["[Event happened on 2024-01-01 The user is reading a book]\n<User> DEPARTURE OF BATHSHEBA--A PASTORAL TRAGEDY\n\n\nThe news which one day reached Gabriel, that Bathsheba Everdene\nhad left the neighbourhood, had an influence upon him which might\nhave surprised any who never suspected that the more emphatic the\nrenunciation the less absolute its character. It may have been observed that there is no regular path for getting\nout of love as there is for getting in. Some people look upon\nmarriage as a short cut that way, but it has been known to fail. Separation, which was the means that chance offered to Gabriel Oak by\nBathsheba's disappearance, though effectual with people of certain\nhumours, is apt to idealize the removed object with others--notably\nthose whose affection, placid and regular as it may be, flows deep\nand long. Oak belonged to the even-tempered order of humanity, and\nfelt the secret fusion of himself in Bathsheba to be burning with a\nfiner flame now that she was gone--that was all. His incipient friendship with her aunt had been nipped by the\nfailure of his suit, and all that Oak learnt of Bathsheba's\nmovements was done indirectly. It appeared that she had gone to\na place called Weatherbury, more than twenty miles off, but in\nwhat capacity--whether as a visitor, or permanently, he could not\ndiscover. Gabriel had two dogs. George, the elder, exhibited an ebony-tipped\nnose, surrounded by a narrow margin of pink flesh, and a coat marked\nin random splotches approximating in colour to white and slaty\ngrey; but the grey, after years of sun and rain, had been scorched\nand washed out of the more prominent locks, leaving them of a\nreddish-brown, as if the blue component of the grey had faded, like\nthe indigo from the same kind of colour in Turner's pictures. In\nsubstance it had originally been hair, but long contact with sheep\nseemed to be turning it by degrees into wool of a poor quality and\nstaple. This dog had originally belonged to a shepherd of inferior morals\nand dreadful temper, and the result was that George knew the exact\ndegrees of condemnation signified by cursing and swearing of all\ndescriptions better than the wickedest old man in the neighbourhood. Long experience had so precisely taught the animal the difference\nbetween such exclamations as \"Come in!\" and \"D---- ye, come in!\" that\nhe knew to a hair's breadth the rate of trotting back from the ewes'\ntails that each call involved, if a staggerer with the sheep crook\nwas to be escaped. Though old, he was clever and trustworthy still. The young dog, George's son, might possibly have been the image\nof his mother, for there was not much resemblance between him and\nGeorge. He was learning the sheep-keeping business, so as to follow\non at the flock when the other should die, but had got no further\nthan the rudiments as yet--still finding an insuperable difficulty\nin distinguishing between doing a thing well enough and doing it too\nwell. So earnest and yet so wrong-headed was this young dog (he had\nno name in particular, and answered with perfect readiness to any\npleasant interjection), that if sent behind the flock to help them\non, he did it so thoroughly that he would have chased them across the\nwhole county with the greatest pleasure if not called off or reminded\nwhen to stop by the example of old George. Thus much for the dogs. On the further side of Norcombe Hill was\na chalk-pit, from which chalk had been drawn for generations, and\nspread over adjacent farms. Two hedges converged upon it in the form\nof a V, but without quite meeting. The narrow opening left, which\nwas immediately over the brow of the pit, was protected by a rough\nrailing. One night, when Farmer Oak had returned to his house, believing there\nwould be no further necessity for his attendance on the down, he\ncalled as usual to the dogs, previously to shutting them up in the\nouthouse till next morning. Only one responded--old George; the\nother could not be found, either in the house, lane, or garden. Gabriel then remembered that he had left the two dogs on the hill\neating a dead lamb (a kind of meat he usually kept from them, except\nwhen other food ran short), and concluding that the young one had\nnot finished his meal, he went indoors to the luxury of a bed, which\nlatterly he had only enjoyed on Sundays. It was a still, moist night. Just before dawn he was assisted in\nwaking by the abnormal reverberation of familiar music. To the\nshepherd, the note of the sheep-bell, like the ticking of the clock\nto other people, is a chronic sound that only makes itself noticed by\nceasing or altering in some unusual manner from the well-known idle\ntwinkle which signifies to the accustomed ear, however distant, that\nall is well in the fold. In the solemn calm of the awakening morn\nthat note was heard by Gabriel, beating with unusual violence and\nrapidity. This exceptional ringing may be caused in two ways--by\nthe rapid feeding of the sheep bearing the bell, as when the flock\nbreaks into new pasture, which gives it an intermittent rapidity,\nor by the sheep starting off in a run, when the sound has a regular\npalpitation. The experienced ear of Oak knew the sound he now heard\nto be caused by the running of the flock with great velocity. He jumped out of bed, dressed, tore down the lane through a foggy\ndawn, and ascended the hill. The forward ewes were kept apart from\nthose among which the fall of lambs would be later, there being two\nhundred of the latter class in Gabriel's flock. These two hundred\nseemed to have absolutely vanished from the hill. There were the\nfifty with their lambs, enclosed at the other end as he had left\nthem, but the rest, forming the bulk of the flock, were nowhere. Gabriel called at the top of his voice the shepherd's call:\n\n\"Ovey, ovey, ovey!\" Not a single bleat. He went to the hedge; a gap had been broken\nthrough it, and in the gap were the footprints of the sheep. Rather\nsurprised to find them break fence at this season, yet putting it\ndown instantly to their great fondness for ivy in winter-time, of\nwhich a great deal grew in the plantation, he followed through the\nhedge. They were not in the plantation. He called again: the\nvalleys and farthest hills resounded as when the sailors invoked the\nlost Hylas on the Mysian shore; but no sheep. He passed through the\ntrees and along the ridge of the hill. On the extreme summit, where\nthe ends of the two converging hedges of which we have spoken were\nstopped short by meeting the brow of the chalk-pit, he saw the\nyounger dog standing against the sky--dark and motionless as Napoleon\nat St. Helena. A horrible conviction darted through Oak. With a sensation of bodily\nfaintness he advanced: at one point the rails were broken through,\nand there he saw the footprints of his ewes. The dog came up, licked\nhis hand, and made signs implying that he expected some great reward\nfor signal services rendered. Oak looked over the precipice. The\newes lay dead and dying at its foot--a heap of two hundred mangled\ncarcasses, representing in their condition just now at least two\nhundred more. Oak was an intensely humane man: indeed, his humanity often tore in\npieces any politic intentions of his which bordered on strategy, and\ncarried him on as by gravitation. A shadow in his life had always\nbeen that his flock ended in mutton--that a day came and found every\nshepherd an arrant traitor to his defenseless sheep. His first\nfeeling now was one of pity for the untimely fate of these gentle\newes and their unborn lambs. It was a second to remember another phase of the matter. The\nsheep were not insured. All the savings of a frugal life had been\ndispersed at a blow; his hopes of being an independent farmer were\nlaid low--possibly for ever. Gabriel's energies, patience, and\nindustry had been so severely taxed during the years of his life\nbetween eighteen and eight-and-twenty, to reach his present stage of\nprogress that no more seemed to be left in him. He leant down upon a\nrail, and covered his face with his hands. Stupors, however, do not last for ever, and Farmer Oak recovered from\nhis. It was as remarkable as it was characteristic that the one\nsentence he uttered was in thankfulness:--\n\n\"Thank God I am not married: what would SHE have done in the poverty\nnow coming upon me!\" Oak raised his head, and wondering what he could do, listlessly\nsurveyed the scene.