Fairy tale

Riverman

admin — 2012-03-06 04:58

The story is called "Riverman". It was written by Stewart Edward White.

I first met him in a small lumber town; I was sitting in front of a hotel watching people pass by. It was a warm day, now and then a group of laughing rivermen marched by. One group especially caught my eye, they wore bright red shirts and heavy boots. Suddenly one of them came up to me, "Say, Mister," he said," You look mighty interested. Are we your long lost friends?" His voice was friendly enough, but he seemed ready for any answer, trouble if I wanted it or help if I needed it.

"Can you tell me where all these people are going?" I asked. He pushed his little cap farther back on his head. "Burling match," he said, "come on." I joined him and we followed the crowd to the river. There we saw 6 men running toward a river with the peaveys they used to control logs. They used the round metal hooks on the end of the peaveys to push a heavy log into the water. Then one of the men took a long leap and landed on the end of the log. The force of his jump pushed the log out into the middle of the river. The man, arms folded over his chest, stood straight up like a statue of bronze. The crowd roared its approval.

The man's name was Darrell. He was a small man, but he had wide shoulders and long arms. He walked to the center of the long heavy log and turned to face the crowd. Then slowly he began to walk, not forward or backward, but in the same place, in the center of the log. The log began to turn under his feet. His folded arms, his straight back did not move only his legs and feet. Soon the log was spinning. Suddenly the man jumped up in the air, he came down on the log with both feet, the log stopped turning. It rested under him like a great moving animal. The man on the log then dropped his arms and stood still for a moment, he jumped into the air again, but this time he turned completely over in the air then landed on the log with both feet. The crowd roared again. Someone then pushed a long pole out toward the log. The log with Darrell on top was pulled toward shore. Another man then ran to the river and jumped on the log with Darrell. They stood facing each other. Then they began to walk, slowly at first, then faster. The log began to turn around under them, spinning faster and faster, soon it became clear that the other man could not keep up with Darrell. The man was being forced off the top of the log. Suddenly the man fell backward into the water.

"Cling burl." my friend said. 12 other men one after the other tried to get Darrell to fall into the water, but none of them could move their feet as fast as he could. The crowd now shouted for someone to stop Darrell. It wanted the best and began to shout," We want Powers." Jimmy Powers was my new friend. He got up and ran to the river and jumped onto the log with Darrell. At first the two men just stood looking at each other waiting for the first move. Suddenly Darrell burled the log three times quickly then jumped up and down to stop it. The log shook under Powers but he kept his balance. The battle started. Sometimes the log rolled left to right, then right to left. They moved their feet together, faster and faster. At every move the crowd shouted for Powers to throw Darrell into the water. Suddenly there was a big splash. There was Powers swimming toward shore. I walked over to him.

"How did he do it?" I asked. He turned to me and I saw the anger in his red face. "Ah, it's you, well that's how he did it." and he showed me a row of holes in his boot, blood was running from the holes. He jumped on my foot with his boots and pushed the metal spikes right through. "Why didn't you say something?" I asked. "Look, Mister," he said. "I am big enough to take care of myself. Don't lose any hair over this, I'll stop Darrel on next time."

The following year, I visited the old lumber town again. But this time, the town was empty. "Everybody has gone to see the logjam." said an old woman. The jam was up the hill above the town. When I got there, everybody was looking down at the river. There in the middle of the water was a mountain of logs, thousands of them, one on top of the other, blocking the river. About 50 men were using peaveys to free the logs. Sometime one would break loose and 10 others followed, all floated down the river away from the jam. At noon the men came to shore for lunch.

"Hello, Powers," I said," Do you remember me?" "Sure," he said," aren't you a little bit early this year?" "No," I said, "this is better than a burling match, it will be a great sight when the logs break loose." "You bet it well." he said. We talked of many things and finally I asked, "Did you ever get a chance to burl Darrell off a log?" "Mister, " he said, "those little marks are still on my foot. Just you remember this, Dick Daral will get his from me."

About 3 o'clock that afternoon, the logjam began to break up, there was no warning just a loud cracking sound that got louder and louder as the rows of logs began to hit each other. At first a few hundred broke loose and fell into the swift water. Others quickly followed, the rivermen separated, they raced away in all directions, leaping and hopping from log to log to get to shore. One man fell into the water and started to swim to shore. It was Darrell, he was caught in the river. A thousand logs were rushing toward him. Suddenly another riverman raced across the floating logs, seized Darrell by the coat collar and started to climb up the mountain of logs, pulling Darrell with him. It was an exciting rescue. The logs were falling and rolling down toward them, but they finally got to the top of the pile. Without stopping for thanks or shaking hands, the two men immediately went to work. They pushed and pulled the logs on top to keep the others moving. 40 other men attacked the logs. Then with a mighty roar, the mountain broke free. The falling logs leaped forward like animals down into the swift water. The logjam was broken.

One by one, the town people left. The sun moved down behind the trees. A cool evening breeze came up to the river. Jimmy Powers walked toward me. "And now," he said," the owner of the largest lumber mill saw me work today and offered me a job as a boss. Imagine that, me, a boss." There was a strange look on his face. "Well," I said, "You earned it. I'm not going to call you a hero because you wouldn't like that. But what you did this afternoon showed courage. It was a brave act. But it was better because you saved your enemy. You are a leader of men." I stopped. Jimmy kept looking at me. "Mister," he said, "if you are going to hang stars on my Christmas tree, just start right now. I didn't rescue Darrell because I had a Christian feeling for him. I was just saving him. For the burling match next fourth of July.

A Jury of her peers

admin — 2012-03-06 04:46

The story is called "A Jury of her peers". It was written by Susan Glaspell.

Martha Hale, like all good farmwives, like to finish any job she began. But when Sheriff Peters came into her kitchen that morning, she stopped mixing the flour for the bread she was making, grabbed her coat and hurried out to the sheriff's car. Her husband was already sitting in the front seat of the car. The sheriff's wife Mrs Peters sat alone in the back, Martha climbed in beside her as the sheriff started the engine. Martha Hale didn't like Mrs Peters. The sheriff's wife was small, thin and always spoke in a whisper. Her husband was a big heavy man with a voice that seemed to speak the law with every word.

The Dexter farm looked empty and lonely that cold winter morning when the sheriff's car finally stopped in front of the house.

"I'm glad you're here," Mrs Peters whispered as the two women followed the men into the Dexter farmhouse. They went straight to the kitchen where the sheriff made a fire in the old stove.

"Now Mr Hale," he said, "tell me exactly what you saw when you came here yesterday morning."

Martha's husband looked sick.

"I was going to town to sell some potatoes," he said, "when I decided to stop here to see if John Dexter needed anything from town. Minnie Dexter was sitting in that old red rocking chair in the corner with her hands folded in her lap. Where is John, I asked her. She pointed to the ceiling. I went up to the bedroom and found him. Someone had tied a rope into a knot around his neck and strangled him to death. I went downstairs again and asked her what had happened. She said she had gone to bed the night before and when she woke up that morning, she found her husband dead beside her. Then I went to town to get you sheriff. And that's all I know about this."

The sheriff turned to his wife.

"I brought you here to collect some clothes for Mrs Dexter. But I also want you to look around the kitchen for some clues. We need to find a reason why she killed her husband."

Martha's husband laughed, "Do you really think the women will recognize a clue even if they found one?" he said as he followed the sheriff out of the kitchen.

The two women stood silently listening to the men's footsteps in the bedroom above them.

"I'd better get a clothes ready," the sheriff's wife said, "will you help me, Mrs Hale?"

Minnie Dexter did not have many clothes. What she had was old and worn. Martha held up an old black dress that had been washed and ironed many times. "Mr Dexter did not like to spend money for clothes," she said, "I guess that is why Minnie Dexter never went anywhere." Martha had known Minnie when they were both young. She remembered that Minnie had pretty clothes then. But that was 20 year ago.

"Mrs Peters," Martha said suddenly, "do you think she, she did it?"

A frightened look came into Mrs Peter's eyes. "I don't know," she answered, "but my husband thinks she did. He says the only thing he can't explain is the way she killed him. There was a gun in the bedroom. Why didn't she shoot him? My husband says that's what he can't understand."

"Well," Martha Hale sighed, "it doesn't seem right to lock her up in the town jail and then to come to her own house and look for evidence against her."

"But Mrs Hale," the sheriff's wife said, "the law is the law."

"I suppose it is," Martha said, "but look at this place, how would you like to cook on this broken stove or work in this cold kitchen or wear these old clothes. How did Minnie manage here, all these years?"

Mrs Peters finished folding Minnie's clothing. "A person loses hope?" she said softly as she looked from the stove to the seat, to the broken red rocking chair. A moment later, she cried out, "Why, why, look! Mrs Dexter was making a quilt." Martha spread the unfinished quilt out on the kitchen table.

"Pretty, isn't it?" she said, "do you think she was going to sew it or just knot it?"

The two women leaned over the table admiring the quilt, they didn't hear the man come back into the kitchen.

The sheriff threw up his hands, "They are wondering if she was going to sew the quilt or knot it? Er, women!" The men laughed and went out into the yard.

Mrs Peters walked over to a window in a corner of the kitchen to look at a birdcage hanging near it. "Did Mrs Dexter have a bird?" Martha Hale shook her head, "I don't know. I never visited her, I was always too busy. But there was a man who came around last year selling canary birds at a cheap price. Maybe she brought one. Minnie used to like to sing."

Mrs Peters looked around the kitchen, "I wonder what happened to the bird?" she said slowly, "look at the cage door. It's broken. Someone has pulled it half off." Again the women's eyes met.

"Did you know John Dexter?" The sheriff's wife asked Martha.

"I didn't know him well," Martha said, slowly touching the broken birdcage, "people said he was a good man. He didn't drink and he paid his debts. But he was a hard man, Mrs Peters." She stopped for a moment and shivered. "Talking to him was like standing in a cold wind. He and Minnie never had any children. It must be lonely for her out here all day. Her bird would have kept her company. I wonder what happened to it?"

Both women stared at the empty birdcage with a broken door. Suddenly Martha said, "Why don't you take the quilt to her? Sewing it might take her mind off her problems." The two women turned to the large basket to collect the needles, thread and scissors. Underneath the pieces of quilt they found a box. Martha opened it. Inside something was wrapped in a piece of silk. With a trembling hand, Martha Hale lifted the piece of silk.

"Oh! Mrs Peters!" she said softly, "It's the bird. Somebody broke its neck." The eyes of the two women met again in a look of growing understanding and horror.

"When I was a girl," Mrs Peters whispered, "I had a little kitten. One day a boy took an ax, before I could stop him, he,"She covered her face with her hands, "If they had not held me back, I would have hurt him." She said.

"Oh, I wish you had known Minnie when she was young," Martha Hale said slowly, "she was like a bird herself when she was singing in the church choir. She used to wear pretty white dress with blue ribbons. Sometimes she put flowers in her hair."

The picture of that girl was suddenly more than Martha Hale could bear. "Oh, I wish I had come over here more often." She cried.

"Please, please calm yourself, Mrs Hale." The sheriff's wife said.

Just then, there was a sound at the door. Martha Hale slipped the box under the quilt pieces as the sheriff and her husband came back into the kitchen.

"She killed him." the sheriff was saying, "That's clear to see. But I don't understand why she did it and no jury will find her guilty unless we can explain why Minnie Dexter tied a knot around her husband's neck and strangled him to death." He turned to Martha's husband, "Let's take one more look upstairs."

Again, for one final moment the two women were alone in the kitchen. Slowly the sheriff's wife turned her head until her eyes met Martha Hale's. Then Mrs Peters rushed to the sewing basket. She threw back the quilt pieces, found the box and tried to put it in her handbag. It was too big. She opened the box and started to take the bird out. But she could not force herself to touch the dead bird. She stood there helpless. The men's footsteps were coming downstairs as Martha Hale took the box from the sheriff's wife. She pushed it into the pocket of her big coat just as the sheriff and her own husband came back into the kitchen.

"Well," the sheriff said, "we can prove that Minnie Dexter killed her husband. But maybe the ladies' found out how she was going to make her quilt." He laughed. "What was she going to do to it, ladies? Quilt it or knot it?" Martha Hale's hand touched the box in the pocket of her coat, "we call it knotting, Sheriff."

Papa's Straw Hat

admin — 2012-03-06 04:34

The story is called "Papa's Straw Hat". It was written by Fred Gipson.

Papa was a rancher. He worked with horses. He was proud of the way he dressed. He always wore clean clothes, even when he worked. That is very difficult for a rancher who works outside on a horse farm.

He often said to me, "Son, you may not be able to buy the best clothes, but always keep those you have clean. That is the important thing."

And Papa did what he said. His clothes were never dirty like those of most of the other ranchers I knew. Papa never worked outside without a hat. And he always wore the same kind of hat. It was a cowboy hat, a large black hat of heavy wool.

He never pushed the hat to one side of his head, but wore it straigh. And he did not push the top of the hat down like most cowboys do. He wore his hat full and high. I think he wanted to look taller than he really was.

Papa had two hats. One was his Sunday hat and the other his everyday hat. When his Sunday hat got old, he wore it every day and then bought a new Sunday hat.

He wore his Sunday hat only to church, or on holidays, or when he visited the city. Most of the time he kept his Sunday hat in a special box. He hid it so we could not find it.

Papa loved his hats, and he cared for them in a special way. He never threw them down on a chair-someone might sit on them.

He even had a special place for his everyday hat. As soon as he came into the house from work, he put his hat on a nail behind the kitchen door.

Mama was also very careful of Papa's hat. She was proud of the way he looked when he worked, or when he wore his Sunday hat and his best clothes. But she was not Permitted to touch his Sunday hat.

But then something happened. Maybe it was the heat of the long summer. Maybe Mama read about hats in a magazine or book. But in some way she got the idea that Papa should not wear a heavy wool cowboy hat in the hot weather. She began to believe that Papa would lose his hair if he did. Mama began to worry more about Papa's hair than about his hats.

Perhaps it was Uncle George that made Mama worry about Papa's hair. Uncle George had no hair. His head was as Smooth as an egg. But Papa had thick black hair that shone like silk. It would be terrible if Papa lost his hair because he wore a heavy, wool, cowboy hat.

And so Mama began to worry. She began to watch Papa carefully as he worked in the hot fields under his tall heavy hat. She saw how wet his hair was when he came into the house.

Mama began to talk abou hats.

"Papa," she said one day. "Why don't you throw that old wool hat away and get a nice cool straw hat?"

"What?"' Papa said. "Me wear a straw hat! I would never let my horses see me in a straw hat!"

"Horses," Mama answered. "What have horses to do with a straw hat? Animals don't care what kind of hat you wear!"

"Mine do," Papa said. "My horses recognize me because I always wear the same hat, and they like cowboy hats best of all. Anyway," he said, "I would not be seen dead in a straw hat!"

Mama talked and talked, but she could not change Papa's mind. They talked about hats all summer long. And at last Mama tried to frighten Papa to get him to wear a straw hat.

"Papa," she said, "just look at most of the ranchers we know. All of them wear heavy wool cowboy hats in the summer, and most of them have lost their hair."

Papa laughed at Mama. He laughed so hard the tears ran dowd his face and his stomach hurt. But his laughing did not stop Mama. She told him about Jim Berry. who lost his hair about two years ago.

