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9th

Grade Literature Textbook Table of Contents

The Odyssey, Part One by Homer, translated by Robert Fitzgerald ............................................... 3

Calypso, The Sweet Nymph .................................................................................................. 4

I am Laertes’ Son. . . .” .......................................................................................................... 6

The Lotus Eaters ................................................................................................................... 8

The Cyclops .......................................................................................................................... 9

The Witch Circe .................................................................................................................. 18

The Land of the Dead .......................................................................................................... 19

The Sirens; Scylla and Charybdis ........................................................................................ 21

The Masque of the Red Death by Edgar Allan Poe ..................................................................... 30

The Lottery by Shirley Jackson (1916 - 1965) .............................................................................. 35

Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe ............................................................................................ 43

“The Minister's Black Veil A Parable” By Nathaniel Hawthorne, 1804-1864 ............................... 49

Desiree's Baby by Kate Chopin .................................................................................................... 62

Genesis 1 .................................................................................................................................... 68

Creation ............................................................................................................................... 68

The Flood ............................................................................................................................ 73

The Epic of Gilgamesh Tablet XI The Story of the Flood .............................................................. 78

An Iroquois Legend ..................................................................................................................... 84

Prometheus and Pandora ........................................................................................................... 85

The Popol Vuh ............................................................................................................................. 87

The Necklace by Guy de Maupassant .......................................................................................... 91

The Yellow Wallpaper (1899) by Charlotte Perkins Gilman, ...................................................... 101

Harrison Bergeron by Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. .................................................................................. 116

Excerpt: 'The Other Wes Moore' by Wes Moore ....................................................................... 124

Half the Sky by Nicholas D. Kristof ............................................................................................ 127

On Dumpster Diving by Lars Eighner ......................................................................................... 139

The Testimony of Michael J. Fox ............................................................................................... 151

What Redburn Saw in Launcelott's-Hey: Excerpt from Redburn by Herman Melville ................ 154

“House Taken Over” by Julio Cortazar ...................................................................................... 159

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“Living in Two Worlds” by Marcus Mabry Newsweek on Campus, April 1988 .......................... 164

Mrs. Flowers from I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou ................................... 167

Eleven By Sandra Cisneros ........................................................................................................ 171

Recitatif by Toni Morrison ........................................................................................................ 174

The Gift of the Magi by O. Henry .............................................................................................. 200

A Christmas Memory by Truman Capote .................................................................................. 205

The Scarlet Ibis by James Hurst ................................................................................................. 215

Sojourner Truth: Ain't I A Woman? Delivered 1851 Women's Convention, Akron, Ohio ........... 219

Poetry ....................................................................................................................................... 220

I'm nobody! Who are you? by Emily Dickinson ................................................................ 220

I felt a funeral in my brain by Emily Dickinson ................................................................. 220

Success is counted sweetest by Emily Dickinson .............................................................. 220

Hope is the thing with feathers by Emily Dickinson .......................................................... 220

A Dream Deferred by Langston Hughes ............................................................................ 222

Day in the Barrio by -Judith Ortiz Cofer ........................................................................... 223

“Sympathy” by Paul Laurence Dunbar (1872-1906) .......................................................... 224

“Cross” by Langston Hughes ............................................................................................. 225

“We Wear the Mask” by Paul Laurence Dunbar (1872-1906) ........................................... 225

Sonnet 116 By William Shakespeare ................................................................................. 226

Fire and Ice by Robert Frost .............................................................................................. 226

After Apple Picking By Robert Frost ................................................................................ 227

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost ................................................ 228

There Came a Wind Like a Bugle By Emily Dickinson ..................................................... 229

Do not go gentle into that good night by Dylan Thomas, 1914 – 1953 .............................. 230

Crossing the Bar by Alfred, Lord Tennyson ...................................................................... 231

Richard Cory by Edwin Arlington Robinson........................................................................ 232

Women by Alice Walker ................................................................................................... 233

The Courage That My Mother Had by Edna St. Vincent Millay ........................................ 233

Legal Alien by Pat Mora .................................................................................................... 234

"Strange Fruit" Billie Holiday ........................................................................................... 235

Art ............................................................................................................................................. 236

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The Odyssey, Part One by Homer, translated by Robert Fitzgerald

Sing in me, Muse, and through me tell the story

of that man skilled in all ways of contending,

the wanderer, harried for years on end,

after he plundered the stronghold

on the proud height of Troy.

5 He saw the townlands

and learned the minds of many distant men,

and weathered many bitter nights and days

in his deep heart at sea, while he fought only

to save his life, to bring his shipmates home.

10 But not by will nor valor could he save them,

for their own recklessness destroyed them all—

children and fools, they killed and feasted on

the cattle of Lord Helios, the Sun,

and he who moves all day through heaven

15 took from their eyes the dawn of their return.

Of these adventures, Muse, daughter of Zeus,

tell us in our time, lift the great song again.

Begin when all the rest who left behind them

headlong death in battle or at sea

20 had long ago returned, while he alone still hungered

for home and wife. Her ladyship Calypso

clung to him in her sea-hollowed caves—

a nymph, immortal and most beautiful,

who craved him for her own.

And when long years and seasons

25 wheeling brought around that point of time

ordained for him to make his passage homeward,

trials and dangers, even so, attended him

even in Ithaca, near those he loved.

Yet all the gods had pitied Lord Odysseus,

30 all but Poseidon, raging cold and rough

against the brave king till he came ashore

at last on his own land. . . .

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(from Book

1)________________________________________

Calypso, The Sweet Nymph

No words were lost on Hermes the Wayfinder

who bent to tie his beautiful sandals on,

35 ambrosial, golden, that carry him over water

or over endless land in a swish of the wind,

and took the wand with which he charms asleep—

or when he wills, awake—the eyes of men.

So wand in hand he paced into the air,

40 shot from Pieria down, down to sea level,

and veered to skim the swell. A gull patrolling

between the wave crests of the desolate sea

will dip to catch a fish, and douse his wings;

no higher above the whitecaps Hermes flew

45 until the distant island lay ahead,

then rising shoreward from the violet ocean

he stepped up to the cave. Divine Calypso,

the mistress of the isle, was now at home.

Upon her hearthstone a great fire blazing

50 scented the farthest shores with cedar smoke

and smoke of thyme, and singing high and low

in her sweet voice, before her loom aweaving,

she passed her golden shuttle to and fro.

A deep wood grew outside, with summer leaves

55 of alder and black poplar, pungent cypress.

Ornate birds here rested their stretched wings—

horned owls, falcons, cormorants—long-tongued

beachcombing birds, and followers of the sea.

Around the smooth-walled cave a crooking vine

60 held purple clusters under ply of green;

and four springs, bubbling up near one another

shallow and clear, took channels here and there

through beds of violets and tender parsley.

Even a god who found this place

65 would gaze, and feel his heart beat with delight:

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so Hermes did; but when he had gazed his fill

he entered the wide cave. Now face-to-face

the magical Calypso recognized him,

as all immortal gods know one another

70 on sight—though seeming strangers, far from home.

But he saw nothing of the great Odysseus,

who sat apart, as a thousand times before,

and racked his own heart groaning, with eyes wet

scanning the bare horizon of the sea. . . .

75 The strong god glittering left her as he spoke,

and now her ladyship, having given heed

to Zeus’s mandate, went to find Odysseus

in his stone seat to seaward—tear on tear

brimming his eyes. The sweet days of his lifetime

80 were running out in anguish over his exile,

for long ago the nymph had ceased to please.

Though he fought shy of her and her desire,

he lay with her each night, for she compelled him.

But when day came he sat on the rocky shore

85 and broke his own heart groaning, with eyes wet

scanning the bare horizon of the sea.

Now she stood near him in her beauty, saying:

“O forlorn man, be still.

Here you need grieve no more; you need not feel

90 your life consumed here; I have pondered it,

and I shall help you go. . . .”

Swiftly she turned and led him to her cave,

and they went in, the mortal and immortal.

He took the chair left empty now by Hermes,

95 where the divine Calypso placed before him

victuals and drink of men; then she sat down

facing Odysseus, while her serving maids

brought nectar and ambrosia to her side.

Then each one’s hands went out on each one’s feast

100 until they had had their pleasure; and she said:

“Son of Laertes, versatile Odysseus,

after these years with me, you still desire

your old home? Even so, I wish you well.

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If you could see it all, before you go—

105 all the adversity you face at sea—

you would stay here, and guard this house, and be

immortal—though you wanted her forever,

that bride for whom you pine each day.

Can I be less desirable than she is?

110 Less interesting? Less beautiful? Can mortals

compare with goddesses in grace and form?”

To this the strategist Odysseus answered:“

My lady goddess, there is no cause for anger.

My quiet Penelope—how well I know—

115 would seem a shade before your majesty,

death and old age being unknown to you,

while she must die. Yet, it is true, each day

I long for home, long for the sight of home. . . .”

A man in a distant field, no hearth fires near,

120 will hide a fresh brand in his bed of embers

to keep a spark alive for the next day;

so in the leaves Odysseus hid himself,

while over him Athena showered sleep

that his distress should end, and soon, soon.

125 In quiet sleep she sealed his cherished eyes.

(from Book 5)

________________________________________

I am Laertes’ Son. . . .”

Now this was the reply Odysseus made: . . .

“I am Laertes’ son, Odysseus.

Men hold me

formidable for guile in peace and war:

this fame has gone abroad to the sky’s rim.

130 My home is on the peaked seamark of Ithaca

under Mount Neion’s windblown robe of leaves,

in sight of other islands—Doulikhion,

Same, wooded Zakynthos—Ithaca

being most lofty in that coastal sea,

135 and northwest, while the rest lie east and south.

A rocky isle, but good for a boy’s training;

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I shall not see on earth a place more dear,

though I have been detained long by Calypso,

loveliest among goddesses, who held me

140 in her smooth caves, to be her heart’s delight,

as Circe of Aeaea, the enchantress,

desired me, and detained me in her hall.

But in my heart I never gave consent.

Where shall a man find sweetness to surpass

145 his own home and his parents? In far lands

he shall not, though he find a house of gold.

What of my sailing, then, from Troy?

What of those years

of rough adventure, weathered under Zeus?

The wind that carried west from Ilion

150 brought me to Ismaros, on the far shore,

a strongpoint on the coast of the Cicones.

I stormed that place and killed the men who fought.

Plunder we took, and we enslaved the women,

to make division, equal shares to all—

155 but on the spot I told them: ‘Back, and quickly!

Out to sea again!’ My men were mutinous,

fools, on stores of wine. Sheep after sheep

they butchered by the surf, and shambling cattle,

feasting—while fugitives went inland, running

160 to call to arms the main force of Cicones.

This was an army, trained to fight on horseback

or, where the ground required, on foot. They came

with dawn over that terrain like the leaves

and blades of spring. So doom appeared to us,

165 dark word of Zeus for us, our evil days.

My men stood up and made a fight of it—

backed on the ships, with lances kept in play,

from bright morning through the blaze of noon

holding our beach, although so far outnumbered;

170 but when the sun passed toward unyoking time,

then the Achaeans, one by one, gave way.

Six benches were left empty in every ship

that evening when we pulled away from death.

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And this new grief we bore with us to sea:

175 our precious lives we had, but not our friends.

No ship made sail next day until some shipmate

had raised a cry, three times, for each poor ghost

unfleshed by the Cicones on that field.

Now Zeus the lord of cloud roused in the north

180 a storm against the ships, and driving veils

of squall moved down like night on land and sea.

The bows went plunging at the gust; sails

cracked and lashed out strips in the big wind.

We saw death in that fury, dropped the yards,

185 unshipped the oars, and pulled for the nearest lee:

then two long days and nights we lay offshore

worn out and sick at heart, tasting our grief,

until a third Dawn came with ringlets shining.

Then we put up our masts, hauled sail, and rested,

190 letting the steersmen and the breeze take over.

I might have made it safely home, that time,

but as I came round Malea the current

took me out to sea, and from the north

a fresh gale drove me on, past Cythera.

195 Nine days I drifted on the teeming sea

before dangerous high winds.”

(from Book 9)

________________________________________

The Lotus Eaters

“Upon the tenth

we came to the coastline of the Lotus Eaters,

who live upon that flower. We landed there

200 to take on water. All ships’ companies

mustered alongside for the midday meal.

Then I sent out two picked men and a runner

to learn what race of men that land sustained.

They fell in, soon enough, with Lotus Eaters,

205 who showed no will to do us harm, only

offering the sweet Lotus to our friends—

but those who ate this honeyed plant, the Lotus,

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never cared to report, nor to return:

they longed to stay forever, browsing on

210 that native bloom, forgetful of their homeland.

I drove them, all three wailing, to the ships,

tied them down under their rowing benches,

and called the rest: ‘All hands aboard;

come, clear the beach and no one taste

215 the Lotus, or you lose your hope of home.’

Filing in to their places by the rowlocks

my oarsmen dipped their long oars in the surf,

and we moved out again on our seafaring. . . .”

(from Book 9)

The Cyclops

“We lit a fire, burnt an offering,

220 and took some cheese to eat; then sat in silence

around the embers, waiting. When he came

he had a load of dry boughs on his shoulder

to stoke his fire at suppertime. He dumped it

with a great crash into that hollow cave,

225 and we all scattered fast to the far wall.

Then over the broad cavern floor he ushered

the ewes he meant to milk. He left his rams

and he-goats in the yard outside, and swung

high overhead a slab of solid rock

230 to close the cave. Two dozen four-wheeled wagons,

with heaving wagon teams, could not have stirred

the tonnage of that rock from where he wedged it

over the doorsill. Next he took his seat

and milked his bleating ewes. A practiced job

235 he made of it, giving each ewe her suckling;

thickened his milk, then, into curds and whey,

sieved out the curds to drip in withy baskets,

and poured the whey to stand in bowls

cooling until he drank it for his supper.

240 When all these chores were done, he poked the fire,

heaping on brushwood. In the glare he saw us.

‘Strangers,’ he said, ‘who are you? And where from?

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What brings you here by seaways—a fair traffic?

Or are you wandering rogues, who cast your lives

245 like dice, and ravage other folk by sea?’

We felt a pressure on our hearts, in dread

of that deep rumble and that mighty man.

But all the same I spoke up in reply:

‘We are from Troy, Achaeans, blown off course

250 by shifting gales on the Great South Sea;

homeward bound, but taking routes and ways

uncommon; so the will of Zeus would have it.

We served under Agamemnon, son of Atreus—

the whole world knows what city

255 he laid waste, what armies he destroyed.

It was our luck to come here; here we stand,

beholden for your help, or any gifts

you give—as custom is to honor strangers.

We would entreat you, great Sir, have a care

260 for the gods’ courtesy; Zeus will avenge

the unoffending guest.’

He answered this

from his brute chest, unmoved:

‘You are a ninny,

or else you come from the other end of nowhere,

telling me, mind the gods! We Cyclopes

265 care not a whistle for your thundering Zeus

or all the gods in bliss; we have more force by far.

I would not let you go for fear of Zeus—

you or your friends—unless I had a whim to.

Tell me, where was it, now, you left your ship—

270 around the point, or down the shore, I wonder?’

He thought he’d find out, but I saw through this,

and answered with a ready lie:

‘My ship?

Poseidon Lord, who sets the earth atremble,

broke it up on the rocks at your land’s end.

275 A wind from seaward served him, drove us there.

We are survivors, these good men and I.’

Neither reply nor pity came from him,

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but in one stride he clutched at my companions

and caught two in his hands like squirming puppies

280 to beat their brains out, spattering the floor.

Then he dismembered them and made his meal,

gaping and crunching like a mountain lion—

everything: innards, flesh, and marrow bones.

We cried aloud, lifting our hands to Zeus,

285 powerless, looking on at this, appalled;

but Cyclops went on filling up his belly

with manflesh and great gulps of whey,

then lay down like a mast among his sheep.

My heart beat high now at the chance of action,

290 and drawing the sharp sword from my hip I went

along his flank to stab him where the midriff

holds the liver. I had touched the spot

when sudden fear stayed me: if I killed him

we perished there as well, for we could never

295 move his ponderous doorway slab aside.

So we were left to groan and wait for morning.

When the young Dawn with fingertips of rose

lit up the world, the Cyclops built a fire

and milked his handsome ewes, all in due order,

300 putting the sucklings to the mothers. Then,

his chores being all dispatched, he caught

another brace of men to make his breakfast,

and whisked away his great door slab

to let his sheep go through—but he, behind,

305 reset the stone as one would cap a quiver.

There was a din of whistling as the Cyclops

rounded his flock to higher ground, then stillness.

And now I pondered how to hurt him worst,

if but Athena granted what I prayed for.

310 Here are the means I thought would serve my turn:

a club, or staff, lay there along the fold—

an olive tree, felled green and left to season

for Cyclops’s hand. And it was like a mast

a lugger of twenty oars, broad in the beam—

315 a deep-seagoing craft—might carry:

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so long, so big around, it seemed. Now I

chopped out a six-foot section of this pole

and set it down before my men, who scraped it;

and when they had it smooth, I hewed again

320 to make a stake with pointed end. I held this

in the fire’s heart and turned it, toughening it,

then hid it, well back in the cavern, under

one of the dung piles in profusion there.

Now came the time to toss for it: who ventured

325 along with me? Whose hand could bear to thrust

and grind that spike in Cyclops’s eye, when mild

sleep had mastered him? As luck would have it,

the men I would have chosen won the toss—

four strong men, and I made five as captain.

330 At evening came the shepherd with his flock,

his woolly flock. The rams as well, this time,

entered the cave: by some sheepherding whim—

or a god’s bidding—none were left outside.

He hefted his great boulder into place

335 and sat him down to milk the bleating ewes

in proper order, put the lambs to suck,

and swiftly ran through all his evening chores.

Then he caught two more men and feasted on them.

My moment was at hand, and I went forward

40 holding an ivy bowl of my dark drink,

looking up, saying:

‘Cyclops, try some wine.

Here’s liquor to wash down your scraps of men.

Taste it, and see the kind of drink we carried

under our planks. I meant it for an offering

345 if you would help us home. But you are mad,

unbearable, a bloody monster! After this,

will any other traveler come to see you?’

He seized and drained the bowl, and it went down

so fiery and smooth he called for more:

350 ‘Give me another, thank you kindly. Tell me,

how are you called? I’ll make a gift will please you.

Even Cyclopes know the wine grapes grow

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out of grassland and loam in heaven’s rain,

but here’s a bit of nectar and ambrosia!’

355 Three bowls I brought him, and he poured them down.

I saw the fuddle and flush come over him,

then I sang out in cordial tones:

‘Cyclops,

you ask my honorable name? Remember

the gift you promised me, and I shall tell you.

360 My name is Nohbdy: mother, father, and friends,

everyone calls me Nohbdy.’

And he said:

‘Nohbdy’s my meat, then, after I eat his friends.

Others come first. There’s a noble gift, now.’

Even as he spoke, he reeled and tumbled backward,

365 his great head lolling to one side; and sleep

took him like any creature. Drunk, hiccuping,

he dribbled streams of liquor and bits of men.

Now, by the gods, I drove my big hand spike

deep in the embers, charring it again,

370 and cheered my men along with battle talk

to keep their courage up: no quitting now.

The pike of olive, green though it had been,

reddened and glowed as if about to catch.

I drew it from the coals and my four fellows

375 gave me a hand, lugging it near the Cyclops

as more than natural force nerved them; straight

forward they sprinted, lifted it, and rammed it

deep in his crater eye, and I leaned on it

turning it as a shipwright turns a drill

380 in planking, having men below to swing

the two-handled strap that spins it in the groove.

So with our brand we bored that great eye socket

while blood ran out around the red-hot bar.

Eyelid and lash were seared; the pierced ball

hissed broiling, and the roots popped.

385 In a smithy

one sees a white-hot axhead or an adze

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plunged and wrung in a cold tub, screeching steam—

the way they make soft iron hale and hard—

just so that eyeball hissed around the spike.

390 The Cyclops bellowed and the rock roared round him,

and we fell back in fear. Clawing his face

he tugged the bloody spike out of his eye,

threw it away, and his wild hands went groping;

then he set up a howl for Cyclopes

395 who lived in caves on windy peaks nearby.

Some heard him; and they came by divers ways

to clump around outside and call:

‘What ails you,

Polyphemus? Why do you cry so sore

in the starry night? You will not let us sleep.

400 Sure no man’s driving off your flock? No man

has tricked you, ruined you?’

Out of the cave

the mammoth Polyphemus roared in answer:

‘Nohbdy, Nohbdy’s tricked me. Nohbdy’s ruined me!’

To this rough shout they made a sage reply:

405 ‘Ah well, if nobody has played you foul

there in your lonely bed, we are no use in pain

given by great Zeus. Let it be your father,

Poseidon Lord, to whom you pray.’

So saying

they trailed away. And I was filled with laughter

410 to see how like a charm the name deceived them.

Now Cyclops, wheezing as the pain came on him,

fumbled to wrench away the great doorstone

and squatted in the breach with arms thrown wide

for any silly beast or man who bolted—

415 hoping somehow I might be such a fool.

But I kept thinking how to win the game:

death sat there huge; how could we slip away?

I drew on all my wits, and ran through tactics,

reasoning as a man will for dear life,

420 until a trick came—and it pleased me well.

The Cyclops’s rams were handsome, fat, with heavy

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fleeces, a dark violet.

Three abreast

I tied them silently together, twining

cords of willow from the ogre’s bed;

425 then slung a man under each middle one

to ride there safely, shielded left and right.

So three sheep could convey each man. I took

the woolliest ram, the choicest of the flock,

and hung myself under his kinky belly,

430 pulled up tight, with fingers twisted deep

in sheepskin ringlets for an iron grip.

So, breathing hard, we waited until morning.

When Dawn spread out her fingertips of rose

the rams began to stir, moving for pasture,

435 and peals of bleating echoed round the pens

where dams with udders full called for a milking.

