The Hockey Sweater and Other Stories Read Online Free
didnât clean them â¦â
âWe didnât know it was in the Code,â my friend Lapin apologized.
âDoesnât matter. Thanks a lot, kids. Matter of fact I was just thinking of some nice trout. Wife! Cook them up in butter. Lots of butter. And garlic too!â
The Day I Became an Apostate
I WISH IâD BEEN a bird instead of a child. There are so many countries I could have gone to simply by flapping my wings in the vast blue sky.
Iâd have liked so much to go to the moon and visit the nice man whose eyes and mouth you could see on bright nights when the moon is full. But unfortunately we learned in school that I could never go to the moon. The nun explained to us:
âChildren, try to imagine if you can, a train that left France in 1608, when Champlain set sail for Quebec; imagine, children, that this train was going eighty miles an hour and never stopping ⦠er ⦠imagine this train going along a railway that men have built between the earth and the moon; well, children, today this train still wouldnât have reached the moon, whereas Champlain, the founder of Quebec, has been dead for three hundred years. Children, if the good Lord put the moon so far from the earth itâs because in His wisdom He didnât want men to go anywhere except on earth.â
We remained on the earth, then, and the distant moon seemed like a lamp in the window of the sky. (And yet, in the comic strips in
LâAction catholique,
men pushed a lever, pressed buttons and rose up to the moon.)
I couldnât go to the moon then, but if Iâd been a bird I could certainly have gone to Rome, the Holy City, home of the Pope, the man chosen by God, the only man who never made a mistake, the man to whom God had given the keys to the gates of Heaven. The Pope, the most powerful man in the world, lived in Rome. Once every week he opened his window and made the sign of the cross. Those who saw him perform this act were touched by divine charity and their lives would be filled with goodness and happiness. Rome was bathed in a celestial perfume. But Rome was so far away and I wasnât a bird but a child, condemned to walk in his narrow little shoes on the earth of our village.
Because she was a saint, our nunâs Superior had obtained the privilege of going to Rome. There she had experienced the supreme happiness of seeing with her own eyes the Pope â in flesh and blood. Our nun had received a postcard from her Superior. The stamp on it was as beautiful as a diamond. It came from Rome. From the Eternal City. It had come almost from Heaven. And it was as precious as a relic, as a piece of the Popeâs own soutane.
âI want that stamp!â I exclaimed.
âMe too!â the other children exclaimed in chorus.
âI canât tear the stamp into thirty-five pieces to please all of you, children; so Iâll give it to the one who shows the greatest piety during the holy time of Lent.â
I went to mass twice every morning, I said the Rosary asoften as twelve times a day. God was pleased with me. He gave the nun the idea that I deserved the stamp from Rome.
In mid-April the Duplessis governmentâs huge snowplough came to clear the village street. The accumulated snow from the winter was turned over and formed into high cordons on either side of the street. Here and there patches of yellow grass emerged. The snow turned grey. The sky darkened. Spring was hesitating. Spring never dared emerge from winter before the victorious Christ emerged from his grave. The earth was becoming sad because the death of Christ was approaching. The condemnation to death of the Son of God was shameful and the sun refused to shed its light on such a sin. Even the church bells would soon be silent. On Good Friday, in fact, at three oâclock in the afternoon, after Christâs last sigh on the cross, the bells would immediately fly away to Rome to beseech the Pope to forgive the
âWe didnât know it was in the Code,â my friend Lapin apologized.
âDoesnât matter. Thanks a lot, kids. Matter of fact I was just thinking of some nice trout. Wife! Cook them up in butter. Lots of butter. And garlic too!â
The Day I Became an Apostate
I WISH IâD BEEN a bird instead of a child. There are so many countries I could have gone to simply by flapping my wings in the vast blue sky.
Iâd have liked so much to go to the moon and visit the nice man whose eyes and mouth you could see on bright nights when the moon is full. But unfortunately we learned in school that I could never go to the moon. The nun explained to us:
âChildren, try to imagine if you can, a train that left France in 1608, when Champlain set sail for Quebec; imagine, children, that this train was going eighty miles an hour and never stopping ⦠er ⦠imagine this train going along a railway that men have built between the earth and the moon; well, children, today this train still wouldnât have reached the moon, whereas Champlain, the founder of Quebec, has been dead for three hundred years. Children, if the good Lord put the moon so far from the earth itâs because in His wisdom He didnât want men to go anywhere except on earth.â
We remained on the earth, then, and the distant moon seemed like a lamp in the window of the sky. (And yet, in the comic strips in
LâAction catholique,
men pushed a lever, pressed buttons and rose up to the moon.)
I couldnât go to the moon then, but if Iâd been a bird I could certainly have gone to Rome, the Holy City, home of the Pope, the man chosen by God, the only man who never made a mistake, the man to whom God had given the keys to the gates of Heaven. The Pope, the most powerful man in the world, lived in Rome. Once every week he opened his window and made the sign of the cross. Those who saw him perform this act were touched by divine charity and their lives would be filled with goodness and happiness. Rome was bathed in a celestial perfume. But Rome was so far away and I wasnât a bird but a child, condemned to walk in his narrow little shoes on the earth of our village.
Because she was a saint, our nunâs Superior had obtained the privilege of going to Rome. There she had experienced the supreme happiness of seeing with her own eyes the Pope â in flesh and blood. Our nun had received a postcard from her Superior. The stamp on it was as beautiful as a diamond. It came from Rome. From the Eternal City. It had come almost from Heaven. And it was as precious as a relic, as a piece of the Popeâs own soutane.
âI want that stamp!â I exclaimed.
âMe too!â the other children exclaimed in chorus.
âI canât tear the stamp into thirty-five pieces to please all of you, children; so Iâll give it to the one who shows the greatest piety during the holy time of Lent.â
I went to mass twice every morning, I said the Rosary asoften as twelve times a day. God was pleased with me. He gave the nun the idea that I deserved the stamp from Rome.
In mid-April the Duplessis governmentâs huge snowplough came to clear the village street. The accumulated snow from the winter was turned over and formed into high cordons on either side of the street. Here and there patches of yellow grass emerged. The snow turned grey. The sky darkened. Spring was hesitating. Spring never dared emerge from winter before the victorious Christ emerged from his grave. The earth was becoming sad because the death of Christ was approaching. The condemnation to death of the Son of God was shameful and the sun refused to shed its light on such a sin. Even the church bells would soon be silent. On Good Friday, in fact, at three oâclock in the afternoon, after Christâs last sigh on the cross, the bells would immediately fly away to Rome to beseech the Pope to forgive the
Readers choose
Viola Grace
Becky Wilde
Susan Bliler
Yvette Hines
Pierre Berton
authors_sort
Glen Cook
Chrissy Peebles
Georgette Heyer
Andrés Vidal