have to do with, a really damnable man; and the person that drew the cheque is the very pink of the proprieties, celebrated too, and (what makes it worse) one of your fellows who do what

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they call good. Blackmail, I suppose; an honest man paying through the nose for some of the capers of his youth. Black Mail House is what I call the place with the door, in consequence. Though even that, you know, is far from explaining all,” he added, and with the words fell into a vein of musing.

From this he was recalled by Mr. Utterson asking rather suddenly: “And you don’t know if the drawer of the cheque lives there?”

“A likely place, isn’t it?” returned Mr. Enfield. “But I happen to have noticed his address; he lives in some square or other.”

“And you never asked about the place with the door?” said Mr. Utterson.

“No, sir; I had a delicacy,” was the reply. “I feel very strongly about putting questions; it partakes too much of the style of the Day of Judgment. You start a question, and it’s like starting a stone. You sit quietly on the top of a hill; and away the stone goes, starting others; and presently some bland old bird (the last you would have thought of) is knocked on the head in his own back garden and the family have to change their name. No sir, I make it a rule of mine: the more it looks like Queer Street, the less I ask.”

“A very good rule, too,” said the lawyer.

“But I have studied the place for myself,” continued Mr. Enfield. “It seems scarcely a house. There is no other door, and nobody goes in or out of that one but, once in a great while, the gentleman of my adventure. There are three windows looking on the court on

the first floor; none below; the windows are always shut but they’re clean. And then there is a chimney which is generally smoking; so somebody must live there. And yet it’s not so sure; for the buildings are so packed together about the court, that it’s hard to say where one ends and another begins.”

The pair walked on again for a while in silence; and then “Enfield,” said Mr. Utterson, “that’s a good rule of yours.”

“Yes, I think it is,” returned Enfield.

“But for all that,” continued the lawyer, “there’s one point I want to ask. I want to ask the name of that man who walked over the child.”

“Well,” said Mr. Enfield, “I can’t see what harm it would do. It was a man of the name of Hyde.”

“Hm,” said Mr. Utterson. “What sort of a man is he to see?”

“He is not easy to describe. There is something wrong with his appearance; something displeasing, something down-right detestable. I never saw a man I so disliked, and yet I scarce know why. He must be deformed somewhere; he gives a strong feeling of deformity, although I couldn’t specify the point. He’s an extraordinary looking man, and yet I really can name nothing out of the way. No, sir; I can make no hand of it; I can’t describe him. And it’s not want of memory; for I declare I can see him this moment.”

Mr. Utterson again walked some way in silence and obviously under a weight of consideration. “You are sure he used a key?” he inquired at last.

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“My dear sir...” began Enfield, surprised out of himself.

“Yes, I know,” said Utterson; “I know it must seem strange. The fact is, if I do not ask you the name of the other party, it is because I know it already. You see, Richard,your talehasgonehome. Ifyou have been inexact in any point you had better correct it.”

“I think you might have warned me,” returned the other with a touch of sullenness. “But I have been pedantically exact, as you call it. The fellow had a key; and what’s more, he has it still. I saw him use it not a week ago.”

Mr. Utterson sighed deeply but said never a word; and the young man presently resumed. “Here is another lesson to say nothing,” said he. “I am ashamed of my long tongue. Let us make a bargain never to refer to this again.”

“With all my heart,” said the lawyer. “I shake hands on that, Richard.”

Quick and Easy 5 Ingredient Pasta Recipes

Angela Kidd

There are days when you just don't have time to prepare something tedious in the kitchen. Good thing there are recipes that only take little preparation and cooking time.

Try these quick and easy 5-ingredient pasta recipes, perfect for busy days!

Creamy Smoked Sausage Pasta

What you need:

1 cup pasta of your choice, cooked 1 package (a little over 1/4 kg.) turkey smoked sausage, sliced into 1/4-inch rounds

2 cups heavy cream

1/2 cup grated Parmesan cheese

1 tablespoon Cajun seasoning

In a large pan, cook the sausage over medium-high heat, turning occasionally for 5 minutes. Stir in the heavy cream andCajunseasoningthenbringtoaboil. When boiling, lower the heat and allow to simmer until mixture begins to thicken, about 3-4 minutes.

When ready, transfer to a serving bowl. Stir in Parmesan cheese then add cooked pasta to the bowl. Stir, allow to cool for a few minutes before serving.

Yummy Buttered Spaghetti

What you need:

1 cup spaghetti pasta, cooked 1 can whole peeled tomatoes

3 cloves garlic, minced 4 tablespoons salted butter

Salt and cracked pepper to taste

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To make the sauce, melt the butter in a large skillet over medium heat. Saute the garlic in the butter for 1 minute. Add the whole peeled tomatoes (including the juices) and a dash of cracked pepper.

Using a spoon, break the tomatoes into smaller chunks. Stir until ingredients are well combined. Allow to simmer, then lower the heat to medium-low and continue to simmer for 30 minutes, stirring occasionally (breaking the tomatoes into smaller pieces).

When ready, season with salt then add the cooked spaghetti. Stir until pasta is coated with the sauce. Serve warm.

Healthy Pumpkin Fettucine

What you need:

1-1/2 cups fettucine egg pasta, cooked 2 1/2 cups heavy whipping cream 5 garlic cloves, minced 1 cup pumpkin puree (canned pumpkin)

1/2 cup grated Parmesan cheese

Sautéthegarlicinapanovermediumhigh heat (preferably over butter) for 1 minute.Addthewhippingcreamandthe pumpkin puree. Simmer for 3-4 minutes then stir in the cheese.

Add the cooked pasta and coat with sauce. Add water if you want a thinner consistency and season with salt and pepper if needed.

These delicious dinners will put a smile on your little one's face - try these quick and easy 5-ingredient pasta recipes!

Thank you for reading and enjoying Sparrow publication.

Please read our upcoming issue in April 2023

Sparrow – January 2023

Copyright © 2023 Sparrow

All rights reserved.

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