Blinded, and sick with pain from his head wound,

the master stroked each ram, then let it pass,

but my men riding on the pectoral fleece

440 the giant’s blind hands blundering never found.

Last of them all my ram, the leader, came,

weighted by wool and me with my meditations.

The Cyclops patted him, and then he said:

‘Sweet cousin ram, why lag behind the rest

445 in the night cave? You never linger so,

but graze before them all, and go afar

to crop sweet grass, and take your stately way

leading along the streams, until at evening

you run to be the first one in the fold.

450 Why, now, so far behind? Can you be grieving

over your Master’s eye? That carrion rogue

and his accurst companions burnt it out

when he had conquered all my wits with wine.

Nohbdy will not get out alive, I swear.

455 Oh, had you brain and voice to tell

where he may be now, dodging all my fury!

Bashed by this hand and bashed on this rock wall

his brains would strew the floor, and I should have

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rest from the outrage Nohbdy worked upon me.’

460 He sent us into the open, then. Close by,

I dropped and rolled clear of the ram’s belly,

going this way and that to untie the men.

With many glances back, we rounded up

his fat, stiff-legged sheep to take aboard,

465 and drove them down to where the good ship lay.

We saw, as we came near, our fellows’ faces

shining; then we saw them turn to grief

tallying those who had not fled from death.

I hushed them, jerking head and eyebrows up,

470 and in a low voice told them: ‘Load this herd;

move fast, and put the ship’s head toward the breakers.’

They all pitched in at loading, then embarked

and struck their oars into the sea. Far out,

as far offshore as shouted words would carry,

475 I sent a few back to the adversary:

‘O Cyclops! Would you feast on my companions?

Puny, am I, in a Caveman’s hands?

How do you like the beating that we gave you,

you damned cannibal? Eater of guests

480 under your roof! Zeus and the gods have paid you!’

The blind thing in his doubled fury broke

a hilltop in his hands and heaved it after us.

Ahead of our black prow it struck and sank

whelmed in a spuming geyser, a giantwave

485 that washed the ship stern foremost back to shore.

I got the longest boathook out and stood

fending us off, with furious nods to all

to put their backs into a racing stroke—

row, row or perish. So the long oars bent

490 kicking the foam sternward, making head

until we drew away, and twice as far.

Now when I cupped my hands I heard the crew

in low voices protesting:

‘Godsake, Captain!

Why bait the beast again? Let him alone!’

495 ‘That tidal wave he made on the first throw

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all but beached us.’

‘All but stove us in!’

‘Give him our bearing with your trumpeting,

he’ll get the range and lob a boulder.’

‘Aye

He’ll smash our timbers and our heads together!’

500 I would not heed them in my glorying spirit,

but let my anger flare and yelled:

'Cyclops,

if ever mortal man inquire

how you were put to shame and blinded, tell him

Odysseus, raider of cities, took your eye:

505 Laertes’ son, whose home’s on Ithaca!’

At this he gave a mighty sob and rumbled:

‘Now comes the weird upon me, spoken of old.

A wizard, grand and wondrous, lived here—Telemus,

a son of Eurymus great length of days

510 he had in wizardry among the Cyclopes,

and these things he foretold for time to come:

my great eye lost, and at Odysseus’ hands.

Always I had in mind some giant, armed

in giant force, would come against me here.

515 But this, but you—small, pitiful, and twiggy—

you put me down with wine, you blinded me.

Come back, Odysseus, and I’ll treat you well,

praying the god of earthquake to befriend you—

his son I am, for he by his avowal

520 fathered me, and, if he will, he may

heal me of this black wound—he and no other

of all the happy gods or mortal men.’

Few words I shouted in reply to him:

‘If I could take your life I would and take

525 your time away, and hurl you down to hell!

The god of earthquake could not heal you there!

’At this he stretched his hands out in his darkness

toward the sky of stars, and prayed Poseidon:

‘O hear me, lord, blue girdler of the islands,

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530 if I am thine indeed, and thou art father:

grant that Odysseus, raider of cities, never

see his home: Laertes’ son, I mean,

who kept his hall on Ithaca. Should destiny

intend that he shall see his roof again

535 among his family in his fatherland,

far be that day, and dark the years between.

Let him lose all companions, and return

under strange sail to bitter days at home.’ . . .”

(from Book 9)

The Witch Circe

“In the wild wood they found an open glade,

540 around a smooth stone house—the hall of Circe—

and wolves and mountain lions lay there, mild

in her soft spell, fed on her drug of evil.

None would attack—oh, it was strange, I tell you—

but switching their long tails they faced our men

545 like hounds, who look up when their master comes

with tidbits for them—as he will—from table.

Humbly those wolves and lions with mighty paws

fawned on our men—who met their yellow eyes

and feared them.

In the entranceway they stayed

550 to listen there: inside her quiet house

they heard the goddess Circe.

Low she sang

in her beguiling voice, while on her loom

she wove ambrosial fabric sheer and bright,

by that craft known to the goddesses of heaven.

555 No one would speak, until Polites—most

faithful and likable of my officers—said:

‘Dear friends, no need for stealth: here’s a young weaver

singing a pretty song to set the air

atingle on these lawns and paven courts.

560 Goddess she is, or lady. Shall we greet her?’

So reassured, they all cried out together,

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and she came swiftly to the shining doors

to call them in. All but Eurylochus—

who feared a snare—the innocents went after her.

565 On thrones she seated them, and lounging chairs,

while she prepared a meal of cheese and barley

and amber honey mixed with Pramnian wine,

adding her own vile pinch, to make them lose

desire or thought of our dear fatherland.

570 Scarce had they drunk when she flew after them

with her long stick and shut them in a pigsty—

bodies, voices, heads, and bristles, all

swinish now, though minds were still unchanged.

So, squealing, in they went. And Circe tossed them

575 acorns, mast, and cornel berries—fodder

for hogs who rut and slumber on the earth.

Down to the ship Eurylochus came running

to cry alarm, foul magic doomed his men!

But working with dry lips to speak a word

580 he could not, being so shaken; blinding tears

welled in his eyes; foreboding filled his heart.

When we were frantic questioning him, at last

we heard the tale: our friends were gone. . . .”

The Land of the Dead

“Then I addressed the blurred and breathless dead,

585 vowing to slaughter my best heifer for them

before she calved, at home in Ithaca,

and burn the choice bits on the altar fire;

as for Teiresias, I swore to sacrifice

a black lamb, handsomest of all our flock.

590 Thus to assuage the nations of the dead

I pledged these rites, then slashed the lamb and ewe,

letting their black blood stream into the well pit.

Now the souls gathered, stirring out of Erebus,

brides and young men, and men grown old in pain,

595 and tender girls whose hearts were new to grief;

many were there, too, torn by brazen lanceheads,

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battle-slain, bearing still their bloody gear.

From every side they came and sought the pit

with rustling cries; and I grew sick with fear.

600 But presently I gave command to my officers

to flay those sheep the bronze cut down, and make

burnt offerings of flesh to the gods below—

to sovereign Death, to pale Persephone.

Meanwhile I crouched with my drawn sword to keep

605 the surging phantoms from the bloody pit

till I should know the presence of Teiresias. . . .

Soon from the dark that prince of Thebes came forward

bearing a golden staff; and he addressed me:

‘Son of Laertes and the gods of old,

610 Odysseus, master of landways and seaways,

why leave the blazing sun, O man of woe,

to see the cold dead and the joyless region?

Stand clear, put up your sword;

let me but taste of blood, I shall speak true.’

615 At this I stepped aside, and in the scabbard

let my long sword ring home to the pommel silver,

as he bent down to the somber blood. Then spoke

the prince of those with gift of speech:

‘Great captain,

a fair wind and the honey lights of home

620 are all you seek. But anguish lies ahead;

the god who thunders on the land prepares it,

not to be shaken from your track, implacable,

in rancor for the son whose eye you blinded.

One narrow strait may take you through his blows:

625 denial of yourself, restraint of shipmates.

When you make landfall on Thrinakia first

and quit the violet sea, dark on the land

you’ll find the grazing herds of Helios

by whom all things are seen, all speech is known.

630 Avoid those kine, hold fast to your intent,

and hard seafaring brings you all to Ithaca.

But if you raid the beeves, I see destruction

for ship and crew. Though you survive alone,

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bereft of all companions, lost for years,

635 under strange sail shall you come home, to find

your own house filled with trouble: insolent men

eating your livestock as they court your lady.

Aye, you shall make those men atone in blood!

But after you have dealt out death—in open

640 combat or by stealth—to all the suitors,

go overland on foot, and take an oar,

until one day you come where men have lived

with meat unsalted, never known the sea,

nor seen seagoing ships, with crimson bows

645 and oars that fledge light hulls for dipping flight.

The spot will soon be plain to you, and I

can tell you how: some passerby will say,

“What winnowing fan is that upon your shoulder?”

Halt, and implant your smooth oar in the turf

650 and make fair sacrifice to Lord Poseidon:

a ram, a bull, a great buck boar; turn back,

and carry out pure hecatombs at home

to all wide heaven’s lords, the undying gods,

to each in order. Then a seaborne death

655 soft as this hand of mist will come upon you

when you are wearied out with rich old age,

your countryfolk in blessed peace around you.

And all this shall be just as I foretell.’ . . .”

(from Book 11)

________________________________________

The Sirens; Scylla and Charybdis

“‘Listen with care

660 to this, now, and a god will arm your mind.

Square in your ship’s path are Sirens, crying

beauty to bewitch men coasting by;

woe to the innocent who hears that sound!

He will not see his lady nor his children

665 in joy, crowding about him, home from sea;

the Sirens will sing his mind away

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on their sweet meadow lolling. There are bones

of dead men rotting in a pile beside them

and flayed skins shrivel around the spot.

Steer wide;

670 keep well to seaward; plug your oarsmen’s ears

with beeswax kneaded soft; none of the rest

should hear that song.

But if you wish to listen,

let the men tie you in the lugger, hand

and foot, back to the mast, lashed to the mast,

675 so you may hear those Harpies’ thrilling voices;

shout as you will, begging to be untied,

your crew must only twist more line around you

and keep their stroke up, till the singers fade. . . .’”

“‘. . . That is the den of Scylla, where she yaps

680 abominably, a newborn whelp's cry,

though she is huge and monstrous. God or man,

no one could look on her in joy. Her legs—

and there are twelve—are like great tentacles,

unjointed, and upon her serpent necks

685 are borne six heads like nightmares of ferocity,

with triple serried rows of fangs and deep

gullets of black death. Half her length, she sways

her heads in air, outside her horrid cleft,

hunting the sea around that promontory

690 for dolphins, dogfish, or what bigger game

thundering Amphitrite feeds in thousands.

And no ship’s company can claim

to have passed her without loss and grief; she takes,

from every ship, one man for every gullet.

695 The opposite point seems more a tongue of land

you’d touch with a good bowshot, at the narrows.

A great wild fig, a shaggy mass of leaves,

grows on it, and Charybdis lurks below

to swallow down the dark sea tide. Three times

700 from dawn to dusk she spews it up

and sucks it down again three times, a whirling

maelstrom; if you come upon her then

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the god who makes earth tremble could not save you.

No, hug the cliff of Scylla, take your ship

705 through on a racing stroke. Better to mourn

six men than lose them all, and the ship, too. . .

Then you will coast Thrinakia, the island

where Helios’s cattle graze, fine herds, and flocks

of goodly sheep. The herds and flocks are seven,

with fifty beasts in each.

710 No lambs are dropped,

or calves, and these fat cattle never die. . . .

Now give those kine a wide berth, keep your thoughts

intent upon your course for home,

and hard seafaring brings you all to Ithaca.

715 But if you raid the beeves, I see destruction

for ship and crew. . . .’”

“The crew being now silent before me, I

addressed them, sore at heart:

‘Dear friends,

more than one man, or two, should know those things

720 Circe foresaw for us and shared with me,

so let me tell her forecast: then we die

with our eyes open, if we are going to die,

or know what death we baffle if we can. Sirens

weaving a haunting song over the sea

725 we are to shun, she said, and their green shore

all sweet with clover; yet she urged that I

alone should listen to their song. Therefore

you are to tie me up, tight as a splint,

erect along the mast, lashed to the mast,

730 and if I shout and beg to be untied,

take more turns of the rope to muffle me.’

I rather dwelt on this part of the forecast,

while our good ship made time, bound outward down

the wind for the strange island of Sirens.

735 Then all at once the wind fell, and a calm

came over all the sea, as though some power

lulled the swell.

The crew were on their feet

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briskly, to furl the sail, and stow it; then,

each in place, they poised the smooth oar blades

740 and sent the white foam scudding by. I carved

a massive cake of beeswax into bits

and rolled them in my hands until they softened—

no long task, for a burning heat came down

from Helios, lord of high noon. Going forward

745 I carried wax along the line, and laid it

thick on their ears. They tied me up, then, plumb

amidships, back to the mast, lashed to the mast,

and took themselves again to rowing. Soon,

as we came smartly within hailing distance,

750 the two Sirens, noting our fast ship

off their point, made ready, and they sang. . . .

The lovely voices in ardor appealing over the water

made me crave to listen, and I tried to say

‘Untie me!’ to the crew, jerking my brows;

755 but they bent steady to the oars. Then Perimedes

got to his feet, he and Eurylochus,

and passed more line about, to hold me still.

So all rowed on, until the Sirens

dropped under the sea rim, and their singing

dwindled away.

760 My faithful company

rested on their oars now, peeling off

the wax that I had laid thick on their ears;

then set me free.

But scarcely had that island

faded in blue air when I saw smoke

765 and white water, with sound of waves in tumult—

a sound the men heard, and it terrified them.

Oars flew from their hands; the blades went knocking

wild alongside till the ship lost way,

with no oar blades to drive her through the water.

770 Well, I walked up and down from bow to stern,

trying to put heart into them, standing over

every oarsman, saying gently,

‘Friends,

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have we never been in danger before this?

More fearsome, is it now, than when the Cyclops

775 penned us in his cave? What power he had!

Did I not keep my nerve, and use my wits

to find a way out for us?

Now I say

by hook or crook this peril too shall be

something that we remember.

Heads up, lads!

780 We must obey the orders as I give them.

Get the oar shafts in your hands, and lie back

hard on your benches; hit these breaking seas.

Zeus help us pull away before we founder.

You at the tiller, listen, and take in

785 all that I say—the rudders are your duty;

keep her out of the combers and the smoke;

steer for that headland; watch the drift, or we

fetch up in the smother, and you drown us.’

That was all, and it brought them round to action.

790 But as I sent them on toward Scylla, I

told them nothing, as they could do nothing.

They would have dropped their oars again, in panic,

to roll for cover under the decking. Circe’s

bidding against arms had slipped my mind,

795 so I tied on my cuirass and took up

two heavy spears, then made my way along

to the foredeck—thinking to see her first from there,

the monster of the gray rock, harboring

torment for my friends. I strained my eyes

800 upon that cliffside veiled in cloud, but nowhere

could I catch sight of her.

And all this time,

in travail, sobbing, gaining on the current,

we rowed into the strait—Scylla to port

and on our starboard beam Charybdis, dire

805 gorge of the salt sea tide. By heaven! when she

vomited, all the sea was like a caldron

seething over intense fire, when the mixture

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suddenly heaves and rises.

The shot spume

soared to the landside heights, and fell like rain.

810 But when she swallowed the sea water down

we saw the funnel of the maelstrom, heard

the rock bellowing all around, and dark

sand raged on the bottom far below.

My men all blanched against the gloom, our eyes

815 were fixed upon that yawning mouth in fear

of being devoured.

Then Scylla made her strike,

whisking six of my best men from the ship.

I happened to glance aft at ship and oarsmen

and caught sight of their arms and legs, dangling

820 high overhead. Voices came down to me

in anguish, calling my name for the last time.

A man surf-casting on a point of rock

for bass or mackerel, whipping his long rod

to drop the sinker and the bait far out,

825 will hook a fish and rip it from the surface

to dangle wriggling through the air;

so these

were borne aloft in spasms toward the cliff.

She ate them as they shrieked there, in her den,

in the dire grapple, reaching still for me—

830 and deathly pity ran me through

at that sight—far the worst I ever suffered

questing the passes of the strange sea.

We rowed on.

The Rocks were now behind; Charybdis, too,

and Scylla dropped astern.

Then we were coasting

835 the noble island of the god, where grazed

those cattle with wide brows, and bounteous flocks

of Helios, lord of noon, who rides high heaven.

From the black ship, far still at sea, I heard

the lowing of the cattle winding home

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840 and sheep bleating; and heard, too, in my heart

the words of blind Teiresias of Thebes

and Circe of Aeaea: both forbade me

the island of the world’s delight, the Sun. . . .”

The Cattle of the Sun God

“In the small hours of the third watch, when stars

845 that shone out in the first dusk of evening

had gone down to their setting, a giant wind

blew from heaven, and clouds driven by Zeus

shrouded land and sea in a night of storm;

so, just as Dawn with fingertips of rose

850 touched the windy world, we dragged our ship

to cover in a grotto, a sea cave

where nymphs had chairs of rock and sanded floors.

I mustered all the crew and said:

‘Old shipmates,

our stores are in the ship’s hold, food and drink;

855 the cattle here are not for our provision,

or we pay dearly for it.

Fierce the god is

who cherishes these heifers and these sheep:

Helios; and no man avoids his eye.’

To this my fighters nodded. Yes. But now

860 we had a month of onshore gales, blowing

day in, day out—south winds, or south by east.

As long as bread and good red wine remained

to keep the men up, and appease their craving,

they would not touch the cattle. But in the end,

865 when all the barley in the ship was gone,

hunger drove them to scour the wild shore

with angling hooks, for fishes and sea fowl,

whatever fell into their hands; and lean days

wore their bellies thin.

The storms continued.

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870 So one day I withdrew to the interior

to pray the gods in solitude, for hope

that one might show me some way of salvation.

Slipping away, I struck across the island

to a sheltered spot, out of the driving gale.

875 I washed my hands there, and made supplication

to the gods who own Olympus, all the gods—

but they, for answer, only closed my eyes

under slow drops of sleep.

Now on the shore Eurylochus

made his insidious plea:

‘Comrades,’ he said,

880 ‘You’ve gone through everything; listen to what I say.

All deaths are hateful to us, mortal wretches,

but famine is the most pitiful, the worst

end that a man can come to.

Will you fight it?

Come, we’ll cut out the noblest of these cattle

885 for sacrifice to the gods who own the sky;

and once at home, in the old country of Ithaca,

if ever that day comes—

we’ll build a costly temple and adorn it

with every beauty for the Lord of Noon.

890 But if he flares up over his heifers lost,

wishing our ship destroyed, and if the gods

make cause with him, why, then I say: Better

open your lungs to a big sea once for all

than waste to skin and bones on a lonely island!’

895 Thus Eurylochus; and they murmured ‘Aye!’

trooping away at once to round up heifers.

Now, that day tranquil cattle with broad brows

were grazing near, and soon the men drew up

around their chosen beasts in ceremony.

900 They plucked the leaves that shone on a tall oak—

having no barley meal—to strew the victims,

performed the prayers and ritual, knifed the kine

and flayed each carcass, cutting thighbones free

to wrap in double folds of fat. These offerings,

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905 with strips of meat, were laid upon the fire.

Then, as they had no wine, they made libation

with clear spring water, broiling the entrails first;

and when the bones were burnt and tripes shared,

they spitted the carved meat.

Just then my slumber

910 left me in a rush, my eyes opened,

and I went down the seaward path. No sooner

had I caught sight of our black hull, than savory

odors of burnt fat eddied around me;

grief took hold of me, and I cried aloud:

915 ‘O Father Zeus and gods in bliss forever,

you made me sleep away this day of mischief!

O cruel drowsing, in the evil hour!

Here they sat, and a great work they contrived.’

Lampetia in her long gown meanwhile

920h had borne swift word to the Overlord of Noon:

‘They have killed your kine.’

And the Lord Helios

burst into angry speech amid the immortals:

‘O Father Zeus and gods in bliss forever,

punish Odysseus’ men! So overweening,

925 now they have killed my peaceful kine, my joy

at morning when I climbed the sky of stars,

and evening, when I bore westward from heaven.

Restitution or penalty they shall pay—

and pay in full—or I go down forever

930 to light the dead men in the underworld.’ . . .”

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The Masque of the Red Death by Edgar Allan Poe

The "Red Death" had long devastated the country. No pestilence had ever been so

fatal, or so hideous. Blood was its Avatar and its seal—the redness and the horror of

blood. There were sharp pains, and sudden dizziness, and then profuse bleeding at

the pores, with dissolution. The scarlet stains upon the body and especially upon the

face of the victim, were the pest ban which shut him out from the aid and from the

sympathy of his fellow-men. And the whole seizure, progress and termination of the

disease, were the incidents of half an hour.

But the Prince Prospero was happy and dauntless and sagacious. When his dominions

were half depopulated, he summoned to his presence a thousand hale and light-

hearted friends from among the knights and dames of his court, and with these retired

to the deep seclusion of one of his castellated abbeys. This was an extensive and

magnificent structure, the creation of the prince's own eccentric yet august taste. A

strong and lofty wall girdled it in. This wall had gates of iron. The courtiers, having

entered, brought furnaces and massy hammers and welded the bolts. They resolved to

leave means neither of ingress nor egress to the sudden impulses of despair or of

frenzy from within. The abbey was amply provisioned. With such precautions the

courtiers might bid defiance to contagion. The external world could take care of

itself. In the meantime it was folly to grieve, or to think. The prince had provided all

the appliances of pleasure. There were buffoons, there were improvisatori, there were

ballet-dancers, there were musicians, there was Beauty, there was wine. All these and

security were within. Without was the "Red Death".

It was towards the close of the fifth or sixth month of his seclusion, and while the

pestilence raged most furiously abroad, that the Prince Prospero entertained his

thousand friends at a masked ball of the most unusual magnificence.