And Papa, a little angry, answered: "It was not a cowboy hat that made Jim Berry lose his hair. It was his wife always talking about hats and not giving him any peace and quiet."

Mama said nothing. She stopped talking about hats. I wondered what was going to happen. Then one day Mama got up earlier than usual. She marched to the kitchen and made breakfast. She had a very serious look on her face and did not say a word. She made more noise than usual and banged the dishes down so hard I thought they would break.

Suddenly, She got in the car and drove toward the city. She did not tell us why she was going, but later she came home with a straw hat. She still looked very serious.

There had been little rain that year. It was a bad year for ranchers. We had little money. But it was the year for Papa to buy a new cowboy hat. Mama knew this. She also thought that if she spent money for a straw hat, Papa would not spend any money to buy a cowboy hat.

Mama was right, When Papa saw the straw hat his face got red. He said nothing, but pulled the straw hat down over his head until it hid his eyes. He Iooked very funny. I wanted to laugh but I didn't. I was afraid to because Papa was so angry.

I remember how quiet he was. as he marched out of the house.

I followed him that day. He was going to train the wild horses again and I loved to watch him work. He had gotten the horses earlier in the year but they were still half-wild, half-trained.

Papa slowly walked toward the field where the horses were eating grass. He was a good rancher because he was gentle with horses, never cruel to them. He had given the horses names and always called to them when he first saw them in the morning. He talked softly to them so they would not be afraid. Sometimes the horses walked up to him when he called their names.

They knew his cowboy hat, which he wore everyday, and they did not feel safe near any other person.

I followed Papa as he walked toward the field calling their names. At first, the horses continued to eat. But as Papa got closer the horses looked up at him.

Suddenly, they jumped high into the air, raising their front feet. Then, they began to run around, wildly. They screamed the way frightened horses do. One horse kicked a hay wagon over. All of them ran around and around in the field and then raced toward the barn where they slept.

I never heard such a noise. Papa began to shout "Whoa boys, steady boys steady...." But there was nothing he could do.

He marched toward the house, while inside the barn the frightened horses screamed and kicked hard against the walls of the barn.

Mama came running out of the house. She stood near the door waiting for Papa. She held her hands against her heart.

"What is it Papa, what is it?"

Papa did not answer. She held the door open and he marched into the house. Mama followed him.

I went in after them to see what was going to happen. Papa walked straight to the stove in the kitchen. He opened the top of the stove, pulled the straw hat off his head and pushed it deep down into the fire.

At last, he turned to Mama and looked at her in a way that even frightened me.

I never heard Papa so angry. He shouted and shouted all sorts of new words. At last, his anger was gone and he said in a soft, but firm voice, "Now listen to me, Mama. Understand this! I will never wear a straw hat, or any other kind of hat my horses do not like!"

Then he put on his Sunday cowboy hat and walked out of the house.

It was almost midnight when the noise died away and the animals became quiet. The next day, Papa fixed all the broken wood in the walls of the barn.

I never heard Mama talk any more about hats. Perhaps that is why when Papa died, many years later, there was a round spot on the top of his head where there was no hair.

A Girl for Walter

admin — 2012-03-06 04:11

The story is called "A Girl for Walter". It was written by Theldore Jacobs.

We never knew what Walter was and we called him an idiot. We called him that without knowing if he really was as foolish and stupid as an idiot. Walter worked for a food store. He carried food to the homes that ordered it on the telephone. When we saw Walter coming down the street, pushing his four-wheel wagon filled with food, we knew we would have fun. We stopped playing our games and followed him. We always saw him coming. He wore the same clothes every day. A brown hat, green shirt open at the neck, and a pair of gray pants. We recognized the way he walked, too. Long slow steps with stiff legs. We followed him down the street, trying to walk as he did. Often, we would try to pull his hat off and said how funny he looked. Walter did not seem to be troubled by our words, except when we talked about girls. When one of us asked him how his lover like was, or said "Hey, Walter, I hear a beautiful woman is looking for you." He would get very angry. He would push his food wagon with one hand and try to capture one of us with the other. If he caught one, he held him close to his face and shouted in a loud voice. "I am going to get a girl! I am going to get a girl!" Sometimes, he would say it again and again even when we get tired of making fun of him. He would walk down the street , shouting to himself. "I am going to get a girl!"

Walter did not bring food to our house. Mother was afraid of him. She went to a different store and brought the food home herself. When grandmother came to live with us, this changed. Grandmother liked all sorts of people. She was interested in people no one else loved. During her life, she had made friends with men who drank too much, women who ate too much, and people who were just very lonely. Grandmother worked with church groups for many years but finally stopped. I think she could not work with them because she did not agree that it was right to try to change a person. Grandmother liked people for what they were. If she knew a man who drank too much, she would not tell him to stop drinking. She would tell him how to drink and still be a gentleman. Once, she wrote a book on ten different ways to drink and still act as if you had not had a drink. The important thing to grandmother was that things were done well in the right way and with control.

When grandmother learned about Walter, she told my mother she wanted Walter to bring the food to the house. Mother, of course, was strongly against it. She thought all sorts of strange things would happen. She did not trust Walter. But grandmother simply said, "Oh Poor!, you are forty two years old, Sarah." And then she telephoned the people at the food store and told them to let Walter bring the food.

Walter and grandmother became friends. The first time he came to the house, he told grandmother he was going to get a girl. Grandmother seemed pleased and told him how nice it would be. She said, "The trouble with young men today is that they do not know how to win a girl's heart." "You must be honest", she said. Walter just stood there and listened. Grandmother then told him how her husband won her heart. She told him about her marriage and the great love there was between them. As he listened, Walter made funny faces and moved his mouth from one side of his face to the other. When she finished her story, she asked Walter where he met his young ladies. Walter did not say anything.

"I can understand how difficult it is for young people to meet these days." Then she said in a low voice, "If you meet a nice young lady, Walter, do you know how to act?"

"What? No, I don't" Walter said.

"Well, you should." Grandmother said, and she told him how.

Walter and grandmother became very close. Every time he came with food, she had a talk ready for him. It was funny to me, but to Walter and grandmother it was very serious. Later, she began to read books to Walter, a little from a book each time he came. The first book was called How to dress when you go out with a girl? The next book told how a young man should act when he meets the girl's mother and father. Walter seemed to enjoy readings at least he listened. He would stand next to the wall and wrinkle his nose. If grandmother expected more from Walter, she never showed him, she continued reading to him.

As time passed, Walter listened harder than before. He never took his eyes off grandmother as she read. When she smiled, he smiled too. When she was serious, Walter became serious. She read about the problems of early friendship. How to become better friends and how to decide your girl is the right one to marry.

Grandmother was almost finishing reading one day, when Walter stopped her.

"Know something Mrs. Gorman, I have a girl."

"How wonderful!" grandmother answered.

"I really do, a girl like you always talking."

"Isn't that wonderful? Where did you meet her?"

"A friend helped me."

"Isn't that exciting, tell me about her.Is she nice?"

"I like her very much."

"Well, she must be. What's her name?"

"I forgot. Betty something. I told her my name was Walter."

"Were you kind to her and a gentleman?"

"All the time, I told her nice things"

"I am proud of you, Walter. Is she pretty?"

Walter did not answer. He told again how he met her. It seemed to me that he had to say a thing more than once or no one would believe them.

"She must be nice," grandmother said. "I hope you comb your hair and wear a coat when you see her. And you must promise me that you will always be a gentleman."

After that grandmother read How to Chooce the Right Wedding Ring and How to be Prepared for Marriage? She seemed to be in a hurry as if Walter might get marry before she had finished his education. Nothing mother said helped. Grandmother continued to teach Walter. The next book she read to Walter was How to love your wife? Soon after grandmother finished reading it, she died. Just like that. It was difficult to believe. It was only after I saw them lower her body and cover it that I knew she would never come back.

The morning after she died, Walter came with food. Mother went to the door. "Mrs. Gorman is dead." she told Walter. "She died last night." Walter did not move at first. He did not seem to understand or he thought she was lying. He then tried to enter but mother shut the door a little. "Can't you understand? she is dead. No one is here, she died last night. Please do not come here again!" Walter just stood there, his face white. Mother closed the door on him. She telephoned the food store and told them not to send Walter any more.

I did not see Walter again for a long time. I had forgotten all about him and the days grandmother had read to him. Then, one day, I saw him. He looked different. He was wearing a suit of clothes. The coat was old and the trousers had been worn many times. He wore a white shirt and a necktie. I waited until he walked up to me and I walked along with him. "Hello, Walter, do you remember me?" He turned quickly toward me, then smiled as he recognized my face.

"Oh, sure, Heyar, how are you?"

"I am fine, Walter, how are you doing?"

"Thank you, ok. How are you doing?"

"Fine."

We walked a few steps in silence. Suddenly, I had the old feeling that grandmother was still alive and Walter was still coming to the house. Without thinking, I asked "How is your girl, Walter?" Suddenly, he was on me, holding and tearing my shirt. He pulled me close to him and shouted "She is still alive! She is still alive!" His cry was loud and real. He pushed me away from him and I fell to the ground. He ran down the street. As I got up, I could still hear him crying until his voice was lost among the sounds of playing boys.

The Californian's Tale

admin — 2008-10-01 15:34

The story is called "The Californian's Tale". It was written by Mark Twain.

When I was young, I went looking for gold in California, I never found enough to make me rich, but I did discover a beautiful part of the country. It was called the Stanislaus. The Stanislaus was like heaven on earth. It had bright green hills, and deep forests where soft winds touched the trees. Other men also looking for gold had reached the Stanislaus Hills of California many years before I did. They had built a town in the valley with sidewalks and stores, banks and schools. They had also built pretty little houses for their families. At first they found a lot of gold in the Stanislaus Hills, but their good luck did not last. After a few years, the gold disappeared. By the time I reached the Stanislaus, all the people were gone ,too. Grass now grew in the streets and the little houses were covered by wild rose bushes. Only the sound of insects filled the air as I walked through the empty town that summer day so long ago.

Then I realized I was not alone after all. A man was smiling at me as he stood in front of one of the little houses. This house was not covered by wild rose bushes. A nice little garden in front of the house was full of blue and yellow flowers. White curtains hung from the windows and floated in the soft summer wind.

Still smiling, the man opened the door of his house and motioned to me. I went inside, and could not believe my eyes. I had been living for weeks in rough mining camps with other gold miners. We slept on the hard ground, ate canned beans from cold metal plates and spent our days in the difficult search for gold. Here in this little house, my spirit seemed to come to life again. I saw a bright rug on the shining wooden floor. Pictures hung all around the room and on little tables there were seashells, books, and china vases full of flowers. A woman had made this house into a home.

The pleasure I felt in my heart must have shown on my face. The man read my thoughts. "Yes", he smiled, "it is all her work, everything in this room has felt the touch of her hand." One of the pictures on the wall was not hanging straight. He noticed it and went to fix it. He stepped back several times to make sure the picture was really straight, then he gave it a gentle touch with his hand.

"She always does that." He explained to me,"it is like the finishing pat a mother gives her child's hair after she has brushed it. I have seen she fix all these things so often that I can't do it just the way she does. I don't know why I do it. I just do it."

As he talked, I realized there was something in this room that he wanted me to discover. I looked around. When my eyes reached the corner of the room near the fire place, he broke into a happy laugh and rubbed his hands together.

"That's it!" He cried out, "You have found it! I knew you would! It is her picture."

I went to a little black shelf that held a small picture of the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. There was a sweetness and softness in the woman's expression that I had never seen before.

The man took the picture from my hands and stared at it. "She was nineteen on her last birthday. That was the day we were married. When you see her, oh, just wait until you meet her."

"Where is she now?" I asked.

"Oh, she is away." The man sighed, putting the picture back on the little black shelf. "She went to visit her parents. They live forty or fifty miles from here. She has been gone two weeks to date."

"When will she be back?" I asked.

"Well,this is Wednesday," He said slowly, "she will be back on Saturday in the evening."

I felt a sharp sense of regret. "I am sorry, because I will be gone by then." I said.

"Gone? No, why should you go? Don't go. She will be so sorry. You see, she likes to have people come and stay with us."

"No, I really must leave." I said firmly.

He picked up her picture and held it before my eyes. "Here," he said, "now you tell her to her face that you could have to stay to meet her and you would not?"

Something made me change my mind. As I looked at the picture for a second time, I decided to stay.

The man told me his name was Henry. That night Henry and I talked about many different things, but mainly about her. The next day passed quietly. Thursday evening we had a visitor. He was a big gray hair miner named Tom.

"I just came for a few minutes to ask when she is coming home," he explained. "Is there any news?"

"Oh, yes." The man replied. "I got a letter, would you like to hear it?" He took a yellow letter out of his shirt pocket and read it to us. It was full love, loving messages to him and to other people, their close friends and neighbors. When the man finished reading it, he looked at his friend, "Oh no, you are doing it again, Tom. You always cry when I read a letter from her. I'm going to tell her this time."

"No, you must not do that Henry." The gray hair miner said. "I am getting old, and any little sorrow makes me cry. I really was hoping she would be here tonight."

The next day,Friday, another old miner came to visit. He asked to hear the letter. The message in it made him cry, too. "We all miss her so much." He said.

Saturday finally came, I found I was looking at my watch very often. Henry noticed this. "You don't think something has happened to her, do you?" He asked me. I smiled,and said that I was sure she was just fine. But he did not seem satisfied.

I was glad to see his two friends Tom and Joe coming down the road as the sun began to set. The old miners were carrying guitars.They also brought flowers and a bottle of whiskey. They put the flowers in vases, and began to play some fast and lively songs on their guitars. Henry's friends kept giving him glasses of whiskey which they made him drink. When I reached for one of the two glasses left on the table, Tom stopped my arm. "Drop that glass and take the other one." he whispered. He gave the remaining glass of whiskey to Henry, just as the clock began to strike midnight.

Henry emptied the glass. His face grew whiter and whiter. "Boys," he said,"I am feeling sick. I want to lie down." Henry was asleep almost before the words were out of his mouth. In a moment, his two friends had picked him up and carried him into the bedroom. They closed the door and came back. They seemed to be getting ready to leave, so I said,"Please don't go, gentlemen. She will not know me. I am a stranger to her."

They looked at each other."His wife has been dead for 19 years." Tom said.

"Dead?" I whispered.

"That or worse," he said," she went to see her parents about 6 months after she got married. On her way back, on a Saturday evening in June, when she was almost here, the Indians captured her. No one ever saw her again. Henry lost his mind. He thinks she is still alive. When June comes he thinks she has gone on her trip to see her parents. Then he begins to wait for her to come back. He gets out that old letter. And we come around to visit. So he can read it to us. On the Saturday night she is supposed to come home, we come here to be with him. We put a sleeping drug in his drink so he will sleep through the night. Then he is all right for another year."

Joe picked up his hat and his guitar."We have done this every June for 19 years." He said,"The first year, there were 27 of us. Now just the two of us are left."

He opened the door of the pretty little house. And the two old men disappeared into the darkness of the Stanislaus.

The Revolt of Mother

admin — 2008-10-01 15:27

The story is called "The Revolt of Mother". It was written by Mary Wilkins Freeman. It was published as part of a collection of stories in 1891.

"Father, what are the men digging over in the field for?"

