“‘Bad luck,’ said I, ‘or what goes by that name, may now and then
tangle the affairs of any man. But if it persists beyond the estimate
of what we may call the “averages” there must be a cause for it.’

‘‘There is,’ said Kearny emphatically, ‘and when we walk another
square I will show it to you.’

Surprised, I kept by his side until we came to Canal Street and out
into the middle of its great width.

Kearny seized me by an arm and pointed a tragic forefinger at a
rather brilliant star that shone steadily about thirty degrees above
the horizon.

‘‘That’s Saturn,’ said he, ‘the star that presides over bad luck and
evil and disappointment and nothing doing and trouble. I was born
under that star. Every move I make, up bobs Saturn and blocks it. He’s
the hoodoo planet of the heavens. They say he’s 73,000 miles in
diameter and no solider of body than split-pea soup, and he’s got as
many disreputable and malignant rings as Chicago. Now, what kind of a
star is that to be born under’’. . .

‘’You see that ugly little red star about eight inches above and to
the right of Saturn’’ Kearny asked me. ‘Well, that’s her. That’s
Phoebe. She’s got me in charge. . . . Kearny shook his fist violently skyward. ‘Curse her, she’s done her work well,’ said he. ‘Ever since I was astrologized, bad luck has followed me like my shadow.’. . .”

—O. Henry (1862–1910), from Phoebe.