It was a voluptuous scene, that masquerade. But first let me tell of the rooms in

which it was held. These were seven—an imperial suite. In many palaces, however,

such suites form a long and straight vista, while the folding doors slide back nearly to

the walls on either hand, so that the view of the whole extent is scarcely impeded.

Here the case was very different, as might have been expected from the duke's love

of the bizarre. The apartments were so irregularly disposed that the vision embraced

but little more than one at a time. There was a sharp turn at every twenty or thirty

yards, and at each turn a novel effect. To the right and left, in the middle of each

wall, a tall and narrow Gothic window looked out upon a closed corridor which

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pursued the windings of the suite. These windows were of stained glass whose colour

varied in accordance with the prevailing hue of the decorations of the chamber into

which it opened. That at the eastern extremity was hung, for example in blue—and

vividly blue were its windows. The second chamber was purple in its ornaments and

tapestries, and here the panes were purple. The third was green throughout, and so

were the casements. The fourth was furnished and lighted with orange—the fifth with

white—the sixth with violet. The seventh apartment was closely shrouded in black

velvet tapestries that hung all over the ceiling and down the walls, falling in heavy

folds upon a carpet of the same material and hue. But in this chamber only, the

colour of the windows failed to correspond with the decorations. The panes here

were scarlet—a deep blood colour. Now in no one of the seven apartments was there

any lamp or candelabrum, amid the profusion of golden ornaments that lay scattered

to and fro or depended from the roof. There was no light of any kind emanating from

lamp or candle within the suite of chambers. But in the corridors that followed the

suite, there stood, opposite to each window, a heavy tripod, bearing a brazier of fire,

that projected its rays through the tinted glass and so glaringly illumined the room.

And thus were produced a multitude of gaudy and fantastic appearances. But in the

western or black chamber the effect of the fire-light that streamed upon the dark

hangings through the blood-tinted panes, was ghastly in the extreme, and produced

so wild a look upon the countenances of those who entered, that there were few of

the company bold enough to set foot within its precincts at all.

It was in this apartment, also, that there stood against the western wall, a gigantic

clock of ebony. Its pendulum swung to and fro with a dull, heavy, monotonous clang;

and when the minute-hand made the circuit of the face, and the hour was to be

stricken, there came from the brazen lungs of the clock a sound which was clear and

loud and deep and exceedingly musical, but of so peculiar a note and emphasis that,

at each lapse of an hour, the musicians of the orchestra were constrained to pause,

momentarily, in their performance, to harken to the sound; and thus the waltzers

perforce ceased their evolutions; and there was a brief disconcert of the whole gay

company; and, while the chimes of the clock yet rang, it was observed that the

giddiest grew pale, and the more aged and sedate passed their hands over their brows

as if in confused revery or meditation. But when the echoes had fully ceased, a light

laughter at once pervaded the assembly; the musicians looked at each other and

smiled as if at their own nervousness and folly, and made whispering vows, each to

the other, that the next chiming of the clock should produce in them no similar

emotion; and then, after the lapse of sixty minutes, (which embrace three thousand

and six hundred seconds of the Time that flies,) there came yet another chiming of

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the clock, and then were the same disconcert and tremulousness and meditation as

before.

But, in spite of these things, it was a gay and magnificent revel. The tastes of the

duke were peculiar. He had a fine eye for colours and effects. He disregarded the

decora of mere fashion. His plans were bold and fiery, and his conceptions glowed

with barbaric lustre. There are some who would have thought him mad. His followers

felt that he was not. It was necessary to hear and see and touch him to be sure that he

was not.

He had directed, in great part, the movable embellishments of the seven chambers,

upon occasion of this great fête; and it was his own guiding taste which had given

character to the masqueraders. Be sure they were grotesque. There were much glare

and glitter and piquancy and phantasm—much of what has been since seen in

"Hernani". There were arabesque figures with unsuited limbs and appointments.

There were delirious fancies such as the madman fashions. There were much of the

beautiful, much of the wanton, much of the bizarre, something of the terrible, and not

a little of that which might have excited disgust. To and fro in the seven chambers

there stalked, in fact, a multitude of dreams. And these—the dreams—writhed in and

about taking hue from the rooms, and causing the wild music of the orchestra to seem

as the echo of their steps. And, anon, there strikes the ebony clock which stands in

the hall of the velvet. And then, for a moment, all is still, and all is silent save the

voice of the clock. The dreams are stiff-frozen as they stand. But the echoes of the

chime die away—they have endured but an instant—and a light, half-subdued

laughter floats after them as they depart. And now again the music swells, and the

dreams live, and writhe to and fro more merrily than ever, taking hue from the many

tinted windows through which stream the rays from the tripods. But to the chamber

which lies most westwardly of the seven, there are now none of the maskers who

venture; for the night is waning away; and there flows a ruddier light through the

blood-coloured panes; and the blackness of the sable drapery appals; and to him

whose foot falls upon the sable carpet, there comes from the near clock of ebony a

muffled peal more solemnly emphatic than any which reaches their ears who

indulged in the more remote gaieties of the other apartments.

But these other apartments were densely crowded, and in them beat feverishly the

heart of life. And the revel went whirlingly on, until at length there commenced the

sounding of midnight upon the clock. And then the music ceased, as I have told; and

the evolutions of the waltzers were quieted; and there was an uneasy cessation of all

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things as before. But now there were twelve strokes to be sounded by the bell of the

clock; and thus it happened, perhaps, that more of thought crept, with more of time,

into the meditations of the thoughtful among those who revelled. And thus too, it

happened, perhaps, that before the last echoes of the last chime had utterly sunk into

silence, there were many individuals in the crowd who had found leisure to become

aware of the presence of a masked figure which had arrested the attention of no

single individual before. And the rumour of this new presence having spread itself

whisperingly around, there arose at length from the whole company a buzz, or

murmur, expressive of disapprobation and surprise—then, finally, of terror, of horror,

and of disgust.

In an assembly of phantasms such as I have painted, it may well be supposed that no

ordinary appearance could have excited such sensation. In truth the masquerade

licence of the night was nearly unlimited; but the figure in question had out-Heroded

Herod, and gone beyond the bounds of even the prince's indefinite decorum. There

are chords in the hearts of the most reckless which cannot be touched without

emotion. Even with the utterly lost, to whom life and death are equally jests, there are

matters of which no jest can be made. The whole company, indeed, seemed now

deeply to feel that in the costume and bearing of the stranger neither wit nor propriety

existed. The figure was tall and gaunt, and shrouded from head to foot in the

habiliments of the grave. The mask which concealed the visage was made so nearly

to resemble the countenance of a stiffened corpse that the closest scrutiny must have

had difficulty in detecting the cheat. And yet all this might have been endured, if not

approved, by the mad revellers around. But the mummer had gone so far as to

assume the type of the Red Death. His vesture was dabbled in blood—and his broad

brow, with all the features of the face, was besprinkled with the scarlet horror.

When the eyes of the Prince Prospero fell upon this spectral image (which, with a

slow and solemn movement, as if more fully to sustain its role, stalked to and fro

among the waltzers) he was seen to be convulsed, in the first moment with a strong

shudder either of terror or distaste; but, in the next, his brow reddened with rage.

"Who dares,"—he demanded hoarsely of the courtiers who stood near him—"who

dares insult us with this blasphemous mockery? Seize him and unmask him—that we

may know whom we have to hang, at sunrise, from the battlements!"

It was in the eastern or blue chamber in which stood the Prince Prospero as he uttered

these words. They rang throughout the seven rooms loudly and clearly, for the prince

was a bold and robust man, and the music had become hushed at the waving of his

hand.

It was in the blue room where stood the prince, with a group of pale courtiers by his

side. At first, as he spoke, there was a slight rushing movement of this group in the

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direction of the intruder, who at the moment was also near at hand, and now, with

deliberate and stately step, made closer approach to the speaker. But from a certain

nameless awe with which the mad assumptions of the mummer had inspired the

whole party, there were found none who put forth hand to seize him; so that,

unimpeded, he passed within a yard of the prince's person; and, while the vast

assembly, as if with one impulse, shrank from the centres of the rooms to the walls,

he made his way uninterruptedly, but with the same solemn and measured step which

had distinguished him from the first, through the blue chamber to the purple—

through the purple to the green—through the green to the orange—through this again

to the white—and even thence to the violet, ere a decided movement had been made

to arrest him. It was then, however, that the Prince Prospero, maddening with rage

and the shame of his own momentary cowardice, rushed hurriedly through the six

chambers, while none followed him on account of a deadly terror that had seized

upon all. He bore aloft a drawn dagger, and had approached, in rapid impetuosity, to

within three or four feet of the retreating figure, when the latter, having attained the

extremity of the velvet apartment, turned suddenly and confronted his pursuer. There

was a sharp cry—and the dagger dropped gleaming upon the sable carpet, upon

which, instantly afterwards, fell prostrate in death the Prince Prospero. Then,

summoning the wild courage of despair, a throng of the revellers at once threw

themselves into the black apartment, and, seizing the mummer, whose tall figure

stood erect and motionless within the shadow of the ebony clock, gasped in

unutterable horror at finding the grave cerements and corpse-like mask, which they

handled with so violent a rudeness, untenanted by any tangible form.

And now was acknowledged the presence of the Red Death. He had come like a thief

in the night. And one by one dropped the revellers in the blood-bedewed halls of

their revel, and died each in the despairing posture of his fall. And the life of the

ebony clock went out with that of the last of the gay. And the flames of the tripods

expired. And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over

all.

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The Lottery by Shirley Jackson (1916 - 1965)

The morning of June 27th was clear and sunny, with the fresh warmth of a full-

summer day; the flowers were blossoming profusely and the grass was richly green.

The people of the village began to gather in the square, between the post office and

the bank, around ten o'clock; in some towns there were so many people that the

lottery took two days and had to be started on June 26th, but in this village, where

there were only about three hundred people, the whole lottery took less than two

hours, so it could begin at ten o'clock in the morning and still be through in time to

allow the villagers to get home for noon dinner.

The children assembled first, of course. School was recently over for the summer,

and the feeling of liberty sat uneasily on most of them; they tended to gather together

quietly for a while before they broke into boisterous play. and their talk was still of

the classroom and the teacher, of books and reprimands. Bobby Martin had already

stuffed his pockets full of stones, and the other boys soon followed his example,

selecting the smoothest and roundest stones; Bobby and Harry Jones and Dickie

Delacroix-- the villagers pronounced this name "Dellacroy"--eventually made a great

pile of stones in one corner of the square and guarded it against the raids of the other

boys. The girls stood aside, talking among themselves, looking over their shoulders

and rolled in the dust or clung to the hands of their older brothers or sisters.

Soon the men began to gather. surveying their own children, speaking of planting and

rain, tractors and taxes. They stood together, away from the pile of stones in the

corner, and their jokes were quiet and they smiled rather than laughed. The women,

wearing faded house dresses and sweaters, came shortly after their menfolk. They

greeted one another and exchanged bits of gossip as they went to join their husbands.

Soon the women, standing by their husbands, began to call to their children, and the

children came reluctantly, having to be called four or five times. Bobby Martin

ducked under his mother's grasping hand and ran, laughing, back to the pile of stones.

His father spoke up sharply, and Bobby came quickly and took his place between his

father and his oldest brother.

The lottery was conducted--as were the square dances, the teen club, the Halloween

program--by Mr. Summers. who had time and energy to devote to civic activities. He

was a round-faced, jovial man and he ran the coal business, and people were sorry for

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him. because he had no children and his wife was a scold. When he arrived in the

square, carrying the black wooden box, there was a murmur of conversation among

the villagers, and he waved and called. "Little late today, folks." The postmaster, Mr.

Graves, followed him, carrying a three- legged stool, and the stool was put in the

center of the square and Mr. Summers set the black box down on it. The villagers

kept their distance, leaving a space between themselves and the stool. and when Mr.

Summers said, "Some of you fellows want to give me a hand?" there was a hesitation

before two men. Mr. Martin and his oldest son, Baxter, came forward to hold the box

steady on the stool while Mr. Summers stirred up the papers inside it.

The original paraphernalia for the lottery had been lost long ago, and the black box

now resting on the stool had been put into use even before Old Man Warner, the

oldest man in town, was born. Mr. Summers spoke frequently to the villagers about

making a new box, but no one liked to upset even as much tradition as was

represented by the black box. There was a story that the present box had been made

with some pieces of the box that had preceded it, the one that had been constructed

when the first people settled down to make a village here. Every year, after the

lottery, Mr. Summers began talking again about a new box, but every year the subject

was allowed to fade off without anything's being done. The black box grew shabbier

each year: by now it was no longer completely black but splintered badly along one

side to show the original wood color, and in some places faded or stained.

Mr. Martin and his oldest son, Baxter, held the black box securely on the stool until

Mr. Summers had stirred the papers thoroughly with his hand. Because so much of

the ritual had been forgotten or discarded, Mr. Summers had been successful in

having slips of paper substituted for the chips of wood that had been used for

generations. Chips of wood, Mr. Summers had argued, had been all very well when

the village was tiny, but now that the population was more than three hundred and

likely to keep on growing, it was necessary to use something that would fit more

easily into he black box. The night before the lottery, Mr. Summers and Mr. Graves

made up the slips of paper and put them in the box, and it was then taken to the safe

of Mr. Summers' coal company and locked up until Mr. Summers was ready to take it

to the square next morning. The rest of the year, the box was put way, sometimes one

place, sometimes another; it had spent one year in Mr. Graves's barn and another year

underfoot in the post office, and sometimes it was set on a shelf in the Martin grocery

and left there.

There was a great deal of fussing to be done before Mr. Summers declared the lottery

open. There were the lists to make up--of heads of families, heads of households in

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each family, members of each household in each family. There was the proper

swearing-in of Mr. Summers by the postmaster, as the official of the lottery; at one

time, some people remembered, there had been a recital of some sort, performed by

the official of the lottery, a perfunctory, tuneless chant that had been rattled off duly

each year; some people believed that the official of the lottery used to stand just so

when he said or sang it, others believed that he was supposed to walk among the

people, but years and years ago this p3rt of the ritual had been allowed to lapse.

There had been, also, a ritual salute, which the official of the lottery had had to use in

addressing each person who came up to draw from the box, but this also had changed

with time, until now it was felt necessary only for the official to speak to each person

approaching. Mr. Summers was very good at all this; in his clean white shirt and blue

jeans, with one hand resting carelessly on the black box, he seemed very proper and

important as he talked interminably to Mr. Graves and the Martins.

Just as Mr. Summers finally left off talking and turned to the assembled villagers,

Mrs. Hutchinson came hurriedly along the path to the square, her sweater thrown

over her shoulders, and slid into place in the back of the crowd. "Clean forgot what

day it was," she said to Mrs. Delacroix, who stood next to her, and they both laughed

softly. "Thought my old man was out back stacking wood," Mrs. Hutchinson went

on. "and then I looked out the window and the kids was gone, and then I remembered

it was the twenty-seventh and came a-running." She dried her hands on her apron,

and Mrs. Delacroix said, "You're in time, though. They're still talking away up

there."

Mrs. Hutchinson craned her neck to see through the crowd and found her husband

and children standing near the front. She tapped Mrs. Delacroix on the arm as a

farewell and began to make her way through the crowd. The people separated good-

humoredly to let her through: two or three people said. in voices just loud enough to

be heard across the crowd, "Here comes your, Missus, Hutchinson," and "Bill, she

made it after all." Mrs. Hutchinson reached her husband, and Mr. Summers, who had

been waiting, said cheerfully. "Thought we were going to have to get on without you,

Tessie." Mrs. Hutchinson said, grinning, "Wouldn't have me leave m'dishes in the

sink, now, would you, Joe?," and soft laughter ran through the crowd as the people

stirred back into position after Mrs. Hutchinson's arrival.

"Well, now." Mr. Summers said soberly, "guess we better get started, get this over

with, so's we can go back to work. Anybody ain't here?"

"Dunbar." several people said. "Dunbar. Dunbar."

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Mr. Summers consulted his list. "Clyde Dunbar." he said. "That's right. He's broke

his leg, hasn't he? Who's drawing for him?"

"Me. I guess," a woman said. and Mr. Summers turned to look at her. "Wife draws

for her husband." Mr. Summers said. "Don't you have a grown boy to do it for you,

Janey?" Although Mr. Summers and everyone else in the village knew the answer

perfectly well, it was the business of the official of the lottery to ask such questions

formally. Mr. Summers waited with an expression of polite interest while Mrs.

Dunbar answered.

"Horace's not but sixteen yet." Mrs. Dunbar said regretfully. "Guess I gotta fill in for

the old man this year."

"Right." Sr. Summers said. He made a note on the list he was holding. Then he

asked, "Watson boy drawing this year?"

A tall boy in the crowd raised his hand. "Here," he said. "I m drawing for my mother

and me." He blinked his eyes nervously and ducked his head as several voices in the

crowd said things like "Good fellow, lack." and "Glad to see your mother's got a man

to do it."

"Well," Mr. Summers said, " guess that's everyone. Old Man Warner make it?"

"Here," a voice said, and Mr. Summers nodded.

A sudden hush fell on the crowd as Mr. Summers cleared his throat and looked at the

list. "All ready?" he called. "Now, I'll read the names--heads of families first--and the

men come up and take a paper out of the box. Keep the paper folded in your hand

without looking at it until everyone has had a turn. Everything clear?"

The people had done it so many times that they only half listened to the directions:

most of them were quiet, wetting their lips, not looking around. Then Mr. Summers

raised one hand high and said, "Adams." A man disengaged himself from the crowd

and came forward. "Hi. Steve." Mr. Summers said, and Mr. Adams said. "Hi. Joe."

They grinned at one another humorlessly and nervously. Then Mr. Adams reached

into the black box and took out a folded paper. He held it firmly by one corner as he

turned and went hastily back to his place in the crowd. where he stood a little apart

from his family, not looking down at his hand.

"Allen." Mr. Summers said. "Anderson.... Bentham."

"Seems like there's no time at all between lotteries any more." Mrs. Delacroix said to

Mrs. Graves in the back row.

"Seems like we got through with the last one only last week."

"Time sure goes fast.-- Mrs. Graves said.

"Clark.... Delacroix"

"There goes my old man." Mrs. Delacroix said. She held her breath while her

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husband went forward.

"Dunbar," Mr. Summers said, and Mrs. Dunbar went steadily to the box while one of

the women said. "Go on. Janey," and another said, "There she goes."

"We're next." Mrs. Graves said. She watched while Mr. Graves came around from

the side of the box, greeted Mr. Summers gravely and selected a slip of paper from

the box. By now, all through the crowd there were men holding the small folded

papers in their large hand. turning them over and over nervously Mrs. Dunbar and

her two sons stood together, Mrs. Dunbar holding the slip of paper.

"Harburt.... Hutchinson."

"Get up there, Bill," Mrs. Hutchinson said. and the people near her laughed.

"Jones."

"They do say," Mr. Adams said to Old Man Warner, who stood next to him, "that

over in the north village they're talking of giving up the lottery."

Old Man Warner snorted. "Pack of crazy fools," he said. "Listening to the young

folks, nothing's good enough for them. Next thing you know, they'll be wanting to go

back to living in caves, nobody work any more, live hat way for a while. Used to be a

saying about 'Lottery in June, corn be heavy soon.' First thing you know, we'd all be

eating stewed chickweed and acorns. There's always been a lottery," he added

petulantly. "Bad enough to see young Joe Summers up there joking with everybody."

"Some places have already quit lotteries." Mrs. Adams said.

"Nothing but trouble in that," Old Man Warner said stoutly. "Pack of young fools."

"Martin." And Bobby Martin watched his father go forward. "Overdyke.... Percy."

"I wish they'd hurry," Mrs. Dunbar said to her older son. "I wish they'd hurry."

"They're almost through," her son said.

"You get ready to run tell Dad," Mrs. Dunbar said.

Mr. Summers called his own name and then stepped forward precisely and selected a

slip from the box. Then he called, "Warner."

"Seventy-seventh year I been in the lottery," Old Man Warner said as he went

through the crowd. "Seventy-seventh time."

"Watson" The tall boy came awkwardly through the crowd. Someone said, "Don't be

nervous, Jack," and Mr. Summers said, "Take your time, son."

"Zanini."

After that, there was a long pause, a breathless pause, until Mr. Summers. holding his

slip of paper in the air, said, "All right, fellows." For a minute no one moved, and

then all the slips of paper were opened. Suddenly, all the women began to speak at

once, saying. "Who is it?," "Who's got it?," "Is it the Dunbars?," "Is it the Watsons?"

Then the voices began to say, "It's Hutchinson. It's Bill," "Bill Hutchinson's got it."

"Go tell your father," Mrs. Dunbar said to her older son.

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People began to look around to see the Hutchinsons. Bill Hutchinson was standing

quiet, staring down at the paper in his hand. Suddenly, Tessie Hutchinson shouted to

Mr. Summers. "You didn't give him time enough to take any paper he wanted. I saw

you. It wasn't fair!"

"Be a good sport, Tessie." Mrs. Delacroix called, and Mrs. Graves said, "All of us

took the same chance."

"Shut up, Tessie," Bill Hutchinson said.

"Well, everyone," Mr. Summers said, "that was done pretty fast, and now we've got

to be hurrying a little more to get done in time." He consulted his next list. "Bill," he

said, "you draw for the Hutchinson family. You got any other households in the

Hutchinsons?"

"There's Don and Eva," Mrs. Hutchinson yelled. "Make them take their chance!"

"Daughters draw with their husbands' families, Tessie," Mr. Summers said gently.

"You know that as well as anyone else."

"It wasn't fair," Tessie said.

"I guess not, Joe." Bill Hutchinson said regretfully. "My daughter draws with her

husband's family; that's only fair. And I've got no other family except the kids."

"Then, as far as drawing for families is concerned, it's you," Mr. Summers said in

explanation, "and as far as drawing for households is concerned, that's you, too.