The old man shut his mouth and continued getting his horse ready to ride. They were in the barn, standing before the wide open doors. The spring air was full of the smell of growing grass. Adoniram Penn looked at his wife Sarah. She looked as unmovable as one of the rocks in his fields.

"Father", she said, "I wanna know what the men are digging over there in that field for?"

"They are digging a foundation, if you have got to know."

"For what?"

"For a barn."

"Ah, a barn? You ain’t going to build a barn over there where we was going to have a house."

The old man hurried away. The woman went to the house. It looked extremely small next to the great barn and other farm buildings. A pretty girl's face looked out one of the windows. She turned quickly when the woman entered. "What are they digging for, Mother? Did he tell you?"

"They are digging for a new barn."

"Oh, Mother, he ain’t going to build another barn."

"That’s what he says."

A boy stood by smoothing his hair.

"Sammy, did you know Father was going to build a new barn?" The girl asked.

"Yes, I suppose I did." he said.

His mother looked at him hard. "Is he going to buy more cows?"

"I, I suppose he is." Sammy answered.

The mother said nothing more. The boy got his cap and his book and started for school.

"Mother," the girl said, "don't you think it's too bad that Father is going to build a new barn when we need a better house to live in?"

"You should not judge Father, Nanny. He does not look at things just the way we do. I do not think you should complain. You have a good father and a good home."

Nanny began to sob. She was to be married in the autumn.

Her mother got out the things she needed to bake pies for her husband. Whenever she looked up, she could see the site that pained her soul. The new barn would stand in the place where forty years ago Adoniram had promised their new house would stand. The family gathered for the new meal, they ate quickly, quietly, then Sanny went back to school and Nanny went to the store. Sarah followed Adoniram.

"Father, I want to see you. Just a minute."

"I have work to do, Mother."

"Father, you come here."

Sarah Penn stood in the door like a queen. She held her head as if it bore a crown. Adoniram went.

"Sit down, Father." Sarah said, "I have something I want to say to you."

He sat down heavily.

"Well, what is it, Mother?"

"I want to know what you are building that new barn for. It cannot be that you think you need another barn."

"I, I ain't got nothing to say about it."

Sarah stood before her husband. "Now Father, look here, I am gonna talk real plain to you. You see this room here. You look at it well. You see there ain't no carpet on the floor, and the paper is dropping off the walls. It is all I have had to work in and eat in and sit in since we were married. It is all the room Nanny will have to be married in."

She moved across the room as if it were a tragic stage. She threw open the door to their tiny bedroom; she threw open the door to their tiny storage room; she threw open the door to the unfinished room above where the children slept.

"Now Father, I want to know if you think you are doing right. Forty years ago you promised we would have a new house before the year was over. You said you would not ask me to live in a place such as this. It is forty years now, you have been making more money and you ain't built no house yet. You've built new barns and now you are going to build another. You are keeping your farm animals better than your own flesh and blood. I want to know if you think it is right."

"I ain't got nothing to say."

"You cannot say nothing without admitting it ain't right, Father. And there is another thing, I have got along for forty years and I suppose I can get along for forty more, but if we do not have another house, Nanny will not be able to live with us after she marries. I can not have it so."

Sarah Penn's face was buring. She had defended her little cause like a great speaker, but her opponent remained stubbornly silent.

"Father, ain't you got nothing to say?"

"I have got to go off and get a lot of crushed stone. I cannot stand talking all day."

"Father, won't you think it over and build a house there instead of a barn?"

"I ain't got nothing to say."

Adoniram left. Sarah went into their bedroom. When she came out, her eyes were red. she spread some cotton cloth on the kitchen table. she begain to make new shirts for her husband.

Nanny came back from the store and sat down with her needle work. "Mother", she said after a while, "we might have a wedding in the new barn".

Sarah jumped a little, her face wore a strange expression. All through these spring months, it seemed as if Sarah heard nothing but the sounds of building. The new barn grew fast, it was ready by summer.

Adoniram planned to move in the cows, then he received a letter from Sarah's brother who had found him a good horse. "Ah...I hate to go off just now", Adoniram said, "but I think the workers can get along without me for three or four days. I guess I'd better go. If the cows come today, Sammy can drive them into the new barn."

"Well." said Sarah Penn. She went about her work, thinking, talking a little to herself, then her voice ran out loudly, "It looks like a gift from God!"

"What are you talking about, Mother?" Nanny asked.

"Nothing."

Later that morning, the men loaded the hay waggon and took it to the new barn. Sarah ran out to them. "Stop!" She screamed, "Don't put the hay in the new barn, put it in the old one."

She went back into the house, she began moving dishes out of the tiny storage room. She began putting them into a close basket.

"What are you going to do, Mother?" Nanny asked in a small voice.

"You will see what I'm going to do." Her mother answered, "Nanny, I want you to go upstairs and gather your things, and I want you Sammy to help me take down the bed."

During the next few hours, this simple woman performed and acted bravely equal to that of any great military leader. Sarah Penn, at the head of her little army, moved all their possessions into the new barn while her husband was away.

The building was designed for the comfort for four-footed animals. Yet, right away, Sarah saw its possibilities for humans. With the addition of a few walls and windows, she would have a bigger more comfortable house than she had occupied for forty years.

By the next morning, the news had spread all over the village. There was a difference of opinion about what had happened. Some thought it was the act of an insane woman, some thought it was the act of lawless rebellious spirit.

On the night Adoniram was expected home, Sarah cooked the food he liked best. She put on a clean dress, her children kept close to her.

"There he is!" Sammy said.

Adoniram led his new horse to the new barn. He rolled back the great doors, there stood his wife and children.

"What on earth are you all doing down here!"

Sammy's voice was high and thin,"We, we have come here to live, Father."

The old man's face was pale, frightened. Sarah led the way into the barn. "Now, Father, there ain't nothing to be upset over, I ain't crazy. But we have come here to live. We got just as good a right to be here as horses and cows."

Adomiram ate, then went outside and sat down. He put his head in his hands. Sarah went to him and touched his shoulder. He was crying, "I,I,I'll put up the walls and everything you,you want."

Sarah put her hands to her face, overcome by her own victory. Adomiram was like a great fortress that falls the moment the right weapons are used. "Why, Mother," he said, " I had no idea you wanted this so much to have done all this."

On The Road

admin — 2008-10-01 15:24

The story is called 'On the Road'. It was written by an American reporter Charles Kuralt. It is from his book called 'A Life On the Road'. For many years, Charles Kuralt traveled across the United States, telling interesting stories about Americans. His stories were broadcast on the CBS televison network. Later, some were published in books.

I had the somewhat unrealistic idea that I would find interesting stories at every crossroads throughout the American countryside. So the cameraman, soundman and I started out with great hope from New York City.

For a few rainy days, we drove through the small towns of New England, the northeast corner of the United States. We drove aimlessly without one idea in our heads. I began to get nervous, wondering if an idea would ever come.

Then the sun came out and the wind started to blow and the bright autumn leaves shook and fell off the trees, yellow and red and gold rained down all around us. In every town, children were playing in the hills of leaves. We got the camera out and did our first story about how pretty it all was.

As a news reporter, I was used to going fast and working hard. These kinds of stories, however, seemed to work best when I went slow and took it easy. When I finally shook off the sense of speed of a newsman, I did not have to worry about finding stories any longer. They found me.

In Westerville, Ohio, I met Professor John Franklin Smith. He taught speech and drama at Otterbein College until he was 70 years old. Then the school rules said he had to retire. He could not imagine leaving the students behind. So when he was forced to retire, he just kept working at the college. He had continued to work for 15 years as a cleaning man in the gymnasium.

'During my years as a professor,' he said, 'I would walk through the gym and see the men cleaning the floor. I knew what a mop was and what a bucket was. It was hard work for me at first, but I get used to it. It is necessary to work. And I try to do it well.'

I asked him which brought him more satisfaction, being a professor or being a cleaning man.

He smiled and said, 'It is not fair to ask me a question like that. I think I would have to say that every age in life has its own rewards. I am still look ahead.' This 85-year-old man said, 'I do not want to die. There is too much fun in the world and a lot of good folks, a lot of them and good books to read and fish to catch and pretty women to look at and good men to know. Why? Life is a joy.'

Charles Kuralt also visited the pilot town of Louisiana, near the mouth of the Mississippi River. All the houses there are built on thick wooden legs, so that they will not be washed away when the river floods. The community can be reached only by boat or sea plane. That is where he met Andy Spirer.

Andy Spirer was a hunter and fisherman. He read books written in the Greek language. And for ten years he was the only teacher in a one-room school. Why did he stay in such a lonely place? 'Well,' he said, 'they have trouble getting teachers to live here. Somebody has to teach the children.'

As they continued driving across the United States looking for interesting stories, the on-the-road team found a green mill on a little river in the state of Maryland. The man who operated the mill was Captain Frank Languill. He was 81 years old.

The Linchester Mill ground corn for settlers in 1681. A hundred years later it ground corn for the army of General George Washington during America's War for Independence from Britain. And it was still grinding corn almost 200 years after that. It must have been the oldest continually operated business in the country. Yet the mill did not interest me as much as the miller. He had been working beside his mill stone for 65 years. Was he tired of the job? 'Yes,' Frank Languill said, 'yes, there really is no profit in it any more, but these farmers depend on me, you see. There is no other place around here to grind their corn.'

In professor John Franklin Smith, teacher Andy Spirer and miller Frank Languill, I saw Americans of a sort I have not known before. They were linked to the places where they lived. And they worked not so much for themselves as for others. 'It is necessary work.' Professor Smith had said. 'Somebody has to teach the children.' Mr. Spiral had said. 'These farmers depend on me.' Captain Languill had said. Their purposes and jobs seemed completely honorable to me. They did not feel they were better than anyone else. They were not working just to make a lot of money. I read the papers every day. The front pages were full of greedy, self-important, hostile people. The backroads were another country.

In April of that year 1968, civil rights leader Martin Luther King, Jr. was murdered. In June, Robert Kennedy was murdered as he campaigned for president. Several American cities exploded in riots and flames. I felt so sad for the two dead men and for the country they had done so much to change for the better. I might have thought the country was going insane if I had not been on the road. I had eyes and ears. I kept meeting people who made me feel sure about the future.

In July, I met Pet Baker, a young white woman in Reno, Nevada. The night Martin Luther King was killed, Pet Baker sat up late. I have to do something about this, she thought. On her way to work she had often passed big, empty space in a black community. She wondered why the city had not made a park in the empty space. Now she went to see the man who represented her community on the City Council. He told her there was no money to build a park. He explained how difficult it would be to raise the money. Pet Baker decided she could not wait. She went to talk with people in the black community. She went to garden supply companies and cement companies and builders and the heads of local building unions. Soon her idea became everybody's idea. At 7:30 one Friday morning, a crowd began to gather at the empty space in Reno, Nevada. An hour later good soil was being spread by men in big machines, men who were not used to working for free. They were working for free. I stood there and watched. By noon cement had been poured for a tennis court. Before the sun went down, a basketball court was done. Many people worked all night. On Saturday Morning, a crowd of several hundred people came to work, black and white, old and young. They planted trees and grass and made paths and places to sit. By Sunday afternoon, the park was finished.

I went back there more than 20 years later. In the shade of the trees which were now very tall, people were sitting and playing in the park. I thought back to the weekend of the park was built, a black man had looked around and said :" This is the best thing that has happened since I came to Reno." He did not mean the park itself. He meant building the park.

In that first year on the road, I fell in love with my native land. I rode the Wabash Cannonball train through Indiana. I rode the Delta Queen paddle wheel steamboat down the Ohio river. I rode the cable cars up and down the hills of San Francisco. I spent time among Pennsylvania Dutch farmers in Cooperstown, Pennsylvania and Greek sponge fishermen in Tarpon Springs, Florida. I met M.C.Pinkstaff, the roadside poet of Gordon Junction, Illinois. At his store he sold gasoline for 39 cents a gallon and his poems for ten cents a piece. That first year, I produced 47 stories from 23 states, all of them my own discoveries. The biggest discovery of all was about myself. On the backroads of America I felt at home at last. I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life ...

Prelude

admin — 2008-10-01 15:21

The story is called "Prelude". It was written by Edgar Valentine Smith.

Salina Joe Hutshel was born in a cabin that had two rooms, one small window, and a dirt floor. Her parents, Shag and Marty Hutshel, built the little house in one day with the help of their families and friends.

Salina Joe began to talk when she was one-year old. By the time she was seven, her parents couldn't answer any of her questions. Salina Joe's big black eyes were full of curiosity, but her mind stayed hungry. Her parents sent her to school for six months. They took her out as soon as she learned to read and write. Her parents had never learned.

Salina Joe had to work on the farm. She planted corn and sweet potatoes in the hard red earth. She fed the cows and built fences. She cleaned the cabin and chopped wood. She did all the cooking and washed all the clothes.

Her parents spent most of their time with the uncles, aunts and cousins in the family who lived nearby. All the Hutshels were like Salina Joe's parents. They couldn't read or write. They didn't like to work and they never took baths.

One Sunday when Salina Joe was sixteen years old, her parents took her to the town of East Field. As they walked down the street, Salina Joe heard someone behind her whisper, "Those are part of the Hutshel family. They are all dirty, lazy people who never work."

A few days later, Salina went back alone to East Field. She went into one of the stores. It was only a simple country store. But to Salina Joe, it seemed like a wonderful place. She looked at silk ribbons and soft leather shoes. Salina Joe had never owned a pair of shoes or a silk ribbon. In the back of the store, she found a dress. It was made of red cotton material with little snow white squares on it. Salina Joe couldn't stop touching the dress. She asked the store's owner, "How much the dress cost?"

"Five dollars," he said, "but I'll sell it to you for three."

That evening after dinner, she told her father about the dress. Shag's face got red. "Are you crazy?" He yelled, "Do you think I would buy you that dress?"

"But Pa," Salina Joe said, "it only costs three dollars. I work hard and I have never asked you for anything before, besides, I'm gonna pay for it myself."

"How?" Her father laughed.

"I'm going to get a job in Mr. Pruwit's paint factory."

"Oh, no, you are not," her father yelled, "you are going to stay right here and work on the farm." Her father got up from his chair and took off his heavy leather belt. "You are not getting the job or the dress", he said, "but I'm gonna give you a beating you'll never forget."

A long knife lay on the kitchen table. Salina Joe's fingers found its handle. She didn't move. Her serious dark eyes never left her father's face. "Pa," she said softly, "if you touch me with that belt, I'll cut your heart out." Shag hustled, dropped the belt, and slowly back away from his daughter.

The next day, Salina Joe went to work in Pruwit's paint factory. She carried heavy pails of paint from morning to night. The smell gave her headaches, the paint got on her skin and in her hair. After three months, she went to the store and bought her dress, a pair of white leather shoes, some silk stockings and a hat made of white lace. Salina Joe left the store with her beautiful new clothes wrapped in paper. She began walking home. She stopped when she came to the road that led to the large town of Dothan, 15 kilometers away. Salina Joe turned and began walking to Dothan without looking back once toward the cabin where she was born.

She reached Dothan five hours later. It was two o'clock in the afternoon. She found a small pond of water outside of town. Salina Joe took off her dirty farm clothes. She washed herself in the pond, dried with the paper from her package, and put on her fine new clothes. Then, she entered the town. No one in Dothan knew she was from a Hutshel family. When she walked down the street, people smiled at her and said "Hello".

