Early one June morning in 1872 I murdered my father--an act which made
a deep impression on me at the time. This was before my marriage,
while I was living with my parents in Wisconsin. My father and I were
in the library of our home, dividing the proceeds of a burglary which
we had committed that night. These consisted of household goods
mostly, and the task of equitable division was difficult. We got on
very well with the napkins, towels and such things, and the silverware
was parted pretty nearly equally, but you can see for yourself that
when you try to divide a single music-box by two without a remainder
you will have trouble. It was that music-box which brought disaster
and disgrace upon our family. If we had left it my poor father might
now be alive.
It was a most exquisite and beautiful piece of workmanship--inlaid
with costly woods and carven very curiously. It would not only play a
great variety of tunes, but would whistle like a quail, bark like a
dog, crow every morning at daylight whether it was wound up or not,
and break the Ten Commandments. It was this last mentioned
accomplishment that won my father's heart and caused him to commit the
only dishonorable act of his life, though possibly he would have
committed more if he had been spared: he tried to conceal that
music-box from me, and declared upon his honor that he had not taken
it, though I know very well that, so far as he was concerned, the
burglary had been undertaken chiefly for the purpose of obtaining it.
My father had the music-box hidden under his cloak; we had worn cloaks
by way of disguise. He had solemnly assured me that he did not take
it. I knew that he did, and knew something of which he was evidently
ignorant; namely, that the box would crow at daylight and betray him
if I could prolong the division of profits till that time. All
occurred as I wished: as the gaslight began to pale in the library and
the shape of the windows was seen dimly behind the curtains, a long
cock-a-doodle-doo came from beneath the old gentleman's cloak,
followed by a few bars of an aria from Tannhauser, ending with a
loud click. A small hand-axe, which we had used to break into the
unlucky house, lay between us on the table; I picked it up. The old
man seeing that further concealment was useless took the box from
under his cloak and set it on the table. "Cut it in two if you prefer
that plan," said he; "I tried to save it from destruction."
He was a passionate lover of music and could himself play the
concertina with expression and feeling.
I said: "I do not question the purity of your motive: it would be
presumptuous of me to sit in judgment on my father. But business is
business, and with this axe I am going to effect a dissolution of our
partnership unless you will consent in all future burglaries to wear a
bell-punch."
"No," he said, after some reflection, "no, I could not do that; it
would look like a confession of dishonesty. People would say that you
distrusted me."
I could not help admiring his spirit and sensitiveness; for a moment I
was proud of him and disposed to overlook his fault, but a glance at
the richly jeweled music-box decided me, and, as I said, I removed the
old man from this vale of tears. Having done so, I was a trifle
uneasy. Not only was he my father--the author of my being--but the
body would be certainly discovered. It was now broad daylight and my
mother was likely to enter the library at any moment. Under the
circumstances, I thought it expedient to remove her also, which I did.
Then I paid off all the servants and discharged them.
That afternoon I went to the chief of police, told him what I had done
and asked his advice. It would be very painful to me if the facts
became publicly known. My conduct would be generally condemned; the
newspapers would bring it up against me if ever I should run for
office. The chief saw the force of these considerations; he was
himself an assassin of wide experience. After consulting with the
presiding judge of the Court of Variable Jurisdiction he advised me to
conceal the bodies in one of the bookcases, get a heavy insurance on
the house and burn it down. This I proceeded to do.
In the library was a book-case which my father had recently purchased
of some cranky inventor and had not filled. It was in shape and size
something like the old-fashioned "ward-robes" which one sees in
bed-rooms without closets, but opened all the way down, like a woman's
night-dress. It had glass doors. I had recently laid out my parents
and they were now rigid enough to stand erect; so I stood them in this
book-case, from which I had removed the shelves. I locked them in and
tacked some curtains over the glass doors. The inspector from the
insurance office passed a half-dozen times before the case without
suspicion.
That night, after getting my policy, I set fire to the house and
started through the woods to town, two miles away, where I managed to
be found about the time the excitement was at its height. With cries
of apprehension for the fate of my parents, I joined the rush and
arrived at the fire some two hours after I had kindled it. The whole
town was there as I dashed up. The house was entirely consumed, but
in one end of the level bed of glowing embers, bolt upright and
uninjured, was that book-case! The curtains had burned away, exposing
the glass-doors, through which the fierce, red light illuminated the
interior. There stood my dear father "in his habit as he lived," and
at his side the partner of his joys and sorrows. Not a hair of them
was singed, their clothing was intact. On their heads and throats the
injuries which in the accomplishment of my designs I had been
compelled to inflict were conspicuous. As in the presence of a
miracle, the people were silent; awe and terror had stilled every
tongue. I was myself greatly affected.
Some three years later, when the events herein related had nearly
faded from my memory, I went to New York to assist in passing some
counterfeit United States bonds. Carelessly looking into a furniture
store one day, I saw the exact counterpart of that book-case. "I
bought it for a trifle from a reformed inventor," the dealer
explained. "He said it was fireproof, the pores of the wood being
filled with alum under hydraulic pressure and the glass made of
asbestos. I don't suppose it is really fireproof--you can have it at
the price of an ordinary book-case."
"No," I said, "if you cannot warrant it fireproof I won't take
it"--and I bade him good morning.
I would not have had it at any price: it revived memories that were
exceedingly disagreeable. 
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