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-01, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-04 The user is reading a book]\n<User> By the outer margin of the Pit was an oval pond,\nand over it hung the attenuated skeleton of a chrome-yellow moon\nwhich had only a few days to last--the morning star dogging her on\nthe left hand. The pool glittered like a dead man's eye, and as the\nworld awoke a breeze blew, shaking and elongating the reflection of\nthe moon without breaking it, and turning the image of the star to a\nphosphoric streak upon the water. All this Oak saw and remembered. As far as could be learnt it appeared that the poor young dog, still\nunder the impression that since he was kept for running after sheep,\nthe more he ran after them the better, had at the end of his meal\noff the dead lamb, which may have given him additional energy and\nspirits, collected all the ewes into a corner, driven the timid\ncreatures through the hedge, across the upper field, and by main\nforce of worrying had given them momentum enough to break down a\nportion of the rotten railing, and so hurled them over the edge. George's son had done his work so thoroughly that he was considered\ntoo good a workman to live, and was, in fact, taken and tragically\nshot at twelve o'clock that same day--another instance of the\nuntoward fate which so often attends dogs and other philosophers\nwho follow out a train of reasoning to its logical conclusion, and\nattempt perfectly consistent conduct in a world made up so largely\nof compromise. Gabriel's farm had been stocked by a dealer--on the strength of Oak's\npromising look and character--who was receiving a percentage from the\nfarmer till such time as the advance should be cleared off. Oak found\nthat the value of stock, plant, and implements which were really his\nown would be about sufficient to pay his debts, leaving himself a\nfree man with the clothes he stood up in, and nothing more. THE FAIR--THE JOURNEY--THE FIRE\n\n\nTwo months passed away. We are brought on to a day in February, on\nwhich was held the yearly statute or hiring fair in the county-town\nof Casterbridge. At one end of the street stood from two to three hundred blithe and\nhearty labourers waiting upon Chance--all men of the stamp to whom\nlabour suggests nothing worse than a wrestle with gravitation, and\npleasure nothing better than a renunciation of the same. Among\nthese, carters and waggoners were distinguished by having a piece\nof whip-cord twisted round their hats; thatchers wore a fragment of\nwoven straw; shepherds held their sheep-crooks in their hands; and\nthus the situation required was known to the hirers at a glance. In the crowd was an athletic young fellow of somewhat superior\nappearance to the rest--in fact, his superiority was marked enough to\nlead several ruddy peasants standing by to speak to him inquiringly,\nas to a farmer, and to use \"Sir\" as a finishing word. His answer\nalways was,--\n\n\"I am looking for a place myself--a bailiff's. Do ye know of anybody\nwho wants one?\" Gabriel was paler now. His eyes were more meditative, and his\nexpression was more sad. He had passed through an ordeal of\nwretchedness which had given him more than it had taken away. He\nhad sunk from his modest elevation as pastoral king into the very\nslime-pits of Siddim; but there was left to him a dignified calm he\nhad never before known, and that indifference to fate which, though\nit often makes a villain of a man, is the basis of his sublimity when\nit does not. And thus the abasement had been exaltation, and the\nloss gain. In the morning a regiment of cavalry had left the town, and a\nsergeant and his party had been beating up for recruits through the\nfour streets. As the end of the day drew on, and he found himself\nnot hired, Gabriel almost wished that he had joined them, and gone\noff to serve his country. Weary of standing in the market-place, and\nnot much minding the kind of work he turned his hand to, he decided\nto offer himself in some other capacity than that of bailiff. All the farmers seemed to be wanting shepherds. Sheep-tending was\nGabriel's speciality. Turning down an obscure street and entering\nan obscurer lane, he went up to a smith's shop. \"How long would it take you to make a shepherd's crook?\" \"Twenty minutes.\" \"How much?\" \"Two shillings.\" He sat on a bench and the crook was made, a stem being given him into\nthe bargain. He then went to a ready-made clothes' shop, the owner of which had a\nlarge rural connection. As the crook had absorbed most of Gabriel's\nmoney, he attempted, and carried out, an exchange of his overcoat for\na shepherd's regulation smock-frock. This transaction having been completed, he again hurried off to the\ncentre of the town, and stood on the kerb of the pavement, as a\nshepherd, crook in hand. Now that Oak had turned himself into a shepherd, it seemed that\nbailiffs were most in demand. However, two or three farmers noticed\nhim and drew near. Dialogues followed, more or less in the subjoined\nform:--\n\n\"Where do you come from?\" \"Norcombe.\" \"That's a long way. \"Fifteen miles.\" \"Who's farm were you upon last?\" \"My own.\" This reply invariably operated like a rumour of cholera. The\ninquiring farmer would edge away and shake his head dubiously. Gabriel, like his dog, was too good to be trustworthy, and he never\nmade advance beyond this point. It is safer to accept any chance that offers itself, and extemporize\na procedure to fit it, than to get a good plan matured, and wait for\na chance of using it. Gabriel wished he had not nailed up his\ncolours as a shepherd, but had laid himself out for anything in the\nwhole cycle of labour that was required in the fair. It grew dusk. Some merry men were whistling and singing by the corn-exchange. Gabriel's hand, which had lain for some time idle in his smock-frock\npocket, touched his flute which he carried there. Here was an\nopportunity for putting his dearly bought wisdom into practice. He drew out his flute and began to play \"Jockey to the Fair\" in the\nstyle of a man who had never known moment's sorrow. Oak could pipe\nwith Arcadian sweetness, and the sound of the well-known notes\ncheered his own heart as well as those of the loungers. He played on\nwith spirit, and in half an hour had earned in pence what was a small\nfortune to a destitute man. By making inquiries he learnt that there was another fair at\nShottsford the next day. \"How far is Shottsford?\" \"Ten miles t'other side of Weatherbury.\" Weatherbury! It was where Bathsheba had gone two months before. This information was like coming from night into noon. \"How far is it to Weatherbury?\" \"Five or six miles.\" Bathsheba had probably left Weatherbury long before this time, but\nthe place had enough interest attaching to it to lead Oak to choose\nShottsford fair as his next field of inquiry, because it lay in the\nWeatherbury quarter. Moreover, the Weatherbury folk were by no means\nuninteresting intrinsically. If report spoke truly they were as\nhardy, merry, thriving, wicked a set as any in the whole county. Oak\nresolved to sleep at Weatherbury that night on his way to Shottsford,\nand struck out at once into the high road which had been recommended\nas the direct route to the village in question. The road stretched through water-meadows traversed by little brooks,\nwhose quivering surfaces were braided along their centres, and\nfolded into creases at the sides; or, where the flow was more\nrapid, the stream was pied with spots of white froth, which rode\non in undisturbed serenity. On the higher levels the dead and\ndry carcasses of leaves tapped the ground as they bowled along\nhelter-skelter upon the shoulders of the wind, and little birds in\nthe hedges were rustling their feathers and tucking themselves in\ncomfortably for the night, retaining their places if Oak kept moving,\nbut flying away if he stopped to look at them. He passed by Yalbury\nWood where the game-birds were rising to their roosts, and heard the\ncrack-voiced cock-pheasants \"cu-uck, cuck,\" and the wheezy whistle of\nthe hens. By the time he had walked three or four miles every shape in the\nlandscape had assumed a uniform hue of blackness. He descended\nYalbury Hill and could just discern ahead of him a waggon, drawn up\nunder a great over-hanging tree by the roadside. On coming close, he found there were no horses attached to it, the\nspot being apparently quite deserted.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-04, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-07 The user is reading a book]\n<User> The waggon, from its position,\nseemed to have been left there for the night, for beyond about half\na truss of hay which was heaped in the bottom, it was quite empty. Gabriel sat down on the shafts of the vehicle and considered his\nposition. He calculated that he had walked a very fair proportion of\nthe journey; and having been on foot since daybreak, he felt tempted\nto lie down upon the hay in the waggon instead of pushing on to the\nvillage of Weatherbury, and having to pay for a lodging. Eating his last slices of bread and ham, and drinking from the bottle\nof cider he had taken the precaution to bring with him, he got into\nthe lonely waggon. Here he spread half of the hay as a bed, and,\nas well as he could in the darkness, pulled the other half over\nhim by way of bed-clothes, covering himself entirely, and feeling,\nphysically, as comfortable as ever he had been in his life. Inward\nmelancholy it was impossible for a man like Oak, introspective far\nbeyond his neighbours, to banish quite, whilst conning the present\nuntoward page of his history. So, thinking of his misfortunes,\namorous and pastoral, he fell asleep, shepherds enjoying, in common\nwith sailors, the privilege of being able to summon the god instead\nof having to wait for him. On somewhat suddenly awaking, after a sleep of whose length he had no\nidea, Oak found that the waggon was in motion. He was being carried\nalong the road at a rate rather considerable for a vehicle without\nsprings, and under circumstances of physical uneasiness, his\nhead being dandled up and down on the bed of the waggon like a\nkettledrum-stick. He then distinguished voices in conversation,\ncoming from the forpart of the waggon. His concern at this dilemma\n(which would have been alarm, had he been a thriving man; but\nmisfortune is a fine opiate to personal terror) led him to peer\ncautiously from the hay, and the first sight he beheld was the stars\nabove him. Charles's Wain was getting towards a right angle with\nthe Pole star, and Gabriel concluded that it must be about nine\no'clock--in other words, that he had slept two hours. This small\nastronomical calculation was made without any positive effort, and\nwhilst he was stealthily turning to discover, if possible, into whose\nhands he had fallen. Two figures were dimly visible in front, sitting with their legs\noutside the waggon, one of whom was driving. Gabriel soon found that\nthis was the waggoner, and it appeared they had come from\nCasterbridge fair, like himself. A conversation was in progress, which continued thus:--\n\n\"Be as 'twill, she's a fine handsome body as far's looks be\nconcerned. But that's only the skin of the woman, and these dandy\ncattle be as proud as a lucifer in their insides.