Right?"

"Right," Bill Hutchinson said.

"How many kids, Bill?" Mr. Summers asked formally.

"Three," Bill Hutchinson said.

"There's Bill, Jr., and Nancy, and little Dave. And Tessie and me."

"All right, then," Mr. Summers said. "Harry, you got their tickets back?"

Mr. Graves nodded and held up the slips of paper. "Put them in the box, then," Mr.

Summers directed. "Take Bill's and put it in."

"I think we ought to start over," Mrs. Hutchinson said, as quietly as she could. "I tell

you it wasn't fair. You didn't give him time enough to choose. Everybody saw that."

Mr. Graves had selected the five slips and put them in the box. and he dropped all the

papers but those onto the ground. where the breeze caught them and lifted them off.

"Listen, everybody," Mrs. Hutchinson was saying to the people around her.

"Ready, Bill?" Mr. Summers asked. and Bill Hutchinson, with one quick glance

around at his wife and children. nodded.

"Remember," Mr. Summers said. "take the slips and keep them folded until each

person has taken one. Harry, you help little Dave." Mr. Graves took the hand of the

little boy, who came willingly with him up to the box. "Take a paper out of the box,

Davy." Mr. Summers said. Davy put his hand into the box and laughed. "Take just

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one paper." Mr. Summers said. "Harry, you hold it for him." Mr. Graves took the

child's hand and removed the folded paper from the tight fist and held it while little

Dave stood next to him and looked up at him wonderingly.

"Nancy next," Mr. Summers said. Nancy was twelve, and her school friends breathed

heavily as she went forward switching her skirt, and took a slip daintily from the box

"Bill, Jr.," Mr. Summers said, and Billy, his face red and his feet overlarge, near

knocked the box over as he got a paper out. "Tessie," Mr. Summers said. She

hesitated for a minute, looking around defiantly, and then set her lips and went up to

the box. She snatched a paper out and held it behind her.

"Bill," Mr. Summers said, and Bill Hutchinson reached into the box and felt around,

bringing his hand out at last with the slip of paper in it.

The crowd was quiet. A girl whispered, "I hope it's not Nancy," and the sound of the

whisper reached the edges of the crowd.

"It's not the way it used to be." Old Man Warner said clearly. "People ain't the way

they used to be."

"All right," Mr. Summers said. "Open the papers. Harry, you open little Dave's."

Mr. Graves opened the slip of paper and there was a general sigh through the crowd

as he held it up and everyone could see that it was blank. Nancy and Bill. Jr.. opened

theirs at the same time, and both beamed and laughed, turning around to the crowd

and holding their slips of paper above their heads.

"Tessie," Mr. Summers said. There was a pause, and then Mr. Summers looked at

Bill Hutchinson, and Bill unfolded his paper and showed it. It was blank.

"It's Tessie," Mr. Summers said, and his voice was hushed. "Show us her paper. Bill."

Bill Hutchinson went over to his wife and forced the slip of paper out of her hand. It

had a black spot on it, the black spot Mr. Summers had made the night before with

the heavy pencil in the coal company office. Bill Hutchinson held it up, and there

was a stir in the crowd.

"All right, folks." Mr. Summers said. "Let's finish quickly."

Although the villagers had forgotten the ritual and lost the original black box, they

still remembered to use stones. The pile of stones the boys had made earlier was

ready; there were stones on the ground with the blowing scraps of paper that had

come out of the box Delacroix selected a stone so large she had to pick it up with

both hands and turned to Mrs. Dunbar. "Come on," she said. "Hurry up."

Mr. Dunbar had small stones in both hands, and she said, gasping for breath. "I can't

run at all. You'll have to go ahead and I'll catch up with you."

The children had stones already. And someone gave little Davy Hutchinson few

pebbles.

Tessie Hutchinson was in the center of a cleared space by now, and she held her

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hands out desperately as the villagers moved in on her. "It isn't fair," she said. A

stone hit her on the side of the head. Old Man Warner was saying, "Come on, come

on, everyone." Steve Adams was in the front of the crowd of villagers, with Mrs.

Graves beside him.

"It isn't fair, it isn't right," Mrs. Hutchinson screamed, and then they were upon her.

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Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe

Chapter SEVEN

For three years Ikemefuna lived in Okonkwo's household and the elders of Umuofia

seemed to have forgotten about him. He grew rapidly like a yam tendril in the rainy

season, and was full of the sap of life. He had become wholly absorbed into his new

family. He was like an elder brother to Nwoye, and from the very first seemed to

have kindled a new fire in the younger boy. He made him feel grown-up, and they no

longer spent the evenings in his mother's hut while she cooked, but now sat with

Okonkwo in his obi, or watched him as he tapped his palm tree for the evening wine.

Nothing pleased Nwoye now more than to be sent for by his mother or another of his

father's wives to do one of those difficult and masculine tasks in the home, like

splitting wood, or pounding food. On receiving such a message through a younger

brother or sister, Nwoye would feign annoyance and grumble aloud about women

and their troubles.

Okonkwo was inwardly pleased at his son's development, and he knew it was due to

Ikemefuna. He wanted Nwoye to grow into a tough young man capable of ruling his

father's household when he was dead and gone to join the ancestors.

He wanted him to be a prosperous man, having enough in his barn to feed the

ancestors with regular sacrifices. And so he was always happy when he heard him

grumbling about women. That showed that in time he would be able to control his

women-folk. No matter how prosperous a man was, if he was unable to rule his

women and his children (and especially his women) he was not really a man. He was

like the man in the song who had ten and one wives and not enough soup for his foo-

foo.

So Okonkwo encouraged the boys to sit with him in his obi, and he told them stories

of the land--masculine stories of violence and bloodshed. Nwoye knew that it was

right to be masculine and to be violent, but somehow he still preferred the stories that

his mother used to tell, and which she no doubt still told to her younger children--

stories of the tortoise and his wily ways, and of the bird eneke-nti-oba who

challenged the whole world to a wrestling contest and was finally thrown by the cat.

He remembered the story she often told of the quarrel between Earth and Sky long

ago, and how Sky withheld rain for seven years, until crops withered and the dead

could not be buried because the hoes broke on the stony Earth. At last Vulture was

sent to plead with Sky, and to soften his heart with a song of the suffering of the sons

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of men. Whenever Nwoye's mother sang this song he felt carried away to the distant

scene in the sky where Vulture, Earth's emissary, sang for mercy. At last Sky was

moved to pity, and he gave to Vulture rain wrapped in leaves of coco-yam. But as he

flew home his long talon pierced the leaves and the rain fell as it had never fallen

before. And so heavily did it rain on Vulture that he did not return to deliver his

message but flew to a distant land, from where he had espied a fire. And when he got

there he found it was a man making a sacrifice. He warmed himself in the fire and ate

the entrails.

That was the kind of story that Nwoye loved. But he now knew that they were for

foolish women and children, and he knew that his father wanted him to be a man.

And so he feigned that he no longer cared for women's stories. And when he did this

he saw that his father was pleased, and no longer rebuked him or beat him. So

Nwoye and Ikemefuna would listen to Okonkwo's stories about tribal wars, or how,

years ago, he had stalked his victim, overpowered him and obtained his first human

head. And as he told them of the past they sat in darkness or the dim glow of logs,

waiting for the women to finish their cooking. When they finished, each brought her

bowl of foo-foo and bowl of soup to her husband. An oil lamp was lit and Okonkwo

tasted from each bowl, and then passed two shares to Nwoye and Ikemefuna.

In this way the moons and the seasons passed. And then the locusts came. It had not

happened for many a long year. The elders said locusts came once in a generation,

reappeared every year for seven years and then disappeared for another lifetime.

They went back to their caves in a distant land, where they were guarded by a race of

stunted men. And then after another lifetime these men opened the caves again and

the locusts came to Umuofia.

They came in the cold harmattan season after the harvests had been gathered, and ate

up all the wild grass in the fields.

Okonkwo and the two boys were working on the red outer walls of the compound.

This was one of the lighter tasks of the after-harvest season. A new cover of thick

palm branches and palm leaves was set on the walls to protect them from the next

rainy season. Okonkwo worked on the outside of the wall and the boys worked from

within. There were little holes from one side to the other in the upper levels of the

wall, and through these Okonkwo passed the rope, or tie-tie, to the boys and they

passed it round the wooden stays and then back to him,- and in this way the cover

was strengthened on the wall.

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The women had gone to the bush to collect firewood, and the little children to visit

their playmates in the neighbouring compounds. The harmattan was in the air and

seemed to distill a hazy feeling of sleep on the world. Okonkwo and the boys worked

in complete silence, which was only broken when a new palm frond was lifted on to

the wall or when a busy hen moved dry leaves about in her ceaseless search for food.

And then quite suddenly a shadow fell on the world, and the sun seemed hidden

behind a thick cloud. Okonkwo looked up from his work and wondered if it was

going to rain at such an unlikely time of the year. But almost immediately a shout of

joy broke out in all directions, and Umuofia, which had dozed in the noon-day haze,

broke into life and activity.

"Locusts are descending," was joyfully chanted everywhere, and men, women and

children left their work or their play and ran into the open to see the unfamiliar sight.

The locusts had not come for many, many years, and only the old people had seen

them before.

At first, a fairly small swarm came. They were the harbingers sent to survey the land.

And then appeared on the horizon a slowly-moving mass like a boundless sheet of

black cloud drifting towards Umuofia. Soon it covered half the sky, and the solid

mass was now broken by tiny eyes of light like shining star dust. It was a tremendous

sight, full of power and beauty.

Everyone was now about, talking excitedly and praying that the locusts should camp

in Umuofia for the night. For although locusts had not visited Umuofia for many

years, everybody knew by instinct that they were very good to eat. And at last the

locusts did descend. They settled on every tree and on every blade of grass, they

settled on the roofs and covered the bare ground. Mighty tree branches broke away

under them, and the whole country became the brown-earth colour of the vast,

hungry swarm.

Many people went out with baskets trying to catch them, but the elders counselled

patience till nightfall. And they were right. The locusts settled in the bushes for the

night and their wings became wet with dew. Then all Umuofia turned out in spite of

the cold harmattan, and everyone filled his bags and pots with locusts. The next

morning they were roasted in clay pots and then spread in the sun until they became

dry and brittle. And for many days this rare food was eaten with solid palm-oil.

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Okonkwo sat in his obi crunching happily with Ikemefuna and Nwoye, and drinking

palm-wine copiously, when Ogbuefi Ezeudu came in. Ezeudu was the oldest man in

this quarter of Umuofia. He had been a great and fearless warrior in his time, and was

now accorded great respect in all the clan. He refused to join in the meal, and asked

Okonkwo to have a word with him outside. And so they walked out together, the old

man supporting himself with his stick. When they were out of earshot, he said to

Okonkwo: "That boy calls you father. Do not bear a hand in his death." Okonkwo

was surprised, and was about to say something when the old man continued: "Yes,

Umuofia has decided to kill him. The Oracle of the Hills and the Caves has

pronounced it. They will take him outside Umuofia as is the custom, and kill him

there. But I want you to have nothing to do with it. He calls you his father."

The next day a group of elders from all the nine villages of Umuofia came to

Okonkwo's house early in the morning, and before they began to speak in low tones

Nwoye and Ikemefuna were sent out. They did not stay very long, but when they

went away Okonkwo sat still for a very long time supporting his chin in his palms.

Later in the day he called Ikemefuna and told him that he was to be taken home the

next day. Nwoye overheard it and burst into tears, whereupon his father beat him

heavily. As for Ikemefuna, he was at a loss. His own home had gradually become

very faint and distant. He still missed his mother and his sister and would be very

glad to see them. But somehow he knew he was not going to see them. He

remembered once when men had talked in low tones with his father, and it seemed

now as if it was happening all over again.

Later, Nwoye went to his mother's hut and told her that Ikemefuna was going home.

She immediately dropped her pestle with which she was grinding pepper, folded her

arms across her breast and sighed, "Poor child."

The next day, the men returned with a pot of wine. They were all fully dressed as if

they were going to a big clan meeting or to pay a visit to a neighbouring village.

They passed their cloths under the right arm-pit, and hung their goatskin bags and

sheathed machetes over their left shoulders. Okonkwo got ready quickly and the

party set out with Ikemefuna carrying the pot of wine. A deathly silence descended

on Okonkwo's compound. Even the very little children seemed to know. Throughout

that day Nwoye sat in his mother's hut and tears stood in his eyes.

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At the beginning of their journey the men of Umuofia talked and laughed about the

locusts, about their women, and about some effeminate men who had refused to

come with them. But as they drew near to the outskirts of Umuofia silence fell upon

them too.

The sun rose slowly to the centre of the sky, and the dry, sandy footway began to

throw up the heat that lay buried in it. Some birds chirruped in the forests around.

The men trod dry leaves on the sand. All else was silent. Then from the distance

came the faint beating of the ekwe. It rose and faded with the wind--a peaceful dance

from a distant clan.

"It is an ozo dance," the men said among themselves. But no one was sure where it

was coming from. Some said Ezimili, others Abame or Aninta. They argued for a

short while and fell into silence again, and the elusive dance rose and fell with the

wind. Somewhere a man was taking one of the titles of his clan, with music and

dancing and a great feast.

The footway had now become a narrow line in the heart of the forest. The short trees

and sparse undergrowth which surrounded the men's village began to give way to

giant trees and climbers which perhaps had stood from the beginning of things,

untouched by the axe and the bush-fire. The sun breaking through their leaves and

branches threw a pattern of light and shade on the sandy footway.

Ikemefuna heard a whisper close behind him and turned round sharply. The man who

had whispered now called out aloud, urging the others to hurry up.

"We still have a long way to go," he said. Then he and another man went before

Ikemefuna and set a faster pace.

Thus the men of Umuofia pursued their way, armed with sheathed machetes, and

Ikemefuna, carrying a pot of palm-wine on his head, walked in their midst. Although

he had felt uneasy at first, he was not afraid now. Okonkwo walked behind him. He

could hardly imagine that Okonkwo was not his real father. He had never been fond

of his real father, and at the end of three years he had become very distant indeed.

But his mother and his three-year-old sister... of course she would not be three now,

but six. Would he recognise her now? She must have grown quite big. How his

mother would weep for joy, and thank Okonkwo for having looked after him so well

and for bringing him back. She would want to hear everything that had happened to

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him in all these years. Could he remember them all? He would tell her about Nwoye

and his mother, and about the locusts... Then quite suddenly a thought came upon

him. His mother might be dead. He tried in vain to force the thought out of his mind.

Then he tried to settle the matter the way he used to settle such matters when he was

a little boy. He still remembered the song:

Eze elina, elina!

Sala

Eze ilikwa ya

Ikwaba akwa ogholi

Ebe Danda nechi eze Ebe

Uzuzu nete egwu Sala

He sang it in his mind, and walked to its beat. If the song ended on his right foot, his

mother was alive. If it ended on his left, she was dead. No, not dead, but ill. It ended

on the right. She was alive and well. He sang the song again, and it ended on the left.

But the second time did not count. The first voice gets to Chukwu, or God's house.

That was a favourite saying of children. Ikemefuna felt like a child once more. It

must be the thought of going home to his mother.

One of the men behind him cleared his throat. Ikemefuna looked back, and the man

growled at him to go on and not stand looking back. The way he said it sent cold fear

down Ikemefuna's back. His hands trembled vaguely on the black pot he carried.

Why had Okonkwo withdrawn to the rear? Ikemefuna felt his legs melting under

him. And he was afraid to look back.

As the man who had cleared his throat drew up and raised his machete, Okonkwo

looked away. He heard the blow. The pot fell and broke in the sand. He heard

Ikemefuna cry, "My father, they have killed me!" as he ran towards him. Dazed with

fear, Okonkwo drew his machete and cut him down. He was afraid of being thought

weak.

As soon as his father walked in, that night, Nwoye knew that Ikemefuna had been

killed, and something seemed to give way inside him, like the snapping of a

tightened bow. He did not cry. He just hung limp. He had had the same kind of

feeling not long ago, during the last harvest season. Every child loved the harvest

season. Those who were big enough to carry even a few yams in a tiny basket went

with grown-ups to the farm. And if they could not help in digging up the yams, they

could gather firewood together for roasting the ones that would be eaten there on the

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farm. This roasted yam soaked in red palm-oil and eaten in the open farm was

sweeter than any meal at home. It was after such a day at the farm during the last

harvest that Nwoye had felt for the first time a snapping inside him like the one he

now felt. They were returning home with baskets of yams from a distant farm across

the stream when they heard the voice of an infant crying in the thick forest. A sudden

hush had fallen on the women, who had been talking, and they had quickened their

steps. Nwoye had heard that twins were put in earthenware pots and thrown away in

the forest, but he had never yet come across them. A vague chill had descended on

him and his head had seemed to swell, like a solitary walker at night who passes an

evil spirit on the way. Then something had given way inside him. It descended on

him again, this feeling, when his father walked in that night after killing Ikemefuna.

“The Minister's Black Veil A Parable” By Nathaniel Hawthorne, 1804-1864

THE SEXTON stood in the porch of Milford meeting-house, pulling busily at the

bell-rope. The old people of the village came stooping along the street. Children,

with bright faces, tripped merrily beside their parents, or mimicked a graver gait, in

the conscious dignity of their Sunday clothes. Spruce bachelors looked sidelong at

the pretty maidens, and fancied that the Sabbath sunshine made them prettier than on

week days. When the throng had mostly streamed into the porch, the sexton began to

toll the bell, keeping his eye on the Reverend Mr. Hooper's door. The first glimpse of

the clergyman's figure was the signal for the bell to cease its summons.

"But what has good Parson Hooper got upon his face?" cried the sexton in

astonishment.

All within hearing immediately turned about, and beheld the semblance of Mr.

Hooper, pacing slowly his meditative way towards the meeting-house. With one

accord they started, expressing more wonder than if some strange minister were

coming to dust the cushions of Mr. Hooper's pulpit.

"Are you sure it is our parson?" inquired Goodman Gray of the sexton.

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"Of a certainty it is good Mr. Hooper," replied the sexton. "He was to have

exchanged pulpits with Parson Shute, of Westbury; but Parson Shute sent to excuse

himself yesterday, being to preach a funeral sermon."

The cause of so much amazement may appear sufficiently slight. Mr. Hooper, a

gentlemanly person, of about thirty, though still a bachelor, was dressed with due

clerical neatness, as if a careful wife had starched his band, and brushed the weekly

dust from his Sunday's garb. There was but one thing remarkable in his appearance.

Swathed about his forehead, and hanging down over his face, so low as to be shaken

by his breath, Mr. Hooper had on a black veil. On a nearer view it seemed to consist

of two folds of crape, which entirely concealed his features, except the mouth and

chin, but probably did not intercept his sight, further than to give a darkened aspect to

all living and inanimate things. With this gloomy shade before him, good Mr. Hooper

walked onward, at a slow and quiet pace, stooping somewhat, and looking on the

ground, as is customary with abstracted men, yet nodding kindly to those of his

parishioners who still waited on the meeting-house steps. But so wonder-struck were

they that his greeting hardly met with a return.

"I can't really feel as if good Mr. Hooper's face was behind that piece of crape," said

the sexton.

"I don't like it," muttered an old woman, as she hobbled into the meeting-house. "He

has changed himself into something awful, only by hiding his face."

"Our parson has gone mad!" cried Goodman Gray, following him across the

threshold.

A rumor of some unaccountable phenomenon had preceded Mr. Hooper into the

meeting-house, and set all the congregation astir. Few could refrain from twisting

their heads towards the door; many stood upright, and turned directly about; while

several little boys clambered upon the seats, and came down again with a terrible

racket. There was a general bustle, a rustling of the women's gowns and shuffling of

the men's feet, greatly at variance with that hushed repose which should attend the

entrance of the minister. But Mr. Hooper appeared not to notice the perturbation of

his people. He entered with an almost noiseless step, bent his head mildly to the pews

on each side, and bowed as he passed his oldest parishioner, a white-haired great-

grandsire, who occupied an arm-chair in the centre of the aisle. It was strange to

observe how slowly this venerable man became conscious of something singular in

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the appearance of his pastor. He seemed not fully to partake of the prevailing

wonder, till Mr. Hooper had ascended the stairs, and showed himself in the pulpit,

face to face with his congregation, except for the black veil. That mysterious emblem

was never once withdrawn. It shook with his measured breath, as he gave out the

psalm; it threw its obscurity between him and the holy page, as he read the

Scriptures; and while he prayed, the veil lay heavily on his uplifted countenance. Did

he seek to hide it from the dread Being whom he was addressing?

Such was the effect of this simple piece of crape, that more than one woman of

delicate nerves was forced to leave the meeting-house. Yet perhaps the pale-faced

congregation was almost as fearful a sight to the minister, as his black veil to them.

Mr. Hooper had the reputation of a good preacher, but not an energetic one: he strove

to win his people heavenward by mild, persuasive influences, rather than to drive

them thither by the thunders of the Word. The sermon which he now delivered was

marked by the same characteristics of style and manner as the general series of his

pulpit oratory. But there was something, either in the sentiment of the discourse

itself, or in the imagination of the auditors, which made it greatly the most powerful

effort that they had ever heard from their pastor's lips. It was tinged, rather more

darkly than usual, with the gentle gloom of Mr. Hooper's temperament. The subject

had reference to secret sin, and those sad mysteries which we hide from our nearest

and dearest, and would fain conceal from our own consciousness, even forgetting

that the Omniscient can detect them. A subtle power was breathed into his words.

Each member of the congregation, the most innocent girl, and the man of hardened

breast, felt as if the preacher had crept upon them, behind his awful veil, and

discovered their hoarded iniquity of deed or thought. Many spread their clasped

hands on their bosoms. There was nothing terrible in what Mr. Hooper said, at least,

no violence; and yet, with every tremor of his melancholy voice, the hearers quaked.