As she walked around the town, she came to a large house with a black iron fence surrounded. The house had two floors and was painted a sparkling white. In front of it were oak trees that made shadows on the green grass. Girls dressed in clean white blouses and blue skirts sat under the trees.

Just then a lady passed by and stopped to smile at Selina Joe.

"What is that building?" Selina Joe asked the woman.

"That's the state reformatory for girls." The woman answered. "That's where the state puts the girls who break the law. Before the girls can leave, they have to show that they have changed for the better."

"Changed..." Selina Joe whispered, still staring at the reformatory. "Different from what they were? Do they go to school there?"

"Yes，" said the woman.

"Would they take a girl who only had six months of school?" She asked softly.

The woman laughed. "You don't understand." She said. "The reformatory only takes bad girls. A girl like you would never go there."

Selina Joe sighed.

She spent the afternoon, watching the big white house, its wide windows, and the girls sitting under the trees. When it was dark, Selina Joe went around to the back of the house. She climbed over the black iron fence and looked into one of the windows. Two girls her own age sat at the table, reading books.

"Can I come in?" Selina Joe whispered to them.

The two girls were surprised, but one of them said, "Sure. Step right in."

She told them she wanted to stay at the reformatory and go to school there. She wanted to be changed. The girls liked the idea. They thought it would be a good joke on the reformatory's head teacher Marry Shane. Everyone called her Old Iron Jaw, because she never smiled.

The girls gave Selina Joe a skirt and a blouse. They hid her under their bed that night when Old Iron Jaw came to inspect the rooms. The next morning, they shared their breakfast with her. But Marry Shane, the head teacher, had good eyes. Right after breakfast, Selina Joe felt a hand on her shoulder. She looked up into the serious face of Old Iron Jaw's.

"What are you doing here?" Mary Shane asked.

"I, I climbed over the fence, ma'am," Salina Joe said. “I won't stay here long. I just want to learn what are in the books you have here, then I'll leave."

"I'm afraid you can't stay here," said Mary Shane.

Salina Joe's heart broke. She put her arms around the teacher's shoulders. "Oh, please ma'am," she cried. "Please let me stay. I don't want to go back home. I don't want to be like all the other Hutshels for the rest of my life. I want to be changed. I want to be made different."

"Come with me, child," Mary Shane said. "We'll go see the director Mr. Welborn." They went straight into his office without stopping to knock at the door.

"Jim Welborn," Mary Shane said, " I want you to listen to this girl's story." She turned and left the office.

Mary Shane sat in her classroom for an hour. From time to time, she looked out the door into the hall that went from her classroom to the director's office. Finally, she heard footsteps hurrying to her classroom. Then Salina Joe stood in the doorway. The woman didn't have to ask any questions. The girl's pink cheeks and her happy eyes said everything. Mary Shane turned and went to the classroom window. Deep inside herself, a small voice kept saying over and over again, "For this child that comes of her own free will to be changed, for this one child who wants to be made different, I thank you God."

All the Years of Her Life

admin — 2008-10-01 15:20

The drug store was beginning to close for the night. Young Alfred Higgins who worked in the store was putting on his coat, getting ready to go home. On his way out, he passed Mr. Sam Carr, the little gray hair man who owned the store. Mr. Carr looked up at Alfred as he passed and said in a very soft voice, ''Just a moment, Alfred, one moment before you go.''

Mr. Carr spoke so quietly that he worried Alfred. ''What is it, Mr. Carr?''

''Maybe you'd be good enough to take a few things out of your pockets and leave them here before you go.'' Said Mr. Carr.

''What things? What are you talking about?''

''You've got a compact and a lipstick and at least two tubes of toothpaste in your pockets, Alfred.''

''What do you mean?'' Alfred answered. ''Do you think I am crazy?'' His face got red.

Mr. Carr kept looking at Alfred, coldly. Alfred did not know what to say and tried to keep his eyes from meeting the eyes of his boss. After a few moments, he put his hand into his pockets and took out the things he had stolen.

''Petty thieving, eh, Alfred?'' said Mr. Carr. ''And maybe you'd be good enough to tell me how long this has been going on.''

''This is the first time I ever took anything.''

Mr. Carr was quick to answer, ''So now you think you tell me a lie? What kind of a fool do I look like, hah? I don't know what goes on in my own store, eh? I/ tell you, you have been doing this for a long time.'' Mr. Carr had a strange smile on his face. ''I don’t like to call the police,'' he said, ''but maybe I should call your father and let him know I'm going to have to put you in jail.''

''My father is not home, he is a printer, he works nights.''

''Who is at home?''Mr. Carr asked.

''My mother, I think.''

Mr. Carr started to go to the phone. Alfred's fears made him raise his voice. He wanted to show he was afraid of nobody. He acted this way every time he got into trouble. This had happened many times since he left school. At such times, he always spoke in a loud voice as he did tonight.

"Just a minute!" He said to Mr. Carr. "You don't have to get anybody else into this, you don't have to tell her." Alfred tried to sound big, but deep down he was like a child. He hoped that someone at home would come quickly to save him. But Mr. Carr was already talking to his mother, he told her to come to the store in a hurry.

Alfred thought his mother would come rushing in, eyes burning with anger. Maybe she would be crying and would push him away when he tried to explain to her. She would made him feel so small. Yet he wanted her to come quickly before Mr. Carr called in a policeman.

Alfred and Mr. Carr waited but said nothing, at last they heard someone at the closed door. Mr. Carr opened it and said, "Come in, Mrs. Higgins." His face was hard and serious. Alfred's mother came in with a friendly smile on her face and put out her hand to Mr. Carr and said politely, "I am Mrs. Higgins, Alfred's mother."

Mr. Carr was surprised at the way she came in. She was very calm, quiet and friendly. "Is Alfred in trouble?" Mrs. Higgins asked.

"He is, he has been taking things from the store, little things like toothpaste and lipsticks, things he can easily sell."

Mrs. Higgins looked at her son and said sadly,"Is it so, Alfred?"

"Yes".

"Why have you been doing it?" she asked.

"I've been spending money, I believe."

"On what?"

"Going around with the boys, I guess." said Alfred.

Mrs. Higgins put out her hand and touched Mr. Carr's arm with great gentleness as if she knew just how he felt. She spoke as if she did not want to cause him any more trouble. She said, "If you will just listen to me before doing anything." Her voice was cool and she turned her head away as if she had said too much already. Then she looked again at Mr.Carr with a pleasant smile and asked, "What do you want to do, Mr.Carr?"

"I was going to get a cop. That is what I should do, call a police."

She answered, "Yes, I think so, it's not for me to say because he is my son. Yet I sometimes think a little good advice is the best thing for a boy at certain times in his life."

Mrs. Higgins looks like a different woman to her son Alfred. There she was with a gentle smile saying, "I wonder if you don't think it would be better just to let him come home with me. He looks like a big fellow, doesn't he? Yet it takes some of them a long time to get any sense into their heads."

Mr. Carr had expected Alfred's mother to come in nervously, shaking with fear, asking with wet eyes for a mercy for he son, but no, she was most calm and pleasant and was making Mr. Carr feel guilty.

After a time, Mr. Carr was shaking his head in agreement with what she was saying. "Of course," he said, " I don't want to be cruel. I'll tell you what I'll do. Tell your son not to come back here again, and let it go at that, how is that?" And he warmly shook Mrs. Higgins's hand.

"I will never forget your kindness. Sorry we had to meet this way," said Mr. Carr. "But I'm glad I got in touch with you, just wanted to do the right thing, that is all.

"It's better to meet like this than never, isn't it?" She said.

Suddenly they held hand as if they liked each other, as if they had known each other for a long time.

"Good night, sir."

"Good night, Mrs. Higgins. I'm truly sorry."

Mother and son left. They walked along the street in silence. She took long steps and looked straight in front of her. After a time, Alfred said, "Thank Dod it turned out like that, never again!"

"Be quiet, don't speak to me, you have shamed me enough, have the decency to be quiet."

They reached home at last. Mrs. Higgins took off her coat and without even looking at him, she said to Alfred, "You are a bad luck. God forgive you. It is one thing after another, always has been. Why do you stand there so stupidly? go to bed."

As she went into the kitchen, she said, "Not a word about tonight to your father."

In his bedroom, Alfred heard his mother in the kitchen. There was no shame in him, just pride in his mother's strength. "She was smooth!" he said to himself. He felt he must tell her how great she was. As he got to the kitchen, he saw his mother drinking a cup of tea. He was shocked by what he saw.

His mother's face, as she said, was a frightened, broken face. It was not the same cool, bright face he saw earlier in the drug store. As Mrs. Higgins lifted the tea cup, her hand shook. And some of the tea splashed on the table. Her lips moved nervously. She looked very old.

He watched his mother without making a sound. The picture of his mother made him want to cry. He felt his youth coming to an end. He saw all the troubles he brought his mother in her shaking hand and the deep lines of worry in her grey face. It seemed to him that this was the first time he had ever really seen his mother.

You have just heard the story ''All the Years of Her Life''. It was written by Morley Callaghan for the New Yorker magazine.

The White Circle

admin — 2008-10-01 00:30

As soon as I saw Anvol sitting in the apple tree, I knew we would fight, I also knew, he would win. But winning or losing was not important, at least not so important as getting him down from the tree. The tree was mine. It was a young tree, and it had thirteen beautiful apples on it. Now my beautiful apples were under Anvol's shirt.

The tree became mine the day I was twelve years old. Father called me to come to the barn to see the new young horses. When I got there, father lid a cigarette and placed one foot on the fence. He looked pleased and proud.
"Toker", he finally said, "This is a big day. There before you, our five of the finest horses in all Virginia. Now I would give you a gift for your birthday, could you make a choice?"

"Yes", I said.
"Which one?'' he asked.
"I would like to have the apple tree across the road."

Father looked at me for a long time. You would have to know how much he loved horses to understand the look on his face. But I was twelve years old, how could I explain my choice?

It was something about the apple tree. The color of the red apples as they hung among the green leaves. But it was more than this. It had something to do with being proud. I could give one of the apples to my friend Jennie. "Jennie", I would say, "I want to give you this apple. It came from my tree. The tree grows on my father's land. Before my father had the land, it belonged to his father, and before that, to his father. Now I own the tree.'' Because of this, I am tied to all my people of long ago way back the Moses and all the Bible people.

Father finally answered, ''Now, right, son, if you want a tree more than a horse, the tree is yours."

I thanked him for the tree and he left. I picked up a stone and ran across the fields to protect my tree.

"All right, Anvol, climb down."

Anvol looked at me as if I wasn't there. "Yeahhh", he said, "you little nothing. Throw that stone at me and see what happens."

"Anvol", I said again, "come down.They are my apples."

Anvol stopped eating and smiled at me with evil in his heart. "You want an apple? I'll give you one." And he threw one with all his strength and hit me in the head.

I threw the stone at him but missed and hit the tree. Anvol's face turned red. "Boy, you're gonna get hit." I began to pull his feet. Down he came alone with parts of the tree and young fresh leaves. He hit me as he fell. We both hit the ground. He jumped on top of me and placed his knees on my arms. I could not move.

"Stop kicking", he said, and then calmly looked at the sky and began to eat another one of my beautiful apples.

"You smelly cow", I said to him. "I wish you were never born. I'm gonna tell my father", I said.

"Father", Anvol said, trying to make his voice sound like mine, "Father, say old man. You think your old man is very important, don't you? You think your old man is a king, don't you? Say old man, go to hell. Say, old man. Old man, I wish you were dead."

He let me get up, and stood over me. "Stop crying", he said.

"I'm not crying". I was lying on the ground with murder in my heart.

There were times when I did not hate Anvol. I remembered the day his father came to school. He told the teacher he was going to hit Anvol to make him a good boy. His father was a bitter cruel man, he had a big stick. Anvol saw the stick and hid under a table. He laid there, frightened, until the teacher made his father go away. I had no hate for Anvol that day.

But another day, Anvol acted cruel like his father. He entered the school when everyone had gone and threw things all over the floor. Sometimes he was more cruel, and hit little boys and made them cry.

One day he came to me as I was sitting under a tree. "They all hate me", he said, "they hate me because my father is cruel." "They don't hate you", I said, "at least I don't." That was true then, I did not hate him. I asked him to come home to eat with me. He did and threw stones at me all the way home. But today was different. He was stealing my apples. I had no soft feelings for him. He stood over me and kept telling me not to cry.

"I'm not crying. "

"All right, you're not. But you are still angry. "

"No, I'm not. I was a little. But I'm not anymore. "

"Well, why do you look so funny around your eyes?"

"I don't know. "

"Let's go to the barn to play. "

"Play what? "

Anvol looked at me with surprise. He did not know if he should be a friend or enemy.

"We'll play anything. " I said. "Come on, I'll race you to the barn. "

We got to the barn. And the first thing Anvol saw was a white circle that my father had painted on the floor.

"What is that for? "

"Nothing, " I answered. I was not ready to use my plan yet.

We jumped from the hay to the floor a few times. Later, I felt ready. "That's no fun. " I said, "Let's play prisoner's circle. "

"Oh, what's that? " Anvol asked as if he were too big to play foolish games. I was getting excited. I did not trust myself to look at the circle on the floor. Anvol might learn my plan if I did. Nor did I look up at the top of the barn just above the circle. I knew what was there. It was a big steel fork to pick up hay grass and placed on the truck. It had two long sharp points. A man had come to the barn to build it, for days he worked until he placed the fork up high out of the way. The fork could be led down by a rope and was tied to a pole. I remembered the first day it was tested. My father called all the workers from the field to watch. I did not remember the details, but something went wrong. The fork fell and buried itself in the back of one of the horses. Father said little. He simply painted a white circle on the barn floor where the fork fell. He pulled the big steel fork back up to the top and tied the rope up high where no one could reach it. Then he said quietly with a white face. "I do not want anyone to step inside the white circle or to touch the rope that holds the fork, never. "

"I do not want to play a foolish game. " said Anvol.

"All right, " I said, "but play just one game of prisoner's circle with me first. Get in the Circle, shut your eyes and begin to count. "

"Oh all right. " Anvol agreed weakly. "One, two, three. . . "

"Get right in the middle of the circle. " I told him, "and count slowly so I can hide. " Anvol counted slower, "Four. . . five. . . six. "

I looked at him once again. Then climbed up to the floor above where the rope was tied. I pulled on the rope with all my power. The fork dropped with a whizzing sound. Anvol must felt something was wrong because he jumped out of the way in time. The heavy fork buried its sharp points deep in the barn floor. For a moment, Anvol stood very still. He turned around and saw the shining steel fork. His face turned a light green color. The muscles in his legs moved up and down. After a few quiet moments of surprised wonder, he reached into a shirt and pulled out my apples one by one. He dropped them on the barn floor.

"You can have your smelly old apples. " he said, "You tried to kill me for a few smelly apples. Your old man owns everything around here. I haven't got a thing of my own. Go ahead and keep your old apples. " He got to his feet, and slowly walked out of the barn door. I had not moved or said one word. A moment later, I ran and picked the apples from the floor.

"Anvol, Anvol!"

He continued walking across the field. I shouted louder, "Anvol, wait. You can have the apples. " Anvol climbed the fence and did not looked back. He walked toward the store down the road.

Three birds flew out of the barn door, squeaking and squawking. Now only the grey steel fork was left. There was a lone shining accusing me in the silence and emptiness of the barn.