\" \"Ay--so 'a do seem, Billy Smallbury--so 'a do seem.\" This utterance\nwas very shaky by nature, and more so by circumstance, the jolting of\nthe waggon not being without its effect upon the speaker's larynx. It came from the man who held the reins. \"She's a very vain feymell--so 'tis said here and there.\" \"Ah, now. If so be 'tis like that, I can't look her in the face. Lord, no: not I--heh-heh-heh! Such a shy man as I be!\" \"Yes--she's very vain. 'Tis said that every night at going to bed\nshe looks in the glass to put on her night-cap properly.\" \"And not a married woman. Oh, the world!\" \"And 'a can play the peanner, so 'tis said. Can play so clever that\n'a can make a psalm tune sound as well as the merriest loose song a\nman can wish for.\" \"D'ye tell o't! A happy time for us, and I feel quite a new man! And how do she pay?\" \"That I don't know, Master Poorgrass.\" On hearing these and other similar remarks, a wild thought flashed\ninto Gabriel's mind that they might be speaking of Bathsheba. There\nwere, however, no grounds for retaining such a supposition, for the\nwaggon, though going in the direction of Weatherbury, might be going\nbeyond it, and the woman alluded to seemed to be the mistress of some\nestate. They were now apparently close upon Weatherbury and not to\nalarm the speakers unnecessarily, Gabriel slipped out of the waggon\nunseen. He turned to an opening in the hedge, which he found to be a gate,\nand mounting thereon, he sat meditating whether to seek a cheap\nlodging in the village, or to ensure a cheaper one by lying under\nsome hay or corn-stack. The crunching jangle of the waggon died upon\nhis ear. He was about to walk on, when he noticed on his left hand\nan unusual light--appearing about half a mile distant. Oak watched\nit, and the glow increased. Something was on fire. Gabriel again mounted the gate, and, leaping down on the other side\nupon what he found to be ploughed soil, made across the field in the\nexact direction of the fire. The blaze, enlarging in a double ratio\nby his approach and its own increase, showed him as he drew nearer\nthe outlines of ricks beside it, lighted up to great distinctness. A\nrick-yard was the source of the fire. His weary face now began to\nbe painted over with a rich orange glow, and the whole front of his\nsmock-frock and gaiters was covered with a dancing shadow pattern of\nthorn-twigs--the light reaching him through a leafless intervening\nhedge--and the metallic curve of his sheep-crook shone silver-bright\nin the same abounding rays. He came up to the boundary fence, and\nstood to regain breath. It seemed as if the spot was unoccupied by\na living soul. The fire was issuing from a long straw-stack, which was so far gone\nas to preclude a possibility of saving it. A rick burns differently\nfrom a house. As the wind blows the fire inwards, the portion in\nflames completely disappears like melting sugar, and the outline is\nlost to the eye. However, a hay or a wheat-rick, well put together,\nwill resist combustion for a length of time, if it begins on the\noutside. This before Gabriel's eyes was a rick of straw, loosely put together,\nand the flames darted into it with lightning swiftness. It glowed on\nthe windward side, rising and falling in intensity, like the coal of\na cigar. Then a superincumbent bundle rolled down, with a whisking\nnoise; flames elongated, and bent themselves about with a quiet\nroar, but no crackle. Banks of smoke went off horizontally at the\nback like passing clouds, and behind these burned hidden pyres,\nilluminating the semi-transparent sheet of smoke to a lustrous yellow\nuniformity. Individual straws in the foreground were consumed in a\ncreeping movement of ruddy heat, as if they were knots of red worms,\nand above shone imaginary fiery faces, tongues hanging from lips,\nglaring eyes, and other impish forms, from which at intervals sparks\nflew in clusters like birds from a nest. Oak suddenly ceased from being a mere spectator by discovering the\ncase to be more serious than he had at first imagined. A scroll\nof smoke blew aside and revealed to him a wheat-rick in startling\njuxtaposition with the decaying one, and behind this a series of\nothers, composing the main corn produce of the farm; so that instead\nof the straw-stack standing, as he had imagined comparatively\nisolated, there was a regular connection between it and the remaining\nstacks of the group. Gabriel leapt over the hedge, and saw that he was not alone. The\nfirst man he came to was running about in a great hurry, as if his\nthoughts were several yards in advance of his body, which they could\nnever drag on fast enough. \"O, man--fire, fire! A good master and a bad servant is fire,\nfire!--I mane a bad servant and a good master. Oh, Mark Clark--come! And you, Billy Smallbury--and you, Maryann Money--and you, Jan\nCoggan, and Matthew there!\" Other figures now appeared behind this\nshouting man and among the smoke, and Gabriel found that, far from\nbeing alone he was in a great company--whose shadows danced merrily\nup and down, timed by the jigging of the flames, and not at all by\ntheir owners' movements. The assemblage--belonging to that class of\nsociety which casts its thoughts into the form of feeling, and its\nfeelings into the form of commotion--set to work with a remarkable\nconfusion of purpose. \"Stop the draught under the wheat-rick!\"\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-07, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-09 The user is reading a book]\n<User> cried Gabriel to those\nnearest to him. The corn stood on stone staddles, and between these,\ntongues of yellow hue from the burning straw licked and darted\nplayfully. If the fire once got UNDER this stack, all would be lost. \"Get a tarpaulin--quick!\" said Gabriel. A rick-cloth was brought, and they hung it like a curtain across the\nchannel. The flames immediately ceased to go under the bottom of the\ncorn-stack, and stood up vertical. \"Stand here with a bucket of water and keep the cloth wet.\" said\nGabriel again. The flames, now driven upwards, began to attack the angles of the\nhuge roof covering the wheat-stack. \"A ladder,\" cried Gabriel. \"The ladder was against the straw-rick and is burnt to a cinder,\"\nsaid a spectre-like form in the smoke. Oak seized the cut ends of the sheaves, as if he were going to engage\nin the operation of \"reed-drawing,\" and digging in his feet, and\noccasionally sticking in the stem of his sheep-crook, he clambered up\nthe beetling face. He at once sat astride the very apex, and began\nwith his crook to beat off the fiery fragments which had lodged\nthereon, shouting to the others to get him a bough and a ladder, and\nsome water. Billy Smallbury--one of the men who had been on the waggon--by this\ntime had found a ladder, which Mark Clark ascended, holding on beside\nOak upon the thatch. The smoke at this corner was stifling, and\nClark, a nimble fellow, having been handed a bucket of water, bathed\nOak's face and sprinkled him generally, whilst Gabriel, now with a\nlong beech-bough in one hand, in addition to his crook in the other,\nkept sweeping the stack and dislodging all fiery particles. On the ground the groups of villagers were still occupied in doing\nall they could to keep down the conflagration, which was not much. They were all tinged orange, and backed up by shadows of varying\npattern. Round the corner of the largest stack, out of the direct\nrays of the fire, stood a pony, bearing a young woman on its back. By her side was another woman, on foot. These two seemed to keep at\na distance from the fire, that the horse might not become restive. \"He's a shepherd,\" said the woman on foot. \"Yes--he is. See how his\ncrook shines as he beats the rick with it. And his smock-frock is\nburnt in two holes, I declare! A fine young shepherd he is too,\nma'am.\" \"Whose shepherd is he?\" said the equestrian in a clear voice. \"Don't know, ma'am.\" \"Don't any of the others know?\" \"Nobody at all--I've asked 'em. Quite a stranger, they say.\" The young woman on the pony rode out from the shade and looked\nanxiously around. \"Do you think the barn is safe?\" she said. \"D'ye think the barn is safe, Jan Coggan?\" said the second woman,\npassing on the question to the nearest man in that direction. \"Safe-now--leastwise I think so. If this rick had gone the barn\nwould have followed. 'Tis that bold shepherd up there that have done\nthe most good--he sitting on the top o' rick, whizzing his great\nlong-arms about like a windmill.