An unsought pathos came hand in hand with awe. So sensible were the audience of

some unwonted attribute in their minister, that they longed for a breath of wind to

blow aside the veil, almost believing that a stranger's visage would be discovered,

though the form, gesture, and voice were those of Mr. Hooper.

At the close of the services, the people hurried out with indecorous confusion, eager

to communicate their pent-up amazement, and conscious of lighter spirits the

moment they lost sight of the black veil. Some gathered in little circles, huddled

closely together, with their mouths all whispering in the centre; some went

homeward alone, wrapt in silent meditation; some talked loudly, and profaned the

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Sabbath day with ostentatious laughter. A few shook their sagacious heads,

intimating that they could penetrate the mystery; while one or two affirmed that there

was no mystery at all, but only that Mr. Hooper's eyes were so weakened by the

midnight lamp, as to require a shade. After a brief interval, forth came good Mr.

Hooper also, in the rear of his flock. Turning his veiled face from one group to

another, he paid due reverence to the hoary heads, saluted the middle aged with kind

dignity as their friend and spiritual guide, greeted the young with mingled authority

and love, and laid his hands on the little children's heads to bless them. Such was

always his custom on the Sabbath day. Strange and bewildered looks repaid him for

his courtesy. None, as on former occasions, aspired to the honor of walking by their

pastor's side. Old Squire Saunders, doubtless by an accidental lapse of memory,

neglected to invite Mr. Hooper to his table, where the good clergyman had been wont

to bless the food, almost every Sunday since his settlement. He returned, therefore, to

the parsonage, and, at the moment of closing the door, was observed to look back

upon the people, all of whom had their eyes fixed upon the minister. A sad smile

gleamed faintly from beneath the black veil, and flickered about his mouth,

glimmering as he disappeared.

"How strange," said a lady, "that a simple black veil, such as any woman might wear

on her bonnet, should become such a terrible thing on Mr. Hooper's face!"

"Something must surely be amiss with Mr. Hooper's intellects," observed her

husband, the physician of the village. "But the strangest part of the affair is the effect

of this vagary, even on a sober-minded man like myself. The black veil, though it

covers only our pastor's face, throws its influence over his whole person, and makes

him ghostlike from head to foot. Do you not feel it so?"

"Truly do I," replied the lady; "and I would not be alone with him for the world. I

wonder he is not afraid to be alone with himself!"

"Men sometimes are so," said her husband.

The afternoon service was attended with similar circumstances. At its conclusion, the

bell tolled for the funeral of a young lady. The relatives and friends were assembled

in the house, and the more distant acquaintances stood about the door, speaking of

the good qualities of the deceased, when their talk was interrupted by the appearance

of Mr. Hooper, still covered with his black veil. It was now an appropriate emblem.

The clergyman stepped into the room where the corpse was laid, and bent over the

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coffin, to take a last farewell of his deceased parishioner. As he stooped, the veil

hung straight down from his forehead, so that, if her eyelids had not been closed

forever, the dead maiden might have seen his face. Could Mr. Hooper be fearful of

her glance, that he so hastily caught back the black veil? A person who watched the

interview between the dead and living, scrupled not to affirm, that, at the instant

when the clergyman's features were disclosed, the corpse had slightly shuddered,

rustling the shroud and muslin cap, though the countenance retained the composure

of death. A superstitious old woman was the only witness of this prodigy. From the

coffin Mr. Hooper passed into the chamber of the mourners, and thence to the head

of the staircase, to make the funeral prayer. It was a tender and heart-dissolving

prayer, full of sorrow, yet so imbued with celestial hopes, that the music of a

heavenly harp, swept by the fingers of the dead, seemed faintly to be heard among

the saddest accents of the minister. The people trembled, though they but darkly

understood him when he prayed that they, and himself, and all of mortal race, might

be ready, as he trusted this young maiden had been, for the dreadful hour that should

snatch the veil from their faces. The bearers went heavily forth, and the mourners

followed, saddening all the street, with the dead before them, and Mr. Hooper in his

black veil behind.

"Why do you look back?" said one in the procession to his partner.

I had a fancy," replied she, "that the minister and the maiden's spirit were walking

hand in hand."

"And so had I, at the same moment," said the other.

That night, the handsomest couple in Milford village were to be joined in wedlock.

Though reckoned a melancholy man, Mr. Hooper had a placid cheerfulness for such

occasions, which often excited a sympathetic smile where livelier merriment would

have been thrown away. There was no quality of his disposition which made him

more beloved than this. The company at the wedding awaited his arrival with

impatience, trusting that the strange awe, which had gathered over him throughout

the day, would now be dispelled. But such was not the result. When Mr. Hooper

came, the first thing that their eyes rested on was the same horrible black veil, which

had added deeper gloom to the funeral, and could portend nothing but evil to the

wedding. Such was its immediate effect on the guests that a cloud seemed to have

rolled duskily from beneath the black crape, and dimmed the light of the candles. The

bridal pair stood up before the minister. But the bride's cold fingers quivered in the

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tremulous hand of the bridegroom, and her deathlike paleness caused a whisper that

the maiden who had been buried a few hours before was come from her grave to be

married. If ever another wedding were so dismal, it was that famous one where they

tolled the wedding knell. After performing the ceremony, Mr. Hooper raised a glass

of wine to his lips, wishing happiness to the new-married couple in a strain of mild

pleasantry that ought to have brightened the features of the guests, like a cheerful

gleam from the hearth. At that instant, catching a glimpse of his figure in the looking-

glass, the black veil involved his own spirit in the horror with which it overwhelmed

all others. His frame shuddered, his lips grew white, he spilt the untasted wine upon

the carpet, and rushed forth into the darkness. For the Earth, too, had on her Black

Veil.

The next day, the whole village of Milford talked of little else than Parson Hooper's

black veil. That, and the mystery concealed behind it, supplied a topic for discussion

between acquaintances meeting in the street, and good women gossiping at their open

windows. It was the first item of news that the tavern-keeper told to his guests. The

children babbled of it on their way to school. One imitative little imp covered his

face with an old black handkerchief, thereby so affrighting his playmates that the

panic seized himself, and he well-nigh lost his wits by his own waggery.

It was remarkable that of all the busybodies and impertinent people in the parish, not

one ventured to put the plain question to Mr. Hooper, wherefore he did this thing.

Hitherto, whenever there appeared the slightest call for such interference, he had

never lacked advisers, nor shown himself adverse to be guided by their judgment. If

he erred at all, it was by so painful a degree of self-distrust, that even the mildest

censure would lead him to consider an indifferent action as a crime. Yet, though so

well acquainted with this amiable weakness, no individual among his parishioners

chose to make the black veil a subject of friendly remonstrance. There was a feeling

of dread, neither plainly confessed nor carefully concealed, which caused each to

shift the responsibility upon another, till at length it was found expedient to send a

deputation of the church, in order to deal with Mr. Hooper about the mystery, before

it should grow into a scandal. Never did an embassy so ill discharge its duties. The

minister received them with friendly courtesy, but became silent, after they were

seated, leaving to his visitors the whole burden of introducing their important

business. The topic, it might be supposed, was obvious enough. There was the black

veil swathed round Mr. Hooper's forehead, and concealing every feature above his

placid mouth, on which, at times, they could perceive the glimmering of a

melancholy smile. But that piece of crape, to their imagination, seemed to hang down

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before his heart, the symbol of a fearful secret between him and them. Were the veil

but cast aside, they might speak freely of it, but not till then. Thus they sat a

considerable time, speechless, confused, and shrinking uneasily from Mr. Hooper's

eye, which they felt to be fixed upon them with an invisible glance. Finally, the

deputies returned abashed to their constituents, pronouncing the matter too weighty

to be handled, except by a council of the churches, if, indeed, it might not require a

general synod.

But there was one person in the village unappalled by the awe with which the black

veil had impressed all beside herself. When the deputies returned without an

explanation, or even venturing to demand one, she, with the calm energy of her

character, determined to chase away the strange cloud that appeared to be settling

round Mr. Hooper, every moment more darkly than before. As his plighted wife, it

should be her privilege to know what the black veil concealed. At the minister's first

visit, therefore, she entered upon the subject with a direct simplicity, which made the

task easier both for him and her. After he had seated himself, she fixed her eyes

steadfastly upon the veil, but could discern nothing of the dreadful gloom that had so

overawed the multitude: it was but a double fold of crape, hanging down from his

forehead to his mouth, and slightly stirring with his breath.

"No," said she aloud, and smiling, "there is nothing terrible in this piece of crape,

except that it hides a face which I am always glad to look upon. Come, good sir, let

the sun shine from behind the cloud. First lay aside your black veil: then tell me why

you put it on."

Mr. Hooper's smile glimmered faintly.

"There is an hour to come," said he, "when all of us shall cast aside our veils. Take it

not amiss, beloved friend, if I wear this piece of crape till then."

"Your words are a mystery, too," returned the young lady. "Take away the veil from

them, at least."

"Elizabeth, I will," said he, "so far as my vow may suffer me. Know, then, this veil is

a type and a symbol, and I am bound to wear it ever, both in light and darkness, in

solitude and before the gaze of multitudes, and as with strangers, so with my familiar

friends. No mortal eye will see it withdrawn. This dismal shade must separate me

from the world: even you, Elizabeth, can never come behind it!"

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"What grievous affliction hath befallen you," she earnestly inquired, "that you should

thus darken your eyes forever?"

"If it be a sign of mourning," replied Mr. Hooper, "I, perhaps, like most other

mortals, have sorrows dark enough to be typified by a black veil."

"But what if the world will not believe that it is the type of an innocent sorrow?"

urged Elizabeth. "Beloved and respected as you are, there may be whispers that you

hide your face under the consciousness of secret sin. For the sake of your holy office,

do away this scandal!"

The color rose into her cheeks as she intimated the nature of the rumors that were

already abroad in the village. But Mr. Hooper's mildness did not forsake him. He

even smiled again--that same sad smile, which always appeared like a faint

glimmering of light, proceeding from the obscurity beneath the veil.

"If I hide my face for sorrow, there is cause enough," he merely replied; "and if I

cover it for secret sin, what mortal might not do the same?"

And with this gentle, but unconquerable obstinacy did he resist all her entreaties. At

length Elizabeth sat silent. For a few moments she appeared lost in thought,

considering, probably, what new methods might be tried to withdraw her lover from

so dark a fantasy, which, if it had no other meaning, was perhaps a symptom of

mental disease. Though of a firmer character than his own, the tears rolled down her

cheeks. But, in an instant, as it were, a new feeling took the place of sorrow: her eyes

were fixed insensibly on the black veil, when, like a sudden twilight in the air, its

terrors fell around her. She arose, and stood trembling before him.

"And do you feel it then, at last?" said he mournfully.

She made no reply, but covered her eyes with her hand, and turned to leave the room.

He rushed forward and caught her arm.

"Have patience with me, Elizabeth!" cried he, passionately. "Do not desert me,

though this veil must be between us here on earth. Be mine, and hereafter there shall

be no veil over my face, no darkness between our souls! It is but a mortal veil--it is

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not for eternity! O! you know not how lonely I am, and how frightened, to be alone

behind my black veil. Do not leave me in this miserable obscurity forever!"

"Lift the veil but once, and look me in the face," said she.

"Never! It cannot be!" replied Mr. Hooper.

"Then farewell!" said Elizabeth.

She withdrew her arm from his grasp, and slowly departed, pausing at the door, to

give one long shuddering gaze, that seemed almost to penetrate the mystery of the

black veil. But, even amid his grief, Mr. Hooper smiled to think that only a material

emblem had separated him from happiness, though the horrors, which it shadowed

forth, must be drawn darkly between the fondest of lovers.

From that time no attempts were made to remove Mr. Hooper's black veil, or, by a

direct appeal, to discover the secret which it was supposed to hide. By persons who

claimed a superiority to popular prejudice, it was reckoned merely an eccentric

whim, such as often mingles with the sober actions of men otherwise rational, and

tinges them all with its own semblance of insanity. But with the multitude, good Mr.

Hooper was irreparably a bugbear. He could not walk the street with any peace of

mind, so conscious was he that the gentle and timid would turn aside to avoid him,

and that others would make it a point of hardihood to throw themselves in his way.

The impertinence of the latter class compelled him to give up his customary walk at

sunset to the burial ground; for when he leaned pensively over the gate, there would

always be faces behind the gravestones, peeping at his black veil. A fable went the

rounds that the stare of the dead people drove him thence. It grieved him, to the very

depth of his kind heart, to observe how the children fled from his approach, breaking

up their merriest sports, while his melancholy figure was yet afar off. Their

instinctive dread caused him to feel more strongly than aught else, that a

preternatural horror was interwoven with the threads of the black crape. In truth, his

own antipathy to the veil was known to be so great, that he never willingly passed

before a mirror, nor stooped to drink at a still fountain, lest, in its peaceful bosom, he

should be affrighted by himself. This was what gave plausibility to the whispers, that

Mr. Hooper's conscience tortured him for some great crime too horrible to be entirely

concealed, or otherwise than so obscurely intimated. Thus, from beneath the black

veil, there rolled a cloud into the sunshine, an ambiguity of sin or sorrow, which

enveloped the poor minister, so that love or sympathy could never reach him. It was

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said that ghost and fiend consorted with him there. With self-shudderings and

outward terrors, he walked continually in its shadow, groping darkly within his own

soul, or gazing through a medium that saddened the whole world. Even the lawless

wind, it was believed, respected his dreadful secret, and never blew aside the veil.

But still good Mr. Hooper sadly smiled at the pale visages of the worldly throng as he

passed by.

Among all its bad influences, the black veil had the one desirable effect, of making

its wearer a very efficient clergyman. By the aid of his mysterious emblem--for there

was no other apparent cause--he became a man of awful power over souls that were

in agony for sin. His converts always regarded him with a dread peculiar to

themselves, affirming, though but figuratively, that, before he brought them to

celestial light, they had been with him behind the black veil. Its gloom, indeed,

enabled him to sympathize with all dark affections. Dying sinners cried aloud for Mr.

Hooper, and would not yield their breath till he appeared; though ever, as he stooped

to whisper consolation, they shuddered at the veiled face so near their own. Such

were the terrors of the black veil, even when Death had bared his visage! Strangers

came long distances to attend service at his church, with the mere idle purpose of

gazing at his figure, because it was forbidden them to behold his face. But many were

made to quake ere they departed! Once, during Governor Belcher's administration,

Mr. Hooper was appointed to preach the election sermon. Covered with his black

veil, he stood before the chief magistrate, the council, and the representatives, and

wrought so deep an impression that the legislative measures of that year were

characterized by all the gloom and piety of our earliest ancestral sway.

In this manner Mr. Hooper spent a long life, irreproachable in outward act, yet

shrouded in dismal suspicions; kind and loving, though unloved, and dimly feared; a

man apart from men, shunned in their health and joy, but ever summoned to their aid

in mortal anguish. As years wore on, shedding their snows above his sable veil, he

acquired a name throughout the New England churches, and they called him Father

Hooper. Nearly all his parishioners, who were of mature age when he was settled,

had been borne away by many a funeral: he had one congregation in the church, and

a more crowded one in the churchyard; and having wrought so late into the evening,

and done his work so well, it was now good Father Hooper's turn to rest.

Several persons were visible by the shaded candle-light, in the death chamber of the

old clergyman. Natural connections he had none. But there was the decorously grave,

though unmoved physician, seeking only to mitigate the last pangs of the patient

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whom he could not save. There were the deacons, and other eminently pious

members of his church. There, also, was the Reverend Mr. Clark, of Westbury, a

young and zealous divine, who had ridden in haste to pray by the bedside of the

expiring minister. There was the nurse, no hired handmaiden of death, but one whose

calm affection had endured thus long in secrecy, in solitude, amid the chill of age,

and would not perish, even at the dying hour. Who, but Elizabeth! And there lay the

hoary head of good Father Hooper upon the death pillow, with the black veil still

swathed about his brow, and reaching down over his face, so that each more difficult

gasp of his faint breath caused it to stir. All through life that piece of crape had hung

between him and the world: it had separated him from cheerful brotherhood and

woman's love, and kept him in that saddest of all prisons, his own heart; and still it

lay upon his face, as if to deepen the gloom of his darksome chamber, and shade him

from the sunshine of eternity.

For some time previous, his mind had been confused, wavering doubtfully between

the past and the present, and hovering forward, as it were, at intervals, into the

indistinctness of the world to come. There had been feverish turns, which tossed him

from side to side, and wore away what little strength he had. But in his most

convulsive struggles, and in the wildest vagaries of his intellect, when no other

thought retained its sober influence, he still showed an awful solicitude lest the black

veil should slip aside. Even if his bewildered soul could have forgotten, there was a

faithful woman at his pillow, who, with averted eyes, would have covered that aged

face, which she had last beheld in the comeliness of manhood. At length the death-

stricken old man lay quietly in the torpor of mental and bodily exhaustion, with an

imperceptible pulse, and breath that grew fainter and fainter, except when a long,

deep, and irregular inspiration seemed to prelude the flight of his spirit.

The minister of Westbury approached the bedside.

"Venerable Father Hooper," said he, "the moment of your release is at hand. Are you

ready for the lifting of the veil that shuts in time from eternity?"

Father Hooper at first replied merely by a feeble motion of his head; then,

apprehensive, perhaps, that his meaning might be doubtful, he exerted himself to

speak.

"Yea," said he, in faint accents, "my soul hath a patient weariness until that veil be

lifted."

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"And is it fitting," resumed the Reverend Mr. Clark, "that a man so given to prayer,

of such a blameless example, holy in deed and thought, so far as mortal judgment

may pronounce; is it fitting that a father in the church should leave a shadow on his

memory, that may seem to blacken a life so pure? I pray you, my venerable brother,

let not this thing be! Suffer us to be gladdened by your triumphant aspect as you go

to your reward. Before the veil of eternity be lifted, let me cast aside this black veil

from your face!"

And thus speaking, the Reverend Mr. Clark bent forward to reveal the mystery of so

many years. But, exerting a sudden energy, that made all the beholders stand aghast,

Father Hooper snatched both his hands from beneath the bedclothes, and pressed

them strongly on the black veil, resolute to struggle, if the minister of Westbury

would contend with a dying man.

"Never!" cried the veiled clergyman. "On earth, never!"

"Dark old man!" exclaimed the affrighted minister, "with what horrible crime upon

your soul are you now passing to the judgment?"

Father Hooper's breath heaved; it rattled in his throat; but, with a mighty effort,

grasping forward with his hands, he caught hold of life, and held it back till he should

speak. He even raised himself in bed; and there he sat, shivering with the arms of

death around him, while the black veil hung down, awful at that last moment, in the

gathered terrors of a lifetime. And yet the faint, sad smile, so often there, now

seemed to glimmer from its obscurity, and linger on Father Hooper's lips.

"Why do you tremble at me alone?" cried he, turning his veiled face round the circle

of pale spectators. "Tremble also at each other! Have men avoided me, and women

shown no pity, and children screamed and fled, only for my black veil? What, but the

mystery which it obscurely typifies, has made this piece of crape so awful? When the

friend shows his inmost heart to his friend; the lover to his best beloved; when man

does not vainly shrink from the eye of his Creator, loathsomely treasuring up the

secret of his sin; then deem me a monster, for the symbol beneath which I have lived,

and die! I look around me, and, lo! on every visage a Black Veil!"

While his auditors shrank from one another, in mutual affright, Father Hooper fell

back upon his pillow, a veiled corpse, with a faint smile lingering on the lips. Still

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veiled, they laid him in his coffin, and a veiled corpse they bore him to the grave.

The grass of many years has sprung up and withered on that grave, the burial stone is

moss-grown, and good Mr. Hooper's face is dust; but awful is still the thought that it

mouldered beneath the Black Veil!

NOTE. Another clergyman in New England, Mr. Joseph Moody, of York, Maine,

who died about eighty years since, made himself remarkable by the same eccentricity

that is here related of the Reverend Mr. Hooper. In his case, however, the symbol had

a different import. In early life he had accidentally killed a beloved friend; and from

that day till the hour of his own death, he hid his face from men.

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Desiree's Baby by Kate Chopin

As the day was pleasant, Madame Valmonde drove over to L'Abri to see Desiree and

the baby.

It made her laugh to think of Desiree with a baby. Why, it seemed but yesterday that

Desiree was little more than a baby herself; when Monsieur in riding through the

gateway of Valmonde had found her lying asleep in the shadow of the big stone

pillar.

The little one awoke in his arms and began to cry for "Dada." That was as much as

she could do or say. Some people thought she might have strayed there of her own

accord, for she was of the toddling age. The prevailing belief was that she had been

purposely left by a party of Texans, whose canvas-covered wagon, late in the day,

had crossed the ferry that Coton Mais kept, just below the plantation. In time

Madame Valmonde abandoned every speculation but the one that Desiree had been

sent to her by a beneficent Providence to be the child of her affection, seeing that she

was without child of the flesh. For the girl grew to be beautiful and gentle,

affectionate and sincere,--the idol of Valmonde.

It was no wonder, when she stood one day against the stone pillar in whose shadow

she had lain asleep, eighteen years before, that Armand Aubigny riding by and seeing

her there, had fallen in love with her. That was the way all the Aubignys fell in love,

as if struck by a pistol shot. The wonder was that he had not loved her before; for he

had known her since his father brought him home from Paris, a boy of eight, after his

mother died there. The passion that awoke in him that day, when he saw her at the

gate, swept along like an avalanche, or like a prairie fire, or like anything that drives

headlong over all obstacles.

Monsieur Valmonde grew practical and wanted things well considered: that is, the

girl's obscure origin. Armand looked into her eyes and did not care. He was reminded

that she was nameless. What did it matter about a name when he could give her one

of the oldest and proudest in Louisiana? He ordered the corbeille from Paris, and

contained himself with what patience he could until it arrived; then they were

married.

