The person reading was a trifle different one would have said of him that he was of the world, worldly, albeit there was that in his attire which attested a certain fellowship with the organisms of his environment. They were evidently men of the vicinity-farmers and woodmen. But nothing of all this was noted in that company its members were not overmuch addicted to idle interest in matters of no practical importance that was obvious in every line of their rugged faces-obvious even in the dim light of the single candle. From the blank darkness outside came in, through the aperture that served for a window, all the ever unfamiliar noises of night in the wilderness-the long, nameless note of a distant coyote the stilly pulsing thrill of tireless insects in trees strange cries of night birds, so different from those of the birds of day the drone of great blundering beetles, and all that mysterious chorus of small sounds that seem always to have been but half heard when they have suddenly ceased, as if conscious of an indiscretion. The man with the book was not reading aloud, and no one spoke all seemed to be waiting for something to occur the dead man only was without expectation. By extending an arm any one of them could have touched the eighth man, who lay on the table, face upward, partly covered by a sheet, his arms at his sides. Seven of them sat against the rough log walls, silent and motionless, and, the room being small, not very far from the table.

The shadow of the book would then throw into obscurity a half of the room, darkening a number of faces and figures for besides the reader, eight other men were present. It was an old account book, greatly worn and the writing was not, apparently, very legible, for the man sometimes held the page close to the flame of the candle to get a stronger light upon it. By THE light of a tallow candle, which had been placed on one end of a rough table, a man was reading something written in a book.

The Damned Thing by Ambrose Bierce