\" \"He does work hard,\" said the young woman on horseback, looking up at\nGabriel through her thick woollen veil. \"I wish he was shepherd\nhere. Don't any of you know his name.\" \"Never heard the man's name in my life, or seed his form afore.\" The fire began to get worsted, and Gabriel's elevated position being\nno longer required of him, he made as if to descend. \"Maryann,\" said the girl on horseback, \"go to him as he comes down,\nand say that the farmer wishes to thank him for the great service he\nhas done.\" Maryann stalked off towards the rick and met Oak at the foot of the\nladder. She delivered her message. \"Where is your master the farmer?\" asked Gabriel, kindling with the\nidea of getting employment that seemed to strike him now. \"'Tisn't a master; 'tis a mistress, shepherd.\" \"A woman farmer?\" \"Ay, 'a b'lieve, and a rich one too!\" said a bystander. \"Lately\n'a came here from a distance. Took on her uncle's farm, who died\nsuddenly. Used to measure his money in half-pint cups. They say\nnow that she've business in every bank in Casterbridge, and thinks\nno more of playing pitch-and-toss sovereign than you and I, do\npitch-halfpenny--not a bit in the world, shepherd.\" \"That's she, back there upon the pony,\" said Maryann; \"wi' her face\na-covered up in that black cloth with holes in it.\" Oak, his features smudged, grimy, and undiscoverable from the smoke\nand heat, his smock-frock burnt into holes and dripping with water,\nthe ash stem of his sheep-crook charred six inches shorter, advanced\nwith the humility stern adversity had thrust upon him up to the\nslight female form in the saddle. He lifted his hat with respect,\nand not without gallantry: stepping close to her hanging feet he said\nin a hesitating voice,--\n\n\"Do you happen to want a shepherd, ma'am?\" She lifted the wool veil tied round her face, and looked all\nastonishment. Gabriel and his cold-hearted darling, Bathsheba\nEverdene, were face to face. Bathsheba did not speak, and he mechanically repeated in an abashed\nand sad voice,--\n\n\"Do you want a shepherd, ma'am?\" RECOGNITION--A TIMID GIRL\n\n\nBathsheba withdrew into the shade. She scarcely knew whether most to\nbe amused at the singularity of the meeting, or to be concerned at\nits awkwardness. There was room for a little pity, also for a very\nlittle exultation: the former at his position, the latter at her own. Embarrassed she was not, and she remembered Gabriel's declaration of\nlove to her at Norcombe only to think she had nearly forgotten it. \"Yes,\" she murmured, putting on an air of dignity, and turning again\nto him with a little warmth of cheek; \"I do want a shepherd. But--\"\n\n\"He's the very man, ma'am,\" said one of the villagers, quietly. Conviction breeds conviction. \"Ay, that 'a is,\" said a second,\ndecisively. \"The man, truly!\" said a third, with heartiness. \"He's all there!\" said number four, fervidly. \"Then will you tell him to speak to the bailiff,\" said Bathsheba. All was practical again now. A summer eve and loneliness would have\nbeen necessary to give the meeting its proper fulness of romance. The bailiff was pointed out to Gabriel, who, checking the palpitation\nwithin his breast at discovering that this Ashtoreth of strange\nreport was only a modification of Venus the well-known and admired,\nretired with him to talk over the necessary preliminaries of hiring. The fire before them wasted away. \"Men,\" said Bathsheba, \"you shall\ntake a little refreshment after this extra work. Will you come to\nthe house?\" \"We could knock in a bit and a drop a good deal freer, Miss, if so be\nye'd send it to Warren's Malthouse,\" replied the spokesman. Bathsheba then rode off into the darkness, and the men straggled on\nto the village in twos and threes--Oak and the bailiff being left by\nthe rick alone. \"And now,\" said the bailiff, finally, \"all is settled, I think, about\nyour coming, and I am going home-along. Good-night to ye, shepherd.\" \"Can you get me a lodging?\" inquired Gabriel. \"That I can't, indeed,\" he said, moving past Oak as a Christian edges\npast an offertory-plate when he does not mean to contribute. \"If you\nfollow on the road till you come to Warren's Malthouse, where they\nare all gone to have their snap of victuals, I daresay some of 'em\nwill tell you of a place. Good-night to ye, shepherd.\" The bailiff who showed this nervous dread of loving his neighbour as\nhimself, went up the hill, and Oak walked on to the village, still\nastonished at the reencounter with Bathsheba, glad of his nearness to\nher, and perplexed at the rapidity with which the unpractised girl of\nNorcombe had developed into the supervising and cool woman here. But\nsome women only require an emergency to make them fit for one.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-09, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-12 The user is reading a book]\n<User> Obliged, to some extent, to forgo dreaming in order to find the way,\nhe reached the churchyard, and passed round it under the wall where\nseveral ancient trees grew. There was a wide margin of grass along\nhere, and Gabriel's footsteps were deadened by its softness, even at\nthis indurating period of the year. When abreast of a trunk which\nappeared to be the oldest of the old, he became aware that a figure\nwas standing behind it. Gabriel did not pause in his walk, and in\nanother moment he accidentally kicked a loose stone. The noise was\nenough to disturb the motionless stranger, who started and assumed\na careless position. It was a slim girl, rather thinly clad. \"Good-night to you,\" said Gabriel, heartily. \"Good-night,\" said the girl to Gabriel. The voice was unexpectedly attractive; it was the low and dulcet note\nsuggestive of romance; common in descriptions, rare in experience. \"I'll thank you to tell me if I'm in the way for Warren's Malthouse?\" Gabriel resumed, primarily to gain the information, indirectly to get\nmore of the music. \"Quite right. It's at the bottom of the hill. And do you know--\"\nThe girl hesitated and then went on again. \"Do you know how late\nthey keep open the Buck's Head Inn?\" She seemed to be won by\nGabriel's heartiness, as Gabriel had been won by her modulations. \"I don't know where the Buck's Head is, or anything about it. Do you\nthink of going there to-night?\" \"Yes--\"  The woman again paused. There was no necessity for any\ncontinuance of speech, and the fact that she did add more seemed to\nproceed from an unconscious desire to show unconcern by making a\nremark, which is noticeable in the ingenuous when they are acting by\nstealth. \"You are not a Weatherbury man?\" she said, timorously. \"I am not. I am the new shepherd--just arrived.\" \"Only a shepherd--and you seem almost a farmer by your ways.\" \"Only a shepherd,\" Gabriel repeated, in a dull cadence of finality. His thoughts were directed to the past, his eyes to the feet of the\ngirl; and for the first time he saw lying there a bundle of some\nsort. She may have perceived the direction of his face, for she said\ncoaxingly,--\n\n\"You won't say anything in the parish about having seen me here, will\nyou--at least, not for a day or two?\" \"I won't if you wish me not to,\" said Oak. \"Thank you, indeed,\" the other replied. \"I am rather poor, and I\ndon't want people to know anything about me.\" Then she was silent\nand shivered. \"You ought to have a cloak on such a cold night,\" Gabriel observed. \"I would advise 'ee to get indoors.\" \"O no! Would you mind going on and leaving me? I thank you much for\nwhat you have told me.\" \"I will go on,\" he said; adding hesitatingly,--\"Since you are not\nvery well off, perhaps you would accept this trifle from me. It is\nonly a shilling, but it is all I have to spare.\" \"Yes, I will take it,\" said the stranger gratefully. She extended her hand; Gabriel his. In feeling for each other's palm\nin the gloom before the money could be passed, a minute incident\noccurred which told much. Gabriel's fingers alighted on the young\nwoman's wrist. It was beating with a throb of tragic intensity. He\nhad frequently felt the same quick, hard beat in the femoral artery\nof his lambs when overdriven. It suggested a consumption too great\nof a vitality which, to judge from her figure and stature, was\nalready too little. \"What is the matter?\" \"Nothing.\" \"But there is?\" \"No, no, no! Let your having seen me be a secret!\" \"Very well; I will. Good-night, again.\" \"Good-night.