Perception of Prose

Course Book For English Prose

Banu Wicaksono, S.S., M.Pd.

sekolah tinggi keguruan dan ilmu pendidikan

persatuan guru repulik indonesia
jombang
2015
 Preface

This book defines and discusses terms, theories, and point of view that are

commonly applied to works of literature (that we call narrative or prose) that seems to be

vital on our learning. This is a set of materials used in teaching and learning activities of

English Prose, a subject for the students of English Department of Sekolah Tinggi Keguruan

dan Ilmu Pendidikan (STKIP) PGRI Jombang.

The design of the content has been kept to minimum since it is preferable to the

comprehension needs of the class. The book concentrates on giving preliminary

understanding on English Prose to the students and giving the experience of literature.

Thus, the writer also provides a compilation of short stories for the students to make their

appreciation towards literature. Hopefully, this book will help students in understanding

and interpreting “English Prose”

Banu Wicaksono

ii
 Table of Contents

Preface ....................................................................................................................... ii
Table of Contents ........................................................................................................ iii
What Is Literature? ..................................................................................................... 1
Introduction ............................................................................................................... 1
The Uniqueness of Literature ....................................................................................... 1
The Different Definition between Novel and Prose ....................................................... 3
The Components of Prose ............................................................................................ 4
Plot/ Story .................................................................................................................. 4
Characterization.......................................................................................................... 5
Setting........................................................................................................................ 8
Point of View .............................................................................................................. 8
Style and Tone ............................................................................................................ 10
Theme ........................................................................................................................ 12
Further Reading .......................................................................................................... 13
Appendix (Stories)

iii
 P erception of Prose

Course Book for English Prose

Banu Wicaksono

stkip pgri jombang

 1

What is Literature?

Introduction

In the broadest definition, the word ”Literature” according to Cole (1990: 3)

refers to any written material which has a lasting appeal and which is highly regarded
and widely accepted by its readers. It is personal opinion of human being revealing
experience, opinion, feeling, idea, spirit, belief in the forms of real description which
is arises owe with language as medium. Usually this acceptance and regards are
based on the expression of a universal emotion or idea in an attractive and appealing
form. Agreement on what constitutes literature is both cultural and historical: what
one people or one country regards as literature may not be so regarded by another. In
other words, readers worldwide “create” literature of their times. We may say then
that a work of literature is a text that is valued by its culture; that uses special
language, and that effects people with emotions that are valued for their own benefit.
To some learners, literature is a way to deepen their understanding of life and
culture in which the target language is produced as language expresses and reflects its
culture. By reading and discussing literature, readers can improve their language
skills as well as cultural facts.

The Uniqueness of Literature

What is the effect when we read literature? We take flight into another
existence as if riding a magic carpet into a secondary world of imagination. We see
and hear through language and respond to its feeling rather than seeing and hearing
our actual surroundings or responding to them. It is as though we are hypnotized,
released from our own limited bodies and given the freedom to become anything, see
anything, and feel anything. Anything - that is charmed for us by these curious black
marks on white pages. These marks connect with two enormous “storehouse” in us:
 2

our knowledge in language and our experience of sensations and feelings. What our
imaginations construct for us depends on those personal “warehouse”.

A literary work can used like anything else, from inkblots to feelings, simply
as a device for imaginative stimulation, a way to find out what we are thinking or
feeling or who we are. Or it can be read as the precise records of a unique and
specific experience – an experience we can share more fully. Literature has some
uniqueness as pointed out by Ruloff (1973):
 3

(1) Literature depends upon Performance – it offers and presents itself to our
sensory awareness as a performance. There is no such thing as literature without a
performance, and this truth unites all men who value the use of language and symbol
in creating, re-creating and interpreting human experience.
(2) Literature creates Metaworlds – worlds which exist within our mind and
such things are readily accepted. Despite the fact how strange or mysterious it may
be, we say it really exists because we believe in it.
(3) Literature is oriented essentially to Acoustic Space – since ancient times,
literature was not printed; literature was vocalized. So it was created and transmitted
orally as myth, story, fable song, poem, chant, rite, ritual and play. Before print,
before the abundance of books printed and produced faster than the human capacity
to read and absorb them, this tradition of the spoken performance predominated. The
invention of the printing machine temporarily halted by one-dimensional world of
printing press. Fortunately, a few decades latter the oral tradition is experiencing a
rebirth – due to the birth of the motion picture, radio and television. In today’s
electronic world many people are exposed to metaworld of literature through visual
and auditory presentations before they learn how to read.

The Different Definition between Novel and Prose

Some people like to read novel because of its length and complexity, others
read prose because it is short and ends quickly. This two works of literature left
readers groping in the dark concerning its characteristics. Defined by Professors
Hornstein, Percy, and Brown, a novel is a prose narrative on a large scale. Same as
the short story the novel defies accurate definition both because of the essential but
unfixable element of length and because it includes so many different types and
possibilities (1973:372).
A short story is also called prose. It is shorter than the novel usually not more
than 15,000 words. As said by Barnet and Burto (1960) in A Dictionary of Literary
Terms “It is impossible to distinguish a short story from a novel on any single basis
other than length and there is no established length to either”. They added that since
 4

a good short story and good novel make the most of their length, a reader perhaps say
that the good novel is necessarily more complex than the good short story. Most
frequently a short story writer of the nineteenth century or twentieth century focuses
on a single character or a single episode, and rather than tracing his development,
reveals him at a particular moment. Some short stories can be grouped into fiction – a
fight of fancy story.
Fiction is sometimes roughly divided into commercial fiction – that written
for wide popular consumption – and quality fiction – that are written with a more
serious artistic intent. Then, what are the different anyway? Laurence and Perrine has
the definition: in commercial fiction the most general formula is a sympathetic hero
is faced with obstacles that he finally overcomes to achieve his goal. Basically the
formula is boy meets girl, boy losses girl, boy wins girl. Similar to the so-called
“sinetron” story on television. Easy to digest! The hero usually handsome and the
heroine is beautiful or at least charming. Even when the hero’s primary objective is
something other than love, the commercial writer usually tosses in a beautiful girl in
order to supply his story with some element of “love interest”.
In contrast, quality fiction does not rely upon tested formulas, is more
original-sometimes experimental-and seeks to be interpretive.
To enhance one’s appreciation towards literature especially prose all major
components will be revealed next.

The Components of Prose

Plot / Story

The sequence of incidents or events of which a story is composed is called

plot. Some readers get confused with the other term of story. Story is the sequence in
which events occur as parts of happening and plot is the sequence in which the author
 5

arranges (narrates or dramatizes) them (Barnet et al., 1960: 67). In other words there
really is a big difference between story and plot! Story is the chronological order in
which the event actually occurred. Plot, on the other hand, is a non chronological
order in which the author has decided to reveal those events.
The overall structure of plot is summarized further from Miller and Morse-
Cluley (1984): To prevent boring introduction of the main action, an author usually
plunges into the middle of his story. He starts at the point where his characters are
already transition, soon to be off-balance. That section of the story in which the
author must introduce his character and explain their background situation his called
exposition.
In a well-plotted story, the conflict became as early as possible, sometimes
even before the exposition. That point where the conflict is definitely under way is
called the initial moment.
After the exposition and initial moment, the author creates selected incidents
to demonstrate how the characters are coming to grip with their problem. In a short
story the raising action, will usually culminate in a single crisis (a turning point).
The crisis-especially he major one- is likely to be drawn out and suffering. That
moment when a crisis hit its peak of intensity is called the climax.
Some further action after such a climax is needed to show the resolution of the hero’s
situation as a result of the crisis ordeal. This is often called the denouement or falling
action. The main problem is solved and the tension is relaxed.
In brief, plot is mechanism which takes characters trough three major stages
and two major changes: in the first stage, the characters are in a state of equilibrium.
In the second, these characters are thrown off balance, facing a new conflict. In the
third characters resolve the conflict for better of worse, either emerging triumphant or
going down to defeat. The first stage is speed into the second by initial moment. The
second is changed into the third by climax.
Thus, to summarize the meaning, Plot is arrangement of event in which
characters are tested by circumstances, challenged to change either the situation or
them selves or both.
 6

Characterization

Reading for characters is more difficult than reading for plot, for character is
much more complex, variable and ambiguous. Any one can repeat what a person has
done in a story but it takes considerable skill to describe what a person is.
The main concern for analyzing character is motivation. What is it in a
character’s temperament, background, experience and orientation that motivates him
or her to act as he/she does?
A character is presumably as an imagined person who inhabits a story
although the simple definition may admit to a view acceptations. Even the character
is not a human being usually we recognize human personality that become familiar to
us. According to Taylor (1981: 20), Characters are the persons presented in dramatic
or narrative work, who are interpreted by the reader as being endeavored with the
moral and positional qualities are expressed in what they say the dialogue and what
they do the action
To make easier for discussion, characters are classified as in the following:
1. Based on the Position or Function.
a. Protagonist Character:
- Is always the vocal point of the action of the story whether we like
or approve him or not.
- It contains a thing or force.
- Is not always the winner nor do we necessarily want him to win.

b. Antagonist Character
- a person or thing or force that opponents of the protagonist.

2. Based on the Nature:

a. Stock character: is a literary high character that has appeared and
reappeared in imaginative literature so often that we all know exactly
what he is like.
b. Static character: the character remains the same from beginning to the
end. Most characters in short narrative are static.
 7

c. Developing character: the character of the main figure is modified by

the events in which he/she takes part.
d. Real character: it has vitality. They are alive and seem to be made of
flesh and blood, or mind, heart and soul.
e. Cardboard character: is the opposite of the real character.

3. Based on Characterization.
a. Flat character/simple character
It only has one single trait and he never changes whatever happens to
him/her. Cardboard, static, stock characters belong to this character.
b. Round character/complex character/ dynamic character
This character has many traits and it may change its character as the
story goes on. The mark of complex character is that he is capable of
surprising the readers.

Methods of Character Portrayal

1. Discursive Methods/ Telling Methods

The author simply/ directly tells us about this character. He enumerates their
quality and may even express approval or disapproval of them. The advantage
of this method is simple and economic.

2. Dramatic Methods/ Showing Methods

The author allowed his characters to reveal their selves to us through their
own worlds and action. This is how character is revealed to us in drama. That
is why we called this method as dramatic method. It also how people reveal
themselves to us in lives. The advantage using this dramatic method is more
life like and invites the reader’s active participation in the story.

3. Contextual Methods
The devices of suggesting character by the verbal complex that surround the
character
 8

Setting

Setting is the context in which the action of a story occurs. There are four
major elements of setting:
1. The actual geographical location; including topography, scenery, even the
details of a room interior (place).
2. the occupation and modes of day to day existence of the character
3. The time in which the action takes place, for example: historical period,
season of the year, part of the days.
4. The religious, moral, intellectual, social and emotional environment of the
character.
Those elements above establish the world in which the characters act. In
most stories they also serve as more than backgrounds and furnishings. If we are
sensitive to the context provided by setting, we are better able to understand the
behavior of the characters and the significance of their actions. It may be tempting to
read quickly through a writer’s descriptions and ignore the details of the setting once
on a geographic location and historic periods are established. But if you read a story
so impatiently, the significance of the setting may slip by you. That kind of reading is
similar to traveling on interstate highways; a lot of ground gets covered but very little
is seen along the way.

Point of View

Because one of the pleasures of reading fiction consist of seeing the world
through someone else’s eyes that control our view of the plot, characters and setting.
Point of view refers to who tells us the story and how it is told. What we know and
how we feel about events in a story are shaped by the author’s choice of a point of
view. The teller of a story, the narrator, certainly affects our understanding of the
character’ action by filtering what is told through his or her own perspective. The
narrator should not be confused with the author who has created the narrative voice,
because the two are usually distinct.
 9

 Author as Omniscient Narrator

This is the common point of view, where the author is the Omniscient narrator.
The writer implies claims for himself as all the godlike powers granted to the
storyteller time-honored tradition. He can stand far above his creation and gives us an
overall view or he zoom in for a close-up. He can show us a character as he appears
to others and then he can put us inside that character, always, as said by Miller and
Morse-Cluley (1984:38), he maintains some distance by speaking of this characters
in the third person: he, she, they. He can take us back and forth across time and
space and show us how seemingly separate, unconnected events are really related. He
knows the future of his characters and can give us as much foreknowledge of it as he
wants.
The omniscient is the most flexible point of view and permits the widest
scope. It is also the most subject to abuse. It offers constant danger that the author
may come between the reader and the story or that the continual shifting of view
point from character to character may cause a breakdown in coherence or unity. Used
skillfully it enables the author to achieve simultaneous breadth and depth.
Unskillfully used it can destroy the illustration of reality that the story attempts to
create.
 Author as Limited Omniscient Point of View

The author tells the story in the third person, but he tells it from the
viewpoint of one character in the story. “The author places himself at the elbow of
this character, so to speak, and looks at events of the story through his eyes and
through his mind,” (Perrine, 1974:176). He moves both inside and outside this
character but never leaves his side. He tells us what this character sees and hears and
what he thinks and feels; he possibly interprets character’s thoughts and behavior. He
knows everything about this character-more than the character knows about himself-
but he shows no knowledge of what other characters are thinking or feeling or doing,
except for what his chosen character knows or can infer.
 10

 The first Person Point of View

In this type of point of view the author disappears into one of the characters,
who tells the story in the first person. This character, again, may be either a major or
minor character, protagonist or observer, and it will make considerable difference
whether the protagonist tells his own story or someone else tells it.
The first person point of view shares the virtues and limitations of the limited
omniscient. It offers sometimes, a gain in immediacy and reality, since we get the
story directly from a participant, the author as a middleman being eliminated.

 The Objective (Dramatic) Point of View

The objective point of view makes the author disappears into a kind of roving
sound camera. This camera can go anywhere but can record only what is seen and
heard. It cannot comment, interpret or enter a character’s mind. With this point of
view the reader is placed in the position of a spectator at a movie or play. He sees
what the characters do and hears what they say but only can arrive in conclusion
what they think or feel and what they are like. The author is not there to explain. The
objective point of view has the most sped and the most action; also forces the reader
to make his own interpretations.
Each of the points of view has its advantages, its limitations and its own uses.
Ideally the choice of the author will depend on his story materials and his purpose.
He should choose the point of view that enables him to present his particular
materials most effectively in terms of his purpose. If he is writing a murder mystery,
he will ordinarily avoid using the point of view of the murderer or the brilliant
detective. Otherwise he would have to reveal at the beginning the secrets he wishes to
conceal until the end.