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Madame Valmonde had not seen Desiree and the baby for four weeks. When she

reached L'Abri she shuddered at the first sight of it, as she always did. It was a sad

looking place, which for many years had not known the gentle presence of a mistress,

old Monsieur Aubigny having married and buried his wife in France, and she having

loved her own land too well ever to leave it. The roof came down steep and black

like a cowl, reaching out beyond the wide galleries that encircled the yellow stuccoed

house. Big, solemn oaks grew close to it, and their thick-leaved, far-reaching

branches shadowed it like a pall. Young Aubigny's rule was a strict one, too, and

under it his negroes had forgotten how to be gay, as they had been during the old

master's easy-going and indulgent lifetime.

The young mother was recovering slowly, and lay full length, in her soft white

muslins and laces, upon a couch. The baby was beside her, upon her arm, where he

had fallen asleep, at her breast. The yellow nurse woman sat beside a window

fanning herself.

Madame Valmonde bent her portly figure over Desiree and kissed her, holding her an

instant tenderly in her arms. Then she turned to the child.

"This is not the baby!" she exclaimed, in startled tones. French was the language

spoken at Valmonde in those days.

"I knew you would be astonished," laughed Desiree, "at the way he has grown. The

little cochon de lait! Look at his legs, mamma, and his hands and fingernails,--real

finger-nails. Zandrine had to cut them this morning. Isn't it true, Zandrine?"

The woman bowed her turbaned head majestically, "Mais si, Madame."

"And the way he cries," went on Desiree, "is deafening. Armand heard him the other

day as far away as La Blanche's cabin."

Madame Valmonde had never removed her eyes from the child. She lifted it and

walked with it over to the window that was lightest. She scanned the baby narrowly,

then looked as searchingly at Zandrine, whose face was turned to gaze across the

fields.

"Yes, the child has grown, has changed," said Madame Valmonde, slowly, as she

replaced it beside its mother. "What does Armand say?"

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Desiree's face became suffused with a glow that was happiness itself.

"Oh, Armand is the proudest father in the parish, I believe, chiefly because it is a

boy, to bear his name; though he says not,--that he would have loved a girl as well.

But I know it isn't true. I know he says that to please me. And mamma," she added,

drawing Madame Valmonde's head down to her, and speaking in a whisper, "he

hasn't punished one of them--not one of them--since baby is born. Even Negrillon,

who pretended to have burnt his leg that he might rest from work--he only laughed,

and said Negrillon was a great scamp. oh, mamma, I'm so happy; it frightens me."

What Desiree said was true. Marriage, and later the birth of his son had softened

Armand Aubigny's imperious and exacting nature greatly. This was what made the

gentle Desiree so happy, for she loved him desperately. When he frowned she

trembled, but loved him. When he smiled, she asked no greater blessing of God. But

Armand's dark, handsome face had not often been disfigured by frowns since the day

he fell in love with her.

When the baby was about three months old, Desiree awoke one day to the conviction

that there was something in the air menacing her peace. It was at first too subtle to

grasp. It had only been a disquieting suggestion; an air of mystery among the blacks;

unexpected visits from far-off neighbors who could hardly account for their coming.

Then a strange, an awful change in her husband's manner, which she dared not ask

him to explain. When he spoke to her, it was with averted eyes, from which the old

love-light seemed to have gone out. He absented himself from home; and when there,

avoided her presence and that of her child, without excuse. And the very spirit of

Satan seemed suddenly to take hold of him in his dealings with the slaves. Desiree

was miserable enough to die.

She sat in her room, one hot afternoon, in her peignoir, listlessly drawing through her

fingers the strands of her long, silky brown hair that hung about her shoulders. The

baby, half naked, lay asleep upon her own great mahogany bed, that was like a

sumptuous throne, with its satin-lined half-canopy. One of La Blanche's little

quadroon boys--half naked too--stood fanning the child slowly with a fan of peacock

feathers. Desiree's eyes had been fixed absently and sadly upon the baby, while she

was striving to penetrate the threatening mist that she felt closing about her. She

looked from her child to the boy who stood beside him, and back again; over and

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over. "Ah!" It was a cry that she could not help; which she was not conscious of

having uttered. The blood turned like ice in her veins, and a clammy moisture

gathered upon her face.

She tried to speak to the little quadroon boy; but no sound would come, at first.

When he heard his name uttered, he looked up, and his mistress was pointing to the

door. He laid aside the great, soft fan, and obediently stole away, over the polished

floor, on his bare tiptoes.

She stayed motionless, with gaze riveted upon her child, and her face the picture of

fright.

Presently her husband entered the room, and without noticing her, went to a table and

began to search among some papers which covered it.

"Armand," she called to him, in a voice which must have stabbed him, if he was

human. But he did not notice. "Armand," she said again. Then she rose and tottered

towards him. "Armand," she panted once more, clutching his arm, "look at our child.

What does it mean? tell me."

He coldly but gently loosened her fingers from about his arm and thrust the hand

away from him. "Tell me what it means!" she cried despairingly.

"It means," he answered lightly, "that the child is not white; it means that you are not

white."

A quick conception of all that this accusation meant for her nerved her with

unwonted courage to deny it. "It is a lie; it is not true, I am white! Look at my hair, it

is brown; and my eyes are gray, Armand, you know they are gray. And my skin is

fair," seizing his wrist. "Look at my hand; whiter than yours, Armand," she laughed

hysterically.

"As white as La Blanche's," he returned cruelly; and went away leaving her alone

with their child.

When she could hold a pen in her hand, she sent a despairing letter to Madame

Valmonde.

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"My mother, they tell me I am not white. Armand has told me I am not white. For

God's sake tell them it is not true. You must know it is not true. I shall die. I must die.

I cannot be so unhappy, and live."

The answer that came was brief:

"My own Desiree: Come home to Valmonde; back to your mother who loves you.

Come with your child."

When the letter reached Desiree she went with it to her husband's study, and laid it

open upon the desk before which he sat. She was like a stone image: silent, white,

motionless after she placed it there.

In silence he ran his cold eyes over the written words.

He said nothing. "Shall I go, Armand?" she asked in tones sharp with agonized

suspense.

"Yes, go."

"Do you want me to go?"

"Yes, I want you to go."

He thought Almighty God had dealt cruelly and unjustly with him; and felt,

somehow, that he was paying Him back in kind when he stabbed thus into his wife's

soul. Moreover he no longer loved her, because of the unconscious injury she had

brought upon his home and his name.

She turned away like one stunned by a blow, and walked slowly towards the door,

hoping he would call her back.

"Good-by, Armand," she moaned.

He did not answer her. That was his last blow at fate.

Desiree went in search of her child. Zandrine was pacing the sombre gallery with it.

She took the little one from the nurse's arms with no word of explanation, and

descending the steps, walked away, under the live-oak branches.

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It was an October afternoon; the sun was just sinking. Out in the still fields the

negroes were picking cotton.

Desiree had not changed the thin white garment nor the slippers which she wore. Her

hair was uncovered and the sun's rays brought a golden gleam from its brown

meshes. She did not take the broad, beaten road which led to the far-off plantation of

Valmonde. She walked across a deserted field, where the stubble bruised her tender

feet, so delicately shod, and tore her thin gown to shreds.

She disappeared among the reeds and willows that grew thick along the banks of the

deep, sluggish bayou; and she did not come back again.

Some weeks later there was a curious scene enacted at L'Abri. In the centre of the

smoothly swept back yard was a great bonfire. Armand Aubigny sat in the wide

hallway that commanded a view of the spectacle; and it was he who dealt out to a

half dozen negroes the material which kept this fire ablaze.

A graceful cradle of willow, with all its dainty furbishings, was laid upon the pyre,

which had already been fed with the richness of a priceless layette. Then there were

silk gowns, and velvet and satin ones added to these; laces, too, and embroideries;

bonnets and gloves; for the corbeille had been of rare quality.

The last thing to go was a tiny bundle of letters; innocent little scribblings that

Desiree had sent to him during the days of their espousal. There was the remnant of

one back in the drawer from which he took them. But it was not Desiree's; it was part

of an old letter from his mother to his father. He read it. She was thanking God for

the blessing of her husband's love:--

"But above all," she wrote, "night and day, I thank the good God for having so

arranged our lives that our dear Armand will never know that his mother, who adores

him, belongs to the race that is cursed with the brand of slavery."

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Genesis 1

Creation

1: In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth.

2: And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the

deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters.

3: And God said, Let there be light: and there was light.

4: And God saw the light, that it was good: and God divided the light from the

darkness.

5: And God called the light Day, and the darkness he called Night. And the evening

and the morning were the first day.

6: And God said, Let there be a firmament in the midst of the waters, and let it divide

the waters from the waters.

7: And God made the firmament, and divided the waters which were under the

firmament from the waters which were above the firmament: and it was so.

8: And God called the firmament Heaven. And the evening and the morning were the

second day.

9: And God said, Let the waters under the heaven be gathered together unto one

place, and let the dry land appear: and it was so.

10: And God called the dry land Earth; and the gathering together of the waters

called he Seas: and God saw that it was good.

11: And God said, Let the earth bring forth grass, the herb yielding seed, and the fruit

tree yielding fruit after his kind, whose seed is in itself, upon the earth: and it was so.

12: And the earth brought forth grass, and herb yielding seed after his kind, and the

tree yielding fruit, whose seed was in itself, after his kind: and God saw that it was

good.

13: And the evening and the morning were the third day.

14: And God said, Let there be lights in the firmament of the heaven to divide the

day from the night; and let them be for signs, and for seasons, and for days, and

years:

15: And let them be for lights in the firmament of the heaven to give light upon the

earth: and it was so.

16: And God made two great lights; the greater light to rule the day, and the lesser

light to rule the night: he made the stars also.

17: And God set them in the firmament of the heaven to give light upon the earth,

18: And to rule over the day and over the night, and to divide the light from the

darkness: and God saw that it was good.

19: And the evening and the morning were the fourth day.

20: And God said, Let the waters bring forth abundantly the moving creature that

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hath life, and fowl that may fly above the earth in the open firmament of heaven.

21: And God created great whales, and every living creature that moveth, which the

waters brought forth abundantly, after their kind, and every winged fowl after his

kind: and God saw that it was good.

22: And God blessed them, saying, Be fruitful, and multiply, and fill the waters in the

seas, and let fowl multiply in the earth.

23: And the evening and the morning were the fifth day.

24: And God said, Let the earth bring forth the living creature after his kind, cattle,

and creeping thing, and beast of the earth after his kind: and it was so.

25: And God made the beast of the earth after his kind, and cattle after their kind, and

every thing that creepeth upon the earth after his kind: and God saw that it was good.

26: And God said, Let us make man in our image, after our likeness: and let them

have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over the

cattle, and over all the earth, and over every creeping thing that creepeth upon the

earth.

27: So God created man in his own image, in the image of God created he him; male

and female created he them.

28: And God blessed them, and God said unto them, Be fruitful, and multiply, and

replenish the earth, and subdue it: and have dominion over the fish of the sea, and

over the fowl of the air, and over every living thing that moveth upon the earth.

29: And God said, Behold, I have given you every herb bearing seed, which is upon

the face of all the earth, and every tree, in the which is the fruit of a tree yielding

seed; to you it shall be for meat.

30: And to every beast of the earth, and to every fowl of the air, and to every thing

that creepeth upon the earth, wherein there is life, I have given every green herb for

meat: and it was so.

31: And God saw every thing that he had made, and, behold, it was very good. And

the evening and the morning were the sixth day.

Genesis 2

1: Thus the heavens and the earth were finished, and all the host of them.

2: And on the seventh day God ended his work which he had made; and he rested on

the seventh day from all his work which he had made.

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3: And God blessed the seventh day, and sanctified it: because that in it he had rested

from all his work which God created and made.

4: These are the generations of the heavens and of the earth when they were created,

in the day that the LORD God made the earth and the heavens,

5: And every plant of the field before it was in the earth, and every herb of the field

before it grew: for the LORD God had not caused it to rain upon the earth, and there

was not a man to till the ground.

6: But there went up a mist from the earth, and watered the whole face of the ground.

7: And the LORD God formed man of the dust of the ground, and breathed into his

nostrils the breath of life; and man became a living soul.

8: And the LORD God planted a garden eastward in Eden; and there he put the man

whom he had formed.

9: And out of the ground made the LORD God to grow every tree that is pleasant to

the sight, and good for food; the tree of life also in the midst of the garden, and the

tree of knowledge of good and evil.

10: And a river went out of Eden to water the garden; and from thence it was parted,

and became into four heads.

11: The name of the first is Pison: that is it which compasseth the whole land of

Havilah, where there is gold;

12: And the gold of that land is good: there is bdellium and the onyx stone.

13: And the name of the second river is Gihon: the same is it that compasseth the

whole land of Ethiopia.

14: And the name of the third river is Hiddekel: that is it which goeth toward the east

of Assyria. And the fourth river is Euphrates.

15: And the LORD God took the man, and put him into the garden of Eden to dress it

and to keep it.

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16: And the LORD God commanded the man, saying, Of every tree of the garden

thou mayest freely eat:

17: But of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, thou shalt not eat of it: for in

the day that thou eatest thereof thou shalt surely die.

18: And the LORD God said, It is not good that the man should be alone; I will make

him an help meet for him.

19: And out of the ground the LORD God formed every beast of the field, and every

fowl of the air; and brought them unto Adam to see what he would call them: and

whatsoever Adam called every living creature, that was the name thereof.

20: And Adam gave names to all cattle, and to the fowl of the air, and to every beast

of the field; but for Adam there was not found an help meet for him.

21: And the LORD God caused a deep sleep to fall upon Adam and he slept: and he

took one of his ribs, and closed up the flesh instead thereof;

22: And the rib, which the LORD God had taken from man, made he a woman, and

brought her unto the man.

23: And Adam said, This is now bone of my bones, and flesh of my flesh: she shall

be called Woman, because she was taken out of Man.

24: Therefore shall a man leave his father and his mother, and shall cleave unto his

wife: and they shall be one flesh.

25: And they were both naked, the man and his wife, and were not ashamed.

Genesis 3

1: Now the serpent was more subtil than any beast of the field which the LORD God

had made. And he said unto the woman, Yea, hath God said, Ye shall not eat of every

tree of the garden?

2: And the woman said unto the serpent, We may eat of the fruit of the trees of the

garden:

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3: But of the fruit of the tree which is in the midst of the garden, God hath said, Ye

shall not eat of it, neither shall ye touch it, lest ye die.

4: And the serpent said unto the woman, Ye shall not surely die:

5: For God doth know that in the day ye eat thereof, then your eyes shall be opened,

and ye shall be as gods, knowing good and evil.

6: And when the woman saw that the tree was good for food, and that it was pleasant

to the eyes, and a tree to be desired to make one wise, she took of the fruit thereof,

and did eat, and gave also unto her husband with her; and he did eat.

7: And the eyes of them both were opened, and they knew that they were naked; and

they sewed fig leaves together, and made themselves aprons.

8: And they heard the voice of the LORD God walking in the garden in the cool of

the day: and Adam and his wife hid themselves from the presence of the LORD God

amongst the trees of the garden.

9: And the LORD God called unto Adam, and said unto him, Where art thou?

10: And he said, I heard thy voice in the garden, and I was afraid, because I was

naked; and I hid myself.

11: And he said, Who told thee that thou wast naked? Hast thou eaten of the tree,

whereof I commanded thee that thou shouldest not eat?

12: And the man said, The woman whom thou gavest to be with me, she gave me of

the tree, and I did eat.

13: And the LORD God said unto the woman, What is this that thou hast done? And

the woman said, The serpent beguiled me, and I did eat.

14: And the LORD God said unto the serpent, Because thou hast done this, thou art

cursed above all cattle, and above every beast of the field; upon thy belly shalt thou

go, and dust shalt thou eat all the days of thy life:

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15: And I will put enmity between thee and the woman, and between thy seed and

her seed; it shall bruise thy head, and thou shalt bruise his heel.

16: Unto the woman he said, I will greatly multiply thy sorrow and thy conception; in

sorrow thou shalt bring forth children; and thy desire shall be to thy husband, and he

shall rule over thee.

17: And unto Adam he said, Because thou hast hearkened unto the voice of thy wife,

and hast eaten of the tree, of which I commanded thee, saying, Thou shalt not eat of

it: cursed is the ground for thy sake; in sorrow shalt thou eat of it all the days of thy

life;

18: Thorns also and thistles shall it bring forth to thee; and thou shalt eat the herb of

the field;

19: In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till thou return unto the ground; for

out of it wast thou taken: for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.

20: And Adam called his wife's name Eve; because she was the mother of all living.

21: Unto Adam also and to his wife did the LORD God make coats of skins, and

clothed them.

22: And the LORD God said, Behold, the man is become as one of us, to know good

and evil: and now, lest he put forth his hand, and take also of the tree of life, and eat,

and live for ever:

23: Therefore the LORD God sent him forth from the garden of Eden, to till the

ground from whence he was taken.

24: So he drove out the man; and he placed at the east of the garden of Eden

Cherubims, and a flaming sword which turned every way, to keep the way of the tree

of life.

The Flood

Genesis 6

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1: And it came to pass, when men began to multiply on the face of the earth, and

daughters were born unto them,

2: That the sons of God saw the daughters of men that they were fair; and they took

them wives of all which they chose.

3: And the LORD said, My spirit shall not always strive with man, for that he also is

flesh: yet his days shall be an hundred and twenty years.

4: There were giants in the earth in those days; and also after that, when the sons of

God came in unto the daughters of men, and they bare children to them, the same

became mighty men which were of old, men of renown.

5: And GOD saw that the wickedness of man was great in the earth, and that every

imagination of the thoughts of his heart was only evil continually.

6: And it repented the LORD that he had made man on the earth, and it grieved him

at his heart.

7: And the LORD said, I will destroy man whom I have created from the face of the

earth; both man, and beast, and the creeping thing, and the fowls of the air; for it

repenteth me that I have made them.

8: But Noah found grace in the eyes of the LORD.

9: These are the generations of Noah: Noah was a just man and perfect in his

generations, and Noah walked with God.

10: And Noah begat three sons, Shem, Ham, and Japheth.

11: The earth also was corrupt before God, and the earth was filled with violence.

12: And God looked upon the earth, and, behold, it was corrupt; for all flesh had

corrupted his way upon the earth.

13: And God said unto Noah, The end of all flesh is come before me; for the earth is

filled with violence through them; and, behold, I will destroy them with the earth.

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14: Make thee an ark of gopher wood; rooms shalt thou make in the ark, and shalt

pitch it within and without with pitch.

15: And this is the fashion which thou shalt make it of: The length of the ark shall be

three hundred cubits, the breadth of it fifty cubits, and the height of it thirty cubits.

16: A window shalt thou make to the ark, and in a cubit shalt thou finish it above;

and the door of the ark shalt thou set in the side thereof; with lower, second, and third

stories shalt thou make it.

17: And, behold, I, even I, do bring a flood of waters upon the earth, to destroy all

flesh, wherein is the breath of life, from under heaven; and every thing that is in the

earth shall die.

18: But with thee will I establish my covenant; and thou shalt come into the ark,

thou, and thy sons, and thy wife, and thy sons' wives with thee.

19: And of every living thing of all flesh, two of every sort shalt thou bring into the

ark, to keep them alive with thee; they shall be male and female.

20: Of fowls after their kind, and of cattle after their kind, of every creeping thing of

the earth after his kind, two of every sort shall come unto thee, to keep them alive.

21: And take thou unto thee of all food that is eaten, and thou shalt gather it to thee;

and it shall be for food for thee, and for them.

22: Thus did Noah; according to all that God commanded him, so did he.

Genesis 7

1: And the LORD said unto Noah, Come thou and all thy house into the ark; for thee

have I seen righteous before me in this generation.

2: Of every clean beast thou shalt take to thee by sevens, the male and his female:

and of beasts that are not clean by two, the male and his female.

3: Of fowls also of the air by sevens, the male and the female; to keep seed alive

upon the face of all the earth.

4: For yet seven days, and I will cause it to rain upon the earth forty days and forty

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nights; and every living substance that I have made will I destroy from off the face of

the earth.

5: And Noah did according unto all that the LORD commanded him.

6: And Noah was six hundred years old when the flood of waters was upon the earth.

7: And Noah went in, and his sons, and his wife, and his sons' wives with him, into

the ark, because of the waters of the flood.

8: Of clean beasts, and of beasts that are not clean, and of fowls, and of every thing

that creepeth upon the earth,

9: There went in two and two unto Noah into the ark, the male and the female, as

God had commanded Noah.

10: And it came to pass after seven days, that the waters of the flood were upon the

earth.

11: In the six hundredth year of Noah's life, in the second month, the seventeenth day

of the month, the same day were all the fountains of the great deep broken up, and

the windows of heaven were opened.

12: And the rain was upon the earth forty days and forty nights.

13: In the selfsame day entered Noah, and Shem, and Ham, and Japheth, the sons of

Noah, and Noah's wife, and the three wives of his sons with them, into the ark;

14: They, and every beast after his kind, and all the cattle after their kind, and every

creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth after his kind, and every fowl after his

kind, every bird of every sort.

15: And they went in unto Noah into the ark, two and two of all flesh, wherein is the

breath of life.

16: And they that went in, went in male and female of all flesh, as God had

commanded him: and the LORD shut him in.

17: And the flood was forty days upon the earth; and the waters increased, and bare

up the ark, and it was lift up above the earth.

18: And the waters prevailed, and were increased greatly upon the earth; and the ark

went upon the face of the waters.

19: And the waters prevailed exceedingly upon the earth; and all the high hills, that

were under the whole heaven, were covered.

20: Fifteen cubits upward did the waters prevail; and the mountains were covered.

21: And all flesh died that moved upon the earth, both of fowl, and of cattle, and of

beast, and of every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth, and every man:

22: All in whose nostrils was the breath of life, of all that was in the dry land, died.

23: And every living substance was destroyed which was upon the face of the

ground, both man, and cattle, and the creeping things, and the fowl of the heaven;

and they were destroyed from the earth: and Noah only remained alive, and they that

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were with him in the ark.