\" The young girl remained motionless by the tree, and Gabriel descended\ninto the village of Weatherbury, or Lower Longpuddle as it was\nsometimes called. He fancied that he had felt himself in the\npenumbra of a very deep sadness when touching that slight and fragile\ncreature. But wisdom lies in moderating mere impressions, and\nGabriel endeavoured to think little of this. THE MALTHOUSE--THE CHAT--NEWS\n\n\nWarren's Malthouse was enclosed by an old wall inwrapped with ivy,\nand though not much of the exterior was visible at this hour, the\ncharacter and purposes of the building were clearly enough shown by\nits outline upon the sky. From the walls an overhanging thatched\nroof sloped up to a point in the centre, upon which rose a small\nwooden lantern, fitted with louvre-boards on all the four sides,\nand from these openings a mist was dimly perceived to be escaping\ninto the night air. There was no window in front; but a square\nhole in the door was glazed with a single pane, through which red,\ncomfortable rays now stretched out upon the ivied wall in front. Voices were to be heard inside. Oak's hand skimmed the surface of the door with fingers extended to\nan Elymas-the-Sorcerer pattern, till he found a leathern strap, which\nhe pulled. This lifted a wooden latch, and the door swung open. The room inside was lighted only by the ruddy glow from the kiln\nmouth, which shone over the floor with the streaming horizontality\nof the setting sun, and threw upwards the shadows of all facial\nirregularities in those assembled around. The stone-flag floor was\nworn into a path from the doorway to the kiln, and into undulations\neverywhere. A curved settle of unplaned oak stretched along one\nside, and in a remote corner was a small bed and bedstead, the owner\nand frequent occupier of which was the maltster. This aged man was now sitting opposite the fire, his frosty white\nhair and beard overgrowing his gnarled figure like the grey moss and\nlichen upon a leafless apple-tree. He wore breeches and the laced-up\nshoes called ankle-jacks; he kept his eyes fixed upon the fire. Gabriel's nose was greeted by an atmosphere laden with the sweet\nsmell of new malt. The conversation (which seemed to have been\nconcerning the origin of the fire) immediately ceased, and every one\nocularly criticised him to the degree expressed by contracting the\nflesh of their foreheads and looking at him with narrowed eyelids, as\nif he had been a light too strong for their sight. Several exclaimed\nmeditatively, after this operation had been completed:--\n\n\"Oh, 'tis the new shepherd, 'a b'lieve.\" \"We thought we heard a hand pawing about the door for the bobbin, but\nweren't sure 'twere not a dead leaf blowed across,\" said another. \"Come in, shepherd; sure ye be welcome, though we don't know yer\nname.\" \"Gabriel Oak, that's my name, neighbours.\" The ancient maltster sitting in the midst turned at this--his turning\nbeing as the turning of a rusty crane. \"That's never Gable Oak's grandson over at Norcombe--never!\" he said,\nas a formula expressive of surprise, which nobody was supposed for a\nmoment to take literally. \"My father and my grandfather were old men of the name of Gabriel,\"\nsaid the shepherd, placidly. \"Thought I knowed the man's face as I seed him on the rick!--thought\nI did! And where be ye trading o't to now, shepherd?\" \"I'm thinking of biding here,\" said Mr. Oak. \"Knowed yer grandfather for years and years!\" continued the maltster,\nthe words coming forth of their own accord as if the momentum\npreviously imparted had been sufficient. \"Ah--and did you!\" \"Knowed yer grandmother.\" \"And her too!\" \"Likewise knowed yer father when he was a child. Why, my boy\nJacob there and your father were sworn brothers--that they were\nsure--weren't ye, Jacob?\" \"Ay, sure,\" said his son, a young man about sixty-five, with a\nsemi-bald head and one tooth in the left centre of his upper jaw,\nwhich made much of itself by standing prominent, like a milestone in\na bank. \"But 'twas Joe had most to do with him. However, my son\nWilliam must have knowed the very man afore us--didn't ye, Billy,\nafore ye left Norcombe?\" \"No, 'twas Andrew,\" said Jacob's son Billy, a child of forty, or\nthereabouts, who manifested the peculiarity of possessing a cheerful\nsoul in a gloomy body, and whose whiskers were assuming a chinchilla\nshade here and there. \"I can mind Andrew,\" said Oak, \"as being a man in the place when I\nwas quite a child.\" \"Ay--the other day I and my youngest daughter, Liddy, were over at\nmy grandson's christening,\" continued Billy.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-12, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-13 The user is reading a book]\n<User> \"We were talking about\nthis very family, and 'twas only last Purification Day in this very\nworld, when the use-money is gied away to the second-best poor folk,\nyou know, shepherd, and I can mind the day because they all had to\ntraypse up to the vestry--yes, this very man's family.\" \"Come, shepherd, and drink. 'Tis gape and swaller with us--a drap of\nsommit, but not of much account,\" said the maltster, removing from\nthe fire his eyes, which were vermilion-red and bleared by gazing\ninto it for so many years. \"Take up the God-forgive-me, Jacob. See\nif 'tis warm, Jacob.\" Jacob stooped to the God-forgive-me, which was a two-handled tall mug\nstanding in the ashes, cracked and charred with heat: it was rather\nfurred with extraneous matter about the outside, especially in the\ncrevices of the handles, the innermost curves of which may not have\nseen daylight for several years by reason of this encrustation\nthereon--formed of ashes accidentally wetted with cider and baked\nhard; but to the mind of any sensible drinker the cup was no\nworse for that, being incontestably clean on the inside and about\nthe rim. It may be observed that such a class of mug is called a\nGod-forgive-me in Weatherbury and its vicinity for uncertain reasons;\nprobably because its size makes any given toper feel ashamed of\nhimself when he sees its bottom in drinking it empty. Jacob, on receiving the order to see if the liquor was warm enough,\nplacidly dipped his forefinger into it by way of thermometer, and\nhaving pronounced it nearly of the proper degree, raised the cup and\nvery civilly attempted to dust some of the ashes from the bottom with\nthe skirt of his smock-frock, because Shepherd Oak was a stranger. \"A clane cup for the shepherd,\" said the maltster commandingly. \"No--not at all,\" said Gabriel, in a reproving tone of\nconsiderateness. \"I never fuss about dirt in its pure state, and\nwhen I know what sort it is.\" Taking the mug he drank an inch or\nmore from the depth of its contents, and duly passed it to the\nnext man. \"I wouldn't think of giving such trouble to neighbours\nin washing up when there's so much work to be done in the world\nalready.\" continued Oak in a moister tone, after recovering from the\nstoppage of breath which is occasioned by pulls at large mugs. \"A right sensible man,\" said Jacob. \"True, true; it can't be gainsaid!\" observed a brisk young man--Mark\nClark by name, a genial and pleasant gentleman, whom to meet anywhere\nin your travels was to know, to know was to drink with, and to drink\nwith was, unfortunately, to pay for. \"And here's a mouthful of bread and bacon that mis'ess have sent,\nshepherd. The cider will go down better with a bit of victuals. Don't ye chaw quite close, shepherd, for I let the bacon fall in\nthe road outside as I was bringing it along, and may be 'tis rather\ngritty. There, 'tis clane dirt; and we all know what that is, as you\nsay, and you bain't a particular man we see, shepherd.\" \"True, true--not at all,\" said the friendly Oak. \"Don't let your teeth quite meet, and you won't feel the sandiness at\nall. Ah! 'tis wonderful what can be done by contrivance!\" \"My own mind exactly, neighbour.\" \"Ah, he's his grandfer's own grandson!--his grandfer were just such a\nnice unparticular man!\" said the maltster. \"Drink, Henry Fray--drink,\" magnanimously said Jan Coggan, a person\nwho held Saint-Simonian notions of share and share alike where liquor\nwas concerned, as the vessel showed signs of approaching him in its\ngradual revolution among them. Having at this moment reached the end of a wistful gaze into mid-air,\nHenry did not refuse. He was a man of more than middle age, with\neyebrows high up in his forehead, who laid it down that the law of\nthe world was bad, with a long-suffering look through his listeners\nat the world alluded to, as it presented itself to his imagination. He always signed his name \"Henery\"--strenuously insisting upon that\nspelling, and if any passing schoolmaster ventured to remark that the\nsecond \"e\" was superfluous and old-fashioned, he received the reply\nthat \"H-e-n-e-r-y\" was the name he was christened and the name he\nwould stick to--in the tone of one to whom orthographical differences\nwere matters which had a great deal to do with personal character. Mr. Jan Coggan, who had passed the cup to Henery, was a crimson man\nwith a spacious countenance and private glimmer in his eye, whose\nname had appeared on the marriage register of Weatherbury and\nneighbouring parishes as best man and chief witness in countless\nunions of the previous twenty years; he also very frequently filled\nthe post of head godfather in baptisms of the subtly-jovial kind. \"Come, Mark Clark--come. Ther's plenty more in the barrel,\" said\nJan.\n\n\"Ay--that I will, 'tis my only doctor,\" replied Mr. Clark, who,\ntwenty years younger than Jan Coggan, revolved in the same orbit. He\nsecreted mirth on all occasions for special discharge at popular\nparties. \"Why, Joseph Poorgrass, ye han't had a drop!\" said Mr. Coggan to a\nself-conscious man in the background, thrusting the cup towards him. \"Such a modest man as he is!\" said Jacob Smallbury. \"Why, ye've\nhardly had strength of eye enough to look in our young mis'ess's\nface, so I hear, Joseph?\" All looked at Joseph Poorgrass with pitying reproach. \"No--I've hardly looked at her at all,\" simpered Joseph, reducing his\nbody smaller whilst talking, apparently from a meek sense of undue\nprominence. \"And when I seed her, 'twas nothing but blushes with\nme!