Style and Tones

You will find that an author’s style is that aspect of his/ her work easiest to
react to and hardest to explain. But if we first consider some ways the word style is
 11

commonly used, we can quickly narrow down its implications. Here are the types of
style according to miller and Morse-Cluley:
Style is the person is one expression we often hear. Whether the person is an
actress, baseball player, violinist or writer we talk of his / her style to mean overall
approach, the way that person characteristically functions.
Style is the right word in the right place is another common definition. Here
the aim seems to be to concentrate on the author’s diction (choice of words), syntax
(arrangement of those words), and related factors such as metaphor, simile, and
symbolism (use of comparisons)
Attic style and romanticist style are typical of many expressions we hear that
try to characterize an author’s individual style by relating it to the typical manner or a
certain age or literary movement. Thus attic style aims at the purity and simplicity of
language and structure that the ancient Athenians admire.
Style is the major component of what we perceive as the tone of the work that
is the attitude of the writer. It corresponds to tone of voice in speech.
To sum up, each author has different characteristic style. Style refers to the
distinctive manner in which a writer arranges word to achieve particular effects. That
arrangement includes individual word choices and matters such as the length of
sentences, their structure, tone and the use of irony.
In his writing, an author must add such overtones and undertones with literary
emphases, such as we have been considering here as stylistic maneuvers. Even so a
reader may miss the full implications of an author’s tone, just as listener fail to get
the subtle inflections added to a spoken statement. You have largely to use your own
intuition when you decide how to describe an author’s tone. The tone of voice of a
story or poem can be:
- serious or humorous (such as with heavy versus a light tone)
- formal or informal
- conversational or colloquial – a though the speaker is talking casually with
the reader using familiar language, or
- a loose stream of thought (interior or monologue)
 12

Theme
You have probably noticed as we examined one by one the components of
fiction that:
1. Each component – plot, characterization, setting, point of view, style and
tone- has usually been designed to contribute to the theme(s).
2. By theme, we seem to mean, at various times, subject, central idea, thesis,
massage, lesson, moral, overall meaning.
3. True when we try to state all the conclusion, we can derive from a story, we
realize that like a piece of music, a work of fiction comprises both themes and
motifs (a motif is a part of a theme, a sub theme)
4. Finally, some massages, some conclusions are made explicit in the story,
while others are only implied. The sensitive, careful, trained reader realizes
then that some of the themes will occur to him/her only as she/he reflects on
threading experience.

A brief description about theme of apiece of fiction by Perine (1974: 102) is

the central idea or meaning of a story. It is unifying generalization about life stated or
implied by the story. To derive the theme of a story we must ask what is central
purpose is: what view of life it supports or what insight into life it reveals.

Note: there are several reliable steps to take in formulating the theme of a prose. First
you identify the problems that the main characters face. Then summarize their
experience in facing this problem.
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Further Reading

Barnet, Sylvan, Morton, Berman, and William Burto. 1960. Dictionary of Literary
Terms. Canada. Little Brown & Company.

Kenney William. 1966. How to Analyze Fiction. New York. Monarch Press.

Miller, Walter James and Elizabeth Morse-Cluley.1984. How to Write Books

Reports: New York. Arco Publishing, Inc.

Perrine, Laurence. 1974. Literature: Structure, Sound and Sense. New York.
Harcourt Brace and Jovanovich.

Taylor, Richard. 1981. Understanding Element of Literature. New York: St Martin

Press Warren Beach, Joseph. 1961. American Fiction 1920 – 1940. The
Macmillan Company. New York.

Wellek, Rene and Austin Warren. 1977. Theory of Literature. New York. Harcourt
Brace and Jovanovich.
 14

Appendix

Stories

Godfather Death
by The Brothers Grimm
t r an sl at ed b y M ar g ar et T ay l o r ( 1 8 8 4 )
Wilhelm Karl Grimm (24 February 1786 – 16 December
1859) was a German author, the younger of the Brothers Grimm.
He was born in Hanau, Germany and in 1803 he started studying
law at the University of Marburg, one year after his
brother Jacobstarted there.
In 1825 Wilhelm married Henriette Dorothea Wild, also
known as Dortchen, at age 39. Together they had four childern:
Jakob Grimm (3 April 1826–15 December 1826), Herman Friedrich
Grimm (6 January 1828–16 June 1901), Rudolf Georg Grimm (31
march 1830–13 November 1889), and Auguste Luise Pauline Marie
(21 August 1832–9 February 1919).
From 1837-1841, the Grimm Brothers joined five of their
colleague professors at the University of Göttingen to form a group
known as the Göttinger Sieben (The Göttingen Seven). They
protested against Ernst August, King of Hanover, whom they
accused of violating the constitution. All seven were fired by the
king.
A poor man had twelve children and was forced to work night
and day to give them even bread. When therefore the thirteenth came
into the world, he knew not what to do in his trouble, but ran out into
the great highway, and resolved to ask the first person whom he met
to be godfather. The first to meet him was the good God who already
knew what filled his heart, and said to him, "Poor man, I pity thee. I
will hold thy child at its christening, and will take charge of it and
make it happy on earth." The man said, "Who art thou?" "I am God."
"Then I do not desire to have thee for a godfather," said the man;
"thou givest to the rich, and leavest the poor to hunger." Thus spoke
the man, for he did not know how wisely God apportions riches and
poverty. He turned therefore away from the Lord, and went farther.
Then the Devil came to him and said, "What seekest thou? If thou wilt
take me as a godfather for thy child, I will give him gold in plenty and
all the joys of the world as well." The man asked, "Who art thou?" "I
am the Devil." "Then I do not desire to have thee for godfather," said
the man; "thou deceivest men and leadest them astray." He went
onwards, and then came Death striding up to him with withered legs,
and said, "Take me as godfather." The man asked, "Who art thou?" "I
am Death, and I make all equal." Then said the man, "Thou art the
right one, thou takest the rich as well as the poor, without
distinction; thou shalt be godfather." Death answered, "I will make
thy child rich and famous, for he who has me for a friend can lack
nothing." The man said, "Next Sunday is the christening; be there at
the right time." Death appeared as he had promised, and stood
godfather quite in the usual way.
When the boy had grown up, his godfather one day appeared
and bade him go with him. He led him forth into a forest, and showed
him a herb which grew there, and said, "Now shalt thou receive thy
godfather's present. I make thee a celebrated physician. When thou
art called to a patient, I will always appear to thee. If I stand by the
head of the sick man, thou mayst say with confidence that thou wilt
make him well again, and if thou givest him of this herb he will
recover; but if I stand by the patient's feet, he is mine, and thou must
say that all remedies are in vain, and that no physician in the world
could save him. But beware of using the herb against my will, or it
might fare ill with thee."
It was not long before the youth was the most famous
physician in the whole world. "He had only to look at the patient and
he knew his condition at once, and if he would recover, or must needs
1
die." So they said of him, and from far and wide people came to him, the half-sized ones to married people in their prime, the little ones
sent for him when they had any one ill, and gave him so much money belong to old people; but children and young folks likewise have often
that he soon became a rich man. Now it so befell that the King only a tiny candle." "Show me the light of my life," said the physician,
became ill, and the physician was summoned, and was to say if and he thought that it would be still very tall. Death pointed to a little
recovery were possible. But when he came to the bed, Death was end which was just threatening to go out, and said, "Behold, it is
standing by the feet of the sick man, and the herb did not grow which there." "Ah, dear godfather," said the horrified physician, "light a new
could save him. "If I could but cheat Death for once," thought the one for me, do it for love of me, that I may enjoy my life, be King, and
physician, "he is sure to take it ill if I do, but, as I am his godson, he the husband of the King's beautiful daughter." "I cannot," answered
will shut one eye; I will risk it." He therefore took up the sick man, Death, "one must go out before a new one is lighted." "Then place the
and laid him the other way, so that now Death was standing by his old one on a new one, that will go on burning at once when the old
head. Then he gave the King some of the herb, and he recovered and one has come to an end," pleaded the physician. Death behaved as if
grew healthy again. But Death came to the physician, looking very he were going to fulfill his wish, and took hold of a tall new candle;
black and angry, threatened him with his finger, and said, "Thou hast but as he desired to revenge himself, he purposely made a mistake in
overreached me; this time I will pardon it, as thou art my godson; but fixing it, and the little piece fell down and was extinguished.
if thou venturest it again, it will cost thee thy neck, for I will take thee Immediately the physician fell on the ground, and now he himself was
thyself away with me." in the hands of Death.
Soon afterwards the King's daughter fell into a severe illness.
She was his only child, and he wept day and night, so that he began
to lose the sight of his eyes, and he caused it to be made known that
whosoever rescued her from death should be her husband and inherit
the crown. When the physician came to the sick girl's bed, he saw
Death by her feet. He ought to have remembered the warning given by
his godfather, but he was so infatuated by the great beauty of the
King's daughter, and the happiness of becoming her husband, that he
flung all thought to the winds. He did not see that Death was casting
angry glances on him, that he was raising his hand in the air, and
threatening him with his withered fist. He raised up the sick girl, and
placed her head where her feet had lain. Then he gave her some of the
herb, and instantly her cheeks flushed red, and life stirred afresh in
her.
When Death saw that for a second time he was defrauded of
his own property, he walked up to the physician with long strides,
and said, "All is over with thee, and now the lot falls on thee," and
seized him so firmly with his ice-cold hand, that he could not resist,
and led him into a cave below the earth. There he saw how thousands
and thousands of candles were burning in countless rows, some
large, others half-sized, others small. Every instant some were
extinguished, and others again burnt up, so that the flames seemed
to leap hither and thither in perpetual change. "See," said Death,
"these are the lights of men's lives. The large ones belong to children,
2
 Farewell
by Guy de Maupassant
(1850-1893)
Translators: Albert M.C. McMaster, A.E. Henderson, Mme.
Quesada, & others
French writer Guy de Maupassant is famous for his short
stories, which paint a fascinating picture of French life in the
19th century. He was prolific, publishing over 300 short stories,
six novels, three travel books, and one volume of verse. His first
published story, "Boule de Suif" ("Ball of Fat", 1880), is often
considered his masterpiece.
The short stories of writer Guy de Maupassant detail many
aspects of French life in the 19th century. However, he died at a
young age after ongoing struggles with both physical and
mental health.
The two friends were getting near the end of their dinner. Through the
cafe windows they could see the Boulevard, crowded with people. They
could feel the gentle breezes which are wafted over Paris on warm
summer evenings and make you feel like going out somewhere, you
care not where, under the trees, and make you dream of moonlit
rivers, of fireflies and of larks.
One of the two, Henri Simon, heaved a deep sigh and said:
"Ah! I am growing old. It's sad. Formerly, on evenings like this, I felt
full of life. Now, I only feel regrets. Life is short!"
He was perhaps forty-five years old, very bald and already growing
stout.
The other, Pierre Carnier, a trifle older, but thin and lively, answered:
"Well, my boy, I have grown old without noticing it in the least. I have
always been merry, healthy, vigorous and all the rest. As one sees
oneself in the mirror every day, one does not realize the work of age,
for it is slow, regular, and it modifies the countenance so gently that
the changes are unnoticeable. It is for this reason alone that we do not
die of sorrow after two or three years of excitement. For we cannot
understand the alterations which time produces. In order to
appreciate them one would have to remain six months without seeing
one's own face-- then, oh, what a shock!
"And the women, my friend, how I pity the poor beings! All their joy, all
their power, all their life, lies in their beauty, which lasts ten years.
3
"As I said, I aged without noticing it; I thought myself practically a
youth, when I was almost fifty years old. Not feeling the slightest
infirmity, I went about, happy and peaceful.
"The revelation of my decline came to me in a simple and terrible
manner, which overwhelmed me for almost six months--then I became
resigned.
"Like all men, I have often been in love, but most especially once.
"I met her at the seashore, at Etretat, about twelve years ago, shortly
after the war. There is nothing prettier than this beach during the
morning bathing hour. It is small, shaped like a horseshoe, framed by
high while cliffs, which are pierced by strange holes called the 'Portes,'
one stretching out into the ocean like the leg of a giant, the other short
and dumpy. The women gather on the narrow strip of sand in this
frame of high rocks, which they make into a gorgeous garden of
beautiful gowns. The sun beats down on the shores, on the
multicolored parasols, on the blue-green sea; and all is gay, delightful,
smiling. You sit down at the edge of the water and you watch the
bathers. The women come down, wrapped in long bath robes, which
they throw off daintily when they reach the foamy edge of the rippling
waves; and they run into the water with a rapid little step, stopping
from time to time for a delightful little thrill from the cold water, a
short gasp.
"Very few stand the test of the bath. It is there that they can be
judged, from the ankle to the throat. Especially on leaving the water
are the defects revealed, although water is a powerful aid to flabby
skin.
"The first time that I saw this young woman in the water, I was
delighted, entranced. She stood the test well. There are faces whose
charms appeal to you at first glance and delight you instantly. You
seem to have found the woman whom you were born to love. I had
that feeling and that shock.
"I was introduced, and was soon smitten worse than I had ever been
before. My heart longed for her. It is a terrible yet delightful thing thus
to be dominated by a young woman. It is almost torture, and yet
infinite delight. Her look, her smile, her hair fluttering in the wind, the
little lines of her face, the slightest movement of her features, delighted
me, upset me, entranced me. She had captured me, body and soul, by
her gestures, her manners, even by her clothes, which seemed to take
on a peculiar charm as soon as she wore them. I grew tender at the
sight of her veil on some piece of furniture, her gloves thrown on a
chair. Her gowns seemed to me inimitable. Nobody had hats like hers.
"She was married, but her husband came only on Saturday, and left
on Monday. I didn't cencern myself about him, anyhow. I wasn't
jealous of him, I don't know why; never did a creature seem to me to
be of less importance in life, to attract my attention less than this
man.
"But she! how I loved her! How beautiful, graceful and young she was!
She was youth, elegance, freshness itself! Never before had I felt so
strongly what a pretty, distinguished, delicate, charming, graceful
4
being woman is. Never before had I appreciated the seductive beauty "She was puffing, out of breath from having been forced to walk
to be found in the curve of a cheek, the movement of a lip, the quickly. The children began to chatter. I unfolded my paper and began
pinkness of an ear, the shape of that foolish organ called the nose. to read.

"This lasted three months; then I left for America, overwhelmed with "We had just passed Asnieres, when my neighbor suddenly turned to
sadness. But her memory remained in me, persistent, triumphant. me and said:
From far away I was as much hers as I had been when she was near
me. Years passed by, and I did not forget her. The charming image of "'Excuse me, sir, but are you not Monsieur Garnier?'

her person was ever before my eyes and in my heart. And my love
"'Yes, madame.'
remained true to her, a quiet tenderness now, something like the
beloved memory of the most beautiful and the most enchanting thing I "Then she began to laugh, the pleased laugh of a good woman; and yet
had ever met in my life. it was sad.

"Twelve years are not much in a lifetime! One does not feel them slip "'You do not seem to recognize me.'
by. The years follow each other gently and quickly, slowly yet rapidly,
each one is long and yet so soon over! They add up so rapidly, they "I hesitated. It seemed to me that I had seen that face somewhere; but
leave so few traces behind them, they disappear so completely, that, where? when? I answered:
when one turns round to look back over bygone years, one sees
"'Yes--and no. I certainly know you, and yet I cannot recall your
nothing and yet one does not understand how one happens to be so
name.'
old. It seemed to me, really, that hardly a few months separated me
from that charming season on the sands of Etretat. "She blushed a little:

"Last spring I went to dine with some friends at Maisons-Laffitte. "'Madame Julie Lefevre.'

"Just as the train was leaving, a big, fat lady, escorted by four little "Never had I received such a shock. In a second it seemed to me as
girls, got into my car. I hardly looked at this mother hen, very big, very though it were all over with me! I felt that a veil had been torn from my
round, with a face as full as the moon framed in an enormous, eyes and that I was going to make a horrible and heartrending
beribboned hat. discovery.

5
"So that was she! That big, fat, common woman, she! She had become
the mother of these four girls since I had last her. And these little
beings surprised me as much as their mother. They were part of her;
they were big girls, and already had a place in life. Whereas she no
longer counted, she, that marvel of dainty and charming gracefulness.
"We had reached. Maisons-Laffitte. I kissed my old friend's hand. I had
found nothing utter but the most commonplace remarks. I was too
much upset to talk.
"At night, alone, at home, I stood in front of the mirror for a long time,

It seemed to me that I had seen her but yesterday, and this is how I a very long time. And I finally remembered what I had been, finally

found her again! Was it possible? A poignant grief seized my heart; saw in my mind's eye my brown mustache, my black hair and the

and also a revolt against nature herself, an unreasoning indignation youthful expression of my face. Now I was old. Farewell!"

against this brutal, infariious act of destruction.