The story is called "The White Circle". It was written by John Bill Coliton.

The Diamond Lens II

admin — 2008-10-01 00:25

Here is part two of ''The Diamond Lens''.

When I was a child, someone gave me a microscope. I spent hours looking through that microscope, exploring nature's tiny secrets. As I grew up, I became more interested in my microscope than in people. When I was 20 years old, my parents sent me to New York City to study medicine. I never went to any of my classes, instead, I spent all my time and a lot of my money trying to build the perfect microscope. I wanted to make a powerful lens that would let me see even the smallest parts of life, but all my experiments failed.

Then one day I met a young man who lived in the apartment above mine, Jules Simon told me about a woman who could speak to the dead. When I visited Madam Valpus, she let me speak to the spirit of the man who invented the microscope. The spirit of Anton Van Leeuwenhoek told me how to make a perfect lens from a diamond of 140 carats. But where could I find a diamond that big?

When I returned home, I went to Simon's apartment. He was surprised to see me and tried to hide a small object in his pocket. I wanted to discover what it was, so I brought two bottles of wine to his apartment. We began to drink. By the time we had finished the first bottle, Simon was very drunk. "Simon, I know you have a secret. Why don't you told me about it?"
Something in my voice must have made him feel safe. He made me promise to keep a secret. Then he took a small box from his pocket.

When he opened it, I saw a large diamond shape like a rose. A pure white light seem to come from deep inside the diamond. Simon told me he had stolen the diamond from a man in South America. He said it weighed exactly 140 carats. Excitment shock my body. I could not believe my luck. On the same evening that the spirit of Leeuwenhoek tells me the secret of the perfect lens, I find the diamond I need to create it. I decided to steal Simon's treasure.

I sat across the table from him as he drank another glass of wine. I knew I could not simply steal the diamond. Simon would call the police, there was only one way to get the diamond. I had to kill Simon. Everything I needed to murder Simon was right there in his apartment, a bottle full of sleeping powder was on a table near his bed. A long thin knife lay on the table.

Simon was so busy looking at his diamond that I was able to put the drug in his glass quite easily. He fell asleep in 15 minutes. I put his diamond in my pocket, and carried Simon to the bed. I wanted to make the police think Simon had killed himself. I picked up Simon's long thin knife and stared down at him. I tried to imagine exactly how the knife would enter Simon's heart, if he were holding the knife himself. I pushed the knife deep into his heart. I heard a sound come from his throat like the bursting of a large bubble. His body moved and his right hand grabbed the handle of the knife. He must have died immediately. I washed our glasses and took the two wine bottles away with me. I left the lights on, closed the door and went back to my apartment.

Simon's death was not discovered until three o'clock the next day. One of the neighbors knocked at his door, and when there was no answer, she called the police. They discovered Simon's body on the bed. The police questioned everyone, but they did not learn the truth. The police finally decided Jules Simon had killed himself, and soon everyone forgot about him. I had committed the perfect crime.

For three months after Simon's death, I worked day and night on my diamond lens. At last, the lens was done. My hand shook as I put a drop of water on a piece of glass. Carefully, I added some oil to the water to prevent it from drying. I turned on a strong light under the glass, and looked through the diamond lens. For a moment, I saw nothing in that drop of water, and then I saw a pure, white light. Carefully, I moved the lens of my microscope closer to the drop of water.

Slowly, the white light began to change. It began to form shapes. I could see clouds and wonderful trees and flowers, these plants with the most unusual colors--bright reds, greens, purples as well as silver and gold. The branches of these trees moved slowly in a soft wind. Everywhere I looked I could see fruits and flowers of a thousand different colors.

How strange, I thought, that this beautiful place has no animal life in it. Then I saw something moving slowly among the brightly colored trees and bushes. The branches of a purple and silver bush were gently pushed aside. And there before my eye, stood the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. She was perfect, pink skin, large blue eyes and long golden hair that fell over her shoulders to her knees.

She stepped away from the rainbow-colored trees like a flower, floating on water. She drifted through the air. Watching her move was like listening to the sound of tiny bells ringing in the wind. She went to the rainbow-colored trees and looked up at one of them. The tree moved one of its branches that was full of fruit. It lowered the branch to her and she took one of the fruits. She turned it in her tiny hands and began to eat.

How I wished I had the power to enter that bright light and float with her through those beautiful forests. Suddenly, I realized I had fallen in love with this tiny creature. I loved someone who would never love me back, someone who was a prisoner in a drop of water. I ran out of the room, threw myself on my bed and cried till I fell asleep.

Day after day, I returned to my microscope to watch her. I never left my apartment. I rarely even ate or slept. One day as usual, I went to my microscope ready to watch my love, she was there, but a terrible change had taken place.

Her face had become thin and she could hardly walk. The wonderful light in her golden hair and blue eyes was gone. At that moment I would have given my soul to become as small as she and enter her world to help her. What was causing her to be so sick? She seemed in great pain. I watched her for hours, helpless and alone with my breaking heart. She grew weaker and weaker. The forest also was changing. The trees were losing their wonderful colors.

Suddenly, I realized I had not looked at the drop of water for several days. I'd looked into it with the microscope but not at it. As soon as I looked at the glass under the microscope, I understood the horrible truth. I had forgotten to add more oil to the drop of water to stop it from drying. The drop of water had disappeared. I rushed again to look through the lens. The rainbow forests were all gone. My love lay in a spot of weak light. Her pink body was dried and wrinkled. Her eyes were black as dust. Slowly, she disappeared forever.

I fainted and woke many hours later on pieces of my microscope. I had fallen on it when I fainted. My mind was as broken as the diamond lens. I crawled to my bed and withdrew from the world.

When I finally got better months later, all my money was gone. People now say I am crazy. They call me ''Linley, the mad scientist''. No one believes I spoke to the spirit of Leeuwenhoek. They laugh when I tell them how I killed Jules Simon and stole his diamond to make the perfect lens. They think I never saw that beautiful world in a drop of water. But I know the truth of the diamond lens. And now so do you.

You have just heard ''The Diamond Lens'' by Fizt-James O'Brien.

The Diamond Lens I

admin — 2008-10-01 00:23

Here is part one of ''The Diamond Lens''.

When I was ten years old, one of my older cousins gave me a microscope. The first time, I looked through it magic lens, the clouds that surrounded my daily life rolled away. I saw a universe of tiny living creatures in a drop of water. Day after day, night after night, I studied life under my microscope.

The fungus that spoiled my mother's jam was for me a land of magic gardens. I would put one of those parts of green mold under my microscope, and see beautiful forests where strange silver and golden fruit, hung from the blanches of tiny trees. I felt as if I had discovered another Garden of Eden.

Although I didn't tell anyone about my secret world, I decided to spend my life studying the microscope. My parents had other plans for me. When I was nearly twenty years old, they insisted that I learn a profession, even though we were a rich family and I really didn't have to work at all. I decided to study medicine in New York. This city was far away from my family, so I could spend my time as I pleased. As long as I paid my medical school fees every year, my family would never know I wasn't attending any classes. In Yew York, I would be able to buy excellent microscopes and meet scientists from all over the world. I would have plenty of money, and plenty of time to spend on my dream. I left home with high hopes.

Two days after I arrived in New York, I found a place to live. It was large enough for me to use one of the rooms as my laboratory. I filled this room with expensive scientific equipment, and I did not know how to use. But by the end of my first year in the city, I had become an expert with the microscope. I also had become more and more unhappy. The lens in my expensive microscope was still not strong enough to answer my questions about life. I imagined there were still secrets in nature that the limited power of my equipment prevented me from knowing.

I lay awake nights, wishing to find the perfect lens--an instrument of great magnifying power. Such a lens would permit me to see life in the smallest parts of its development. I was sure that a powerful lens like that could be built. And I spent my second year in New York trying to create it. I experimented with every kind of material. I tried simple glass, crystal and even precious stones. But I always found myself back where I started. My parents were angry at the lack of progress in my medical studies. I had not gone to one class since arriving in New York. Also, I had spent a lot of money on my experiments.

One day, while I was working in my laboratory, Jules Simon knocked at my door. He lived in apartment just above mine. I knew he loved jewelry, expensive clothing and good living. There was something mysterious about him, too. He always had something to sell: a painting, a rare statue, an expensive pair of lamps. I never understood why Simon did this. He didn't seem to need the money. He had many friends among the best families of New York. Simon was very excited as he came into my laboratory. "Oh, my deer fellow!" he gasped. "I have just seen the most amazing thing in the world!" He told me he had gone to visit a woman who had strange, magical powers. She could speak to the dead and read the minds of the living. To test her, Simon had written some questions about himself, on a piece of paper. The woman, Madam Vulpes, had answered all of the questions correctly.

Hearing about this woman gave me an idea. Perhaps she would be able to help me discover the secret of the perfect lens. Two days later, I went to her house.

Madam Vulpes was an ugly woman with sharp, cruel eyes. She didn't say a word to me when she opened the door, but took me right into her living room. We sat down at a large round table, and she spoke. "What do you want from me?"

"I want to speak to a person who died many years before I was born."

"Put your hands on the table."

We sat there for several minutes. The room grew darker and darker. But Madam Vulpes did not turn on any lights. I began to feel a little silly. Then I felt a series of violent knocks. They shook the table, the back of my chair, the floor under my feet and even the windows.

Madam Vulpes smiled. ''They are very strong tonight. You are lucky. They want you to write down the name of the spirit you wish to talk to''.

I tore a piece of paper out of my notebook, and wrote down a name. I didn't show it to Madam Vulpes. After a moment, Madam Vulpes's hand began to shake so hard, the table moved. She said a spirit was now holding her hand and would write me a message. I gave her paper and a pencil. She wrote something and gave the paper to me. The message read, ''I am here, question me.'' It was signed ''Leeuwenhoek''.

I couldn't believe my eyes. The name was the same one I had written on my piece of paper. I was sure that an ignorant woman like Madam Vulpes would not know who Leeuwenhoek was. Why would she know the name of the man who invented the microscope? Quickly I wrote a question on another piece of paper, ''How can I create the perfect lens?''

Leeuwenhoek wrote back, ''Find a diamond of one hundred and forty carats. Give it a strong electrical charge. The electricity will change the diamond’s atoms. From that stone you can form the perfect lens.''

I left Madam Vulpes's house in a state of painful excitement. Where would I find a diamond that large? All my family's money could not buy a diamond like that. And even if I had enough money, I knew that such diamonds are very difficult to find. When I came home, I saw a light in Simon’s window. I climbed the stairs to his apartment, and went in without knocking. Simon's back was toward me as he bent over a lamp. He looked as if he were carefully studying a small object in his hands. As soon as he heard me enter, he put the object in his pocket. His face became red and he seemed very nervous.

''What are you looking at?'' I asked. Simon didn't answer me. Instead he laughed nervously and told me to sit down. I couldn't wait to tell him my news. "Simon, I have just come from Madam Vulpes. She gave me some important information that will help me find the perfect lens. If only I could find a diamond that weighs one hundred forty carats!"

My words seemed to change Simon into a wild animal. He rushed to a small table and grabbed a long thin knife. "No,'' he shouted, ''you won't get my treasure, I will die before I give it to you."

"My dear Simon,"I said, ''I don't know what you are talking about. I went to Madam Vulpes to ask her for help with a scientific problem .She told me I needed an enormous diamond.

''You could not possibly own a diamond that large, if you did, you would be very rich and you wouldn't be living here." He stared at me for a second and then he laughed and apologized.

"Simon,'' I suggested, ''let us drink some wine and forget all this. I have two bottles downstairs in my apartment. What do you think?"

"I like your idea.'' He said.

I brought the wine to his apartment and we began to drink. By the time we had finished the first bottle, Simon was very sleepy and very drunk. I felt as calm as ever for I believed that I knew Simon's secret.

The Lost Phoebe

admin — 2008-10-01 00:22

Old Henry Reifsneider and his wife Phoebe loved one another the way people do who have lived together a long long time. They were simple farm people. Their world was their fruit trees, cornfield and backyard with its pigs and chickens. The rest of the world was far away like stars in the sky.

Sometimes Henry worried about death. During his worries he would raise his old voice and say,''Phoebe, where is my corn pipe? You are always taking things that belong to me.''

''Now you hush, Henry,'' his wife would say,''If you keep talking like that, I will go away, and then what would you do? There is nobody to look after you. Your corn pipe is on the table where you put it.''

Old Henry knew his wife would never leave him. The only leaving he feared was death. He often wondered how he could live without Phoebe.

In the evening when he went to the door to see that they were safely shut in, it warmed his heart to know Phoebe was there with him. When Henry moved during the night, she always spoke to him ''Now, Henry, be quiet. You are as jumpy as a chicken.'' ''Well, I can't sleep, Phoebe.'' ''If you stop rolling around so much, you will sleep, then I can get some rest, too.'' Knowing she was there beside him in the dark made Henry quiet again.

When she wanted him to get a pail of water, Henry liked to say, ''Do this, do that, always asking me to do something. Women are never satisfied.'' Phoebe would smile. She could see the inner happiness shining in his eyes. Henry talked sharply, but he never forgot to get water and wood for the fire. In this way, they lived happily in their simple world.

One day in the early spring, Phoebe became sick and died. Old Henry watched them put her body in the earth. Neighbors asked Henry to come and live with them, but he would not leave. He wanted to be near the place where his Phoebe lay in the earth. He tried to work around the farm, but it was difficult to return to an empty house at night. At night he read the newspaper, but most of the time, he just sat, looking at the floor, wondering where Phoebe was and how soon he would die.

For five months, he lived like this. Then there was a change. It happened one night after he had gone to bed. There was a bright moon in the sky. Its silver light fell on the old chair at table in the bedroom. The moonlight on the chair and the half-open door made a shadow. The shadow looked like Phoebe. She was sitting by the table the way she had done so many times before.

"Phoebe", he called in a weak voice. " Have you come back?"

The shadow on the chair did not move. Henry got up and slowly walked toward/ it. When he came near the table, he saw that there was nothing on the chair but his old coat.

Another night he thought he saw her again. He felt a soft wind blow in the room. When the wind blew away, the shadow of Phoebe went away too. A third night when he was sleeping, she came to the bed and put her hand on his head. "Poor Henry", she said gently. "I am sorry you are alone." He awoke and was surely he saw her leave the room. Phoebe had come back.

Night after night we waited. Then one morning he awoke with a surprising new thought. Perhaps she was not dead. Perhaps Phoebe had just gone away. They had argued about the corn pipe and she had left the house. Yes. That was it. She was always making jokes about leaving him. This time she had really gone. That morning he started to walk to the nearest neighbors.

"Why, hello, Henry", said farmer Dodge who was taking grain to market."Where are you going this morning?"

"Have you seen Phoebe?" asked Henry.
"Phoebe who?" farmer Dodge knew Henry's Pheobe was dead.
"My Phoebe", Herny said shortly." Who do you think I mean?"
"You must be joking", said farmer Dodge. "You can not be talking about your Phoebe. She is dead."
"Dead. Not my Phoebe. She left me this morning while I was sleeping. We argued about my corn pipe last night and that is why she left, but I can find her. She went over to Matida Race's farm. yes. That is where she is".