\" \"Poor feller,\" said Mr. Clark. \"'Tis a curious nature for a man,\" said Jan Coggan. \"Yes,\" continued Joseph Poorgrass--his shyness, which was so painful\nas a defect, filling him with a mild complacency now that it was\nregarded as an interesting study. \"'Twere blush, blush, blush with\nme every minute of the time, when she was speaking to me.\" \"I believe ye, Joseph Poorgrass, for we all know ye to be a very\nbashful man.\" \"'Tis a' awkward gift for a man, poor soul,\" said the maltster. \"And\nhow long have ye have suffered from it, Joseph?\" [a]\n\n   [Transcriber's note a: Alternate text, appears in all three\n   editions on hand: \"'Tis a' awkward gift for a man, poor soul,\"\n   said the maltster. \"And ye have suffered from it a long time, we\n   know.\" \"Ay, ever since...\"]\n\n\"Oh, ever since I was a boy. Yes--mother was concerned to her heart\nabout it--yes. But 'twas all nought.\" \"Did ye ever go into the world to try and stop it, Joseph Poorgrass?\" \"Oh ay, tried all sorts o' company. They took me to Greenhill\nFair, and into a great gay jerry-go-nimble show, where there were\nwomen-folk riding round--standing upon horses, with hardly anything\non but their smocks; but it didn't cure me a morsel. And then I\nwas put errand-man at the Women's Skittle Alley at the back of the\nTailor's Arms in Casterbridge. 'Twas a horrible sinful situation,\nand a very curious place for a good man. I had to stand and look\nba'dy people in the face from morning till night; but 'twas no use--I\nwas just as bad as ever after all. Blushes hev been in the family\nfor generations. There, 'tis a happy providence that I be no worse.\" \"True,\" said Jacob Smallbury, deepening his thoughts to a profounder\nview of the subject. \"'Tis a thought to look at, that ye might have\nbeen worse; but even as you be, 'tis a very bad affliction for 'ee,\nJoseph. For ye see, shepherd, though 'tis very well for a woman,\ndang it all, 'tis awkward for a man like him, poor feller?\" \"'Tis--'tis,\" said Gabriel, recovering from a meditation. \"Yes, very\nawkward for the man.\" \"Ay, and he's very timid, too,\" observed Jan Coggan. \"Once he had\nbeen working late at Yalbury Bottom, and had had a drap of drink, and\nlost his way as he was coming home-along through Yalbury Wood, didn't\nye, Master Poorgrass?\" \"No, no, no; not that story!\"\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-13, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-15 The user is reading a book]\n<User> expostulated the modest man, forcing a\nlaugh to bury his concern.\n\n\" --And so 'a lost himself quite,\" continued Mr. Coggan, with an\nimpassive face, implying that a true narrative, like time and tide,\nmust run its course and would respect no man. \"And as he was coming\nalong in the middle of the night, much afeared, and not able to\nfind his way out of the trees nohow, 'a cried out, 'Man-a-lost! man-a-lost!' A owl in a tree happened to be crying 'Whoo-whoo-whoo!' as owls do, you know, shepherd\" (Gabriel nodded), \"and Joseph, all in\na tremble, said, 'Joseph Poorgrass, of Weatherbury, sir!'\" \"No, no, now--that's too much!\" said the timid man, becoming a man\nof brazen courage all of a sudden. \"I didn't say SIR. I'll take my\noath I didn't say 'Joseph Poorgrass o' Weatherbury, sir.' No, no;\nwhat's right is right, and I never said sir to the bird, knowing very\nwell that no man of a gentleman's rank would be hollering there at\nthat time o' night. 'Joseph Poorgrass of Weatherbury,'--that's every\nword I said, and I shouldn't ha' said that if 't hadn't been for\nKeeper Day's metheglin.... There, 'twas a merciful thing it ended\nwhere it did.\" The question of which was right being tacitly waived by the company,\nJan went on meditatively:--\n\n\"And he's the fearfullest man, bain't ye, Joseph? Ay, another time\nye were lost by Lambing-Down Gate, weren't ye, Joseph?\" \"I was,\" replied Poorgrass, as if there were some conditions too\nserious even for modesty to remember itself under, this being one. \"Yes; that were the middle of the night, too. The gate would not\nopen, try how he would, and knowing there was the Devil's hand in it,\nhe kneeled down.\" \"Ay,\" said Joseph, acquiring confidence from the warmth of the fire,\nthe cider, and a perception of the narrative capabilities of the\nexperience alluded to. \"My heart died within me, that time; but I\nkneeled down and said the Lord's Prayer, and then the Belief right\nthrough, and then the Ten Commandments, in earnest prayer. But\nno, the gate wouldn't open; and then I went on with Dearly Beloved\nBrethren, and, thinks I, this makes four, and 'tis all I know out\nof book, and if this don't do it nothing will, and I'm a lost man. Well, when I got to Saying After Me, I rose from my knees and found\nthe gate would open--yes, neighbours, the gate opened the same as\never.\" A meditation on the obvious inference was indulged in by all, and\nduring its continuance each directed his vision into the ashpit,\nwhich glowed like a desert in the tropics under a vertical sun,\nshaping their eyes long and liny, partly because of the light, partly\nfrom the depth of the subject discussed. Gabriel broke the silence. \"What sort of a place is this to live at,\nand what sort of a mis'ess is she to work under?\" Gabriel's bosom\nthrilled gently as he thus slipped under the notice of the assembly\nthe inner-most subject of his heart. \"We d' know little of her--nothing. She only showed herself a few\ndays ago. Her uncle was took bad, and the doctor was called with his\nworld-wide skill; but he couldn't save the man. As I take it, she's\ngoing to keep on the farm. \"That's about the shape o't, 'a b'lieve,\" said Jan Coggan. \"Ay, 'tis\na very good family. I'd as soon be under 'em as under one here and\nthere. Her uncle was a very fair sort of man. Did ye know en,\nshepherd--a bachelor-man?\" \"Not at all.\" \"I used to go to his house a-courting my first wife, Charlotte,\nwho was his dairymaid. Well, a very good-hearted man were Farmer\nEverdene, and I being a respectable young fellow was allowed to call\nand see her and drink as much ale as I liked, but not to carry away\nany--outside my skin I mane of course.\" \"Ay, ay, Jan Coggan; we know yer maning.\" \"And so you see 'twas beautiful ale, and I wished to value his\nkindness as much as I could, and not to be so ill-mannered as to\ndrink only a thimbleful, which would have been insulting the man's\ngenerosity--\"\n\n\"True, Master Coggan, 'twould so,\" corroborated Mark Clark.\n\n\" --And so I used to eat a lot of salt fish afore going, and then by\nthe time I got there I were as dry as a lime-basket--so thorough dry\nthat that ale would slip down--ah, 'twould slip down sweet! Happy\ntimes! Heavenly times! Such lovely drunks as I used to have at that\nhouse! You can mind, Jacob? You used to go wi' me sometimes.\" \"I can--I can,\" said Jacob. \"That one, too, that we had at Buck's\nHead on a White Monday was a pretty tipple.\" \"'Twas. But for a wet of the better class, that brought you no\nnearer to the horned man than you were afore you begun, there was\nnone like those in Farmer Everdene's kitchen. Not a single damn\nallowed; no, not a bare poor one, even at the most cheerful moment\nwhen all were blindest, though the good old word of sin thrown in\nhere and there at such times is a great relief to a merry soul.\" \"True,\" said the maltster. \"Nater requires her swearing at the\nregular times, or she's not herself; and unholy exclamations is a\nnecessity of life.\" \"But Charlotte,\" continued Coggan--\"not a word of the sort would\nCharlotte allow, nor the smallest item of taking in vain....  Ay,\npoor Charlotte, I wonder if she had the good fortune to get into\nHeaven when 'a died! But 'a was never much in luck's way, and\nperhaps 'a went downwards after all, poor soul.\" \"And did any of you know Miss Everdene's father and mother?\" inquired\nthe shepherd, who found some difficulty in keeping the conversation\nin the desired channel. \"I knew them a little,\" said Jacob Smallbury; \"but they were\ntownsfolk, and didn't live here. They've been dead for years. Father, what sort of people were mis'ess' father and mother?\" \"Well,\" said the maltster, \"he wasn't much to look at; but she was a\nlovely woman. He was fond enough of her as his sweetheart.\" \"Used to kiss her scores and long-hundreds o' times, so 'twas said,\"\nobserved Coggan. \"He was very proud of her, too, when they were married, as I've been\ntold,\" said the maltster. \"Ay,\" said Coggan. \"He admired her so much that he used to light the\ncandle three times a night to look at her.\" \"Boundless love; I shouldn't have supposed it in the universe!\" murmured Joseph Poorgrass, who habitually spoke on a large scale in\nhis moral reflections. \"Well, to be sure,\" said Gabriel. \"Oh, 'tis true enough. I knowed the man and woman both well. Levi\nEverdene--that was the man's name, sure. 'Man,' saith I in my\nhurry, but he were of a higher circle of life than that--'a was a\ngentleman-tailor really, worth scores of pounds. And he became a\nvery celebrated bankrupt two or three times.\" \"Oh, I thought he was quite a common man!\" said Joseph. \"Oh no, no! That man failed for heaps of money; hundreds in gold and\nsilver.\" The maltster being rather short of breath, Mr. Coggan, after absently\nscrutinising a coal which had fallen among the ashes, took up the\nnarrative, with a private twirl of his eye:--\n\n\"Well, now, you'd hardly believe it, but that man--our Miss\nEverdene's father--was one of the ficklest husbands alive, after a\nwhile. Understand? 