###

"I looked at her, bewildered. Then I took her hand in mine, and tears
came to my eyes. I wept for her lost youth. For I did not know this fat
lady.

"She was also excited, and stammered:

"'I am greatly changed, am I not? What can you expect--everything has

its time! You see, I have become a mother, nothing but a good mother.
Farewell to the rest, that is over. Oh! I never expected you to recognize
me if we met. You, too, have changed. It took me quite a while to be
sure that I was not mistaken. Your hair is all white. Just think! Twelve
years ago! Twelve years! My oldest girl is already ten.'

"I looked at the child. And I recognized in her something of her

mother's old charm, but something as yet unformed, something which
promised for the future. And life seemed to me as swift as a passing
train.

6
 LOVE
OF LIFE
adapted from the story by
Jack London
Jack London, was born of a poor family in San Francisco, in 1876.
He left school at fourteen, and became a sailor, a hunter, and
an explorer. His first long trip was to Japan. When he was eighteen,
he returned to high school for one year. Then he went to the
University of California at Berkeley. But again, he left after one year,
and began to write seriously. In 1897, he went to the Klondike in
Canada. Many men went there to find gold. London found adventures
that he put into his most famous stories and novels. London
continued to travel until a few years before his death in 1916.
Two men walked slowly through the low water of a river.
They were alone in the cold empty land. All they could see were
stones and earth. It was fall, and the river ran cold over their
feet. They carried blankets on their backs. They had guns, but
no bullets; matches, but no food.
"I wish we had just two of those bullets we hid in the
camp," said the first of the men. His voice was tired, The other
man did not answer.
Suddenly the first man fell over a stone. He hurt his foot
badly, and he cried out. He lay still for a moment, and then
called: "Hey, Bill, I've hurt my foot." Bill didn't stop or look
back. He walked out of the river and over the hill. The other
man watched him. His eyes seemed like the eyes of a sick
animal. He stood up. "Bill!" he cried again. But there was no
answer. Bill kept walking.
"Bill!"
The man was alone in the empty land. His hands were cold,
and he dropped his gun. He fought with his fear, and took his
gun out of the water. He followed slowly after Bill. He tried to
walk lightly on his bad foot.
He was alone, but he was not lost. He knew the way to their
camp. There he would find food, bullets, and bl ankets. He must
find them soon. Bill would wait for him there. Together they
would go south to the Hudson Bay Company They would find
food there, and a warm fire. Home The man had to believe that
Bill would wait for him at the camp. If not, he would die. H e
thought about the food in the camp. And the food at the
Hudson Bay Company. And the food he ate two days ago. He
thought about food and he walked. After a while the man found
some small berries to eat. The berries had no taste, and did not
fill him. But he knew he must eat them
In the evening he hit his foot on a stone and fell down. He
could not get up again. He lay still for a long time. Later, He
felt a little better and got up. He made a fire. He could cook
only hot water, but he felt warmer. He drie d his shoes by the
fire. They had many holes. His feet had blood on them. His foot
hurt badly. He put his foot in a piece of his blanket. Then he
slept like dead man.
7
 He woke up because he heard an animal near him. He
thought of meat and took his gun. But he had no bullets. The
animal ran away. The man stood up and cried out. His foot was
much a worse this morning. He took out a small bag that was
in his blanket. It was heavy - fifteen pounds. He didn't know if
he could carry it. But he couldn't leave it behind. He had to
take it with him. lie had to be strong enough. He put it into his
blanket again.
That day his hunger grows worse, Worse than the hurt in
his foot. Many times, he wanted to lie down, but hunger made
him go on. He saw a few birds. Once he tried to catch one, but
it flew away. He felt tired and sick. He forgot to follow the way
to the camp. in the afternoon he found some green plants. He
ate them fast, like a horse. He saw a small fish in a river. He
tried to catch it with his cup. But the fish swam away into a
hole. The man cried like a baby, first quietly, then loudly. He
cried alone in that empty world.
That night he made a fire again, and drank hot water. His
blanket was wet, and his foot hurt. He could think only of his
hunger. He woke up cold and sick. The earth and sky were
grey. He got up and walked, he didn't know where. But the
small bag was with him. The sun came out again, and he saw
that he was lost. Was he too far north? He turned toward the
east. His hunger was not so great, but he knew he was sick. He
stopped often. He heard wolves, and knew that deer were near
him. He believed he had one more bullet let in his gun. It was
still empty. The small bag became too heavy. The man opened
the bag. It was full of small pieces of gold. He put half the gold
in a piece of his blanket and left it on a rock. But he kept his
gun. There were bullets, in that camp.
Days passed, days of rain and cold. One day he came to the
bones of a deer. There was no meat on the bones. The man
knew wolves must be near. He broke the bones and ate like an
animal Would he, too, be only bones tomorrow? And why not?
This was life, he thought. Only life hurt. There was no hurt in
death. To die was to sleep. Then why was he not ready to die?
He could not see or feel. The hunger, too, was gone. But he
walked and walked.
One morning he woke up beside a river. Sunlight was warm
on his face. A sunny day, he thought. Perhaps he could find his
way to the camp. His eyes followed the river. He could see far.
The river emptied into the sea. He saw a ship on that silver sea.
He shut his eyes. He knew there could be no, ship, no seas, in
this land. He heard a noise behind him, and turned back. A
wolf, old and sick, was following him. I know this is real, he
thought. He turned again, but the sea and the ship were still
there. He didn't understand it. He tried to remember. What did
the men at the Hudson Bay Company say about this land? Was
he walking north, away from the camp, toward the sea? The
man moved slowly toward the ship. He knew the sick wolf was
following him. In the afternoon he found more bones left by
wolves. The bones of a man! Beside the bone, was a small bag
of gold, like his own. Ha! Bill carried his gold to the end, he
thought. He would take Bill's gold to the ship. Ile would have
the last laugh on Bill. His laughing sounded like the low cry of
an animal. The wolf cried back, to the man, and the man
stopped laughing. How could he laugh about Bill's bones? He
could not take Bill's gold. He left the gold near the bones.
The man was very sick, now. He walked more and more
slowly. His blanket was gone. He lost his gold, then his gun,
then his knife. Only the wolf stayed with him hour after hour.
At last the man could go no further. He fell down. The wolf
came close to him. It weakly bit his hand. The man hit the wolf
and it went away. But it did not go far.
It waited. The man waited. After many hours the wolf came
back again. It was going to kill the man. But the man was
ready. He held the wolf’s mouth closed, and he got o n top of the
sick wolf. He held the animal still. Then -he bit it with his last
strength. He tasted the wolf’s blood in his mouth. Only of life
gave him enough strength. He held the wolf with his teeth and
killed it. Later he fell on his back and slept.
***
The men on the ship saw a strange thing on the land. It did
not walk. It was lying on the ground, and it moved slowly
toward them—perhaps twenty feet an hour. The men went close
to look at it. They could not believe it was a man.
8
 THE ROMANCE
Three weeks later the man felt better. He could tell them
his story. But there was one strange thing. He could not believe
there was enough food on the ship. The men told him there was

OF A
a lot of food. But he only looked at them with fear. And slowly
he began to grow fat. The men thought this was strange. They
gave him less food, but still he grew larger and larger -each day
he was fatter. Then one day they saw him put a lot of bread
under his shirt. They looked in his bed, too, and saw bread:
under his blanket. The men understood, and left him alone.
BUSY BROKER

adapted from the story by

O. Henry

O’ Henry was born in Greensboro, North Carolina, in 1862. His

real name was William Sydney Porter. He left school at fifteen and
worked at different times in a drug store, a business office, an
architect’s office, and finally a bank. When he was caught taking
money from his own bank, he was arrested and put in prison for three
years. He had begun writing, and while he was in prison, he
published a book of adventure stories called Cabbages and Kings. He
moved to New York in 1902, and it was there that he became
famous for his short stories with surprise endings. He wrote
hundreds of stories about the ordinary people of New York City. His
most famous books include The Four Million and The Voice of the
City. 0’ Henry died in 1910.

9
 I t elegr ams. Ev en Pitcher's face looked more alive. Maxwell
Pitcher had worked for many years in the office of Harvey Maxwell,
the stockbroker. Pitcher was a quiet man. He didn't usually let his
face show his feelings. But this morning he looked surprised—and very
interested. Harvey Maxwell had arrived energetically as usual at 9:30.
But this morning, the young lady who was his secretary had arrived
with him. Pitcher watched them with interest. Harvey Maxwell didn't
pay attention to Pitcher. He said only a quick “Good morning," and ran
to his desk. He dug energetically into the mountain of letters and
telegrams that waited for him.
The young lady had been the stockbroker's secretary for a year.
She was beautiful, and she dressed simply. Unlike some secretaries,
she never wore cheap glass jewelry. Her drew was grey and plain, but it
fitted her body nicely. With it she were a small black hat with a green-
gold flower at the side. This morning her face shone with happiness.
Her eyes were bright, her face a soft pink.
Pitcher, still interested, noticed that she acted differently this
morning. Usually she walked straight inside to her own desk. But this
morning she stayed in the outside office. She walked over near
Maxwell's desk. Maxwell didn't seem to be a man anymore. He had
changed into a busy New Yor k st ockbr oker. He'd become a
machine of many moving parts.
"Well—what is it? Is anything wrong?" Maxwell asked his
secretary. He wasn't looking at her. His eyes were on his mail.
Letters and telegrams lay on his desk like snow.
"It's nothing," she said softly. She moved away with a little
smile. " M r . Pitcher, • she said, coming over t o h i m , "did Mr.
Maxwell ask you to hire another secretary yesterday?"
"Yes, he did," answered Pitcher. "He told me to get another one. I
asked the secretarial school to send over a few this morning. But
it's 9:45, and no one has come yet."
"I will do the work as usual, then," said the young lady,
"until someone comes to fill the place." And she went to her desk
at once. She hung up the black hat with the green-gold flower in
its usual place.
Harvey Maxwell was always a busy stockbroker, but today he was
even busier than usual. The ticker tape machine began to throw out
tape. The desk telephone began to ring. Men crowded into the office,
buying and selling, crying and yelling. Boys ran it and out with
pushed his chair against the wall. He ran energetically from
ticker tape to telephone, jumping like a dancer.
In the middle of all this action and yelling, the stock broker
realized that someone new had arrived. He first saw a high
mountain of golden hair under a large round hat. Then he
noticed some large glass jewelry. Underneath all this was a
young lady. Pitcher saw that Maxwell didn't know who she
was. He came forward to explain. "Here is the lady from the
secretarial school," Pitcher said to Maxwell. "She came for the job."
Maxwell turned around with his hands full of papers and
ticker tape. "What job?" he yell ed. His face looked angry.
"The secretarial job," Pitcher said quietly. "You told me
yesterday to call the school. I asked them to send one over this
morning."
"You're losing your mind why would I tell you a thing like that?
Miss Leslie has worked well for a whole year here. The job is hers
while she wants to stay. There is no job here, Madam! Tell the
secretarial school, Pitcher. Don't bring any more of them in here!"
The lady turned to leave. Her hat almost hit
P i t c h e r i n the eye as she angrily walked past him out of the office.
Pitcher thought to himself that Maxwell was getting more forgetful
every day.
II
The office became busier and busier. Orders to buy and sell came and
went like birds flying. Maxwell was worried about his own stocks, too,
and worked faster and harder. This was the stock market, the world of
money. There was no room in it for the world of human feelings or the
world of nature.
Near lunchtime, everything quieted down. Maxwell stood by his
desk with his hands full of telegrams. His pen was behind h is ear. His
hair stood up on his head. Suddenly through the open window came a
smell of flowers, like the thin breath of spring. Maxwell stood still. This s
was Miss Leslie's smell her own and only hers. The smell seemed to
bring her before him. The world of the stock market disappeared. And
Miss Leslie was in the next room--only twenty steps away,
"I'll do it now," said Maxwell softly. "I’ll ask her now. Why didn’t I
10
do it long ago?"
He ran into her office. He jumped towards her desk. She looked up
at him with a smile. Her face turned a soft pink. Her eyes were kind.
AN OCCURRENCE AT
Maxwell put his hands on her desk. They were still full of papers.
"Miss Leslie," he said, hurrying, "I only have a moment to OWL CREEK BRIDGE
talk. I want to say something important in that moment: Will you
be my wife? I haven't had time to show you, but I really do love you.
Speak quickly please—there's the telephone."
“Why - what are you talking about?" cried the young lady.
She stood up and looked at him strangely.
"Don't you understand?" Maxwell asked quickly, looking back
at the phone on his desk. "I want you to marry me. I've stolen this
adapted from the story by
moment to ask you, now, while things have quieted down a
little. Take the telephone, Pitcher!" he yelled. "Will you, Miss
Leslie?" he added softly.
The secretary acted very strange. At first, she seemed sur prised.
Ambrose Bierce
Then she began to cry. But then she smiled through her
tears like the sun through rain. She put her arm around the
stockbroker's neck.
"I know now," she said. "It's this business that put it out of your
head. I was afraid, at first. But don't you remember, Harvey? We were
married last evening at 8:00, in the little church around the comer." Ambrose Bierce was born in Ohio in 1842. He went to school, a
military academy, for just one year. In 1864, during the Civil War
between the North and the South, Bierce joined the Army. After the war,
he went to California. He wrote political pieces for newspapers. His
first short story was published in 1871. That same year he married
and went to live in London. After five years in London, he returned to
the United States. He worked for the Hearst Newspaper Company on
the West Coast. He went to write about the Mexican War in 1814,
where he disappeared in the fighting. "An Occurrence at Owl Creek
Bridge" appeared in a collection of short stories Tales of Soldiers anal
Civilians in 1891. A second collection, Can Such Things Be?, was
published in 1893.