Henry started to walk fast down the road. "The poor old man is sick in his mind, " Dodge said to himself. "He has been living alone too long. "

Henry met no one until he reached Matilda's farm. His Phoebe and Matilda Race had been good friends. Phoebe must be here. He opened the gate and walked to the house. Matilda opened the door.

"Why, Henry Reifsneider. What a surprise! "
"Is Phoebe here? " Henry asked.
"Phoebe? Which Phoebe? "
"Why, my Phoebe, of course, " Henry smiled a little, "you do not have to keep it a secret. She is here, isn't she? " He looked inside the house.
"Well, " Matilda Race said, "you poor old man. Come in and sit down while I get you some coffee and food. I will take you to Phoebe. I know where she is. "

While Matilda worked in the kitchen, she talked to Henry, but he was not listening. He was thinking about Phoebe. He decided she was not there.

"I will go now, " he said, getting up, "I think she went over to the Murray Farm. " Then he was out on the road again.

It was like this for many weeks. Every night he returned to his house to see if Phoebe had come back. Soon everyone in the area knew old Henry and answered his questions.

"I have not seen her, " they would say, or "No Henry, she has not been here today. "

For several years, Henry walked in the sun and rain, looking for Phoebe. His white hair grew longer and longer. His black hat was the brown color of the earth and his clothes were dusty and torn.

It was in the seventh year of looking when Henry came to Red Hill. It was late at night and he was tired and sleepy. Years of walking and very little food had made him thin. Each passing year seemed to bring him closer to Phoebe. Tonight, he felt that Phoebe was nearer than she had ever been before.

After a while, he fell asleep with his head resting on his knees. When he awoke, it was still dark. The moon shone brightly through the trees. Henry saw a light move across the road. It danced through the woods.

Was it Phoebe? He jumped up. He was sure he could see her in that light. Yes, there she was. The young Phoebe he had known many years ago. Suddenly, he remembered her young beauty, her warm friendly smile, the blue dress she had worn the day he first met her.

"Phoebe," he called, "Have you really come? Have you really answered me?"

He began to feel young and strong again. He ran to follow the moving light. Then a soft wind blew through the leaves and she was gone.

"Phoebe," he cried, "Do not leave me. Please, please stay with me."

He ran as fast as his old legs would go. When he came to the top of the hill, he looked down into the valley of shadows below. Tears of happiness came into his eyes when he saw Phoebe again. Yes, there she was, down in the valley, smiling up at him. She was in the same blue dress. She waved a hand and seemed to say, "Come. Come with me." Henry felt the strong pull of a new world where he and Phoebe would always be together. He gave a happy cry,"Wait, Phoebe, wait, I’m coming."

The next day, some farmer boys found Henry at the bottom of the hill. His body was broken. There was a soft, happy smile on his face. The same smile he had known when Phoebe was alive.

You have just heard "The Lost Phoebe" written by Theodore Dreiser. It was published by World Publishing Company in 1947 in the book "Best Short Stories of Theodore Dreiser".

Light and Gentle Things

admin — 2008-10-01 00:20

The snow kept coming down, quietly, ghost-like, covering the land deeper and deeper. It seemed as if it would go on forever. It was the first snowfall of the year. Billy looked through the kitchen window, he felt like diving into the snow and burying himself in its softness.

"Billy!" His mother shouted. She was standing at his side but had to raise her voice because he was not listening.

"Do you have to call me Billy?"

"I meant Bill." His mother answered quickly, "I forgot how close you are to being a man. Go help Pa with the fence."

Billy started out toward the fence. That was the story of his life - fixing this fixing that. He walked slowly. The falling snow had a strange power, a power that did not seem real. It was like magic.

Billy wanted to keep going, wishing there was no fence to reach or to fix. And then suddenly, out across the fields he went, he did not know what he was doing. He liked to help to help his father, but he kept thinking that at home he would never be more than a boy with small jobs to do.

He crossed the frozen creek and then walked up into the hills. When he came down into the flat lands, he began to run, racing against the whole world. Then he saw his friend Joey standing near his father's barn with a pail in his hand.

"What's got into you?" Joey asked.

"I just feel good, that's all."

"You look kind of funny," Joey said.

Billy wiped his hot face with snow. "I don't think I ever felt so good."

Joey said he was going to the townhall for music and dancing. Billy went with him. The townhall was on a hill between two long valleys. As they drove up, they heard music coming out of the hall. Inside the hall the air was sweet and warm. Some of the girls smiled at Billy in a funny way. He could not tell if the smiles were friendly or not. He turned back to the door and decided to stand there for a moment and then go. There was too much noise inside.

"You're standing right in the cold," someone said to him. It was one of Joey's cousins, Sheilla. Sheilla something or other, she lived in the next town, Billy didn't even know her last name. "Oh," He said, his face getting red. He moved a little.

"You are still in it." She said.

Bill looked at her. She was sort of pretty with long black hair and blue green eyes. But Billy wished she would go away. "It's only fresh air." He said,” Go pick/ on somebody else."

"I am not picking on you. I am trying to help you. That’s what."

"Too many thing they are helping when they are not." Billy said.

She studied him. "Well", she said, "That's true." Then she smiled. "You don't like it in here, do you?"

"I feel better outside." He answered. Without thinking, Billy said, "Look, would you like to go out just for a few minutes?"

She turned her head away, then said, ''I will get my coat."

Outside, they stood in the snow looking at the lighted windows of the hall. She walked quietly beside him--a stranger in white coat, shoes and gloves. He could still hear the music from the hall but it was part of the snowfall. It seemed to be made not for dancers but for walkers. It seemed strange and wonderful that there should be someone so near him.

Suddenly he asked, "did you say something?"

"No,'' she said, ''Did you?"

He shook his head.

"What do you think about when you walk like this?" she said.

"Oh, different things. What I like to do and never can. It’s daydreaming, I guess."

"Yes," she said, "I do that, too."

The snow seemed to be falling faster now and the music from the hall was gone. From far below came the sound of bells followed by a few coughs from an old car. Then there was just silence as if the snow had cut off all the sounds of the world. Billy looked at her, white coat and hat beside him. They belonged to that world of wonder, that world of magic, that was born/ with the first snowfall. He touched her head.

"What are you doing?"

"I don't know.'' he said. ''I just…" He stopped. There was nothing real but the snow, even the whiteness of her coat and hat seemed to come from the snow. He turned around. All signs of the road were gone. "We are the only two in the world left." He said.

"Is that why you touch my head?"

He said nothing. But then in a rush of words, bravely, he said, "Maybe I wanted to kiss you."

She laughed. "I wouldn't let you," she said, "I don't like kissing."

"I don't either," he said, "Oh, well, that's a good thing, because you wouldn't really be able to."

"Why not? I'm too strong for you," she said.

"So that's what you think. You're wrong. If I really wanted to, I guess I could do it, all right."

"Dreamer," she gave him a push, and ran back toward the hall. Before he knew it he was after her -- he had caught her. Laughing, she pushed him and down they wnet into the snow. He expected her to let him kiss her now. That's what often happened in the stories he read. Why would she laugh if her struggle against him were real? But she did not let him. She fought him as if she wanted to hurt him, wanted to make him feel small.

"You are a child," she said, pulling away from him.

I should let go, he thought. But he held on to her until he felt that he could hold on forever. He wanted to hold on forever. It was really a simple thing to hug a girl, he thought. Her head had been pushed off and the snow shining on her dark hair. He now felt a strange gentleness for her. As she looked angrily at him, her face red and full of fight, he told himself that it was not the right moment to kiss her. However, he tried to kiss her anyway, more in pride than anything else. But he missed her mouth. He still held on.

As the snow, light and cool as a fresh white sheet, began to cover them. She was getting tired. She was looking at him differently now with less anger. And he tried to kiss her again. This time he did not miss her mouth and met hers fully. Had she moved to meet him? He did not know. In his daydreams, success had always lifted him up. People cheered him. But being able to kiss her was a different kind of success. He did not feel lifted up. There were no cheers. And there was no fire in his blood as some of his dreams made him believe there would be. Instead, he felt something else. He looked at the small hat in the snow, and at the small wet face of one who was not strong enough. He felt sorry for her. This feeling was new to him. He wondered how such a feeling could be part of another feeling that seemed so good. Very gently, Billy kissed her a third time. Then, he let her go and they stood up. He picked up her hat and put it on her head. They began to walk back toward the hall. The music came to them again, as light as the snow that had covered them. As they walked, her hand touched his. She didn't mean to do it. Her touch was just another part of what now seemed to be a world of light and gentle things.

"Do you want to go back in the hall?" she asked. Her voice was slow. She no longer looked so strong.

"I guess not," he answered. "Are you going in?"

"I'd better," she answered, "I came with friends. I'll see you again, won't I?"

Her question surprised him. He had not thought about seeing her again, he was still lost in a dream, thinking of the day's happenings, feeling the wonder and excitement of new born things, like the first snowfall, the first spring flowers, the first feelings of growing up, becoming a man.

Billy heard her ask again, "I'll see you again, won't I?" He shook his head.

"You mean I won't?" she said.

"I mean you will," he answered.

She smiled and went inside.

He began walking along the road toward valley.

The snowfall seemed to be stopping, but he believed that it was last until he got home.

You have just heard the American Story "Light and Gentle things." It was written by William Sayers for the New England magazine called "Yankee".

Bright Hill

admin — 2008-09-29 23:46

A few days before Christmas, Chantal Yardley visited Jacob Samuels in the old people's home.

"Do you know they aim to blow it up?" said Mr. Samuels as he looked out a window. His face was nearly the same red as the hanging Christmas decorations. He was angry at the thought that the house on Bright Hill, the shelter of his happy years when his wife Irma was alive, his house, was to be destroyed. "The people who bought the house said it would be a fine place to raise their children. If my wife was alive she would not talk to me for a year."

Chantal tried to change the subject. "Do you know it has been almost thirty years?" she asked the old man.

"I remember," said Jacob Samuels, "Irma and I spent the whole week before calling the people in the community trying to put together a welcome for you."

"A week?"

"Yep, " answered the old man quietly, "We saw what was going on with the riots in the big cities and all the wrong people with guns from the South. We thought all that was not the friendly American way."

Chantal remembered being a little afraid thirty years ago, no black family had ever lived in the Bright Hill community. Her husband Rafe was leading the big moving truck driving their small blue car. Rafe stopped the car when they saw fifteen or twenty people in front of their new home on Tully Lane. Someone stepped toward them in the street. Chantal held her throat with fright. Then, a man in front of their new house held up a sign written in big colorful letters. It said "Welcome!" people motioned with hands for Rafe to drive on up. When Rafe and Chantal Yardley stepped out onto their new property, people hurried up to them and shook their hands. The man holding the ''Welcome'' sign said he was Jacob Samuels from the house at the top of Bright Hill. People filled Chantal's and Rafe's arms with sweets, cooked dinners and more. There was so much food.

"What a day that was!" said Chantal. "What a day!" agreed Jacob Samuels.

It was a beautiful community. Children could walk to school or play happily up at the Samuels's house, and their parents need not worry if the children were safe. Most important, nobody wanted to move out of the Bright Hill community just because people moved in who were a little different.

"Remember Mrs. Hancock’s picture in the newspaper?" asked Chantal.

"Sure do," answered Jacob Samuels with a smile, "when Mr. and Mrs. Ho came from Vietnam and we drew a little Buddha on their welcome sign."

"Then the men in white cloth came," said Chantal.

One morning there were men standing in front of the whole family's house. The men were covered from head to toe in white cloth with holes cut out for their eyes. One of the men held up a wood cross and set fire to it. All the people in the other houses on Tully Lane ran out their doors and toward Mr. and Mrs. Ho's house. Bob Hobart carried a long iron-point African war weapon. Jacob Samuels came running wearing a silver Swedish war hat, carrying a meat cutting knife high in his right hand. The men in white cloth were much surprised by the sudden appearance of more than fifty people. White cloth flew everywhere as these men of hate ran off in all directions. Old Mrs. Hancock threw a stick under the feet of a white cloth flying around the corner of her house. The man fell. Mrs. Hancock jumped from her front steps onto the man's back and hit him with an empty flour can. Jake Griffin had to pull her off the man. Later, Jake said he never knew a seventy-eight-year-old woman could be that strong.

The next day, a newspaper ran a picture of Mrs. Hancock without her false teeth. Under the picture was printed the words: Bright Hill Hero. From then on, everybody in the country knew about Bright Hill. Somebody called it "the community that hates hate". That description stuck.

Old Mrs. Hancock died the next year. The Alavis bought her house. They had fled Iran when the Ayatollah took over. The Shens from Kunming China moved into the community soon after. Then the Ankolis from Uganda, the Kummars from Bombay India, the Santiagos from Nicaragua. There were parties for all the new people, in the streets or in the house on Bright Hill. And after the battle of the white cloths, the community held some kind of celebration almost every week. Now someone was going to tear down the house on Bright Hill.

In the quiet week between Christmas and the New Years, Jacob Samuels sat and thought about his old house. On a day not long after, Chantal called Jacob Samuels. "Rafe says maybe the town officials can declare the house a historic building," said Chantal on the telephone, "that way it could not be torn down. He is going to talk with a friend in the government." The next morning Rafe hurried off to talk with the town officials. Chantal was leaving for work.

A funny figure on a bicycle came riding up Tully Lane wearing a shiny hat and a big red cloth tied around his neck. Chantal laughed. It was Jacob Samuels. Mr. Samuels waved and shouted, "They thought no one would notice if they came in soft like and started tearing down the house." He pointed behind him at a big earthmover and two trucks coming up Tully Lane.

Mr. Samuels got off the bicycle at his old front door and pulled his special meat knife from under his neck cloth. The workman driving the earthmover tried to talk with him. But Mr. Samuels would not let the man come close. The workmen talked together quietly for a while, then they climbed into their vehicles, started their engines and drove toward different parts of the little house. Mr. Samuels was everywhere at once, throwing himself in front of the earthmover or a threatening truck. He moved very fast for an old man. Again, other people in the community came out of their doors just as on the day of the white cloths. Fred Jenson wanted to know what was going on. Chantal told him some men had come to tear down the Samuels's house on Bright Hill.

"In a pig's eye, not if I can help it," Fred shouted and he broke into a run.

Jacob Samuels took the red cloth from around his neck to wave and defend his house like a Spanish bullfighter. Then, one of the trucks drove straight at Jacob. Jacob was slow to move. The truck just missed hitting him. The driver could not turn the truck in time and ran into the side of the house on Bright Hill. The little house shook. Everybody stopped short, even the trucks and the earthmover. Rafe Yardley drove his blue car slowly through the crowd, stopped and climbed out. He held up a paper.

"Judge Martin Klein signed a court order this morning," he said, "nothing can be done to this house until Judge Klein has a hearing about it. The town officials will meet after the New Year holiday. There are enough votes so Bright Hill will be named as a historic house."

Jacob Samuels looked at the sad little house with its now broken windows and fallen stones. "Now I have to buy it back," he said, "but I do not have enough money."

"We have some saved," said Rafe as he looked toward Chantal. Then Mrs. Shen stepped forward, "We have some extra too, Mr. Samuels. You will take and my husband can help with the work." All over the little hill, people began to speak up offering money and willing hands to work, even one of the workmen. Church bells far off played ''Joy to The World''.

Rafe stepped to his open car. ''The people of France make a wonderful drink called champagne.'' He smiled. "I was saving this for New Year's Eve, but December 29th is close enough." Rafe opened some bottles and passed them into the crowd. The church bells far away played ''Should Old Friendships be Forgot''.