24: And the waters prevailed upon the earth an hundred and fifty days.

Genesis 8

1: And God remembered Noah, and every living thing, and all the cattle that was

with him in the ark: and God made a wind to pass over the earth, and the waters

asswaged;

2: The fountains also of the deep and the windows of heaven were stopped, and the

rain from heaven was restrained;

3: And the waters returned from off the earth continually: and after the end of the

hundred and fifty days the waters were abated.

4: And the ark rested in the seventh month, on the seventeenth day of the month,

upon the mountains of Ararat.

5: And the waters decreased continually until the tenth month: in the tenth month, on

the first day of the month, were the tops of the mountains seen.

6: And it came to pass at the end of forty days, that Noah opened the window of the

ark which he had made:

7: And he sent forth a raven, which went forth to and fro, until the waters were dried

up from off the earth.

8: Also he sent forth a dove from him, to see if the waters were abated from off the

face of the ground;

9: But the dove found no rest for the sole of her foot, and she returned unto him into

the ark, for the waters were on the face of the whole earth: then he put forth his hand,

and took her, and pulled her in unto him into the ark.

10: And he stayed yet other seven days; and again he sent forth the dove out of the

ark;

11: And the dove came in to him in the evening; and, lo, in her mouth was an olive

leaf pluckt off: so Noah knew that the waters were abated from off the earth.

12: And he stayed yet other seven days; and sent forth the dove; which returned not

again unto him any more.

13: And it came to pass in the six hundredth and first year, in the first month, the first

day of the month, the waters were dried up from off the earth: and Noah removed the

covering of the ark, and looked, and, behold, the face of the ground was dry.

14: And in the second month, on the seven and twentieth day of the month, was the

earth dried.

15: And God spake unto Noah, saying,

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16: Go forth of the ark, thou, and thy wife, and thy sons, and thy sons' wives with

thee.

17: Bring forth with thee every living thing that is with thee, of all flesh, both of

fowl, and of cattle, and of every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth; that they

may breed abundantly in the earth, and be fruitful, and multiply upon the earth.

18: And Noah went forth, and his sons, and his wife, and his sons' wives with him:

19: Every beast, every creeping thing, and every fowl, and whatsoever creepeth upon

the earth, after their kinds, went forth out of the ark.

20: And Noah builded an altar unto the LORD; and took of every clean beast, and of

every clean fowl, and offered burnt offerings on the altar.

21: And the LORD smelled a sweet savour; and the LORD said in his heart, I will

not again curse the ground any more for man's sake; for the imagination of man's

heart is evil from his youth; neither will I again smite any more every thing living, as

I have done.

22: While the earth remaineth, seedtime and harvest, and cold and heat, and summer

and winter, and day and night shall not cease.

The Epic of Gilgamesh Tablet XI The Story of the Flood

Gilgamesh spoke to Utanapishtim, the Faraway: "I have been looking at you, but

your appearance is not strange--you are like me! You yourself are not different--you

are like me! My mind was resolved to fight with you, (but instead?) my arm lies

useless over you. Tell me, how is it that you stand in the Assembly of the Gods, and

have found life!"

Utanapishtim spoke to Gilgamesh, saying: "I will reveal to you, Gilgamesh, a thing

that is hidden, a secret of the gods I will tell you! Shuruppak, a city that you surely

know, situated on the banks of the Euphrates, that city was very old, and there were

gods inside it. The hearts of the Great Gods moved them to inflict the Flood. Their

Father Anu uttered the oath (of secrecy), Valiant Enlil was their Adviser, Ninurta was

their Chamberlain, Ennugi was their Minister of Canals. Ea, the Clever Prince , was

under oath with them so he repeated their talk to the reed house: 'Reed house, reed

house! Wall, wall! O man of Shuruppak, son of Ubartutu: Tear down the house and

build a boat! Abandon wealth and seek living beings! Spurn possessions and keep

alive living beings! Make all living beings go up into the boat. The boat which you

are to build, its dimensions must measure equal to each other: its length must

correspond to its width. Roof it over like the Apsu. I understood and spoke to my

lord, Ea: 'My lord, thus is the command which you have uttered I will heed and will

do it. But what shall I answer the city, the populace, and the Elders!'

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Ea spoke, commanding me, his servant: 'You, well then, this is what you must say to

them: "It appears that Enlil is rejecting me so I cannot reside in your city , nor set

foot on Enlil's earth. I will go down to the Apsu to live with my lord, Ea, and upon

you he will rain down abundance, a profusion of fowl, myriad fishes. He will bring to

you a harvest of wealth, in the morning he will let loaves of bread shower down, and

in the evening a rain of wheat!"' Just as dawn began to glow the land assembled

around me- the carpenter carried his hatchet, the reed worker carried his (flattening)

stone, ... the men ...

The child carried the pitch, the weak brought whatever else was needed. On the fifth

day I laid out her exterior. It was a field in area, its walls were each 10 times 12

cubits in height, the sides of its top were of equal length, 10 times It cubits each. I

laid out its (interior) structure and drew a picture of it . I provided it with six decks,

thus dividing it into seven (levels). The inside of it I divided into nine

(compartments). I drove plugs (to keep out) water in its middle part. I saw to the

punting poles and laid in what was necessary. Three times 3,600 (units) of raw

bitumen I poured into the bitumen kiln, three times 3,600 (units of) pitch ...into it,

there were three times 3,600 porters of casks who carried (vegetable) oil, apart from

the 3,600 (units of) oil which they consumed and two times 3,600 (units of) oil which

the boatman stored away. I butchered oxen for the meat , and day upon day I

slaughtered sheep.

I gave the workmen ale, beer, oil, and wine, as if it were river water, so they could

make a party like the New Year's Festival. ... and I set my hand to the oiling . The

boat was finished by sunset. The launching was very difficult. They had to keep

carrying a runway of poles front to back, until two-thirds of it had gone into the water

. Whatever I had I loaded on it: whatever silver I had I loaded on it, whatever gold I

had I loaded on it. All the living beings that I had I loaded on it, I had all my kith and

kin go up into the boat, all the beasts and animals of the field and the craftsmen I had

go up.

Shamash had set a stated time: 'In the morning I will let loaves of bread shower

down, and in the evening a rain of wheat! Go inside the boat, seal the entry!' That

stated time had arrived. In the morning he let loaves of bread shower down, and in

the evening a rain of wheat. I watched the appearance of the weather-- the weather

was frightful to behold! I went into the boat and sealed the entry. For the caulking of

the boat, to Puzuramurri, the boatman, I gave the palace together with its contents.

Just as dawn began to glow there arose from the horizon a black cloud. Adad

rumbled inside of it, before him went Shullat and Hanish, heralds going over

mountain and land. Erragal pulled out the mooring poles, forth went Ninurta and

made the dikes overflow. The Anunnaki lifted up the torches, setting the land ablaze

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with their flare. Stunned shock over Adad's deeds overtook the heavens, and turned

to blackness all that had been light. The... land shattered like a... pot. All day long the

South Wind blew ..., blowing fast, submerging the mountain in water, overwhelming

the people like an attack. No one could see his fellow, they could not recognize each

other in the torrent. The gods were frightened by the Flood, and retreated, ascending

to the heaven of Anu. The gods were cowering like dogs, crouching by the outer

wall. Ishtar shrieked like a woman in childbirth, the sweet-voiced Mistress of the

Gods wailed: 'The olden days have alas turned to clay, because I said evil things in

the Assembly of the Gods! How could I say evil things in the Assembly of the Gods,

ordering a catastrophe to destroy my people!! No sooner have I given birth to my

dear people than they fill the sea like so many fish!' The gods--those of the

Anunnaki--were weeping with her, the gods humbly sat weeping, sobbing with grief ,

their lips burning, parched with thirst. Six days and seven nights came the wind and

flood, the storm flattening the land. When the seventh day arrived, the storm was

pounding, the flood was a war--struggling with itself like a woman writhing (in

labor).

The sea calmed, fell still, the whirlwind (and) flood stopped up. I looked around all

day long--quiet had set in and all the human beings had turned to clay! The terrain

was as flat as a roof. I opened a vent and fresh air (daylight!) fell upon the side of my

nose.

I fell to my knees and sat weeping, tears streaming down the side of my nose. I

looked around for coastlines in the expanse of the sea, and at twelve leagues there

emerged a region (of land). On Mt. Nimush the boat lodged firm, Mt. Nimush held

the boat, allowing no sway. One day and a second Mt. Nimush held the boat,

allowing no sway. A third day, a fourth, Mt. Nimush held the boat, allowing no sway.

A fifth day, a sixth, Mt. Nimush held the boat, allowing no sway.

When a seventh day arrived I sent forth a dove and released it. The dove went off,

but came back to me; no perch was visible so it circled back to me. I sent forth a

swallow and released it. The swallow went off, but came back to me; no perch was

visible so it circled back to me. I sent forth a raven and released it. The raven went

off, and saw the waters slither back. It eats, it scratches, it bobs, but does not circle

back to me. Then I sent out everything in all directions and sacrificed (a sheep).

I offered incense in front of the mountain-ziggurat. Seven and seven cult vessels I put

in place, and (into the fire) underneath (or: into their bowls) I poured reeds, cedar,

and myrtle. The gods smelled the savor, the gods smelled the sweet savor, and

collected like flies over a (sheep) sacrifice. Just then Beletili arrived. She lifted up the

large flies (beads) which Anu had made for his enjoyment : 'You gods, as surely as I

shall not forget this lapis lazuli around my neck, may I be mindful of these days, and

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never forget them! The gods may come to the incense offering, but Enlil may not

come to the incense offering, because without considering he brought about the

Flood and consigned my people to annihilation.'

Just then Enlil arrived. He saw the boat and became furious, he was filled with rage

at the Igigi gods: 'Where did a living being escape? No man was to survive the

annihilation!' Ninurta spoke to Valiant Enlil, saying: 'Who else but Ea could devise

such a thing? It is Ea who knows every machination!' La spoke to Valiant Enlil,

saying: 'It is yours, O Valiant One, who is the Sage of the Gods. How, how could you

bring about a Flood without consideration Charge the violation to the violator, charge

the offense to the offender, but be compassionate lest (mankind) be cut off, be patient

lest they be killed. Instead of your bringing on the Flood, would that a lion had

appeared to diminish the people! Instead of your bringing on the Flood, would that a

wolf had appeared to diminish the people! Instead of your bringing on the Flood,

would that famine had occurred to slay the land! Instead of your bringing on the

Flood, would that (Pestilent) Erra had appeared to ravage the land! It was not I who

revealed the secret of the Great Gods, I (only) made a dream appear to Atrahasis, and

(thus) he heard the secret of the gods. Now then! The deliberation should be about

him!' Enlil went up inside the boat and, grasping my hand, made me go up. He had

my wife go up and kneel by my side. He touched our forehead and, standing between

us, he blessed us: 'Previously Utanapishtim was a human being. But now let

Utanapishtim and his wife become like us, the gods!

Let Utanapishtim reside far away, at the Mouth of the Rivers.' They took us far away

and settled us at the Mouth of the Rivers." "Now then, who will convene the gods on

your behalf, that you may find the life that you are seeking! Wait! You must not lie

down for six days and seven nights." soon as he sat down (with his head) between his

legs sleep, like a fog, blew upon him. Utanapishtim said to his wife: "Look there!

The man, the youth who wanted (eternal) life! Sleep, like a fog, blew over him." his

wife said to Utanapishtim the Faraway: "Touch him, let the man awaken. Let him

return safely by the way he came. Let him return to his land by the gate through

which he left." Utanapishtim said to his wife: "Mankind is deceptive, and will

deceive you. Come, bake loaves for him and keep setting them by his head and draw

on the wall each day that he lay down." She baked his loaves and placed them by his

head and marked on the wall the day that he lay down. The first loaf was dessicated,

the second stale, the third moist , the fourth turned white, its ..., the fifth sprouted

gray (mold), the sixth is still fresh. the seventh--suddenly he touched him and the

man awoke. Gilgamesh said to Utanapishtim: "The very moment sleep was pouring

over me you touched me and alerted me!" Utanapishtim spoke to Gilgamesh, saying:

"Look over here, Gilgamesh, count your loaves! You should be aware of what is

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marked on the wall! Your first loaf is dessicated, the second stale, the third moist,

your fourth turned white, the fifth sprouted gray (mold), the sixth is still fresh.

The seventh--at that instant you awoke!" Gilgamesh said to Utanapishtim the

Faraway: "O woe! What shall I do, Utanapishtim, where shall I go! The Snatcher has

taken hold of my flesh, in my bedroom Death dwells, and wherever I set foot there

too is Death!" Home Empty-Handed Utanapishtim said to Urshanabi, the ferryman:

"May the harbor reject you, may the ferry landing reject you! May you who used to

walk its shores be denied its shores! The man in front of whom you walk, matted hair

chains his body, animal skins have ruined his beautiful skin.

Take him away, Urshanabi, bring him to the washing place. Let him wash his matted

hair in water like ellu. Let him cast away his animal skin and have the sea carry it off,

let his body be moistened with fine oil, let the wrap around his head be made new, let

him wear royal robes worthy of him! Until he goes off to his city, until he sets off on

his way, let his royal robe not become spotted, let it be perfectly new!" Urshanabi

took him away and brought him to the washing place. He washed his matted hair

with water like ellu. He cast off his animal skin and the sea carried it oh. He

moistened his body with fine oil, and made a new wrap for his head. He put on a

royal robe worthy of him. Until he went away to his city, until he set off on his way,

his royal robe remained unspotted, it was perfectly clean. Gilgamesh and Urshanabi

bearded the boat, they cast off the magillu-boat, and sailed away. The wife of

Utanapishtim the Faraway said to him: "Gilgamesh came here exhausted and worn

out. What can you give him so that he can return to his land (with honor) !"

Then Gilgamesh raised a punting pole and drew the boat to shore. Utanapishtim

spoke to Gilgamesh, saying: "Gilgamesh, you came here exhausted and worn out.

What can I give you so you can return to your land? I will disclose to you a thing that

is hidden, Gilgamesh, a... I will tell you. There is a plant... like a boxthorn, whose

thorns will prick your hand like a rose. If your hands reach that plant you will

become a young man again." Hearing this, Gilgamesh opened a conduit (to the Apsu)

and attached heavy stones to his feet. They dragged him down, to the Apsu they

pulled him. He took the plant, though it pricked his hand, and cut the heavy stones

from his feet, letting the waves throw him onto its shores. Gilgamesh spoke to

Urshanabi, the ferryman, saying: "Urshanabi, this plant is a plant against decay by

which a man can attain his survival . I will bring it to Uruk-Haven, and have an old

man eat the plant to test it. The plant's name is 'The Old Man Becomes a Young

Man.'" Then I will eat it and return to the condition of my youth." At twenty leagues

they broke for some food, at thirty leagues they stopped for the night. Seeing a spring

and how cool its waters were, Gilgamesh went down and was bathing in the water. A

snake smelled the fragrance of the plant, silently came up and carried off the plant.

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While going back it sloughed off its casing.' At that point Gilgamesh sat down,

weeping, his tears streaming over the side of his nose. "Counsel me, O ferryman

Urshanabi! For whom have my arms labored, Urshanabi! For whom has my heart's

blood roiled! I have not secured any good deed for myself, but done a good deed for

the 'lion of the ground'!"

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An Iroquois Legend

In the beginning, the world was not as we know it now. It was a water world

inhabited only by animals and creatures of the air who could survive without land.

Up above, the Sky World was quite different. Human-type beings lived there with

infinite types of plants and animals to enjoy.

In the Sky World, there was a Tree of Life that was very special to the people of the

Sky World. They knew that it grew at the entrance to the world below and forbade

anyone to tamper with the Tree. One woman who was soon to give birth was curious

about the Tree and convinced her brother to uproot the Tree.

Beneath the Tree was a great hole. The woman peered from the edge into the hole

and suddenly fell off the edge. As she was falling she grasped at the edge and

clutched in her hand some of the earth from the Sky World. As she fell, the birds of

the world below were disturbed and alerted to her distress. The birds responded and

gathered a great many of their kind to break her fall and cradle her to the back of a

great sea turtle. The creatures of the water believed that she needed land to live on, so

they set about to collect some for her. They dove to the great depths of the world's

oceans to gather earth to make her a place to live. Many of the animals tried to gather

the earth from the ocean floor, only the muskrat was successful. With only a small bit

of earth brought onto turtle's back from his small paws, Turtle Island began to grow.

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Prometheus and Pandora

Pandora's Box, as told by Thomas Bulfinch

Chapter II. Prometheus and Pandora.

The creation of the world is a problem naturally fitted to excite the liveliest interest

of man, its inhabitant. The ancient pagans, not having the information on the subject

which we derive from the pages of Scripture, had their own way of telling the story,

which is as follows:

Before earth and sea and heaven were created, all things wore one aspect, to which

we give the name of Chaos- a confused and shapeless mass, nothing but dead weight,

in which, however, slumbered the seeds of things. Earth, sea, and air were all mixed

up together; so the earth was not solid, the sea was not fluid, and the air was not

transparent. God and Nature at last interposed, and put an end to this discord,

separating earth from sea, and heaven from both. The fiery part, being the lightest,

sprang up, and formed the skies; the air was next in weight and place. The earth,

being heavier, sank below; and the water took the lowest place, and buoyed up the

earth.

Here some god- it is not known which- gave his good offices in arranging and

disposing the earth. He appointed rivers and bays their places, raised mountains,

scooped out valleys, distributed woods, fountains, fertile fields. and stony plains. The

air being cleared, the stars began to appear, fishes took possession of the sea, birds of

the air, and four-footed beasts of the land.

But a nobler animal was wanted, and Man was made. It is not known whether the

creator made him of divine materials, or whether in the earth, so lately separated

from heaven, there lurked still some heavenly seeds. Prometheus took some of this

earth, and kneading it up with water, made man in the image of the gods. He gave

him an upright stature, so that while all other animals turn their faces downward, and

look to the earth, he raises his to heaven, and gazes on the stars.

Prometheus was one of the Titans, a gigantic race, who inhabited the earth before the

creation of man. To him and his brother Epimetheus was committed the office of

making man, and providing him and all other animals with the faculties necessary for

their preservation. Epimetheus undertook to do this, and Prometheus was to overlook

his work, when it was done. Epimetheus accordingly proceeded to bestow upon the

different animals the various gifts of courage, strength, swiftness, sagacity; wings to

one, claws to another, a shelly covering to a third, etc. But when man came to be

provided for, who was to be superior to all other animals, Epimetheus had been so

prodigal of his resources that he had nothing left to bestow upon him. In his

perplexity he resorted to his brother Prometheus, who, with the aid of Minerva, went

up to heaven, and lighted his torch at the chariot of the sun. and brought down fire to

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man. With this gift man was more than a match for all other animals. It enabled him

to make weapons wherewith to subdue them; tools with which to cultivate the earth;

to warm his dwelling, so as to be comparatively independent of climate; and finally

to introduce the arts and to coin money, the means of trade and commerce.

Woman was not yet made. The story (absurd enough!) is that Jupiter made her, and

sent her to Prometheus and his brother, to punish them for their presumption in

stealing fire from heaven; and man, for accepting the gift. The first woman was

named Pandora. She was made in heaven, every god contributing something to

perfect her. Venus gave her beauty, Mercury persuasion, Apollo music, etc. Thus

equipped, she was conveyed to earth, and presented to Epimetheus, who gladly

accepted her, though cautioned by his brother to beware of Jupiter and his gifts.

Epimetheus had in his house a jar, in which were kept certain noxious articles for

which, in fitting man for his new abode, he had had no occasion. Pandora was seized

with an eager curiosity to know what this jar contained; and one day she slipped off

the cover and looked in. Forthwith there escaped a multitude of plagues for hapless

man,- such as gout, rheumatism, and colic for his body, and envy, spite, and revenge

for his mind,- and scattered themselves far and wide. Pandora hastened to replace the

lid! but, alas! the whole contents of the jar had escaped, one thing only excepted,

which lay at the bottom, and that was hope. So we see at this day, whatever evils are

abroad, hope never entirely leaves us; and while we have that, no amount of other ills

can make us completely wretched.

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The Popol Vuh

The Popol Vuh is the creation story of the Maya. Below is one part of this story that

recounts the first attempts of the creator, Heart of Sky to make humans. The story

goes on to explain that the final attempt that resulted in the "True people" was

accomplished by constructing people with maize. This is a very reasonable

explanation since, in essence, it was the cultivation of maize that gave the early Maya

culture the means to change from hunters gatherers to their highly advanced

civilization.

THE CREATION

Here is the story of the beginning,

when there was not one bird,

not one fish,

not one mountain.

Here is the sky, all alone.

Here is the sea, all alone.

There is nothing more

–no sound, no movement.

Only the sky and the sea.

Only Heart-of-Sky, alone.

And these are his names:

Maker and Modeler,

Kukulkan,

and Hurricane.

But there is no one to speak his names.

There is no one to praise his glory.

There is no one to nurture his greatness.

And so Heart-of-Sky thinks,

"Who is there to speak my name?

Who is there to praise me?

How shall I make it dawn?"

Heart-of-Sky only says the word,

"Earth,"

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and the earth rises,

like a mist from the sea.

He only thinks of it,

and there it is.

He thinks of mountains,

and great mountains come.

He thinks of trees,

and trees grow on the land.

And so Heart-of-Sky says,

"Our work is going well."

Now Heart-of-Sky plans the creatures of the forest

-birds, deer, jaguars and snakes.

And each is given his home.

"You the deer, sleep here along the rivers.

You the birds, your nests are in the trees.

Multiply and scatter," he tells them.

Then Heart-of-Sky says to the animals,

"Speak, pray to us."

But the creatures can only squawk.

The creatures only howl.

They do not speak like humans.

They do not praise Heart-of-Sky

And so the animals are humbled.