11
A man stood upon a railroad bridge in northern Alabama. He
looked down into the river below. The man's hands were tied behind
his back. A rope circled his neck. The end of the long rope was tied
to part of the wooden bridge above his head.
Next to the man stood two soldiers of the Northern army. A short
distance away stood their captain. Two sol diers guarded each
end of the bridge. On one bank of the river, other soldiers stood
silently, facing the bridge. The two guards at each end of the
bridge faced the banks of the river. None of the soldiers moved.
The captain, too, stood silent. He watched the work of the two
soldiers near him, but he made no sign. All of them were waiting
silently for Death. Death is a visitor who must be met with
respect. Even soldiers, who see so much death, must show respect to
Death. And in the army, silence and stillness are signs of
respect.
The man with the rope around his neck was going to be hanged.
He was about thirty-fire years old. He was not dressed like a
soldier. He wore a well-fitting coat. His face was a fine one. He had
a straight nose, strong mouth, and dark hair. His large eyes were
grey, and looked kind. He did not seem like the sort of man to be
hanged. Clearly he was not the usual sort of criminal. But the Army
has laws for hanging many kinds of people. And gentlemen are not ex-
cused from hanging.
When the two soldiers were ready, they stepped away. The captain
faced the condemned man. They stood face to face on a piece of wood.
The middle of the board rested against the edge of the bridge. When
the captain stepped off the board, the piece of wood would fall down
into the river. The condemned man would fall down after the board.
Only the rope around his neck would stop him. He would be hanged by
the neck until dead. The man's face had not been covered. His
eyes were open. He looked down at the river below. He saw a small
piece of wood floating along with the river. How slowly it moved! What
a gentle river!
He closed his eyes and thought of his wife and children. Until
now, other things had filled his mind: the water, painted gold
by the sun ... the soldiers ... the floating wood. After a little while
he heard a new sound. A strange metallic sound kept beating
through the thoughts of his family. He wondered what it was. It
sounded far away, and yet very close. It was as slow as a death-
bell ringing. The sound came louder and louder. It seemed to cut
into his brain like a knife. He was afraid he would cry out. But it
was only his own watch making its little sound.
He opened his eyes. Ile saw again the water below him. "If I could
free my hands," he thought, "I might throw off the rope. I could jump
into the river. If I swam quickly underwater, I could escape the
bullets. I would reach the river bank, run into the woods and go
home. My home, thank God, it still safe from the Northern Army."
These thoughts must be written in words here. But they passed as
quickly as light through the condemned man's mind.
And then the captain stepped off the board.
II
The condemned man's name was Peyton Farquhar. He was a rich
farmer, the last son in an old Alabama family. He owned slaves who
worked on his farm. Like other Southern farmers, he believed that
slaves were necessary to Southern farming. The Northern
government had said that it was against the law to have slaves.
Now, North and the South were at war.
Certain work had kept Peyton Farquhar from joining the
Southern Army at the beginning of the war. But he was at heart a
soldier. He did everything he could to help the South. No job was
too low, no adventure too dangerous. One evening, Farquhar and his
wife were sitting in the garden. A soldier rode up to the house.
He was dressed like other soldiers in the Southern Army. While
Mrs. Farquhar want to g e t h i m a d r i n k o f w a t e r , t h e s o l d i e r
s p o k e w i t h F arquhar.
"The Northerners are rebuilding the railroads," the
soldier said. "They are getting ready for another advance. They've
reached Owl Creek Bridge. They've fixed the bridge and moved in a
lot of soldiers. Anyone who attacks the railroad or tries to destroy
the bridge will be hanged."
“How far is it to Owl Creek, Bridge?" Farquhar asked.
"About thirty miles."
"Are there soldiers on this side of the bridge?"
“Only a few guards."
12
 "Suppose that a man went around the guards?" Farquhar
smiled. "What could he do to stop the advance?'
The soldier thought a moment. Then he said, "I was at the bridge
a month ago. I saw a lot of wood that the river had washed
against one end of the bridge. It's very dry now, and the wood would
burn quickly and well."
The lady had now brought, the water. The soldier drank.
He thanked her, bowed to Farquhar, and rode away. An hour
later, after nightfall, he passed Farquhar's farm Again. He went
North in the direction he had come from. He was a Northern
soldier.
III
Peyton Farquhar fell down from the bridge. He lost consciousness. He
was like one already dead. He was awakened—hours later, it seemed
to him—by the great pain in his neck. Pain passed through his body
like rivers of f ire. He was conscious of a fullness in his head. He
could not think. He could only feel. He was conscious of motion. He
seemed to be falling through a red cloud. Then suddenly the light flew
upward with the noise of a loud splash. A fearful noise was in his ears.
All was cold and dark. The power of thought came back to him. He
knew the rope had broken, and he had fallen into the river. The rope
around his neck was cutting off the air. To die of hanging at the
bottom of a river! No! Impossible! He opened his eyes in the darkness.
He was, light far, far above him. He was still going down, for the light
grew smaller and smaller. But then it grew brighter and he knew he
was coming back up to the top of the river Now he felt sorry to be
coming out of the water. He had been so comfortable. "To be
hanged and drowned," he thought. "That is not so bad. But I do
not want to be shot. No, 1 will not be shot. That's not fair!"
He was not conscious of his actions until he felt pain in his
hands. Then he realized that he was trying to free his hands. At
last the rope fell off. His arms floated upward; he could see his
hands. He watched with interest. His hands were trying to untie
the rope around his neck. They pulled off the rope and it floated
away. "Put it back, put it back," he felt himself crying. His neck
hurt badly. His mind was on fire, his heart beat wildly enough to
leave his body. His whole body was in great pain. But his hands
pushed him up out, of the water. And he took a great breath of air.
Now he was fully conscious. His five senses seemed unusually
clear. The pain his body had felt made him see a n d feel the beauty
around h i m . H e felt the water a g a i n s t his skin. He hear d t he
sof t soun d a s it hit his neck and sh oul der s . He looked into the
forest on the bank and could see each, tree, each leaf. He could
even see small forest animals between the trees. A fish swam
before his eyes. He noticed how the sunlight shone on the fish's
silver skin.
He was facing away from the bridge when his head came
out of the water. Now he turned around. He saw small men on
the bridge, dark against the blue sky. They cried out and pointed
at him. The captain took out his gun but did not shoot.
Then, suddenly, he heard a loud bang. Something hit the
water near his head. Water splashed in his face. He heard a
second shot and a light blue cloud rose from the gun. Then
Farquhar hear d the captain call to the men: "Ready, men ...
Shoot!"
Far q uh ar s wa m d e e p u n der t h e w at er . Th e w at er
s o un d e d loud in his ears. But even above the sound of the water
he heard the shots. He swam down the river.
Later he swam to the top again. He saw he was quite far from
the bridge. The soldiers were still pointing their guns at him.
The captain will not order them t o shoot together
again." he thought. "It's as easy to escape many bullet as one.
He'll order them to shoot as they wish. God help me, I cannot escape
them all."
Suddenly he was caught by a strong current in the river.
The current pulled him under the water. It carried him
down the river and turned him over and over. At last the
force of the current pushed him up onto t he bank.
He lay on the bank, crying with happiness and tiredn e s s .
H e d u g h i s f i n g e r s i n t o r i v e r h a n k . T h e s m a l l stones felt like
jewels. The trees looked to him like a-finest of gold. The air smelled
clear and sweet, and a pink light shone through the trees.
The sound of bullets in the trees awoke him. He rose to his
feet, frightened again, and disappeared into the forest.
All that day he traveled. The forest seemed endless. He
could find no road. He hadn't realized before now that he lived near
such a wild place.
When night began to fall, he was very tired and hun gry.
13
The thought of his wife and children helped him to continue.
At last he found a road that seemed to lead in the right direction.

THE LADY,
It was as wide and straight as a city street. But it seemed
untraveled. There were no fields, no houses nearby. The big
black trees formed a straight wall on both sides. Overhead, great
golden stars shone in the sky. The s t a r s lo o k e d u n f a m i l i a r .
H e w a s s u r e t h a t t h e y w e r e grouped in some strange order
which meant bad luck. From inside the forest came strange noises.
Among them he heard people talking in an unknown language.
OR THE TIGER?
His neck was in pain. He knew that the rope had left a black
circle on his skin. He could not close his eyes. His tongue was
dry; he felt very thirsty. Grass seemed to cover the road now; it
was soft under his feet.
Did he fall asleep while he was walking? Now he sees something
else. Perhaps he was wakened from a dream. Now he stands
not far from the door of his own house. Everything looks just as
he left it, bright and beautiful in the morning sunshine. He
must have traveled t hrough the whole night. As he walks toward
adapted from the story by
the door, his wife appears to meet him. She stands waiting, cool
and sweet, silent and still. She holds out her arms to him with
a smile of happiness. Ah! how beautiful she is! He moves toward her
with open arms. He moves slowly, closer, closer. At the moment he Frank Stockton
touches her, he feels a great pain at the back of his neck. A white
light flames all about him....
There was a loud bang, then silence. All was dark ness…

Peyton Farquhar was dead.

His body, with a broken neck,
hung fr om a rope beneath Owl Frank R. Stockton was born in 1834. His most famous stories are in the
Creek Bridge. form of fairy tales, ghost stories, or romances. But in all of them his
humor has an edge like a knife. When "The Lady, or the Tiger?" was
published in Century Magazine in 1832, it caused excitement all
over the country. Hundreds of people wrote letters to the magazine or
to their newspapers about it. Many letters demanded an answer to the
question which the story asks. Others asked if the story was really
about government, or psychology, or the battle of the sexes, or
something else. Wisely, Stockton never answered any of the letters.

14
The story remains as fresh today as it was then. Frank Stockton died in
1902.
A long, long time ago, there was a semi-barbaric king. I call him semi-
barbaric because the modern world, with its modern ideas, had
softened his barbarism a little. But still, his ideas were large, wild,
and free. He had a wonderful imagination. Since he was also a king of
the greatest powers, he easily turned the dreams of his imagination
into facts. He greatly enjoyed talking to himself about ideas. And,
when he and himself agreed upon a thing, the thing was done. He
was a very pleasant man when everything in his world moved
smoothly. And when something went wrong, he be-came even more
pleasant. Nothing, you see, pleased him more than making wrong
things right.
One of this semi-barbaric king's modern ideas was the idea of a
large arena. In this arena, his people could watch both men and
animals in acts of bravery.
But even this modern idea was touched by the king's wild
imagination. In his arena, the people saw more than soldiers fighting
soldiers, or men fighting animals. They enjoyed more than the
sight of blood. In the king's arena, the people saw the laws of the
country at work. They saw good men lifted up and bad men pushed
down. Most important, they were able to watch the workings of the
first law of Chance.
Here is what happened when a man was accused of crime. If
the king was interested in the crime, then the people were told to
come to the arena. They came together and sat there, thousands of
them. The king sat high up in his king's chair. When he gave a
sign, a door below him o pened. The accused man stepped out into
the arena. Across from him, on the other side of the arena, were
two other doors. They were close together and they looked the
same. The accused man would walk straight to these door's
and open one of them. He could choose either one of the doors.
He was forced by nothing and led by no one. Only Chance helped
him—or didn't help him
Behind one of the doors was a tiger. It was the wildest, biggest,
hungriest tiger that could be found. Of course, it quickly
jumped on the man. The man quickly— -is not so quickly—died.
After he died, sad bells rang, women cried and the thousands of
people walked home slowly.
But, if the accused man opened the other door, a lady
would step out. She was the finest and most beautiful lady that
could be found. At that moment, there in the arena, she would
be married to the man. It didn't matter if the man was
already married. It didn't matter if he was in love with another
woman. The king did not let little things like that get in the way
of his imagination. No, the two were married there in front of
the king. There was music and, dancing. Then happy bells
rang, women cried, avid the sands of people walked home singing.
This was the way the law worked in the king's semi -
barbaric country. Its fairness is clear. The criminal could not
know which door the lady was behind. He opened either door as
he wanted. At the moment he opened the door, he did not know if
he was going to be eaten or married.
The people of the country thought the law was a good one.
They went to the arena with great interest. They never knew if
they would see a bloody killing or a lovely marriage. This
uncertainty gave the day its fine and unusual taste. And they
liked the fairness of the law. Wasn't it true that the accused man held
his life in his own hands?
This semi-barbaric king had a daughter. The princess was as
beautiful as any flower in the king's imagination. She had a mind as
wild and free as the king's. She had a heart like a volcano. The
king loved her deeply. Watch her closely, and was very jealous of
her. But he could not always watch her. And in his castle lived a
young man. This young man was a worker. He was a good worker,
but he was of low birth. He was brave and beautiful, and the
princess loved him, and was jealous of him. Because of the
girl's semi-barbarism, her love was hot and strong. Of course, the
young man quickly returned it. The lovers were
h a p p y t o gether for many months. But one day the king
discovered their love. Of course he did not lose a minute. He
15
threw the young man into prison and named a day for his
appearance in the arena.
There had never been a day as important as that one. The
country was searched for the strongest, biggest, most dangerous
tiger. With equal care, the country was searched for the finest and
most beautiful young woman. There was no question, of course,
that the young man had loved the princes. He knew it, she knew it, the
king knew it, and everybody else knew it, too. But the king didn't let
this s t a n d i n t h e w a y o f h i s e x c e l l e n t l a w . A l s o , t h e
ki n g kn e w that the young man would now disappear
f r o m h i s daughter's life. He would disappear with the other beautiful
lady. Or he would disappear into the hungry tiger. The only
question was, "Which?"
And so the day arrived. Thousands and thousands of people
came to the arena. The king was in his place, across from those two
doors that seemed alike but were truly very different.
All was ready. The sign was given. The door bellow the king
opened, and the lover of the princess walked into the a r e n a . T a l l ,
b e a u t if u l , f a i r , h e s e e m e d l i k e a p r i n c e . T h e people had not
known that such a fine young man had lived among them. Was it any
wonder that the princess had loved him?
The young man came forward into the arena, and then turned
towards the king's chair. But his eyes were not on the king. They
were on the princess, who sat to her father's right. Perhaps it was
wrong for the young lady to be there. But remember that she was still
semi-barbaric. Her wild heart would not let her be away from her
lover on this day. More, important, she now knew the secret of the
doors. Over the past few days, she had used all of her power in the
castle, and much of her gold. She had discovered which door hid the
tiger, and which door hid the lady.
She knew more than this. She knew the lady. It was one of the
fairest and loveliest ladies in the castle. In fact, t h i s l a d y w a s m o r e
t h a n f a i r a n d l ov e ly . S h e w a s thoughtful, kind, loving, full of
laughter, and quick of mind. The princess hated her. She had seen, or
imagined she had seen, the lady looking at the young man. She
thought these looks had been noticed and even returned. Once or twice
she had seen them talking together. Perhaps they had talked for
only a moment. Perhaps they had talked of nothing important. But
how could the princess be sure of that? The other girl was lovely and
kind, yes. But she had lifted her eyes to the lover of the princess. And
so, in her semi-barbaric heart, the princess was jealous, and hated
her.
Now, in the arena, her lover tuned and looked at her. His eyes
met hers, and he saw at once that she knew the secret of the doors.
He had been sure that she would know it. He understood her heart.
He had known that she would try to learn this thing which no one
else knew—not even t he king. He had known she would try.
And now, as he looked at her, he saw that she had succeeded.
At that moment, his quick and worried look, asked the question:
"Which?" This question in his eyes was as clear to the princess as
spoken words. There was no time to lose. The question had been asked
in a second. It must be answered in a second.
Her right arm rested on the arm of her chair. She lifted her
hand and made a quick movement towards the right. No one saw
except her lover. Every eye except his was on the man in the
arena.
He turned and walked quickly across the empty space. Every
heart stopped beating. Every breath was held. Every eye was fixed
upon that man. Without stopping for even a second, he went to the
door on the right and opened it.
Now, the question is this: Did the tiger core out of that door, or
did the lady?
As we think deeply about this question, it becomes harder
and harder to answer. We must know the heart of the animal
called man. And the heart is difficult to know. Think of it, dear
reader, and remember that, the decision is not yours. The
decision belongs to that hot-blooded, semi-barbaric princess.
Her heart was at a white heat beneath the fires of jealousy and
painful sadness. She had lost him, but who should have him?
Very often, in her thoughts and in her dreams, she had cried
out in fear. She had imagined her lover as he opened the door to
the hungry tiger.
And even more often she had seen him at the other door!
She had bitten her tongue and pulled her hair. She had hated
his happiness when he opened the door to the lady. Her heart
burned with pain and hatred when she imagined the scene: He
goes quickly to meet the woman. He leads her into the arena. His
eyes shine with new life. The happy bells ring wildly. The two of
them are married before her eyes. Children run around them and
throw flower. There is music, and the thousands of people
16
 THE CASK
dance in the streets. And the princess's cry of sadnes s is lost
in that sounds of happiness!
Wouldn't it be better for him to die at once? Couldn't he wait
for her in the beautiful land of the semi-barbaric future?
But the tiger, those cries of pain, that blood!
Her decision had been shown in a second. But it had be en m a de
Of
af t er d ay s an d, nig h t s of de e p an d p ai nf ul thought. She had
known she would be asked. She had decided what to answer. She AMONTILLADO
had moved her hand to the right.