Then, Rafe turned to Jacob Samuels, held a bottle high and said in a loud voice, "Here's to Jacob Samuels and all the people of the Bright Hill community. You are the spirit of the real America." And the voices of the Yardley family, and the Shen family, and the Kummar family, and the voices of all the people who came to Bright Hill from all around the world rose up to meet the bells with happy shouts and bright song.

Why The Chimes Rang

admin — 2008-09-29 23:44

The story is a special one for Christmas. It is ''Why the Chimes Rang''. It was written by Raymond MacDonald Alden.

In a faraway country where few people have ever traveled, there was once a wonderful church. It stood on a high hill in a great city. Every Sunday and on holidays like Christmas, thousands of people climbed the hill to the church. The main room of the church was so long that if you stood at one end, you almost could not see the other end. In the farthest corner was an organ. This organ could play music very loud. Sometimes when the organ is played, people from miles around would close their windows and prepare for a thunderstorm. No such church as this was ever seen before. It was especially wonderful when it was lighted with burning candles for a holiday and filled with young and old people.

But the most wonderful and most unusual thing about the huge church was the sound of its bells. Connected to the church was a huge stone tower. Everyone who built the church had been dead for hundreds of years. No one could remember how high the tower reached. It rose so far into the sky that no one could see the top, except when the weather was very clear. Even then a person could not be sure that the top was in sight. All the people knew that at the top of the tower was a group of bells, Christmas bells. They had hung there ever since the church had been built. Their sound was very special. Some thought their sound was so special, because a great musician had made them and put them in place; others said it was because of their great height. They said the air was so clear and pure high up where the bells rang. Everyone who had heard the bells said their sound was the sweetest in the world. Some said they sounded like the singing of God's angles; others said they sounded like wind singing through the trees.

But the sad fact was that no one had heard them for years and years. There was an old man living not far from the church who said that his mother had told him of hearing the bells when she was a little girl. But he was the only one who knew even that much. The bells were Christmas bells. They were not meant to be played by the organist, nor were they meant to be heard on common days.

It was the custom on the night before Christmas, Christmas Eve, for all the people to bring their gifts to the Baby Jesus to the church. When the greatest and best gift was given, the music of the Christmas bells would be heard. It came from far up in the tower. Some said the wind rang the bells, others said God's angels set the bells moving. But for many long years, the bells did not ring. Some said that people were less careful of their gifts for the Baby Jesus, others said that no gift was great enough to earn the music of the bells. Every Christmas Eve, rich people tried to give better gifts than anyone else, yet the rich people did not give anything they wanted for themselves. Each year there were many gifts, each year the religious service was good, but the bells in the stone tower did not ring.

Far away from the city in a country village lived a boy named Pedro and his younger brother. They knew very little about the Christmas bells, but they had heard about the religious service in the church on Christmas Eve. They made a secret plan that they often discussed--they would travel to see the beautiful service. Pedro would say, "Nobody can guess, Little Brother, all the good things there are to hear and see. I have even heard it said the Baby Jesus comes to bless the service. Would if not be wonderful if we could see him?”

The day before Christmas was very cold, there was snow in the air, the ground was hard and white with ice. Pedro and Little Brother slipped quietly away in the early afternoon. Walking was very hard in the icy air. But before night they had walked far enough to see light from the big city ahead of them.

They were about to enter the city when they saw something dark in the snow near their path. They stepped aside to look at it. It was a poor woman who had fallen just outside the city. She was too sick and too tired to keep going. The soft snow made a kind of bed for her. Soon she would be so sound asleep that no one would ever wake her again. Pedro knelt beside her and tried to wake her. He pulled her arm a little as though he would try to carry her. He turned her face toward him so that he could rub the snow on it. Then he looked at her silently.

"It is no use, Little Brother, " he said. "You will have to go on alone. "

"Alone? " said Little Brother. "And you will not see the Christmas service? "

"No", said Pedro. He could not hold back a sad sound in his throat. "See this poor woman. Her face looks like the face of the mother of Jesus in the church window. She will freeze to death if nobody cares for her. Everyone has gone to church. But when you come back you can bring someone to help her. I will rub her to keep her from freezing and maybe I can get her to eat the bread that is in my pocket. "

"I cannot leave you and go on alone. " said Little Brother.

"Both of us need not miss the service." said Pedro. "You can find your way to the church. You must see and hear everything twice, Little Brother. Once for you and once for me. I am sure the Baby Jesus must know how I should love to come with you and pray to him and if you get a chance, Little Brother, give the Baby Jesus this small silver coin I brought. Give it when no one is looking and do not get in anyone's way. Remember where you left me. "

In this way, Pedro hurried Little Brother to the city. He closed his eyes to keep back tears as he heard his brother's footsteps moving further and further away. It was so hard to miss the music and the beauty of the Christmas service. Instead, he was here in the cold and snow.

The great church was beautiful that night. Everyone said it had never looked so bright and beautiful. When the organ played and the thousands of people sang, the walls shook with the sound. Young Pedro, outside the city wall, felt the earth shake around him. At the end of the service came the moment to bring gifts to the Baby Jesus. Rich men, important men gave their gifts. Some brought jewels. A great writer gave a book he had been writing for years and years. Last of all, came the king of the country. He was hoping as everyone hoped to win for himself the music of the bells. People in the seats spoke quietly to each other as they saw the king take his jewel hat from his head and offered it as his gift.

"Surely," everyone said, "we shall hear the bells now. Nothing like this has ever happened before."

But all they heard was the cold wind in the tower. The people shook their heads. Some of them said as they had said before that they never really believed to the story of the bells. They said they did not believe the bells ever rang at all.

The giving of gifts was over and the singers began the closing song. Suddenly the man playing the organ stopped playing as if he had been shocked. Everyone looked at the old priest. He was standing at the front of the church holding up his hand for silence.

Not a sound could be heard from anyone in the church. But as all the people listened, there came softly but clearly through the air, the sound of the bells in the tower. The music was so far away and yet so clear. It was much sweeter than anything that had ever been heard before. The music seemed to rise and fall in the sky.

People in the church sat still as though something held their shoulders. Then they stood up together. They looked at the front of the church to see what great gift had caused the bells to ring. All that those in front saw was a child. Little Brother had moved silently to the front of church when no one was looking. He had given the Baby Jesus Pedro's small piece of silver.

The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County

admin — 2008-09-29 23:40

Our story is called "The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County." It was written by Mark Twain.

A friend of mine in the East asked me to visit old Simon Wheeler, to ask about my friend's friend, Leonidas W. Smiley. I did as my friend asked me to do and this story is the result.

I found Simon Wheeler sleeping by the stove in the ruined mining camp of Angels. I saw that he was fat and had no hair, and had a gentle and simple look upon his peaceful face. He woke up, and gave me "Good day." I told him a friend had asked me to find out about a friend named Leonidas W. Smiley, who he heard was at one time living in Angels Camp. I added that if Mister Wheeler could tell me anything about this Leonidas W. Smiley, I would feel a great responsibility to him. Simon Wheeler forced me into a corner with his chair and began telling me this long story. He never smiled, he never frowned. But all through the endless story there was a feeling of great seriousness and honesty. This showed me plainly that he thought the heroes of the story were men of great intelligence. I let him go on in his own way, and never stopped him once. This is the story Simon Wheeler told.

Leonidas W…h'm… Le… Well, there was a man here once by the name of Jim Smiley, in the winter of 1849 or maybe it was the spring of 1850. Anyway, he was the strangest man. He was always making money on anything that turned up if he could get anybody to try to make money on the other side. And if he could not do that, he would change sides.

And he was lucky, uncommon lucky. He most always was a winner. If there was a dog fight, he would try to win money on it. If there was a cat fight, he would take the risk. If there was a chicken fight, he would try to win money on it. Why, if there was two birds setting on a fence, he would want you to decide which one would fly first so he could win money.

Lots of the boys here have seen that Smiley and can tell you about him. Why, it did not matter to him. He would try to make money on anything. He was the most unusual man. Parson Walker's wife was very sick once for a long time, and it seemed as if they were not going to save her. But one morning he come in, and Smiley asked him how his wife was, and he said she was better, thank God. And Smiley, before he thought, says, "Well, I'll risk my money she will not get well. "

And Smiley had a little small dog. To look at the dog, you would think he was not worth anything but to sit around and look mean and look for a chance to steal something. But as soon as there was money, he was a different dog. Another dog might attack and throw him around two or three times. Then all of a sudden Smiley's dog would grab that other dog by his back leg and hang on till the man said it was over.

Smiley always come out the winner on that dog, at least until he found a dog once that did not have any back legs. The dog's legs had been cut off in a machine. Well, the fighting continued long enough, and the money was gone. Then when Smiley's dog come to make a grab at the other dog's back legs, he saw in a minute how there was a problem. The other dog was going to win and Smiley's dog looked surprised and did not try to win the fight anymore. He gave Smiley a look that said he was sorry for fighting a dog that did not have any back legs for him to hold, which he needed to win a fight. Then Smiley's dog walked away, laid down and died. He was a good dog, and would have made a name for himself if he had lived, for he had intelligence. It always makes me feel sorry when I think of that last fight of his and the way it turned out.

Well, this Smiley had rats, and chickens, and cats and all of them kind of things. You could not get anything for him to risk money on, but he would match you. He caught a frog one day. He took him home, and said he was going to educate the frog. And so he never done nothing for three months but sit in his backyard and teach that frog to jump. And you bet you, he did teach him, too. He would give him a little hit from behind. And the next minute you would see that frog dancing in the air and then come down all on his feet and all right, like a cat. Smiley got him so the frog was catching flies, and he would catch one of those insects every time.

Smiley said all a frog wanted was education, and he could do almost anything. And I believe him. Why, I have seen him set Dan'l Webster down here on this floor--Dan'l Webster was the name of the frog -- and sing out, "Flies, Dan'l, flies!" And quicker than you could shut your eyes, that frog would jump straight up and catch a fly off the table. Then he would fall down on the floor again like a ball of dirt and start rubbing the side of his head with his back foot as if he had no idea he had been doing any more than any frog might do. You never seen a frog so honest and simple as he was, for all he was so skilled. And when it come to jumping, he could get over more ground in one jump than any animal of his kind that you ever saw. Smiley was very proud of his frog, and people who had traveled and been everywhere all said he was better than any frog they had ever seen.

Well, one day a stranger came in and says to Smiley, "What might be that you have got in the box?''

And Smiley says, "It's only just a frog."

And the man took it, and looked at it careful, and turned it round this way and that, and says, "Hmm, so it is. Well, what is he good for?"

"Well," Smiley says, easy and careless, "he can outjump any frog in Calaveras County."

The man took the box again, and took another long look, and gave it back to Smiley, and says, " I don't see anything about that frog that is any better than any other frog."

"Maybe you don't," Smiley says. "Maybe you understand frogs and maybe you don't. Anyways, I will risk forty dollars and bet you that he can jump farther than any frog in Calaveras County."

And the man studied a minute. "Well, I'm only a stranger here, and I do not have a frog. But if I had a frog, I would risk my money on it.''

And then Smiley says, "That's all right. If you will hold my box a minute, I will go and get you a frog."

And so the man took the box, and put up his forty dollars and sat down to wait. He sat there a long time thinking and thinking. Then he got the frog out of the box. He filled its mouth full of bullets used to kill small birds. Then he put the frog on floor.

Now Smiley had caught another frog and gave it to the man and said, "Now sit him next to Dan'l and I will give the word." Then Smiley says, " One, two, three. Go! " And Smiley and the other man touched the frogs. The new frog jumped. Dan'l just lifted up his body but could not move at all. He was planted like a building. Smiley was very surprised and angry too, but he did not know what the problem was. The other man took the money and started away. And when he was going out the door, he looked back and said, ''Well, I don't see anything about the frog that is any better than any other frog.''

Smiley stood, looking down at Dan'l a long time, and at last says, ''I wonder what in the nation happened to that frog. I wonder if there is something wrong with him.'' And he picked up Dan'l and turned him upside down and out came a whole lot of bullets. And Smiley was the angriest man. He set the frog down and took out after that man, but he never caught him.

Now Simon Wheeler heard his name called and got up to see what was wanted. He told me to wait, but I did not think that more stories about Jim Smiley would give me any more information about Leonidas W. Smiley, and so I started to walk away. At the door, I met Mr. Wheeler returning and he started talking again. ''Well, this year Smiley had a yellow cow with one eye and no tail.'' However, lacking both time and interest, I did not wait to hear about the cow. I just left.

Paul's Case II

admin — 2008-09-29 23:38

Paul was a student with a lot of problems. He hated school. He didn't like living with his family on Cordelia Street in the industrial city of Pittsburgh. Paul wanted to be surrounded by beautiful things. He loved his part-time job as an usher at the concert hall. He helped people find their seats before the concert. Then he could listen to the music and dream of exciting places. Paul also spent a lot of time at the local theater. He knew many of the actors who worked there. He used to do little jobs for them. And they would let him see plays for free.

Paul had little time left for his studies. So he was always in trouble with his teachers. Finally, Paul's teachers complained again to his father. His father took him out of school and made him take a job in a large company. He would not let Paul go near the concert hall or the theater.

Paul did not like his job as a messenger boy. He began to plan his escape. A few weeks later, Paul's boss Mr. Denny gave Paul a large amount of money to take to the bank. He told Paul to hurry because it was Friday afternoon. He said the bank would close soon and would not open again until Monday. At the bank, Paul took the money out of his pocket. It was five thousand dollars. Paul put the money back in his coat pocket and he walked out of the bank. He went to the train station and bought a one-way ticket for New York City. That afternoon, Paul left Pittsburgh forever.

The train travelled slowly through a January snowstorm. The slow movement made Paul fall asleep. The train whistle blew just as the sun was coming up. Paul awoke, feeling dirty and uncomfortable. He quickly touched his coat pocket. The money was still there. It was not a dream. He really was on his way to New York City with five thousand dollars in his pocket.

Finally, the train pulled into Central Station. Paul walked quickly out of the station and went immediately to an expensive clothing store for men. The salesman was very polite when he saw Paul's money. Paul bought two suits, several white silk shirts, some silk ties of different colors. Then he bought a black tuxedo suit for the theater, a warm winter coat, a red bathrobe and the finest silk underclothes. He told the salesman he wanted to wear one of the new suits and the coat immediately. The salesman bowed and smiled. Paul then took a taxi to another shop where he bought several pairs of leather shoes and boots. Next, he went to the famous jewelry store Tiffany's, and bought a tie pin and some brushes with silver handles. His last stop was a luggage store where he had all his new clothes put into several expensive suitcases.

It was a little before one o'clock in the afternoon when Paul arrived at the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel. The doormen opened the hotel's glass doors for Paul and the boy entered. The thick carpet under his feet had the colors of a thousand jewels. The lights sparkled from crystal chandeliers. Paul told the hotel clerk he was from Washington D.C. He said his mother and father were arriving in a few days from Europe. He explained he was going to wait for them at the hotel.