'a didn't want to be fickle, but he couldn't help\nit. The pore feller were faithful and true enough to her in his\nwish, but his heart would rove, do what he would. He spoke to me in\nreal tribulation about it once. 'Coggan,' he said, 'I could never\nwish for a handsomer woman than I've got, but feeling she's ticketed\nas my lawful wife, I can't help my wicked heart wandering, do what I\nwill.'\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-15, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-18 The user is reading a book]\n<User> But at last I believe he cured it by making her take off her\nwedding-ring and calling her by her maiden name as they sat together\nafter the shop was shut, and so 'a would get to fancy she was only\nhis sweetheart, and not married to him at all. And as soon as he\ncould thoroughly fancy he was doing wrong and committing the seventh,\n'a got to like her as well as ever, and they lived on a perfect\npicture of mutel love.\" \"Well, 'twas a most ungodly remedy,\" murmured Joseph Poorgrass; \"but\nwe ought to feel deep cheerfulness that a happy Providence kept it\nfrom being any worse. You see, he might have gone the bad road and\ngiven his eyes to unlawfulness entirely--yes, gross unlawfulness, so\nto say it.\" \"You see,\" said Billy Smallbury, \"The man's will was to do right,\nsure enough, but his heart didn't chime in.\" \"He got so much better, that he was quite godly in his later years,\nwasn't he, Jan?\" said Joseph Poorgrass. \"He got himself confirmed\nover again in a more serious way, and took to saying 'Amen' almost as\nloud as the clerk, and he liked to copy comforting verses from the\ntombstones. He used, too, to hold the money-plate at Let Your Light\nso Shine, and stand godfather to poor little come-by-chance children;\nand he kept a missionary box upon his table to nab folks unawares\nwhen they called; yes, and he would box the charity-boys' ears, if\nthey laughed in church, till they could hardly stand upright, and do\nother deeds of piety natural to the saintly inclined.\" \"Ay, at that time he thought of nothing but high things,\" added Billy\nSmallbury. \"One day Parson Thirdly met him and said, 'Good-Morning,\nMister Everdene; 'tis a fine day!' 'Amen' said Everdene, quite\nabsent-like, thinking only of religion when he seed a parson. Yes,\nhe was a very Christian man.\" \"Their daughter was not at all a pretty chiel at that time,\" said\nHenery Fray. \"Never should have thought she'd have growed up such a\nhandsome body as she is.\" \"'Tis to be hoped her temper is as good as her face.\" \"Well, yes; but the baily will have most to do with the business and\nourselves. Ah!\" Henery gazed into the ashpit, and smiled volumes of\nironical knowledge. \"A queer Christian, like the Devil's head in a cowl, [1] as the\nsaying is,\" volunteered Mark Clark. [Footnote 1: This phrase is a conjectural emendation of the\n   unintelligible expression, \"as the Devil said to the Owl,\"\n   used by the natives.] \"He is,\" said Henery, implying that irony must cease at a certain\npoint. \"Between we two, man and man, I believe that man would as\nsoon tell a lie Sundays as working-days--that I do so.\" \"Good faith, you do talk!\" said Gabriel. \"True enough,\" said the man of bitter moods, looking round upon\nthe company with the antithetic laughter that comes from a keener\nappreciation of the miseries of life than ordinary men are capable\nof. \"Ah, there's people of one sort, and people of another, but\nthat man--bless your souls!\" Gabriel thought fit to change the subject. \"You must be a very aged\nman, malter, to have sons growed mild and ancient,\" he remarked. \"Father's so old that 'a can't mind his age, can ye, father?\" interposed Jacob. \"And he's growed terrible crooked too, lately,\"\nJacob continued, surveying his father's figure, which was rather\nmore bowed than his own. \"Really one may say that father there is\nthree-double.\" \"Crooked folk will last a long while,\" said the maltster, grimly, and\nnot in the best humour. \"Shepherd would like to hear the pedigree of yer life, father--\nwouldn't ye, shepherd?\" \"Ay that I should,\" said Gabriel with the heartiness of a man who had\nlonged to hear it for several months. \"What may your age be,\nmalter?\" The maltster cleared his throat in an exaggerated form for emphasis,\nand elongating his gaze to the remotest point of the ashpit, said, in\nthe slow speech justifiable when the importance of a subject is so\ngenerally felt that any mannerism must be tolerated in getting at it,\n\"Well, I don't mind the year I were born in, but perhaps I can reckon\nup the places I've lived at, and so get it that way. I bode at\nUpper Longpuddle across there\" (nodding to the north) \"till I were\neleven. I bode seven at Kingsbere\" (nodding to the east) \"where\nI took to malting. I went therefrom to Norcombe, and malted\nthere two-and-twenty years, and-two-and-twenty years I was there\nturnip-hoeing and harvesting. Ah, I knowed that old place, Norcombe,\nyears afore you were thought of, Master Oak\" (Oak smiled sincere\nbelief in the fact). \"Then I malted at Durnover four year, and\nfour year turnip-hoeing; and I was fourteen times eleven months at\nMillpond St. Jude's\" (nodding north-west-by-north). \"Old Twills\nwouldn't hire me for more than eleven months at a time, to keep me\nfrom being chargeable to the parish if so be I was disabled. Then I\nwas three year at Mellstock, and I've been here one-and-thirty year\ncome Candlemas. How much is that?\" \"Hundred and seventeen,\" chuckled another old gentleman, given to\nmental arithmetic and little conversation, who had hitherto sat\nunobserved in a corner. \"Well, then, that's my age,\" said the maltster, emphatically. \"O no, father!\" said Jacob. \"Your turnip-hoeing were in the summer\nand your malting in the winter of the same years, and ye don't ought\nto count-both halves, father.\" \"Chok' it all! I lived through the summers, didn't I? That's my\nquestion. I suppose ye'll say next I be no age at all to speak of?\" \"Sure we shan't,\" said Gabriel, soothingly. \"Ye be a very old aged person, malter,\" attested Jan Coggan, also\nsoothingly. \"We all know that, and ye must have a wonderful talented\nconstitution to be able to live so long, mustn't he, neighbours?\" \"True, true; ye must, malter, wonderful,\" said the meeting\nunanimously. The maltster, being now pacified, was even generous enough to\nvoluntarily disparage in a slight degree the virtue of having lived a\ngreat many years, by mentioning that the cup they were drinking out\nof was three years older than he. While the cup was being examined, the end of Gabriel Oak's flute\nbecame visible over his smock-frock pocket, and Henery Fray\nexclaimed, \"Surely, shepherd, I seed you blowing into a great flute\nby now at Casterbridge?\" \"You did,\" said Gabriel, blushing faintly. \"I've been in great\ntrouble, neighbours, and was driven to it. I used not to be so poor\nas I be now.\" \"Never mind, heart!\" said Mark Clark. \"You should take it\ncareless-like, shepherd, and your time will come. But we could thank\nye for a tune, if ye bain't too tired?\" \"Neither drum nor trumpet have I heard since Christmas,\" said Jan\nCoggan. \"Come, raise a tune, Master Oak!\" \"Ay, that I will,\" said Gabriel, pulling out his flute and putting it\ntogether. \"A poor tool, neighbours; but such as I can do ye shall\nhave and welcome.\" Oak then struck up \"Jockey to the Fair,\" and played that sparkling\nmelody three times through, accenting the notes in the third round in\na most artistic and lively manner by bending his body in small jerks\nand tapping with his foot to beat time. \"He can blow the flute very well--that 'a can,\" said a young married\nman, who having no individuality worth mentioning was known as \"Susan\nTall's husband.\" He continued, \"I'd as lief as not be able to blow\ninto a flute as well as that.\" \"He's a clever man, and 'tis a true comfort for us to have such a\nshepherd,\" murmured Joseph Poorgrass, in a soft cadence. \"We ought\nto feel full o' thanksgiving that he's not a player of ba'dy songs\ninstead of these merry tunes; for 'twould have been just as easy for\nGod to have made the shepherd a loose low man--a man of iniquity, so\nto speak it--as what he is. Yes, for our wives' and daughters' sakes\nwe should feel real thanksgiving.\" \"True, true,--real thanksgiving!\"\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-18, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-20 The user is reading a book]\n<User> dashed in Mark Clark conclusively,\nnot feeling it to be of any consequence to his opinion that he had\nonly heard about a word and three-quarters of what Joseph had said. \"Yes,\" added Joseph, beginning to feel like a man in the Bible; \"for\nevil do thrive so in these times that ye may be as much deceived in\nthe cleanest shaved and whitest shirted man as in the raggedest tramp\nupon the turnpike, if I may term it so.\" \"Ay, I can mind yer face now, shepherd,\" said Henery Fray,\ncriticising Gabriel with misty eyes as he entered upon his second\ntune. \"Yes--now I see 'ee blowing into the flute I know 'ee to be\nthe same man I see play at Casterbridge, for yer mouth were scrimped\nup and yer eyes a-staring out like a strangled man's--just as they be\nnow.