The question of her decision is not an easy one to think

adapted from the story by
about. Certainly I am not the one person who should have to answer
it. So I leave it with all of you: Which came out of the opened
door—the lady, or the tiger?
Edgar Allan Poe

Edgar Allan Poe was born in 1809 in Boston, Massachusetts. His parents died
when he was a child, and he was brought up by a wealthy couple, John and
Frances Allan, in Richmond, Virginia. He quarreled with the Allans when he was
a young man, and left home. He worked as an editor for several literary
magazines, but lost his job frequently because he drank too much. His own writ-
ing—poetry and short stories—became increasingly popular, but he remained
poor in spite of his literary success. He died in 1849. Poe is generally considered
the first writer of mystery or detective stories. "The Murders of the Rue Morgue"
and "The Gold Bug", are among these. He is equally famous for the horror
stories— such as "The Tell Tale Heart," "The Fall of the House of Usher," and "The
Cask of Amontillado"—in which he explores the dark side of the human mind
and heart.

17

I doubts."
I had borne the thousand injuries of Fortunato1 as well as I could, but
when he dared to insult me, I knew I must have revenge.
However, you, my friend, will understand that I never spoke a
threat. I, Montressor, 2 would have revenge eventually; there
was no doubt about that. But I wanted no risk. I wanted to punish,
but to punish in safety, and with confidence. The insult would be paid
back, yes. But also the insulter must know the punisher. And
Montressor, the punisher, must go free.
I continued, therefore, to smile in Fortunato's face, as always. He
could not know that my smile now was at the thought of his
destruction.
He had a weakness, this Fortunato. He was proud of his
knowledge of wines. In fact, he did know the old Italian wines very
well—as I did. And this was excellent for my purposes.
It was about dusk, one evening during Carnival, when I found
him walking along the crowded street. He greeted me with unusual
warmth, for he had been drinking much. The man wore carnival
clothes: a brightly colored shirt, tight pants, and a hat with little bells
on it. I was so pleased to see him that I almost forgot to let go of his
hand.
"My dear Fortunato," I said, "how well you look! But what do
you think? I have received a cask of the real
lPronounced: For-tune-AH-toe
2Mon-tress-SORE
Amontillado3 wine. At least they say it's the real thing. But I have my
"What, Montressor?" said he. "Amontillado? A whole cask?
Impossible! And in the middle of Carnival!"
"I have my doubts," I repeated. "And do you know, I was foolish
enough to pay the full Amontillado price. I had to do it without asking
you. I couldn't find you, and I didn't want to lose a bargain."
"Amontillado!"
"I have my doubts."
"Amontillado!"
"And I must bury them."
"Amontillado!"
"Since you are busy, I am going to find Luchresi.4 If anyone has
the ability to judge, it is he. He will tell me—"
"Luchresi cannot tell the difference between Amontillado and
ordinary wine."
"And yet some fools say that his taste is equal to yours."
"Come, let us go."
"Where?"
"To your vaults."
"My friend, no. I refuse to give you trouble in this way. I see that
you are on your way to a party. Lich_ res-1— "I am going nowhere.
Come."
"My friend, no. It is not only the party. I see you have a
bad cold. My vaults are terribly damp. You will suffer.”
"Let us go anyway. My cold is nothing. And Luchresi? I
tell you, the man cannot tell Amontillado from milk"
Speaking in this way, Fortunate took my arm. Putting
on a mask of black silk in order to mix with the Carnival crowd, I allowed
him to hurry me to my palazzo. 5
There were no servants at home; they were all enjoying the
Carnival. I had told them that I would not return to the palazzo until the
morning. To them, this announcement was like an invitation to go on
vacation.
3 Ah-mon-tee-YAH-doe
4 Loo-CRAY-zee
5 Pah-LAHT-so
18

I took two torches from their holders. Giving one to Fortunate, I led
him through many rooms. We came to the door that led into the
vaults. We walked through it and down a long and winding staircase. I
requested him continuously to be careful. At last we came to the
bottom and stood on the damp ground of the burial vaults of my family,
the Montressors.
II
The footsteps of my friend were unsteady, and the bells on his hat
lightly rang as he walked.
"The cask?" said he.
"It is a little further," I said. "But look at the white mold on the-
walls down here.”
He turned towards me unsteadily. I saw in his eyes how much he
had been drinking.
"What did you say?" he asked.
"Mold," I repeated, "the mold on the walls. How long have you had
that bad cough?"
"Ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh! ugh! ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh!
ugh! ugh!"
My poor friend could not reply for many minutes. "It is
nothing," he said at last.
"Come," I said with decision, "we will go back. Your health is
precious. You are rich, admired, loved. You are happy, as I once was.
You are a man who would be missed. For me, it is no matter. We will go
back; you will be ill, and I cannot be responsible. Besides, there is
Luchresi— "
"Enough!" he said. "The cough isn’t mere nothing; it will not kill
me:
"True, true," I replied. "And indeed I did not mean to frighten
you. But you must use proper caution. A drink of this fine Medoc
wine will protect us from the dampness."
Here, I broke off the neck of a bottle which I took from a
long row that lay on the mold.
"Drink," I said, giving him the wine.
He raised it to his lips with a smile that I did not like. He said,
"I drink to the members of your fine family who are buried in these
vaults."
"And I drink to your long life," I quietly replied. Again he took
my arm and we continued. The wine shone in his eyes. My own
face was warm with the Medoc. We were deeper into the vaults
now, and began to pass piles of human bones. I took Fortunate
by an arm above the elbow.
"Look! The mold," I said. "See, it increases. It hangs from the
roof of the vault. We must be below the river. That is why the
dampness is so bad. Come, we will go back before it is too late. Your
cough—"
"It is nothing," he said; "let us continue. But first another
drink of the Medoc." He finished the wine in one swallow. Then he
threw the bottle into the air with a strange motion that I did
not understand. He repeated the motion again. His eyes
questioned me, but I could only look at him in surprise.
"You do not understand the sign?" he said
"No," I replied.
"Then you are not a Mason."
"A mason?" I said. "Isn't a mason someone who builds walls?"
"Ha! I mean a member of our secret society. We are called Masons.
Have you never heard of us and our secret meetings?"
"Ah, yes, a mason," I said. "I am indeed a mason." "You?
Impossible! A Mason?"
"A real mason." I replied.
"Prove it," said he. "Give me the secret sign!"
"It is this," I answered. From a large pocket inside my coat I took a
small tool. It was a trowel, used by masons to put plaster between the
bricks in a wall.
"Ha!ha! You joke," he said. "Excellent! Now come. Let us continue
to the Amontillado."
"Indeed," I said, and offered him my arm again. He leaned on it
heavily. We passed through more rooms of bottles, casks, and bones.
We went down one more staircase and arrived at last in the deepest
room of the vaults. Here the human bones were piled as high as the
ceiling. It was very dark, and our torches glowed rather weakly. At the
far end of the large room there was still another, smaller room. It lay
19
beyond an opening of one meter in width.
"Continue,' I said "The Amontillado is in there. I wonder
whether Luchresi—"
"He is a fool," my friend said as he stepped unsteadily forward into
the last small room. I followed quickly after him. His progress was
stopped by the bare wall ahead of him, which he looked at stupidly in
confusion. In a moment I had chained him to the rock. On its surface
were two iron rings, about two feet apart. A short chain hung from one
of these rings, and a lock from the other. Throwing the chain quickly
twice around his waist, I took only a few seconds to attach it to the
lock. He was too astonished to struggle against me. Taking the key
of the lock with me, I stepped back from the small room.
"If you place your hand on the wall," I said, "you will feel the mold.
Indeed it is very damp. Once more I beg you to return with me. No?
Then I must leave you. But first I should try to make you as
comfortable as possible."
“The Amontillado!" cried my friend. He was not yet recovered from
his astonishment.
“True," I replied; "the Amontillado."
As I said these words, I walked to the nearest small pile of bones. I
began moving aside those on the top. Soon I uncovered some plaster and
building stone. With these materials and with the help of my trowel, I
began energetically to wall up the entrance to the small room.
I had laid only the first row of stones when I discovered, that the
effects of Fortunato's drinking had disappeared. The first sign of this
was a low continual groan from the small room. It was not simply the
groan of a man who has been drinking too much. Then there was a
long and insistent silence. I laid the second row, and the third, and
the fourth. And then I heard a furious shaking of the chains. I sat
down and listened to it with satisfaction until it stopped. Then I finished
the fifth, the sixth, and the seventh row. The wall was now at the height
of my chest. I again paused, and holding my torch above the wall, I
threw the light on the figure inside.
Loud, terrible screams burst from the throat of that chained
form. They seemed to push me violently backward. For a brief moment I
hesitated. But when I placed my hand on the strong walls of the vault,
I again felt satisfied. I approached the wall a second time. I replied to
the screws with screams of my own. I echoed and reechoed the man,
passing him in loudness and strength. I did this, and the screaming
stopped.
My work was almost finished. I had completed the eighth, the
ninth, and the tenth row. I had finished the eleventh, except for the
final stone. I struggled with its weight; I had it almost into position.
But now a low laugh came from the small room—a laugh that
horrified me. It was followed by a sad voice, which I had difficulty
recognizing as the voice of the noble Fortunate. The voice said—
"Ha! Ha! Ha—he! he! he!—a very good joke indeed—an excellent
joke! We will have much laughter about it at the palazzo—he! he!
he!—over our wine!—he! he! he!"
“The Amontillado," I said. 'He! he! he!—he! he! he!—yes, the
Amontillado. But it is getting late. Won't they be waiting for us at
the palazzo, the Lady Fortunato and the rest? Let us be gone."
"Yes," I said, "let us be gone."
"Why? Why? For the love of God, Montressor! You're mad!"
"Yes," I said, "for the love of God!"
But there was no reply to these words. I waited. I
called—
"Fortunato!"
No answer. I called again-
"Fortunatol"
No answer still. I placed a torch through the last hole and let it
fall inside. Only a small ringing of bells came in return. My heart
grew sick; it was the dampness of the vault. I hurried now in
finishing. I forced the last stone into its position; I plastered it. I put
the pile of old bones in front of the new wall. And for half a century,
no man has disturbed them.
In pace requiescat!6
20
 THE BRIDE
COMES
TO YELLOW
SKY
adapted from the story by
Stephen Crane
Stephen Crane was born in 1871 in New Jersey. He studied at
Lafayette College and at Syracuse University. After collage, he worked
for several newspapers in New York City. His first story "Maggie: A Girl
of the Streets," is about life among poor people of the city. He became
famous suddenly at 24 when he wrote The Red Badge of Courage. It
is a realistic story about a young, frightened soldier in the U.S. Civil
War. In 1896 Crane was sent by his newspaper to the Western United
State! and to Mexico. He had many exciting adventures with cowboys
and criminals. Many of his best stories, like “The Bride Comes to
Yellow Sky," were written during this time. Crane died in 1900. He was
only 29, but he had written twelve volumes of novels, stories, and
poems.
I
The great express train was speeding westward across Texas.
Outside the window the plains stretched towards the horizon. There
were vast areas of green grassland, large areas of desert, and
occasional houses and trees.
A newly married couple had boarded the train at San Antonio.
The man, Jack Potter, was wearing new black clothes. His face and
hands were red from many days in the wind and sun. Sitting with a
red hand on each knee, he glanced shyly at the other passengers.
From time to time he rearranged his new clothes.
The bride was neither very pretty nor very young. Her blue dress
was decorated with a little velvet, and many steel buttons. Her
fashionable clothes made her feel uncomfortable. Twisting her head,
she often examined her large velvet sleeves. Her plain face turned red
when the other passengers glanced at her.
The couple seemed to be very happy. "Ever been on a train
before?" lie asked. He was radiant with delight.
"No," she answered. "I never have. It's fine, isn't it?"
"Great! And soon we'll go forward to the dining coach and eat.
Finest meal in the world! Costs a dollar."
"Oh, does it?" cried the bride. "Costs a dollar? That's too much
for us, isn't it, Jack?"
"Not this trip," he answered bravely.
Later he explained to her about the trains.
"You see, it's a thousand miles from one end of Texas to the other; and
this train runs straight across and only stops four times." He had the
pride of an owner. He pointed out to her the rich decoration of the
coach. Her eyes opened wide as she looked at the sea-green
velvet, the glowing wood, and the shining brass, silver, and
glass. In the minds of the couple, their rich surroundings shone
with the glory of their new marriage. The man's face glowed with
pride and delight.
Yet he looked foolish to the Negro porter who danced at them
from a distance. The porter bullied them when he served them,
but he did not make it obvious that he was bullying them. The
other passengers smiled. Historically t here was supposed t o be
something f unny in their situation.
"We are due in Yellow Sky at 3:42," he said, looking tenderly into
21
her eyes.
"Oh, are we?" she said, as if surprised. She took from her
pocket a little silver watch, and as she held it in front of her, the
new husband's face shone.
"I bought it in San Antonio from a friend of mine," he told her
happily.
"It's seventeen minutes past twelve," she said, looking up at
him tenderly.
A passenger, seeing her expression, raised an eyebrow.
Later they went to the dining car. Two rows of waiters in
white suits watched with interest as they entered. The waiters
who served them guided them through the meal in a fatherly way.
And yet, as they returned to their coach, their faces showed a look
of relief.
Out of the window, down a long purple slope, the Rio Grande
River twisted. The town of Yellow Sky was beside it. As the train
approached its destination, the husband became more and more
nervous. His red fingers tapped his k n e e s . H e s e e m e d t o b e
t h i n k i n g a b o u t s o m e t h i n g e l s e , when the bride leaned forward
to speak to him.
He had begun to worry that he had not let the community know
about his marriage. As the Marshal, he was an important person in
town. He could not deny the importance of his marriage to the
community. Only the fire in the new hotel could equal it. He knew his
friends would not forgive him for not consulting them. He had almost
sent a telegram but he had decided instead on secrecy.
As the train approached town, the Marshal felt a new fear. The
citizens had a brass band that played badly. If they knew of his
plans, they would march him and his new wife with cheers and
laughter from the train station to his house.
To avoid the community, he decided to make the trip from the
station to his house as quickly as possible. When they were safe at
home, he would announce his marriage. Then he would stay home
until the town's excitement disappeared.
The bride looked anxiously at him. "What's worrying you, Jack?"
He laughed nervously. "I'm not worrying, girl. I'm only thinking
of Yellow Sky."
They looked at each other softly, but Potter continued to laugh
the same nervous laugh.
"We're nearly there," he said.
Presently, the porter came to announce the stop. He brushed off
Potter's new clothes, then took their bag. The two engines with the long
string of coaches rushed into the station of Yellow Sky.
"They have to take water here," Potter said, like someone
announcing a death. Before the train stopped, he was relieved to see
that the station platform was completely empty except for the station
agent. When the train stopped, the porter got down and lowered a little
step.
"Come on, girl," said Potter. As he helped her down, they each
laughed nervously. He took the bag from the porter and gave his wife
his arm. At a distance the station agent started waving his arms
towards them. Potter gripped his wife's arm firmly to his side, and
they hurried away. Behind him the porter laughed.
II
The California express train was due in Yellow Sky in twenty-one
minutes. There were six men at the Tired traveler Bar. One was a
stranger who talked constantly. Three were Texans who did not care to
talk at that time. Two were Mexicans who talked infrequently when they
were at the Tired Traveler. The barkeeper's dog lay outside in front
the door. His head resting on his paws, he glanced here and there with
the attitude of an animal that is often bullied.
Except for the stranger and his companions in the bar, Yellow Sky
was asleep. The stranger was leaning on the bar telling a story when a
young man suddenly appeared. He shouted, "Scratchy Wilson's been
drinking! There'll be some shooting!" The two Mexicans at once put
down their glasses and went out by the backdoor of the bar. The others
became silent.
"Say, what is this?" asked the stranger.
"It means, my friend," answered the youth, "for the next two
hours this town will not be very safe."
The barkeeper went to the door and locked it. He went to the
22
windows and pulled down heavy boards across them. The room became
dark, and the stranger looked from one to another.
"But say," he cried, "What is this, anyhow? Is there going to be
a gunfight?"
"Don't know if there'll be a fight or not," answered one man. "But
there'll be some good shooting."
Oh, there'll be a fight fast enough if anyone wants one," said
the youth. "Anybody can get a fight out there in the street. There's a
fight just waiting."
The stranger looked worried.
"What did you say his name was?" he asked. "Scratchy Wilson,"
they all answered together. "And will he kill anybody? What are you
going to do?
Does this happen often? How often does this happen? Can he
break down that door?"
"No, he can't break down the door," replied the bar- keeper.
"He's tried it three times. But when he comes, you'd better lie down
on the floor, stranger. He's sure to shoot the door, and a bullet may
come through."
The stranger kept an eye on the door now. "Will he kill
anybody?" he said again.
The others laughed at the question.
"He's going to shoot. It's best to keep away from him"
"But what do you do in a case like this? What do you go?"
A man answered, "Why, he and Jack Potter—'
"But," the others all said, "Jack Potter is in San Antonio."
"Well, what's he got to do with it?"
"Oh, he's the town Marshal. He goes out and fights Scratchy."
"Wow!" said the stranger, "nice job he's got."
The stranger wanted to ask more questions but the others
motioned him to stay silent. A tense silence hung over them. In the
dark shadows of the room their eyes shone as they listened to
sounds from the street. One man motioned to the barkeeper, who
handed him a bottle and a glass. The man poured a full glass of
whiskey and put down the bottle quietly. He swallowed and turned
silently toward the door. The stranger saw that the barkeeper,
without a sound, had taken a gun from under the bar.
"You better come behind the bar with me," the barkeeper
whispered to him.
The stranger took a seat on a box with his head bellow the top
of the bar.
The barkeeper sat on a nearby box. "You see," he whispered,
"this Scratchy is a terror with a gun. When goes on the wartrail we
head for our holes—naturally. He's, terrible when he's been drinking.
Otherwise he's all right—kind of simple—wouldn't hurt a fly—nicest
fellow in town. But when he's drunk—whoo!"
There was a period of silence. "I wish Jack Potter was back
from San, Antonio," said the barkeeper. "He shoot Wilson once—in
the leg—and he would take care of this situation.
Presently they heard from a distance the sound of a shot, when
the sound of three wild shouts. The men in the dark bar looked at
each other. "Here he comes," they said.
III
A man turned a corner and walked into the middle of the main street
of Yellow Sky. In each hand he held a long, heavy blue-black
revolver. Often he shouted, and these furious cries rang through the
town. The man's face was red with whiskey. His eyes hunted the
doorways and windows. He walked with the creeping movement of a
cat, shouting fierce I challenges into the silence. The long revolvers in
his hand were ready for action.
No one answered his challenge. No one offered to fight.
The barkeeper's dog lay sleeping in front of his master’s door. At
the sight of the dog, the man paused and raised his revolver
humorously. At the sight of the man, the dog sprang up and started
to walk away. The man shouted, and the dog started to run. As the
dog was about to turn a corner, there was a loud noise, a whistling,
and a bullet hit the ground just in front of it. The dog screamed,
turned, and headed in a new direction. Again there was a noise, a
whistling, and sand was kicked up violently in front of it. Terrified,
the dog turned and shrank back like an animal in a cage. The man
stood laughing, his weapons ready.
Finally the man was attracted to the Tired Traveller Bar. He went
to the door, hammered it with a revolver, and demanded a drink.
23
 The door stayed closed. He picked up a piece of paper from the
ground and attached it to the door with a knife. Then he turned his
back in disgust and walked to the opposite side of the street. Turning
quickly on his heel, he fired at the piece of paper. He missed it by a
half-inch. He swore at himself and went away. Later he shot out the
windows of his closest friend's house. The man was playing with the
town. It was a toy to him.
But still no one offered to fight him. He thought of Jack Potter, his
old enemy, and decided to go to Potter's house and force him to fight.
When he arrived at Potter's house, it was silent, like the rest of the
town.
Standing in front of the house, the man shouted a challenge. But
the house was as silent as a great stone god. It gave no sign. After a
short wait, the man screamed other challenges. The house remained
silent. Screaming with rage, the man began to shoot. He only paused
for breath and to reload his resolvers.
IV
Potter and his bride walked quickly as if they were bowed against a
strong wind. Sometimes they laughed together quietly.
"Next corner, dear," he said finally.
Potter started to raise a finger to point out their new home. But
as they turned the corner, they came face to face with a man furiously
pushing bullets into a large revolver. Instantly the man dropped the
revolver to the ground and pulled out another. This revolver was
aimed at the bride-groom’s chest.
There was a silence. Potter loosened his arm, from the women's
grip and dropped the bag to the ground. The bride looked terrified.
Her face turned as yellow as an old cloth.
The two men faced each other. The one with the revolver smiled
with quiet fury.
"You tried to surprise me," he said fiercely. "Tried to surprise me!"
As Potter made a slight movement, the man moved', his revolver
closer to the Marshal's chest. "No, don't you do it, Jack Potter. Don't
you move a finger toward a gun. Don’t move an eyelash. The time has
come for us to settle accounts."
Potter looked at his enemy. "I don't have a gun on me, Scratchy,"
he said, trying to calm the man. "Honest, I don't" He was steady.
Somewhere in the back of his mind was a vision of the train coach:
the sea-green velvet, the shining brass silver, and glass—all the glory
of his new marriage. "You know I fight when it's time to fight,
Scratchy, but I don't have a gun on me. You'll have to do all the
shooting yourself"
His enemy's face grew furious. He stepped forward and moved his
weapon back and forth in front of Potter's chest. "Don’t tell me you
don't have a gun. Nobody in Texas has ever seen you without a gun."
His eyes blazed with light and his throat worked like a pump.
Potter had not retreated an inch. "I tell you I don't have a gun,
and I don't," answered Potter. "If you’re going to shoot me, you better
begin now. You'll never get a chance like this again."
Wilson grew calmer. "If you don't have a gm, why don’t you" he
said. "Been to church?"
"I don't have a gun because I've just arrived from San Antonio
with my wife. I'm married," said Potter. "If I had known there would be
trouble, I'd have a gun, and don't you forget it."
"Married!" said Scratchy, not understanding.
"Yes, married. I'm married," said Potter, distinctly.
"Married?" said Scratchy. For the first time, he saw the frightened
woman standing next to the marshal.
"No!" he said. He was like a creature who has seen another world.
He stepped backward, and his arm with the revolver fell to his side. "Is
this the lady," he asked. "Yes, this is the lady," answered Potter.
There was another period of silence.
"Well," said Wilson at last, slowly. "I suppose the fight's off now."
"It's off if you say so, Scratchy. You know I didn't start the
trouble." Potter lifted his bag.
"Well, I say it's off, Jack," said Wilson. He was looking at the
ground. "Married!" He was a simple child of the Old West in the
presence of this foreign condition. He picked up his dropped revolver
and walked away. His feet made long, deep marks in the heavy sand.
24