In his dreams Paul had planned this trip to New York a hundred times. He knew all about the Waldorf-Astoria, one of New York's most expensive hotels. As soon as he entered his rooms, he saw that everything was perfect, except for one thing. He rang the bell and asked for fresh flowers to be sent quickly to his rooms. When the flowers came, Paul put them in water and then he took a long, hot bath. He came out of the bathroom, wearing the red silk bathrobe. Outside his windows, the snow was falling so fast that he could not see across the street. But inside, the air was warm and sweet. He laid down on the sofa in his sitting room. It had all been so very simple, he thought. When they had shut him out of the theater and the concert hall, Paul knew he had to leave. But he was surprised that he had not been afraid to go. He could not remember a time when he had not been afraid of something, even when he was a little boy. But now he felt free. He wasn't afraid anymore. He watched the snow until he fell asleep.

It was four o'clock in the afternoon when Paul woke up. He spent nearly an hour getting dressed. He looked at himself often in the mirror. His dark blue suit fit him so well that he did not seem too thin. The white silk shirt and the blue and lilac tie felt cool and smooth under his fingers. He was exactly the kind of boy he had always wanted to be. Paul put on his new winter coat and went downstairs.

He got into a taxi and told the driver to take him for a ride along Fifth Avenue. Paul stared at the expensive stores. As the taxi stopped for a red light, Paul noticed a flower shop. Through the window he could see all kinds of flowers. Paul thought that the violets, roses, and lilies of the valley looked even more lovely because they were blooming in the middle of winter.

Paul began to feel hungry. So he asked the taxi driver to take him back to the hotel. As he entered the dining-room, the music of the hotel orchestra floated up to greet him. He sat at a table near a window. The fresh flowers, the white tablecloth and the colored wine glasses pleased Paul's eyes. The soft music, the low voices of the people around him and the soft popping of champagne corks whispered into Paul's ears. "This is what everyone wants. " He thought. He could not believe he had ever lived in Pittsburgh on Cordelia Street. That belonged to another time and place. Paul lifted the crystal glass of champagne and drank the cool precious bubbling wine. He belonged here.

Later that evening, Paul put on his black tuxedo, and went to the opera. He felt perfectly at ease. He had only to look at his tuxedo to know he belonged with all the other beautiful people in the opera house. He didn't talk to anyone, but his eyes recorded everything. Paul's golden days went by without a shadow. He made each one as perfect as he could.

On the eighth day, after his arrival in New York, he found a report in the newspaper about his crime. It said that his father had paid the company the five thousand dollars that Pual had stolen. It said Paul had been seen in a New York hotel. And it said Paul's father was in New York. He was looking for Paul to bring him back to Pittsburgh.

Paul's knees became weak. He sat down in a chair and put his head in his hands. The dream was ended. He had to go back to Cordelia Street, back to the yellow-papered bedroom, the smell of cooked cabbage, the daily ride to work on the crowded street cars. Paul poured himself a glass of champagne and drank it quickly. He poured another glass and drank that one, too.

Paul had a taxi take him out of the city and into the country. The taxi left him near some railroad tracks. Paul suddenly remembered all the flowers he had seen in a shop window his first night in New York. He realized that by now every one of those flowers was dead. They had had only one splendid moment to challenge winter.

A train whistle broke into Paul's thoughts. He watched as the train grew bigger and bigger. As it came closer, Paul's body shook. His lips wore a frightened smile. Paul looked nervously around as if someone might be watching him. When the right moment came, Paul jumped. And as he jumped, he realized his great mistake. The blue of the ocean and the yellow of the desert flashed through his brain. He had not seen them yet. There was so much he had not seen. Paul felt something hit his chest. He felt his body fly through the air far and fast. Then everything turned black and Paul dropped back into the great design of things.

You have just heard the American story "Paul's Case". It was written by Willa Cather.

Paul's Case I

admin — 2008-09-29 23:36

Our story is called Paul's Case. It was written by Willa Cather. Paul's Case will be told in two parts. Here is part one of the story.

Paul hated school. He did not do his homework. He did not like his teachers. Paul's father did not know what to do with him. His teachers did not know either.

One afternoon, all his teachers at Pittsburg High School met together with him to discuss his case. Paul was late. When he entered the room, his teachers sat waiting for him. He was tall for his age and very thin. His clothes were too small for him but they were clean. He had a bright red flower in the buttonhole of his black jacket.

One of the teachers asked Paul why he had come to the meeting. Paul said politely that he wanted to do better in school. This was a lie. Paul often lied. His teachers began to speak. They had many complaints. One said Paul talked to the other students instead of paying attention to the lessons. Another said Paul always sat in class with his hands covering his eyes. A third teacher said Paul looked out the window instead of looking at her. His teachers attacked him without mercy. Paul's eyebrows moved up and down as his teachers spoke. His smile never left his face, but his fingers shook as he touched the flower on his coat.

At last, the meeting was over. Paul's smile got even wider. He bowed gracefully and left the room. His teachers were angry and confused. The art teacher spoke for all of them when he said there was something about Paul that he didn't understand. ''I don't think he really means to be bad'', he said, ''There's just something wrong with that boy.''

Then the art teacher remembered one warm afternoon when Paul had fallen asleep in his class. Paul's face was white with thin blue veins under the skin. The boy's face looked tired and lined, like an old man's. His eyebrows moved up and down even in his sleep.

After he left the meeting, Paul ran down the hill from the school, whistling. He was late for his job at the Concert Hall. Paul was an usher there. He showed people to their seats. He carried messages for them. He brought them their programs with the polite bow. Everyone thought he was a charming boy and the best usher at the hall. When Paul reached the concert hall that evening, he went immediately to the dressing room. About six boys were already there. Paul began changing his clothes with excited hands. He loved his green uniform with the gold pockets and design. Paul rushed into the concert hall as soon as he had changed clothes. He ran up and down the hall helping people. He became more and more excited. His face became pink and his eyes seemed larger and very bright. He looked almost handsome. At last, everyone was seated. The orchestra began to play. And Paul sat down with a sigh of relief.

The music seemed to free something in Paul's spirit. Then a woman came out and began to sing. She had a rich, strong, soprano voice. Paul felt truly happy for the first time that day. At the end of the concert, Paul went back to the dressing room. After he had changed his clothes again, he went outside the concert hall. He decided to wait for the singer to come out. While he waited, he looked across the street to the large hotel called the Schenley. All the important people stayed at the Schenley when they visited Pittsburgh.

Paul had never been inside it. But he used to stand near the hotel's wide glass doors. He liked to watch the people enter and leave. He believed if he could only enter this kind of a hotel, he would be able to leave school, his teachers and his ordinary gray life behind him forever. At last, the singer came out of the concert hall. Paul followed her as she walked to the hotel. He was part of a large crowd of admirers who had waited to see her. When they all reached the hotel, she turned and waved. Then the doors opened and she disappeared inside.

Paul stared into the hotel as the doors slowly closed. He could feel the warm sweet air inside and for a moment he felt part of a golden world of sparkling lights and marble floors. He thought about the mysterious dishes of food being served in the hotel's dinning room. He thought about green bottles of wine growing cold in silver buckets of ice.

He turned away from the hotel and walked home. He thought of his room with its horrible, yellow wallpaper, the old bed with its ugly red cover. He shook his head. Soon he was walking down the street where he lived. All the houses on Cordelia Street were exactly alike. Middle class businessmen had brought them for their families. All their children went to school and to church. They loved arithmetic. As Paul walked toward his house, he felt as if he were drowning in ugliness. He longed for cool colors and soft lights and fresh flowers. He didn't want to see his ugly bedroom or the cold bathroom with its cracked mirror and gray floor. Paul went around to the back of his father's house. He found an open window and climbed into the kitchen. Then he went downstairs to the basement. He was afraid of rats but he did not want to face his own bedroom. Paul couldn't sleep. He sat on the floor and stared into the darkness until morning came.

The following Sunday, Paul had to go to church with his family. Afterwards, everyone came home and ate a big dinner. Then all the people who lived on Cordelia Street came outside to visit each other.

After supper, Paul asked his father if he could visit a friend to get some help with his arithmetic. Paul left the house with his school books under his arm, but he didn't go to his friend's house. Instead, he went to see Charlie Edwards. Charlie was a young actor. Paul liked to spend as much time as he could at the theater where Charlie Edwards and his group acted in their place. It was only at the theater and the concert hall that Paul felt really alive. The moment he smelled the air of these places, he felt like a prisoner suddenly set free.

As soon as he heard the concert hall orchestra play, he forgot all the ugly unpleasant events in his own life. Paul had discovered that any kind of music awakened his imagination. Paul didn't want to become a musician, however. He didn't want to become an actor, either. He only wanted to be near people who were actors and musicians. He wanted to see the kind of life these artists led.

Paul found the schoolroom even worse after a night at the theater or the concert hall. He hated the school's bare floors and cracked walls. He turned away from his dull teachers in their plain clothes. He tried to show them how little he thought of them and the studies they taught. He would bring photographs of all the actors he knew to school. He would tell the other students that he spent his evenings with these people at elegant restaurants. Then he would announce that he was going away to Europe, or to California, or to Egypt for a while. The next day he would come to school smiling nervously. His sister was ill, he would say. But he was still planning to make his trip next spring.

Paul's problems at school became worse. Even after the meeting with his teachers, things did not get better. He told them he had no time to study grammar and arithmetic. He told them he had to help the actors in the theater. They were all friends of his. Finally, his teachers went to Paul's father. He took Paul out of school and made him get a job. He told the manager at the concert hall that Paul could not work there anymore. His father warned the doorman at the theater not to let Paul into the place. And Charlie Edwards promised Paul's father not to see Paul again. All the actors at the theater laughed when they heard about the stories Paul had been telling. The women thought it was funny that Paul had told people he took them out to nice restaurants and sent them flowers. They agreed with the teachers and with his father that Paul's was a bad case.

Judge II

admin — 2008-09-25 16:52

When Charlie Hestle died, he left a wife and nine children. They lived on a small piece of land in a house with four rooms. Since John was the oldest boy, his mother told him he would have to take care of the family. He was sixteen. John went to Judge Don, the richest man in town, to collect a dollar for some corn the judge bought from John's father. Judge Don gave him the dollar, then he said John's father owed him some money. He said the farmer had borrowed forty dollars from him.

''When do you think you will pay me back the money you owe me?'' the judge asked John. ''I hope you are not like your father,'' he said, ''he was a lazy man who never worked hard.''

During that summer, John worked on other people's farms all week. He worked on his own family's land every evening and all day Sunday. By the end of the summer, John had saved five dollars to give to the judge. John's friend, the Indian Seth Whitefeather, offered John a way to make money during the winter when it was too cold for farming. He said he would teach John how to hunt and trap animals for their fur. He told the boy he could earn a lot of money by doing this. But he said John needed seventy-five dollars to buy a gun, traps and food for a winter in the woods. John went to see Judge Don. He explained what he wanted to do. The judge agreed to lend him the money he needed.

On the first day of November, John kissed his mother good-bye and left home with Seth. On his back he carried a large sack of food, a new gun and animal traps he had bought with the judge's money. He and the Indian walked for hours to a cabin deep in the forest. Seth had built the little house several years before. John learned a lot that winter. He learned how to hunt and set traps for wild animals and how to live in the forest. His body grew strong as the forest tested his strength and made him brave. John trapped a lot of animals. In early March, his pile of animal skins was almost as tall as he was. Seth said John should get at least 200 dollars for his furs. John was ready to go home, but Seth wanted to continue hunting until April. So John decided to go home by himself. Seth helped John pack his furs and traps so he could carry them on his back. Then Seth said, ''Now listen to me. When you cross the river, do not walk on the ice. It is very thin now. Find a place where the ice has melted. Then tie some logs together. You can float on them across the river. It will take you a few hours longer to do this, but it is safer." "Yes, I will." John said quickly. He wanted to leave right away.

As John walked through the woods that day, he began thinking about his future. He would learn how to read and write. He would buy a bigger farm for his family. Maybe someday, he would be as powerful and respected as the judge. The heavy pack on his back made him think of what he would do when he got home. He would buy a new dress for his mother. He would buy toys for his brothers and sisters, and he would see the judge. In his mind, he saw himself entering the judge's office, he would count the money into the judge's hand. John could not wait to pay back the rest of the money that Judge Don said his father had borrowed.

By late afternoon, John's legs hurt, and the pack on his back was very heavy. He was glad when he finally reached the river because that meant he was almost home. John remembered Seth's advice. But he was too tired to search for a place where the ice had melted. He saw a large straight tree growing by the river. It was tall enough to reach the other side of the river. John took out his axe and cut down the tree. It fell, forming a bridge over the river. John gave the tree a kick, but it didn't move. He decided not to do what Seth had said. If he crossed the river on this tree, he would be home in an hour, he could see the judge that evening.

With the furs on his back and his gun in his arms, he stepped out on the fallen tree. It felt solid as a rock under his feet. He was about half way across the river when the tree trunk moved suddenly. John fell from it onto the ice. The ice broke, and John sank under the water. He did not have a chance even to yell. John dropped his gun. The furs and traps slipped off his back. He tried to grab them, but the swiftly flowing water carried them away. John broke through the ice and struggled to the river bank. He had lost everything. He laid in the snow for a few moments. Then he got up, found a long stick and walked up and down the river bank. He poked through the ice for hours, looking for his furs, traps and the gun. Finally he gave up. He walked straight to the judge's house. It was very late, but the judge was still in his office.

John knocked and went in. Cold and still wet, John told the judge how he had ignored Seth's advice and what had happened. The judge said nothing until the boy was done. Then Judge Don said,''Everybody has to learn things. It is bad luck for you and me that you had to learn like this. Go home, boy.''

John worked hard that summer planting corn and potatoes for his family. He also worked on other people's farms and saved enough money to pay the judge another five dollars. But he still owed him 30 dollars from his father's debt and 75 dollars for the traps and the gun--over 100 dollars. John felt he could never pay back the judge.

In October, Judge Don sent for him. ''John,'' he said, ''you owe me a lot of money. I hate the best way I can get it. It's to give you another chance to hunt and trap this winter. Are you willing to go if I lend you another 75 dollars?''

John found the voice to say yes. He had to go into the woods alone that year because Seth had moved to another part of the country. But John remembered everything that his Indian friend had taught him. He stayed in Seth's cabin and hunted animals every day of that long lonely winter. This time he stayed until the end of April. By then he had so many furs that he had to leave his traps behind. The ice over the river had melted when he reached it. He built a raft to take him across even though it took him an extra day.

When he got home, the judge helped him sell the furs for 300 dollars. John paid the judge the 150 dollars he had borrowed to buy the traps and the guns. Then he slowly counted into the judge's hands the money that his father had borrowed. That summer John worked on his family's farm. He also learned to read and write.

Every winter for the next 10 years he hunted in the woods. He saved the money he earned from the furs. He used it finally to buy a large farm. From time to time, he would visit the judge in his big stone house--the old man no longer frightened him. By the time John was 30 years old, he had become one of the leaders of his town. When the judge died that year, he left John his big house and much of his money. He also left John a letter. John opened it and looked at the date. The judge had written it the same day that John had asked him for the money for his first hunting trip.

''Dear John,'' the judge wrote, ''I never loaned your father any money, because I never trusted him. But I liked you the first time I saw you. I wanted to be sure you were not like your father. So I put you to the test. That is why I said you owed me 40 dollars. Good luck, John.''

Inside the envelope was 40 dollars.

You have heard the final part of the American story ''Judge''. Your storyteller was Harry Monroe. The story was written by Walter D. Edmonds.