\" \"'Tis a pity that playing the flute should make a man look such a\nscarecrow,\" observed Mr. Mark Clark, with additional criticism of\nGabriel's countenance, the latter person jerking out, with the\nghastly grimace required by the instrument, the chorus of \"Dame\nDurden:\"--\n\n   'Twas Moll' and Bet', and Doll' and Kate',\n   And Dor'-othy Drag'-gle Tail'. \"I hope you don't mind that young man's bad manners in naming your\nfeatures?\" whispered Joseph to Gabriel. \"Not at all,\" said Mr. Oak. \"For by nature ye be a very handsome man, shepherd,\" continued Joseph\nPoorgrass, with winning sauvity. \"Ay, that ye be, shepard,\" said the company. \"Thank you very much,\" said Oak, in the modest tone good manners\ndemanded, thinking, however, that he would never let Bathsheba see\nhim playing the flute; in this resolve showing a discretion equal to\nthat related to its sagacious inventress, the divine Minerva herself. \"Ah, when I and my wife were married at Norcombe Church,\" said the\nold maltster, not pleased at finding himself left out of the subject,\n\"we were called the handsomest couple in the neighbourhood--everybody\nsaid so.\" \"Danged if ye bain't altered now, malter,\" said a voice with the\nvigour natural to the enunciation of a remarkably evident truism. It came from the old man in the background, whose offensiveness and\nspiteful ways were barely atoned for by the occasional chuckle he\ncontributed to general laughs. \"O no, no,\" said Gabriel. \"Don't ye play no more shepherd\" said Susan Tall's husband, the young\nmarried man who had spoken once before. \"I must be moving and when\nthere's tunes going on I seem as if hung in wires. If I thought\nafter I'd left that music was still playing, and I not there, I\nshould be quite melancholy-like.\" \"What's yer hurry then, Laban?\" inquired Coggan. \"You used to bide\nas late as the latest.\" \"Well, ye see, neighbours, I was lately married to a woman, and she's\nmy vocation now, and so ye see--\"  The young man halted lamely. \"New Lords new laws, as the saying is, I suppose,\" remarked Coggan. \"Ay, 'a b'lieve--ha, ha!\" said Susan Tall's husband, in a tone\nintended to imply his habitual reception of jokes without minding\nthem at all. The young man then wished them good-night and withdrew. Henery Fray was the first to follow. Then Gabriel arose and went off\nwith Jan Coggan, who had offered him a lodging. A few minutes later,\nwhen the remaining ones were on their legs and about to depart, Fray\ncame back again in a hurry. Flourishing his finger ominously he\nthrew a gaze teeming with tidings just where his eye alighted by\naccident, which happened to be in Joseph Poorgrass's face. \"O--what's the matter, what's the matter, Henery?\" said Joseph,\nstarting back. \"What's a-brewing, Henrey?\" asked Jacob and Mark Clark. \"Baily Pennyways--Baily Pennyways--I said so; yes, I said so!\" \"What, found out stealing anything?\" \"Stealing it is. The news is, that after Miss Everdene got home she\nwent out again to see all was safe, as she usually do, and coming in\nfound Baily Pennyways creeping down the granary steps with half a a\nbushel of barley. She fleed at him like a cat--never such a tomboy\nas she is--of course I speak with closed doors?\" \"You do--you do, Henery.\" \"She fleed at him, and, to cut a long story short, he owned to having\ncarried off five sack altogether, upon her promising not to persecute\nhim. Well, he's turned out neck and crop, and my question is, who's\ngoing to be baily now?\" The question was such a profound one that Henery was obliged to drink\nthere and then from the large cup till the bottom was distinctly\nvisible inside. Before he had replaced it on the table, in came the\nyoung man, Susan Tall's husband, in a still greater hurry. \"Have ye heard the news that's all over parish?\" \"About Baily Pennyways?\" \"But besides that?\" \"No--not a morsel of it!\" they replied, looking into the very midst\nof Laban Tall as if to meet his words half-way down his throat. \"What a night of horrors!\" murmured Joseph Poorgrass, waving his\nhands spasmodically. \"I've had the news-bell ringing in my left ear\nquite bad enough for a murder, and I've seen a magpie all alone!\" \"Fanny Robin--Miss Everdene's youngest servant--can't be found. They've been wanting to lock up the door these two hours, but she\nisn't come in. And they don't know what to do about going to bed for\nfear of locking her out. They wouldn't be so concerned if she hadn't\nbeen noticed in such low spirits these last few days, and Maryann d'\nthink the beginning of a crowner's inquest has happened to the poor\ngirl.\" \"Oh--'tis burned--'tis burned!\" came from Joseph Poorgrass's dry\nlips. \"No--'tis drowned!\" said Tall. \"Or 'tis her father's razor!\" suggested Billy Smallbury, with a vivid\nsense of detail. \"Well--Miss Everdene wants to speak to one or two of us before we go\nto bed. What with this trouble about the baily, and now about the\ngirl, mis'ess is almost wild.\" They all hastened up the lane to the farmhouse, excepting the old\nmaltster, whom neither news, fire, rain, nor thunder could draw from\nhis hole. There, as the others' footsteps died away he sat down\nagain and continued gazing as usual into the furnace with his red,\nbleared eyes. From the bedroom window above their heads Bathsheba's head and\nshoulders, robed in mystic white, were dimly seen extended into the\nair. \"Are any of my men among you?\" she said anxiously. \"Yes, ma'am, several,\" said Susan Tall's husband. \"To-morrow morning I wish two or three of you to make inquiries in\nthe villages round if they have seen such a person as Fanny Robin. Do it quietly; there is no reason for alarm as yet. She must have\nleft whilst we were all at the fire.\" \"I beg yer pardon, but had she any young man courting her in the\nparish, ma'am?\" asked Jacob Smallbury. \"I don't know,\" said Bathsheba. \"I've never heard of any such thing, ma'am,\" said two or three. \"It is hardly likely, either,\" continued Bathsheba. \"For any lover\nof hers might have come to the house if he had been a respectable\nlad. The most mysterious matter connected with her absence--indeed,\nthe only thing which gives me serious alarm--is that she was seen\nto go out of the house by Maryann with only her indoor working gown\non--not even a bonnet.\" \"And you mean, ma'am, excusing my words, that a young woman would\nhardly go to see her young man without dressing up,\" said Jacob,\nturning his mental vision upon past experiences. \"That's true--she\nwould not, ma'am.\" \"She had, I think, a bundle, though I couldn't see very well,\" said a\nfemale voice from another window, which seemed that of Maryann. \"But\nshe had no young man about here. Hers lives in Casterbridge, and I\nbelieve he's a soldier.\" \"Do you know his name?\" Bathsheba said. \"No, mistress; she was very close about it.\" \"Perhaps I might be able to find out if I went to Casterbridge\nbarracks,\" said William Smallbury. \"Very well; if she doesn't return to-morrow, mind you go there and try\nto discover which man it is, and see him.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-20, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-23 The user is reading a book]\n<User> I feel more responsible\nthan I should if she had had any friends or relations alive. I do\nhope she has come to no harm through a man of that kind....  And then\nthere's this disgraceful affair of the bailiff--but I can't speak of\nhim now.\" Bathsheba had so many reasons for uneasiness that it seemed she did\nnot think it worth while to dwell upon any particular one. \"Do as I\ntold you, then,\" she said in conclusion, closing the casement. \"Ay, ay, mistress; we will,\" they replied, and moved away. That night at Coggan's, Gabriel Oak, beneath the screen of closed\neyelids, was busy with fancies, and full of movement, like a river\nflowing rapidly under its ice. Night had always been the time at\nwhich he saw Bathsheba most vividly, and through the slow hours\nof shadow he tenderly regarded her image now. It is rarely that\nthe pleasures of the imagination will compensate for the pain of\nsleeplessness, but they possibly did with Oak to-night, for the\ndelight of merely seeing her effaced for the time his perception\nof the great difference between seeing and possessing. He also thought of plans for fetching his few utensils and books from\nNorcombe. _The Young Man's Best Companion_, _The Farrier's Sure\nGuide_, _The Veterinary Surgeon_, _Paradise Lost_, _The Pilgrim's\nProgress_, _Robinson Crusoe_, Ash's _Dictionary_, and Walkingame's\n_Arithmetic_, constituted his library; and though a limited series,\nit was one from which he had acquired more sound information by\ndiligent perusal than many a man of opportunities has done from a\nfurlong of laden shelves.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-23, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far."]
[{"question": "Summarize the content of the book I read from 2024-01-01 to 2024-01-23", "answer": "Gabriel Oak, Bathsheba Everdene, Weatherbury, George, sheepdogs, chalk-pit tragedy, dying sheep, financial ruin, shooting the dog, hiring fair, shepherding skills, playing flute, wagon, straw-rick fire, shepherd's crook, mistress of the farm, bailiff, Warren's Malthouse, slim girl, Fanny Robin, Pennyways, theft, runaway servant, local laborers, dialect, farm culture, recognition, employment, compassion, unrequited love, prosperity, fate, fire rescue, forest, inn, debts, lambs, tragic intensity, lover, chapter five, chapter six, chapter eight, Thomas Hardy"}]