Today, I was looking through the VPSA (Veritas Press Scholars Academy) site blog, and saw many entries about "Beebo Appleby." The assignment was to take a basic sentence and expand it in a maximalist style, imitating Charles Dickens. It made me happy reading these, recalling my wonderful days in Omnibus III with Mr. Baker. Looking back, it's a rather ridiculous story, but it is still fun to read. In reminiscence, here is what I wrote last year for the assignment:
That jolly, tall lad, young Beebo Appleby, so well-known with his peers as the merriest of the merry (and the richest of the rich, at that), walked into the well-furnished, inviting room boasting richly ornamented Persian rugs, and complete with a hearth of white marble, and he eagerly looked out the large frost-covered French window -the frost being from the delicate, dancing snow that came the night before- with his beautiful chocolate-colored eyes: so large and tender were they that they could pierce the most wretched soul- and then the young man proudly patted his bulging brown jacket pocket, filled with such a treasure as he could hardly keep it a secret. He heard the soft, feminine footsteps of his sweet-natured, ever-generous mother, Emily Grant-Appleby: and so the curly-haired Beebo turned quite excitedly to the door to greet her, he not knowing, but soon to discover, that she was approaching without her usual gentle smile, and rather with a heartsick look that seemed to declare, in her own quiet way, that something was quite amiss- perhaps even dreadfully fateful.
Gleefully, Beebo met his mother of middle age at the door.
"Mother, you must see what prize has come into my possession today!"
"Yes, Beebo, of course," very wearily.
"See here: it is a real diamond, of my very own! Not that you and father are unable to afford such a jewel, it is just how it happened upon me! You see-"
Mrs. Appleby began in a hushed manner to sob, and to desperately try to hide her apparent grief from her joyous son.
"Good Lord! Mother, are quite well?"
"That, my son, depends upon in what state you inquire of my well-being. In body, I am perfectly healthful. In mind...Well, let us not speak of that."
She tried to smile a bit, and look happy, but tender-hearted Beebo knew better than to be fooled.
"Mother, you are quite out of sorts. Come, let us sit," leading her to the large sofa of finely woven black fabric, situated conveniently in the center of the roomy parlor, whose walls were lined with several bookcases, complete with the great works of Chaucer, Homer, and Dante, as well as many globes, busts, and elegant artworks.
Mrs. Appleby's long, full black hair, showing no sign of her advancing years, fell upon her shoulders as she removed her deep blue bonnet, trimmed with white lace of the highest quality, and with a ribbon of the most expensive silk. Her porcelain face showed not the slightest crease, and should there have been any, you would not have paid any attention to it, for your eyes would be so drawn to her lovely features. Mrs. Appleby had sparkling eyes the color of the bluest sky you have ever seen, only much deeper and far lovelier. Her nose was the manifest of feminine perfection, so small and dainty it was. Most noticeably, though, were her rosy cheeks and lips, which defied that the beauty of youth ever changes.
Slowly, Mrs. Appleby began to stammer.
"You know how-"
"Yes?"
"How we-"
"Mother, speak freely to me!"
"Are- were- wealthy?"
"Were? Mother, we are the envy of all for miles away!"
"Ah, but we are soon to be the emblem of shame and pity!"
"Oh, Mother dear, what's happened?"
Still stammering, Mrs. Appleby began to recount her tale. And this is how it happened:
Mr. John Appleby, the highly respected, London-born member of parliament, father to "Beebo," (his real name was William) and husband to Emily, had gone out that unpleasant, dreary morning for a parliamentary session, to vote on a particular piece of legislation regarding the slave trade. Upon arriving near the entrance, he was greeted by many of his fellow MPs. Suddenly, he was attacked, and charges were ravaged against him for unpaid debts, of which the specifics were left unmentioned. About that time, Mrs. Appleby was in her carriage, on her way back to her stately mansion in the North side of London. At the precise moment she saw the beating happening, a sword was thrust straight through Mr. Appleby's heart. Stunned, Mrs. Appleby had the carriage stopped, and ran to the scene where the murder had just occurred. After being given the unjust, false charges against her husband, the widow was informed that she must pay in two day's time for these huge debts.
"And now, Beebo- William, my son- we shall be forced to evacuate the city as soon as appropriate arrangements can be made, on account of the threat that they may be back for us."
"But hello!" thought Beebo. "This is most certainly unlike father, and the charges are indeed false. What would they have with him, to drive them so mad?"
"Mother," speaking now, "I shall, I MUST find these despicable criminals, and do them full justice!"
"Son, you are young yet."
"But look here, mum! I will be eighteen in less than two years, then I shall make my move."
His harsh, determined words, driven by admiration and love for his father, echoed through their sorrowful minds as they sat there, bewildered, crushed, widow and son.
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