THE OUTCASTS
OF
POKER FLAT
adapted from the story by
Bret Harte
Bret Harte was born in Albany, New York. in 1837. Although
his most famous stories take place in the Far West, he did not
move there until 1854. He became a journalist and began writing
stories and short sketches about regional places and people.
When such stories as "The Outcasts of Poker Flat" and "The Luck
of Roaring Camp" made him famous, he returned to the East and
stayed there. Later, he was the American consul in Germany and
Scotland, and he spent the last seventeen years of his life in
London. Still, Bret Harte is remembered for his stories of mining
towns and the colorful residents in the old West. Harte died in 1902.
I
Mr. John Oakhurst, a gambler at cards, stepped into the main street
of Poker Flat. It was the morning of November 23, 1850. Right away
Mr. Oakhurst noticed something. The moral atmosphere of the town
had changed since the night before. The town, usually so busy, was
quiet this morning. Two or three men stopped talking is the card
player approached them, and turned away. But although this quiet
seemed threatening, Mr. Oakhurst's calm, handsome face appeared
undisturbed.
"I suppose they're after somebody," thought the gambler.
"Probably it's me." He wiped the red dust of Poker Flat from his neat
boots and quietly put the matter out of his mind.
In fact, Poker Flat was "after somebody." It had lately suffered the
loss of several thousand dollars in gambling debts. Now the
townspeople were reacting virtuously against their earlier lawlessness.
A secret committee had been formed to get rid of all improper persons.
Two men had been got rid of forever. Their dead bodies were hanging
from a tree down in the valley. Others had been sent out of town. I
regret to say that some of these outcasts were ladies. It is only fair to
other ladies, however, to mention that these ladies were obviously
professionals. Their lack of virtue had caused additional financial loss
for Poker Flat. Therefore Poker Flat had no trouble judging them
guilty.
Mr. Oakhurst was right in supposing that he was, included
among the outcasts. A few of the secret committee thought he should
be hanged, like the others. Then they could get back the money they
had gambled away.
"It's against justice," said Tim Wheeler. "We can't let this young
man from Rearing Camp—an entire stranger—carry away our money."
But those fortunate enough to have won from Mr. Oakhurst argued
against killing him. They suggested, instead, that he be forced to leave
Poker Flat, another outcast.
Mr. Oakhurst received the news calmly. He knew he had barely
escaped killing. Even this didn't disturb, his calm. He was too much of
a gambler not to accept Fate. With him, life was at best an uncertain
game. He recognized that the dealer of the cards usually has the
advantage.
A group of men went with the outcasts to the edge of Poker Flat.
They carried guns, in case Mr. Oakhurst objected to leaving. They
considered him the most dangerous of the evil-doers. With the gambler
went a young woman called "the Duchess," and another, whose title
25
was "Mother Shipton." The fourth outcast was called "Uncle Billy." Un-
cle Billy was a thief who had a habit of drinking too much whiskey.
The profession of the ladies you can guess for yourself.
When they reached the edge of town, the outcasts were left alone.
The committee promised death if they ever returned to Poker Flat. The
Duchess cried, and Mother Shipton's language cannot be printed.
Uncle Billy shouted curses after the townspeople. Mr. Oakhurst,
however remained silent. He listened calmly to Mother Shipton’s desire
to cut someone's heart out. He listened to the Duchess's complaint
that she would surely die on the road. And to Uncle Billy's alarming
curses. With the easy good humor characteristic of his class, Mr.
Oakhurst exchanged his horse, "Queen of Diamonds," for the
Duchess's old donkey. But his generosity did not make the
atmosphere more sympathetic. The young woman began smiling
invitingly at Mr. Oakhurst, Mother Shipton looked at him angrily, and
Uncle Billy included the group in a frightful curse.
They started out on the road to Sandy Bar. This town had not
suffered the moral change that had made Poker Flat so unhealthy for
them. It lay a long day's journey over a steep mountain range. It was
fall, and the group soon passed out of warm weather into the cold
mountain air. At noon the Duchess rolled off her horse and
announced that she would go no farther.
The place where they had stopped was wild and beautiful. It was
undoubtedly a suitable place for camping, if camping had been
advisable. But Mr. Oakhurst knew that they had not completed even
half the journey to Sandy Bar. They did not have food or equipment for
the night. But they had whiskey, which served them in place of food.
And although he tried to tell them his concerns, they were soon
drinking heavily.
Mr. Oakhurst did not drink. His profession needed a cool head
and steady hands. In his own words, he "couldn't afford it." Now as he
watched his companions, the loneliness of his profession and his
habits of life for the first time seriously upset him. He looked worriedly
at the darkening sky, and at the trees and cliffs which surrounded
them. But he never considered leaving his companions behind.
Suddenly he hears his name called. A horseman came up the
trail. Mr. Oakhurst recognized the fresh young face of Tom Simson of
Sandy Bar, who was called "The Innocent." He had met the Innocent in
a poker game a few months earlier. Mr. Oakhurst had won his entire
fortune— forty dollars. But after the game he had taken the young
man aside.
"Tommy, you're a good little man, but you can't gamble. Don't
try it again." He had then given back the money. Tom Simson had
become his lifelong admirer.
Now he told Mr. Oakhurst he was on his way to Poker Flat.
"Alone?" No, not exactly alone. The Innocent smiled widely. He had
run away with Piney Woods. They wanted to get married, but her
father objected. So they had decided to run away to Poker-Flat to get
married. Now, here they were, and they were tired. How lucky it was
they had found a camp and company. The innocent said all of this
rapidly. Meanwhile Piney, a pretty young girl of fifteen, rode over to
her lover from behind a tree.
Mr. Oakhurst didn't generally trouble himself with love or moral
virtues. But he felt that this situation was not fortunate. He tried to
tell the Innocent that they neither food nor equipment for camping.
But unluckily the Innocent had an extra donkey loaded with food. Re
told them he had passed a small log cabin back on the trail.
"Piney can stay with Mrs. Oakhurst," Said the Innocent, pointing
at the Duchess. "And I can take care of myself." Mr. Oakhurst kicked
Uncle Billy to keep him from laughing at the Innocent's mistake.
Shadows crept up the mountain. The group of tired travellers
covered the short distance to the cabin. A cold wind announced that
night was near. The ladies went into the cabin to sleep, leaving the
men to lie down before the door.
II
Mr. Oakhurst was a light sleeper. Toward morning he awoke, cold and
uncomfortable. He sat up to stir the dying fire. The wind blew strongly
against his cheek, and his blood ran still colder—it was snowing! He
started up to tell the others. But turning first where Uncle Billy slept,
he found him gone. A suspicion sprang to his brain and a curse to his
lips. He ran to where the donkeys had been tied up. They were gone;
their tracks were already disappearing under the snow.
Mr. Oakhurst's excitement died into his usual calm. He did not
wake the sleepers. The Innocent slept peacefully, with a smile on his
good-humored face. The virtuous Piney slept beside her weaker sisters
as sweetly as if they had been heavenly guardians. Mr. Oakhurst
pulled his blanket around his shoulders and waited for dawn. It came
slowly, in a mist of snowflakes. The land had magically changed
during the night. He looked over the valley and stated their condition
in two words: "Snowed in!"
The food had been stored in the cabin and had fortunately
26
escaped Uncle Billy's thievery. They would have enough to last ten
days, if they planned carefully.
"That is," said Mr. Oakhurst privately to the Innocent, "if you're
willing to feed the rest of us. If not—and perhaps you shouldn't—we
can wait until Uncle Billy gets back with more food." For some strange
reason, Mr. Oakhurst couldn't admit Uncle Billy's thievery to Piney
and the Innocent. Of course, Mother Shipton and the Duchess knew
what Uncle Billy had done. "They'll find out the truth about us all
when they find out anything," he told them. "There's no good
frightening them now."
The Innocent not only shared his food, but also seemed to enjoy
their camp. "We'll have a good camp for a week, then the snow will
melt, and we'll go back together." His cheerfulness and Mr. Oakhurst's
calm infected the other. The Innocent cut branches to cover the roof of
the cabin. Suppose you're used to living with fine things in Poker
Flat," said Piney admiringly. The Duchess turned away sharply, and
Piney didn't see the embarrassment which reddened her cheeks.
Mother Shipton told Piney sharply to "stop wasting time." But when
Mr. Oakhurst returned from a weary search for the trail he heard the
sound of a happy laughter from the cabin. He was afraid they had
found the whiskey. "And yet, it doesn't sound like whiskey," he de-
cided.
They passed the evening in front of the fire. The Innocent
produced an accordion from his pack. Piney played it and they sang
together:
"I'm proud to live in the service of the Lord
And I'm proud to die in his army."
The trees rocked in the wind and the snow storm blew about the
cabin. At midnight the storm quieted, the clouds parted, and stars
shone through the dark. Mr. Oakhurst divided the watch with the
Innocent. His professional habits had enabled him to live on the
smallest possible amounts of sleep. Now he took most of the
Innocent's watch, too. He excused himself by saying he had often
"been a week without sleep."
"Doing what?" asked the Innocent.
"Playing poker. When a man gets lucky, he doesn't get tired. The
luck disappears first. Luck," continued the gambler, "is a very queer
thing. All you know about it is that it's going to change. And being able
to feel when it's going to change makes you a good gambler. We've had
bad luck since we've left Poker Flat. You came along—and now you're
in it, too. But if you can hold your cards right you’ll be all right. "For,"
added the gambler cheerfully,
"I'm proud to live in the service of the Lord,
And I'm proud to die in his army!"
Accordion music failed to fill the aching emptiness left by too
little food. So Piney suggested that they tell stories. Neither Mr.
Oakhurst nor his female companions cared to relate their personal
experiences. But the innocent had once read a translation of Homer's
Iliad. He had been so impressed by the story that he had almost
learned it by heart. He now offered to tell it to the others.
So with little food and lots of Homer and the accordion, a week
passed. But the sun disappeared again, and again a snow storm
covered the land. Day by day the snow fell until they looked out from
their prison on snowy walls twenty feet above their heads. It became
more and more difficult to get wood for the fires. And yet no one
complained. The lovers turned away from the hopeless scene and
looked into each other's eyes. Mr. Oakhurst settled himself calmly to
the losing game before him. The Duchess, more cheerful than she had
ever been, looked after Piney. Only Mother Shipton—once the
strongest—seemed to weaken. At midnight on the tenth day she called
Mr. Oakhurst to her side.
"I'm dying," she said weakly, - "But don't say anything about it.
Don't waken the kids. Take the package from under my head and open
it."
Mr. Oakhurst did so. It contained Mother Shipton's food for the
last week. "Give it to the child," she said, pointing to Piney.
"You haven't been eating," said the gambler.
"That’s what I've done," said the woman proudly. She turned to
face the wall and passed quietly out of his life. The accordion and
stories were put aside that day. When Mother Shipton had been
buried in the snow, Mr. Oakhurst spoke to the Innocent.
"There's just one chance to save her," he said, pointing to Piney.
He gave him a pair of snowshoes he had made from the old pack-
saddle. "If you can reach Poker Flat in two days, she's safe."
"And you?" asked the Innocent.
"I'll stay," was the sharp reply.
"The lovers parted with a long kiss.
"You aren't going, too, are you?" said the Duchess fear fully. She
saw Mr. Oakhurst to go the Innocent.
"Only as far as the valley," he replied. He turned suddenly and
27
kissed the Duchess. Her cheeks, turned pink with amazement.
Night came, but not Mr. Oakhurst. It brought the storm again,
and the snow. The Duchess found that someone had left enough wood Beneath this tree
for a few days longer. Tears rose in her eyes, but she hid them from Lies the Body
Piney. of
The women slept little that night. The next morning, looking into JOHN OAKHURST
each other's eyes, they recognized their fate. Neither spoke. Piney, Who Met Bad Luck
accepting the position of the stronger, put her arm around the on the 23rd of November, 1850
Duchess's waist. They stayed this way most of the day. That night the and
snow reached its greatest fury. The roof was blown apart. Handed in His Checks
Toward morning they were unable to feed the fire, and it on the 7th of December, 1850
gradually died away. The Duchess crept closer to Piney. "Piney, can
you pray?"
"No, Dear," said Piney simply. There he lay, dead and cold beneath the snow, calm as in life,
The Duchess felt better without exactly knowing why. She put with a gun by his side and a bullet in his heart, the strongest and yet
her head on Piney's shoulder. And so they rested, the younger and the weakest of the outcasts of Poker Flat.
virtuous one supporting the head of her soiled sister.
The wind quieted, as if it feared to wake them. The feathery snow
###
flew about them like white-winged birds, and settled on them as they
slept. The moon looked down on what had been the camp. But all
human soil, all earthly pain, was hidden under the spotless white
blanket
They slept all that day and the next. And they never wakened
when voices and footsteps broke the silence of the clamp. Pitying
fingers brushed the snow from their pale faces. And no one can tell
which was the virtuous, which the soiled sister.
At the end of the valley they found something more. There was a
playing card pinned to a tree. Upon it was written:

28
 THE LOST
PHOEBE,
adapted from the story by
Theodore Dreiser
Theodore Dreiser was born in 1871. When he was child, his
family was poor—so poor, in fact, that his mother and father had to
separate from each other in order to support the children. With his
mother and two of his sisters, Dreiser lived in many different towns and
states. Although he spent only one year at college, Dreiser became a
journalist and magazine editor. His first novel, Sister Carrie, was
published in 1901. The book was not well liked at first, partly
because the "good" men in the story were not al ways rewarded
nor the "bad" men always punished. Dreiser was one of the
leaders of the "naturalist" school in American writing. He tried to
record with great honesty and accuracy exactly what he saw. His
writing was not always beautiful on the surface, but its depth was
remarkable from the beginning. Dreiser's most famous novel was
An American Tragedy, one of the most influential novels in American
fiction. It was published in 1925. Dreiser died in 1945.
I
Old Henry Reifsneider and his wife Phoebe had lived together for forty-
eight years. They had lived three miles from a small town whose
population was steadily falling. This part of the country was not as
wealthy as it used to be. It wasn't thickly settled, either. Perhaps there
was a house every mile or so, with fields in between. Their own house
had been built by Henry's grandfather many years ago. A new part
had been added to the original log cabin when Henry married Phoebe.
The new part was now weather-beaten. Wind whistled through cracks
in the boards. Large, lovely trees surrounded the house. But they
made it seem a little damp inside.
The furniture like the house, was old. There was a tall cupboard
of cherry-wood and a large, old-fashioned bed. The chest of drawers
was also high and wide and solidly built. But it had faded, and
smelled damp. The carpet that lay under the strong, lasting furniture
had been made by Phoebe herself, fifteen years before she died. Now it
was worn and faded to a dull grey and pink. The frame that she had
made the carpet on was still here. It stood like a dusty, bony skeleton
in the East room. All short of broken-down furniture lay around the
place. There was a doorless clothes-cupboard. A broken mirror hung
in an old cherry-wood frame. It had fallen from a nail and cracked
three days before their youngest son, Jerry, died. There was a hat-
stand whose china knobs had broken off. And an old-fashioned sewing
machine.
The orchard to the east of the house was full of rotting apple
trees. Their twisted branches were covered with greenish-white moss
which looked sad and ghostly in the moonlight. Besides the orchard,
several low buildings surrounded the house. They had once housed
chickens, a horse or two, a cow, and several pigs. The same grey-green
moss covered their roofs. They had not been painted for so long that
they had turned a greyish-black. In fact, everything on the farm had
aged and faded along with Old Henry and his wife Phoebe.
They had lived here, these two, since their marriage forty-eight
years before. And Henry had lived here as a child. His father and
mother had been old when Henry married. They had invited him to
bring his wife to the farm. They had all lived together for ten years
before his mother and father died. After that Henry and Phoebe were
left alone with their four children. But all sorts of things had
29
happened since then. They had had seven children, but three had
died. One girl had gone to Kansas. One boy had gore to Sioux Falls
and was never even heard from again. Another boy had gone to
Washington. The last girl lived five counties away in the. same state.
She had so many problems of her own, however, that she rarely gave
her parents a thought. Their very ordinary home life had never been
attractive to the children. So time had drawn them away. Wherever
they were, they gave little thought to their father and mother.
Old Henry Reifsneider and his wife Phoebe were a loving couple.
You perhaps know how it is with such simple people. They fasten
themselves like moss on stones, until they and their circumstances
are worn away. The larger world has no call to them; or if it does, they
don't hear it. The orchard, the fields, the pigpen and the chicken
house measure the range of their human activities. When the wheat is
ripe, it is harvested. When the corn is full, it is cut. After that comes
winter. The grain is taken to market, the wood is cut fur the fires. The
work is simple: fire-building, meal-getting, occasional repairing,
visiting. There are also changes in the weather—the snow, the rains,
and the fair days. Beyond these things, nothing else means very
much. All the rest of life is a far-off dream. It shines, far away, like
starlight. It sounds as faint as cowbells in the distance.
Old Henry and his wife Phoebe were as fond of each other as it is
possible for two old people who have nothing else in this life to be fond
of. He was a thin old man, seventy when she died. He was a strange,
moody person with thick, uncombed grey-black hair and beard. He
looked at you out of dull, fish-like, watery eyes. His clothes, like the
clothes of many farmers, were old and ill-fitting. They were too large at
the neck. The knees and elbows were stretched and worn. Phoebe was
thin and shapeless. She looked like an umbrella, dressed in black. As
time had passed they had only themselves to, look after. Their
activities had become fewer and fewer. The herd of pigs was reduced to
one. The sleepy horse Henry still kept was neither very clean nor well-
fed. Almost all the chickens had disappeared. They had been killed by
animals or disease. The once healthy vegetable garden was now only a
memory of itself. The flower beds were overgrown. A will had been
made which divided the small property equally among the remaining
four children. It was so small that it was really of no interest to any of
them. Yet Henry and Phoebe lived together in peace and sympathy.
Once in a while Old Henry would become moody and annoyed. He
would complain that something unimportant had been lost.
"Phoebe, where's my corn knife? You never leave my things
alone."
"Now you be quiet, Henry," his wife would answer in her old
cracked voice. "If you don't, I'll leave you I’ll get up and walk out of
here one day. Then where would you be? You don't have anybody but
me to look after u, so just behave yourself. Your corn knife is in the
cupboard where it's always been, unless you put it somewhere else."
Old Henry knew his wife would never leave him. But, sometimes
he wondered what he would do if she died. That was the one leaving
he was afraid of. Every night he wound the old clock and went to lock
the doors, and it comforted him to know Phoebe was in bed. If he
moved in his sleep she would be there to ask him what he wanted.
"Now, Henry, do lie still! You're as restless as a chicken."
"Well, I can't sleep, Phoebe."
"Well, you don't have to roll over so much. You can let me sleep."
This would usually put him to sleep.
If she wanted a pail of water, he complained, but it gave him
pleasure to bring it. If she rose first to build the fire, he made sure the
wood was cut and placed within easy reach. So they divided this
simple world nicely between them.
II
In the spring of her sixty-fourth year, Phoebe become sick. Old Henry
drove to town and brought back the doctor, But because of her age,
her sickness was not curable, and one cold night she died. Henry
could have gone lo live with his youngest daughter. But it was really
too much trouble. He was too weary and used to his home. He wanted
to remain near where they had put his Phoebe.
His neighbors invited him to stay with them. But he didn't want
to. So his friends left him with advice and offers of help. They sent
supplies of coffee and bacon and bread. He tried to interest himself in
farming to keep himself busy. But it was sad to come into the house in
the evening. He could find no shadow of Phoebe, although everything
in the house suggested her. At night he read the newspapers that
friends had left for him. Or he read in his Bible, which he had
forgotten about for years. But he could get little comfort from these
things. Mostly he sat and wondered where Phoebe had gone, and how
soon he would die.
He made coffee every morning and fried himself some bacon at
30
night. But he wasn't hungry. His house was empty; its shadows
saddened him. So he lived quite unhappily for five long months. And
then a change began.
It was a moonlight night. The most-covered orchard shone
ghostly silver. As usual, Henry was thinking of Phoebe and the years
they had been young together. And he thought about the children who
had gone. The condition of the house was becoming worse. The sheets
were not clean, because he made a poor job of the laundry. The roof
leaked, and things inside got damp. But he didn't do anything about
it. He preferred to walk slowly back and forth, or sit and think.
By 12:00 midnight of this particular night, however, he was
asleep. He woke up at 2:00. The moon shone in through the living
room windows. His coat lying on the back of the chair made a shadow
near the table. It looked like Phoebe as she used to sit there. Could it
be she—or her ghost? He never used to believe in spirits, and yet.... He
stared at it in the pale light. His old hair seemed to rise up from his
head. He sat up, but the figure did not move. He put his thin legs out
of the bed. He wondered if this could really be Phoebe. They had often
talked about ghosts and spirits. But they had never agreed that such
things could be. His wife had never believed that her spirit could
return to walk the earth. She had believed in a heaven where good folk
would want to stay and not come back. Yet here she was now, bending
over the table. She was wearing her dress. Her face shone pale in the
moonlight.
"Phoebe," he called, excited from head to toe. "Have you come
back?"
The figure did not move. He got up and walked uncertainly
towards the door, watching it carefully. As he came near, however, the
ghost became once more his coat upon the chair.
"Well," he said to himself, his mouth open in wonder, "I surely
thought I saw her." He ran his hands through his hair while his
excitement relaxed. Although it had disappeared, he had the idea that
she might return.
Another night he looked out of the window toward the chicken
house and pigpen. Mist was rising from the damp ground, and he
thought he saw Phoebe. She always used to cross from the kitchen
door to the pigpen to feed the pigs. And here she was again. He sat up
and watched her. He was doubtful because of the first experience. But
his body shook with excitement. Perhaps there really were spirits.
Phoebe must be worried about his loneliness. She must be thinking
about him. He watched her until a breath of wind blew the mist away.
A third night, as he was dreaming, she came to his bed.
"Poor Henry," she said. "It's too bad." He woke up and thought
he saw her move from the bedroom into the living room. He got up,
greatly astonished. He was sure that Phoebe was coming back to him.
If he thought about her enough, if he showed her how much he
needed her, she would come back. She would tell him what to do.
Perhaps she would stay with him most of the time. At least, during the
night. That would make him less lonely.
For the old or weak, imagination may easily develop into actual
hallucination. Eventually this change happened for Henry. Night after
night he waited, expecting her return. Once in a strange mood lie
thought he saw a pale light moving about the room. Another time he
saw her walking in the orchard after dark. Then one morning he felt
he could not bear his loneliness any longer. He woke up with the
knowledge that she was not dead. It is hard to say how he felt so
certain. His mind was gone. In its place was the hallucination that he
and Phoebe had had a senseless quarrel. He had complained that she
had moved his pipe. In the past she had jokingly threatened to leave
him if he did not behave himself.
"I guess I could find you again," he had always said. But her
joking threat had always been the same:
"You won't find me if I ever leave you. I guess I can get to some
place where you can't find me."
When he got up that morning he didn't build the fire or cut the
bread as usual. He began to think where he should look for her. He
put on his soft hat and took his walking-stick from behind the door.
He started out energetically to look for her among his neighbors. His
old shoes scratched loudly in the dust. His grey hair, now grown
rather long, hung down below his hat. His hands and face were pale.
"Why, hello, Henry! Where are you going this morning?" inquired
Farmer Dodge.
"You haven't seen Phoebe, have you?"
"Phoebe who?" asked Farmer Dodge. He didn't connect the name
with Henry's dead wife.
"Why, my wife, Phoebe, of course. Who do you suppose I mean?"
"Oh, come on, Henry! You aren't joking, are you? It can't be your
wife you're talking about. She's dead."
"Dead? Not Phoebe! She left me early this morning while I was
sleeping. We had a little quarrel last night, and I guess that's the
31
reason. But I guess I can find her. She's gone over to Matilda Race’s,
that's where she's gone.”
He started quickly up the road. The astonished Dodge stared
after him. "Well!" he said to himself "He's gone crazy. That poor old
man has lived down there alone until he's gone completely out of his
mind. I'll have to inform the police."
"Why, Mr. Reifsneider," cried old Matilda Race as Henry knocked
on her door. "What brings you here this morning?"
"Is Phoebe here?" he demanded eagerly.
"Phoebe who? What Phoebe?" replied Mrs. Race, curious.
"Why, my Phoebe, of course, my wife Phoebe. Who do you
suppose? Isn't she here now?"
"Why, you poor man" cried Mrs. Race. "You've lost your mind.
You come right in and sit down. I'll get you a cup of coffee. Of course
your wife isn’t here. But you come in and sit down. I’ll find her for you
after a while. I know where she is."
The old farmer's eyes softened at her sympathy.
"We had a quarrel last night and she left me," Henry offered.
"Oh, my" Mrs. Race sighed to herself. There was no one there to
share her astonishment. "The poor man! Now somebody's just got to
look after him. He can't be allowed to run around the country this way
looking for his dead wife. It's terrible."
She boiled him a pot of coffee and brought in some new baked
bread and fresh butter. She put on a couple of eggs to boil, lying as
she spoke:
"Now, you stay right there, Henry, until Jake comes in. I'll send
him to look for Phoebe. I think she must be over at Sumnerton with
some of her friends. Anyhow, we'll find out. Now you just drink this
coffee and eat this bread. You must be tired. You've had a long walk
this morning." Her idea was to wait for her husband, Jake, and
perhaps have him call the police.
Henry ate, but his mind was on his wife. Since she was not here,
perhaps she was visiting the Murrays—miles away in another
direction. He decided that he would not wait for Jake Race. He would
search for his wife himself.
"Well, I’ll be going," he said, getting up and looking strangely
about him. "I guess she didn't come here after all. She went over to the
Murrays', I guess." And he marched out, ignoring Matilda Race's cries
of worry.
Two hours later his dusty, eager figure appeared in the Murrays'
doorway. He had walked five miles and it was noon. The Murrays, a
husband and wife of sixty, listened to him with astonishment. They
also realized that he was mad. They invited him to stay to dinner. They
intended to call the police later, to see what could be done. But Henry
did not stay long. His need for Phoebe pulled him off to another
distant farmhouse. So it went for that day and the next and the next.
And the circle of his questioning grew wider and wider.
And although Henry came to many doors, and the police were
informed, it was decided not to send him to the county hospital. The
condition of mad patients in this hospital was horrifying. It was found
that Henry returned peaceably to his lonely home at night to see if his
wife had returned. Who would lock up a thin, eager, old man with grey
hair and a kindly, innocent, inquiring manner? His neighbors had
known him as a kindly, dependable man. He could do no harm. Many
people gave him food and old clothes - at least at first. His figure
became a common sight, and the answer, "Why no, Henry, I haven't
seen her," or, "No, Henry, she hasn't been here today," became more
customary.
III
For several years afterward he was an odd figure in the sun and rain,
on dusty roads and muddy ones. The longer he walked in this manner
the deeper his strange hallucination became. He found it harder and
harder to return from his more and more distant searches. Finally he
began to take a few eating utensils with him so he would not have to
return home at night. In an old coffeepot he put a small tin cup. He
took a knife, fork, and spoon, and salt and pepper. He tied a tin plate
to the pot. It was no trouble for him to get the little food he needed.
And with a strange, almost religious manner, he didn't hesitate to ask
for that much. Slowly his hair became longer and longer. His black hat
became an earthen brown, and his clothes worn and dusty.
For three years he walked with only his clothes, his stick, and
his utensils. No one knew how far he went, or how he lived through
the storms and cold. They did not see him find shelter in piles of grass
or by the sides of cattle. The warm bodies of the cows protected him
from cold, and their dull minds did not oppose his presence.
Overhanging rocks and trees kept him from the rain.
The progress of such hallucinations is strange. He had asked for
Phoebe at people's doors and got no answer. Finally he decided that
32
she was not in any of the houses. But she might be within reach of his
voice. So he began to call sad, occasional cries. "O-o-o Phoebe! O-o-o
Phoebe!" waked the quiet countryside and echoed through the hills. It
had a sad, mad ring. Many farmers recognized it from far away and
said, "There goes old Rell0sneider."
Sometimes when he reached a crossroad, he couldn't decide
which way to go. He developed another hallucination to help him. He
believed Phoebe's spirit or some power of the air or wind or nature
would tell him where to go. He would stand at he crossroad and close
his eyes. He would turn around three times and call "0-o-o Phoebe"
twice. Then he would throw his walking stick straight before him. This
would surely tell him which way to go. Phoebe or some magic power
would direct the stick. He would then follow the direction the stick
pointed, even when it led him back the way he had come. And the
hallucination that he would surely find her remained. There were
hours when his feet were sore and his legs tired. There were times
when he would stop in the heat to wipe his forehead, or in the cold to
beat his arms. Sometimes, after throwing his stick and finding it
pointing to where he had just come from, he would shake his head
wearily and philosophically. He would consider for a moment the
confusion and disappointment of life, and his own strange fate. Then
he would start energetically off again. His strange figure finally became
known in the farthest corners of three or four counties. Old
Reifsneider was a sad character. His fame was wide.
About four miles from the little town called Watersville there was
a place called Red Cliff. This cliff was a steep wall of red sandstone,
perhaps a hundred feet high. It rose above the fruitful corn fields and
orchards that lay beneath. Trees grew thickly along the top of the cliff.
In fair weather it was old Reifsneider’s habit to spend the night here.
He would fry his bacon or boil his eggs at the foot of some tree. Then
he would lie down.
He almost always woke at 2:00 in the morning. Occasionally he
would walk at night. More often he would sit up and watch the
darkness or the stars, wondering. 8ometimes in the strangeness of his
mind he imagined he saw his lost wife moving among the trees. Then
he would get up to follow. He would take his utensils on a string, and
his stick. When she tried to escape him he would run after her,
begging. When site disappeared he would feel disappointed. He was
saddened at the almost impossible difficulties of his search.
One night in the seventh year of his search he came to the top of
Red Cliff. It was spring, like the spring when Phoebe had died. He had
walked many many miles with his utensils, following his walking stick.
It was after 10:00 at night. He was very tired. Long walking and little
eating had left him only a shadow of his former self. He had little
strength. Only his hallucination kept him going. He had eaten hardly
anything that day. Now, exhausted, he lay down in the dark to rest
and possibly sleep.
He felt the presence of his wife strongly. It would not be long now
until he should see her, talk to her, he told himself. He fell asleep,
after a time, his head on his knees. At midnight the moon began to
rise. At 2:00 in the morning, suddenly he saw a light like a large silver
ball. He opened his eyes. The forest was full of strange light and
silvery, shadowy forms. What was, it that moved among the trees—a
pale, shining, ghostly figure? Moonlight and shadow gave it a strange
form and a stranger reality. Was it truly his lost Phoebe? It came near
him. He imagined he could see her eyes. Not as she was when he last
saw her in the black dress and shawl. Now she was a strangely
younger Phoebe. She was the one whom he had known years before as
a girl. Old Reifsneider got up. He had been expecting and dreaming of
this hour all these years. Now he saw the pale light dancing before
him. He looked at it questioningly, one hand on his grey hair.
For the first time in many years he suddenly remembered the
full beauty of the girlish form. He saw her pleasing, sympathetic smile,
her brown hair. He remembered the blue ribbon she had once worn
about her waist. He saw her light and happy movements. He forgot his
pots and pans and followed her. She moved before him and it seemed
that she waved to him with a young and playful hand.
"Oh, Phoebe! Phoebe!" he called. "Have you really come? Have
you really answered me?" On and on he hurried until he was almost
running. He brushed his arms against the trees. He struck his hands
and face against small branches. His hat was gone, his breath was
gone, his mind quite gone when he came to the edge of the cliff. Down
bellow he saw her among the silver apple trees now blooming in the
spring.
"Oh, Phoebe!" he called. "Oh, Phoebe! Oh no, don't leave me!" He
felt the pull of the world where love was young and Phoebe waited.
"Oh, wait, Phoebe!" he cried, and jumped.
Some farm boys found his utensils under the tree where he had
left them. Later, at the foot of the cliff, they found his body. He was
pale and broken, but full of happiness. A smile of peace curved his
33
lips. His old hat was discovered under a tree. No one of all the simple
population knew how eagerly and happily he had finally found his lost
Phoebe.

The Tell Tale Hearth

By

Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849)

Edgar Allan Poe; born Edgar Poe; January 19, 1809 – October
7, 1849) was an American author, poet, editor, and literary
critic, considered part of the American Romantic Movement.
Best known for his tales of mystery and the macabre, Poe was
one of the earliest American practitioners of the short story, and
is generally considered the inventor of the detective
fiction genre. He is further credited with contributing to the
emerging genre of science fiction. He was the first well-known
American writer to try to earn a living through writing alone,
resulting in a financially difficult life and career.

34
TRUE!-NERVOUS--very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am! very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man's sleep. It took
but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I
senses--not destroyed--not dulled them. Above all was the sense of could see him as he lay upon his bed. Ha!--would a madman have
hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I been so wise as this? And then, when my head was well in the room,
heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and I undid the lantern cautiously-- oh, so cautiously--cautiously (for the
observe how healthily--how calmly I can tell you the whole story. hinges creaked)--I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell
upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights--every
It is impossible to tell how first the idea entered my brain; but once
night just at midnight-- but I found the eye always closed; and so it
conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none.
was impossible to do the work; for it was not the old man who vexed
Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged
me, but his Evil Eye. And every morning, when the day broke, I went
me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I
boldly into the chamber, and spoke courageously to him, calling him
think it was his eye! Yes, it was this! One of his eyes resembled that
by name in a hearty tone, and inquiring how he had passed the
of a vulture--a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell
night. So you see he would have been a very profound old man,
upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees--very gradually--I
indeed, to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon
made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself
him while he slept.
of the eye forever.
Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening
Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing.
the door. A watch's minute hand moves more quickly than did
But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I
mine. Never before that night had I felt the extent of my own
proceeded--with what caution--with what foresight--with what
powers--of my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feelings of
dissimulation I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man than
triumph. To think that there I was, opening the door, little by little,
during the whole week before I killed him. And every night, about
and he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly
midnight, I turned the latch of his door and opened it- -oh, so
chuckled at the idea; and perhaps he heard me; for he moved on
gently! And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my
the bed suddenly, as if startled. Now you may think that I drew
head, I put in a dark lantern, all closed, closed, so that no light
back--but no. His room was as black as pitch with the thick
shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have
darkness (for the shutters were close fastened, through fear of
laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly--very,

35
robbers), and so I knew that he could not see the opening of the
door, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily.
I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when
my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old man
sprang up in bed, crying out: "Who's there?"
I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move
a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down. He was
still sitting up in the bed listening;--just as I have done, night after
night, hearkening to the death watches in the wall.
Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of
mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or grief--oh no!--it was the
low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when
overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night, just at
midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled up from my own
bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terrors that distracted
me. I say I knew it well. I knew what the old man felt, and pitied him,
although I chuckled at heart. I knew that he had been lying awake
ever since the first slight noise, when he had turned in the bed. His
fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to
fancy them causeless, but could not. He had been saying to himself:
"It is nothing but the wind in the chimney--it is only a mouse
crossing the floor," or "it is merely a cricket which has made a single
chirp." Yes, he had been trying to comfort himself with these
suppositions; but he had found all in vain. All in vain; because
Death, in approaching him. had stalked with his black shadow
before him, and enveloped the victim. And it was the mournful
influence of the unperceived shadow that caused him to feel--
although he neither saw nor heard--to feel the presence of my head
within the room.
When I had waited a long time, very patiently, without hearing him
lie down, I resolved to open a little--a very, very little crevice in the
lantern. So I opened it--you cannot imagine how stealthily,
stealthily--until, at length, a single dim ray, like the thread of the
spider, shot from out the crevice and full upon the vulture eye.
It was open--wide, wide open--and I grew furious as I gazed upon it.
I saw it with perfect distinctness--all a dull blue, with a hideous veil
over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones; but I could see
nothing else of the old man's face or person: for I had directed the
ray, as if by instinct, precisely upon the damned spot.
And now--have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is
but over-acuteness of the senses?--now, I say, there came to my
ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when
enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well too. It was the beating
of the old man's heart. It increased my fury, as the beating of a
drum stimulates the soldier into courage.
But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the
lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray
36
upon the eye. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber,
grew quicker and quicker' and louder and louder every instant. The and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the
old man's terror must have been extreme! It grew louder, I say, boards so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye--not even
louder every moment!--do you mark me well? I have told you that I
his--could have detected anything wrong. There was nothing to
am nervous: so I am. And now at the dead hour of night, amid the
wash out--no stain of any kind-- no blood-spot whatever. I had
dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited
been too wary for that. A tub had caught all--ha! ha!
me to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained
and stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the
When I had made an end of these labors, it was four o'clock--still
heart must burst. And now a new anxiety seized me--the sound
dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a
would be heard by a neighbor! The old man's hour had come! With a
knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light
loud yell, I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He
heart--for what had I now to fear? There entered three men, who
shrieked once--once only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor,
introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the
and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gaily, to find the
police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbor during the night:
deed so far done. But, for many minutes, the heart beat on with a
suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been
muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard
lodged at the police office, and they (the officers) had been deputed
through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I
to search the premises.
removed the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone
dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many I smiled--for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The
minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eye would shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned,
trouble me no more. was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I
bade them search--search well. I led them, at length, to his chamber.
If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I
I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the
describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body.
enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the room, and
The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence. First of all I
desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the
dismembered the corpse. I cut off the head and the arms and the
wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the
legs.
very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim.

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The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical
singularly at ease. They sat, and while I answered cheerily, they smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die!--and now--again!--
chatted familiar things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale and hark! louder! louder! louder!
wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my
ears: but still they sat and still chatted. The ringing became more
distinct:--it continued and became more distinct: I talked more "Villains!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit the deed!--tear up
freely to get rid of the feeling: but it continued and gained the planks!--here, here!--it is the beating of his hideous heart!"
definiteness--until, at length, I found that the noise was not within
my ears.

No doubt I now grew very pale,--but I talked more fluently, and

with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased--and what could I
do? It was a low, dull, quick sound--much such a sound as a watch
makes when enveloped in cotton. I gasped for breath--and yet the
officers heard it not. I talked more quickly--more vehemently; but
the noise steadily increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced
the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the
observation of

the men--but the noise steadily increased. Oh, God; what could I do?
I foamed--I raved--I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been
sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all
and continually increased. It grew louder--louder --louder! And still
the men chatted pleasantly, and smiled. Was it possible they heard
not? Almighty God!--no, no! They heard!--they suspected--they
knew!--they were making a mockery of my horror!--this I thought,
and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything

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