They will serve those who will worship Heart-of-Sky.

And Heart-of-Sky tries again.

Tries to make a giver of respect.

Tries to make a giver of praise.

Here is the new creation,

made of mud and earth.

It doesn't look very good.

It keeps crumbing and softening.

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It looks lopsided and twisted.

It only speaks nonsense.

It cannot multiply.

So Heart-of-Sky lets it dissolved away.

Now Heart-of-Sky plans again.

Our Grandfather and Our Grandmother are summoned.

They are the most wise spirits.

"Determine if we should carve people from wood,"

commands Heart-of-Sky.

They run their hands over the kernels of corn.

They run their hands over the coral seeds.

"What can we make that will speak and pray?

asks Our Grandfather.

What can we make that will nurture and provide?"

asks Our Grandmother.

They count the days,

the lots of four,

seeking an answer for Heart-of-Sky.

Now they give the answer,

"It is good to make your people with wood.

They will speak your name.

They will walk about and multiply."

"So it is," replies Heart-of-Sky.

And as the words are spoken, it is done.

The doll-people are made

with faces carved from wood.

But they have no blood, no sweat.

They have nothing in their minds.

They have no respect for Heart-of-Sky.

They are just walking about,

But they accomplish nothing.

"This is not what I had in mind,"

says Heart-of-Sky.

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And so it is decided to destroy

these wooden people.

Hurricane makes a great rain.

It rains all day and rains all night.

There is a terrible flood

and the earth is blackened.

The creatures of the forest

come into the homes of the doll-people.

"You have chased us from our homes

so now we will take yours,"

they growl.

And their dogs and turkeys cry out,

"You have abused us

so now we shall eat you!"

Even their pots and grinding stones speak,

"We will burn you and pound on you

just as you have done to us!"

The wooden people scatter into the forest.

Their faces are crushed,

and they are turned into monkeys.

And this is why monkeys look like humans.

They are what is left of what came before,

an experiment in human design.

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The Necklace by Guy de Maupassant

The girl was one of those pretty and charming young creatures who sometimes are

born, as if by a slip of fate, into a family of clerks. She had no dowry, no

expectations, no way of being known, understood, loved, married by any rich and

distinguished man; so she let herself be married to a little clerk of the Ministry of

Public Instruction.

She dressed plainly because she could not dress well, but she was unhappy as if she

had really fallen from a higher station; since with women there is neither caste nor

rank, for beauty, grace and charm take the place of family and birth. Natural

ingenuity, instinct for what is elegant, a supple mind are their sole hierarchy, and

often make of women of the people the equals of the very greatest ladies.

Mathilde suffered ceaselessly, feeling herself born to enjoy all delicacies and all

luxuries. She was distressed at the poverty of her dwelling, at the bareness of the

walls, at the shabby chairs, the ugliness of the curtains. All those things, of which

another woman of her rank would never even have been conscious, tortured her and

made her angry. The sight of the little Breton peasant who did her humble housework

aroused in her despairing regrets and bewildering dreams. She thought of silent

antechambers hung with Oriental tapestry, illumined by tall bronze candelabra, and

of two great footmen in knee breeches who sleep in the big armchairs, made drowsy

by the oppressive heat of the stove. She thought of long reception halls hung with

ancient silk, of the dainty cabinets containing priceless curiosities and of the little

coquettish perfumed reception rooms made for chatting at five o'clock with intimate

friends, with men famous and sought after, whom all women envy and whose

attention they all desire.

When she sat down to dinner, before the round table covered with a tablecloth in use

three days, opposite her husband, who uncovered the soup tureen and declared with a

delighted air, "Ah, the good soup! I don't know anything better than that," she

thought of dainty dinners, of shining silverware, of tapestry that peopled the walls

with ancient personages and with strange birds flying in the midst of a fairy forest;

and she thought of delicious dishes served on marvelous plates and of the whispered

gallantries to which you listen with a sphinxlike smile while you are eating the pink

meat of a trout or the wings of a quail.

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She had no gowns, no jewels, nothing. And she loved nothing but that. She felt made

for that. She would have liked so much to please, to be envied, to be charming, to be

sought after.

She had a friend, a former schoolmate at the convent, who was rich, and whom she

did not like to go to see any more because she felt so sad when she came home.

But one evening her husband reached home with a triumphant air and holding a large

envelope in his hand.

"There," said he, "there is something for you."

She tore the paper quickly and drew out a printed card which bore these words:

The Minister of Public Instruction and Madame Georges Ramponneau request the

honor of M. and Madame Loisel's company at the palace of

the Ministry on Monday evening, January 18th.

Instead of being delighted, as her husband had hoped, she threw the invitation on the

table crossly, muttering: "What do you wish me to do with that?"

"Why, my dear, I thought you would be glad. You never go out, and this is such a

fine opportunity. I had great trouble to get it. Every one wants to go; it is very select,

and they are not giving many invitations to clerks. The whole official world will be

there."

She looked at him with an irritated glance and said impatiently: "And what do you

wish me to put on my back?"

He had not thought of that. He stammered: "Why, the gown you go to the theatre in.

It looks very well to me."

He stopped, distracted, seeing that his wife was weeping. Two great tears ran slowly

from the corners of her eyes toward the corners of her mouth.

"What's the matter? What's the matter?" he answered.

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By a violent effort she conquered her grief and replied in a calm voice, while she

wiped her wet cheeks: "Nothing. Only I have no gown, and, therefore, I can't go to

this ball. Give your card to some colleague whose wife is better equipped than I am."

He was in despair. He resumed:

"Come, let us see, Mathilde. How much would it cost, a suitable gown, which you

could use on other occasions--something very simple?"

She reflected several seconds, making her calculations and wondering also what sum

she could ask without drawing on herself an immediate refusal and a frightened

exclamation from the economical clerk.

Finally she replied hesitating: "I don't know exactly, but I think I could manage it

with four hundred francs."

He grew a little pale, because he was laying aside just that amount to buy a gun and

treat himself to a little shooting next summer on the plain of Nanterre, with several

friends who went to shoot larks there of a Sunday.

But he said: "Very well. I will give you four hundred francs. And try to have a pretty

gown."

The day of the ball drew near and Madame Loisel seemed sad, uneasy, anxious. Her

frock was ready, however. Her husband said to her one evening:

"What is the matter? Come, you have seemed very queer these last three days."

And she answered: "It annoys me not to have a single piece of jewelry, not a single

ornament, nothing to put on. I shall look poverty-stricken. I would almost rather not

go at all."

"You might wear natural flowers," said her husband. "They're very stylish at this

time of year. For ten francs you can get two or three magnificent roses."

She was not convinced.

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"No; there's nothing more humiliating than to look poor among other women who are

rich."

"How stupid you are!" her husband cried. "Go look up your friend, Madame

Forestier, and ask her to lend you some jewels. You're intimate enough with her to do

that."

She uttered a cry of joy:

"True! I never thought of it."

The next day she went to her friend and told her of her distress.

Madame Forestier went to a wardrobe with a mirror, took out a large jewel box,

brought it back, opened it and said to Madame Loisel:

"Choose, my dear."

She saw first some bracelets, then a pearl necklace, then a Venetian gold cross set

with precious stones, of admirable workmanship. She tried on the ornaments before

the mirror, hesitated and could not make up her mind to part with them, to give them

back. She kept asking:

"Haven't you any more?"

"Why, yes. Look further; I don't know what you like."

Suddenly she discovered, in a black satin box, a superb diamond necklace, and her

heart throbbed with an immoderate desire. Her hands trembled as she took it. She

fastened it round her throat, outside her high-necked waist, and was lost in ecstasy at

her reflection in the mirror.

Then she asked, hesitating, filled with anxious doubt:

"Will you lend me this, only this?"

"Why, yes, certainly."

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She threw her arms round her friend's neck, kissed her passionately, then fled with

her treasure.

The night of the ball arrived. Madame Loisel was a great success. She was prettier

than any other woman present, elegant, graceful, smiling and wild with joy. All the

men looked at her, asked her name, sought to be introduced. All the attaches of the

Cabinet wished to waltz with her. She was remarked by the minister himself.

She danced with rapture, with passion, intoxicated by pleasure, forgetting all in the

triumph of her beauty, in the glory of her success, in a sort of cloud of happiness

comprised of all this homage, admiration, these awakened desires and of that sense of

triumph which is so sweet to woman's heart.

She left the ball about four o'clock in the morning. Her husband had been sleeping

since midnight in a little deserted anteroom with three other gentlemen whose wives

were enjoying the ball.

He threw over her shoulders the wraps he had brought, the modest wraps of common

life, the poverty of which contrasted with the elegance of the ball dress. She felt this

and wished to escape so as not to be remarked by the other women, who were

enveloping themselves in costly furs.

Loisel held her back, saying: "Wait a bit. You will catch cold outside. I will call a

cab."

But she did not listen to him and rapidly descended the stairs. When they reached the

street they could not find a carriage and began to look for one, shouting after the

cabmen passing at a distance.

They went toward the Seine in despair, shivering with cold. At last they found on the

quay one of those ancient night cabs which, as though they were ashamed to show

their shabbiness during the day, are never seen round Paris until after dark.

It took them to their dwelling in the Rue des Martyrs, and sadly they mounted the

stairs to their flat. All was ended for her. As to him, he reflected that he must be at

the ministry at ten o'clock that morning.

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She removed her wraps before the glass so as to see herself once more in all her

glory. But suddenly she uttered a cry. She no longer had the necklace around her

neck!

"What is the matter with you?" demanded her husband, already half undressed.

She turned distractedly toward him.

"I have--I have--I've lost Madame Forestier's necklace," she cried.

He stood up, bewildered.

"What!--how? Impossible!"

They looked among the folds of her skirt, of her cloak, in her pockets, everywhere,

but did not find it.

"You're sure you had it on when you left the ball?" he asked.

"Yes, I felt it in the vestibule of the minister's house."

"But if you had lost it in the street we should have heard it fall. It must be in the cab."

"Yes, probably. Did you take his number?"

"No. And you--didn't you notice it?"

"No."

They looked, thunderstruck, at each other. At last Loisel put on his clothes.

"I shall go back on foot," said he, "over the whole route, to see whether I can find it."

He went out. She sat waiting on a chair in her ball dress, without strength to go to

bed, overwhelmed, without any fire, without a thought.

Her husband returned about seven o'clock. He had found nothing.

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He went to police headquarters, to the newspaper offices to offer a reward; he went

to the cab companies--everywhere, in fact, whither he was urged by the least spark of

hope.

She waited all day, in the same condition of mad fear before this terrible calamity.

Loisel returned at night with a hollow, pale face. He had discovered nothing.

"You must write to your friend," said he, "that you have broken the clasp of her

necklace and that you are having it mended. That will give us time to turn round."

She wrote at his dictation.

At the end of a week they had lost all hope. Loisel, who had aged five years,

declared:

"We must consider how to replace that ornament."

The next day they took the box that had contained it and went to the jeweler whose

name was found within. He consulted his books.

"It was not I, madame, who sold that necklace; I must simply have furnished the

case."

Then they went from jeweler to jeweler, searching for a necklace like the other,

trying to recall it, both sick with chagrin and grief.

They found, in a shop at the Palais Royal, a string of diamonds that seemed to them

exactly like the one they had lost. It was worth forty thousand francs. They could

have it for thirty-six.

So they begged the jeweler not to sell it for three days yet. And they made a bargain

that he should buy it back for thirty-four thousand francs, in case they should find the

lost necklace before the end of February.

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Loisel possessed eighteen thousand francs which his father had left him. He would

borrow the rest.

He did borrow, asking a thousand francs of one, five hundred of another, five louis

here, three louis there. He gave notes, took up ruinous obligations, dealt with usurers

and all the race of lenders. He compromised all the rest of his life, risked signing a

note without even knowing whether he could meet it; and, frightened by the trouble

yet to come, by the black misery that was about to fall upon him, by the prospect of

all the physical privations and moral tortures that he was to suffer, he went to get the

new necklace, laying upon the jeweler's counter thirty-six thousand francs.

When Madame Loisel took back the necklace Madame Forestier said to her with a

chilly manner:

"You should have returned it sooner; I might have needed it."

She did not open the case, as her friend had so much feared. If she had detected the

substitution, what would she have thought, what would she have said? Would she not

have taken Madame Loisel for a thief?

Thereafter Madame Loisel knew the horrible existence of the needy. She bore her

part, however, with sudden heroism. That dreadful debt must be paid. She would pay

it. They dismissed their servant; they changed their lodgings; they rented a garret

under the roof.

She came to know what heavy housework meant and the odious cares of the kitchen.

She washed the dishes, using her dainty fingers and rosy nails on greasy pots and

pans. She washed the soiled linen, the shirts and the dishcloths, which she dried upon

a line; she carried the slops down to the street every morning and carried up the

water, stopping for breath at every landing. And dressed like a woman of the people,

she went to the fruiterer, the grocer, the butcher, a basket on her arm, bargaining,

meeting with impertinence, defending her miserable money, sou by sou.

Every month they had to meet some notes, renew others, obtain more time.

Her husband worked evenings, making up a tradesman's accounts, and late at night

he often copied manuscript for five sous a page.

This life lasted ten years.

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At the end of ten years they had paid everything, everything, with the rates of usury

and the accumulations of the compound interest.

Madame Loisel looked old now. She had become the woman of impoverished

households--strong and hard and rough. With frowsy hair, skirts askew and red

hands, she talked loud while washing the floor with great swishes of water. But

sometimes, when her husband was at the office, she sat down near the window and

she thought of that gay evening of long ago, of that ball where she had been so

beautiful and so admired.

What would have happened if she had not lost that necklace? Who knows? who

knows? How strange and changeful is life! How small a thing is needed to make or

ruin us!

But one Sunday, having gone to take a walk in the Champs Elysees to refresh herself

after the labors of the week, she suddenly perceived a woman who was leading a

child. It was Madame Forestier, still young, still beautiful, still charming.

Madame Loisel felt moved. Should she speak to her? Yes, certainly. And now that

she had paid, she would tell her all about it. Why not?

She went up.

"Good-day, Jeanne."

The other, astonished to be familiarly addressed by this plain good-wife, did not

recognize her at all and stammered:

"But--madame!--I do not know--You must have mistaken."

"No. I am Mathilde Loisel."

Her friend uttered a cry.

"Oh, my poor Mathilde! How you are changed!"

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0

"Yes, I have had a pretty hard life, since I last saw you, and great poverty--and that

because of you!"

"Of me! How so?"

"Do you remember that diamond necklace you lent me to wear at the ministerial

ball?"

"Yes. Well?"

"Well, I lost it."

"What do you mean? You brought it back."

"I brought you back another exactly like it. And it has taken us ten years to pay for it.

You can understand that it was not easy for us, for us who had nothing. At last it is

ended, and I am very glad."

Madame Forestier had stopped. "You say that you bought a necklace of diamonds to

replace mine?"

"Yes. You never noticed it, then! They were very similar."

And she smiled with a joy that was at once proud and ingenuous.

Madame Forestier, deeply moved, took her hands.

"Oh, my poor Mathilde! Why, my necklace was paste! It was worth at most only five

hundred francs!"

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1

The Yellow Wallpaper (1899) by Charlotte Perkins Gilman,

It is very seldom that mere ordinary people like John and myself secure ancestral

halls for the summer.

A colonial mansion, a hereditary estate, I would say a haunted house, and reach

the height of romantic felicity--but that would be asking too much of fate!

Still I will proudly declare that there is something queer about it.

Else, why should it be let so cheaply? And why have stood so long untenanted?

John laughs at me, of course, but one expects that in marriage.

John is practical in the extreme. He has no patience with faith, an intense horror of

superstition, and he scoffs openly at any talk of things not to be felt and seen and put

down in figures.

John is a physician, and perhaps--(I would not say it to a living soul, of course,

but this is dead paper and a great relief to my mind)--perhaps that is one reason I do

not get well faster.

You see he does not believe I am sick!

And what can one do?

If a physician of high standing, and one's own husband, assures friends and

relatives that there is really nothing the matter with one but temporary nervous

depression--a slight hysterical tendency-- what is one to do?

My brother is also a physician, and also of high standing, and he says the same

thing.

So I take phosphates or phosphites--whichever it is, and tonics, and journeys, and

air, and exercise, and am absolutely forbidden to "work" until I am well again.

Personally, I disagree with their ideas.

Personally, I believe that congenial work, with excitement and change, would do

me good.

But what is one to do?

I did write for a while in spite of them; but it does exhaust me a good deal--having

to be so sly about it, or else meet with heavy opposition.

I sometimes fancy that in my condition if I had less opposition and more society

and stimulus--but John says the very worst thing I can do is to think about my

condition, and I confess it always makes me feel bad.

So I will let it alone and talk about the house.

The most beautiful place! It is quite alone standing well back from the road, quite

three miles from the village. It makes me think of English places that you read about,

for there are hedges and walls and gates that lock, and lots of separate little houses

for the gardeners and people.

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2

There is a delicious garden! I never saw such a garden--large and shady, full of

box-bordered paths, and lined with long grape-covered arbors with seats under them.

There were greenhouses, too, but they are all broken now.

There was some legal trouble, I believe, something about the heirs and coheirs;

anyhow, the place has been empty for years.

That spoils my ghostliness, I am afraid, but I don't care--there is something

strange about the house--I can feel it.

I even said so to John one moonlight evening but he said what I felt was a

draught, and shut the window.

I get unreasonably angry with John sometimes I'm sure I never used to be so

sensitive. I think it is due to this nervous condition.

But John says if I feel so, I shall neglect proper self-control; so I take pains to

control myself-- before him, at least, and that makes me very tired.

I don't like our room a bit. I wanted one downstairs that opened on the piazza and

had roses all over the window, and such pretty old-fashioned chintz hangings! but

John would not hear of it.

He said there was only one window and not room for two beds, and no near room

for him if he took another.

He is very careful and loving, and hardly lets me stir without special direction.

I have a schedule prescription for each hour in the day; he takes all care from me,

and so I feel basely ungrateful not to value it more.

He said we came here solely on my account, that I was to have perfect rest and all

the air I could get. "Your exercise depends on your strength, my dear," said he, "and

your food somewhat on your appetite; but air you can absorb all the time. ' So we

took the nursery at the top of the house.

It is a big, airy room, the whole floor nearly, with windows that look all ways, and

air and sunshine galore. It was nursery first and then playroom and gymnasium, I

should judge; for the windows are barred for little children, and there are rings and

things in the walls.

The paint and paper look as if a boys' school had used it. It is stripped off--the

paper in great patches all around the head of my bed, about as far as I can reach, and

in a great place on the other side of the room low down. I never saw a worse paper in

my life.

One of those sprawling flamboyant patterns committing every artistic sin.

It is dull enough to confuse the eye in following, pronounced enough to constantly

irritate and provoke study, and when you follow the lame uncertain curves for a little

distance they suddenly commit suicide--plunge off at outrageous angles, destroy

themselves in unheard of contradictions.

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3

The color is repellent, almost revolting; a smouldering unclean yellow, strangely

faded by the slow-turning sunlight.

It is a dull yet lurid orange in some places, a sickly sulphur tint in others.

No wonder the children hated it! I should hate it myself if I had to live in this

room long.

There comes John, and I must put this away,--he hates to have me write a word.

----------

We have been here two weeks, and I haven't felt like writing before, since that

first day.

I am sitting by the window now, up in this atrocious nursery, and there is nothing

to hinder my writing as much as I please, save lack of strength.

John is away all day, and even some nights when his cases are serious.

I am glad my case is not serious!

But these nervous troubles are dreadfully depressing.

John does not know how much I really suffer. He knows there is no reason to

suffer, and that satisfies him.

Of course it is only nervousness. It does weigh on me so not to do my duty in any

way!

I meant to be such a help to John, such a real rest and comfort, and here I am a

comparative burden already!

Nobody would believe what an effort it is to do what little I am able,--to dress and

entertain, and order things.

It is fortunate Mary is so good with the baby. Such a dear baby!

And yet I cannot be with him, it makes me so nervous.

I suppose John never was nervous in his life. He laughs at me so about this wall-

paper!

At first he meant to repaper the room, but afterwards he said that I was letting it

get the better of me, and that nothing was worse for a nervous patient than to give

way to such fancies.

He said that after the wall-paper was changed it would be the heavy bedstead, and

then the barred windows, and then that gate at the head of the stairs, and so on.

"You know the place is doing you good," he said, "and really, dear, I don't care to

renovate the house just for a three months' rental."

"Then do let us go downstairs," I said, "there are such pretty rooms there."

Then he took me in his arms and called me a blessed little goose, and said he

would go down to the cellar, if I wished, and have it whitewashed into the bargain.

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4

But he is right enough about the beds and windows and things.

It is an airy and comfortable room as any one need wish, and, of course, I would

not be so silly as to make him uncomfortable just for a whim.

I'm really getting quite fond of the big room, all but that horrid paper.

Out of one window I can see the garden, those mysterious deepshaded arbors, the

riotous old-fashioned flowers, and bushes and gnarly trees.

Out of another I get a lovely view of the bay and a little private wharf belonging

to the estate. There is a beautiful shaded lane that runs down there from the house. I

always fancy I see people walking in these numerous paths and arbors, but John has

cautioned me not to give way to fancy in the least. He says that with my imaginative

power and habit of story-making, a nervous weakness like mine is sure to lead to all

manner of excited fancies, and that I ought to use my will and good sense to check

the tendency. So I try.

I think sometimes that if I were only well enough to write a little it would relieve

the press of ideas and rest me.

But I find I get pretty tired when I try.

It is so discouraging not to have any advice and companionship about my work.

When I get really well, John says we will ask Cousin Henry and Julia down for a

long visit; but he says he would as soon put fireworks in my pillow-case as to let me

have those stimulating people about now.

I wish I could get well faster.

But I must not think about that. This paper looks to me as if it knew what a

vicious influence it had!

There is a recurrent spot where the pattern lolls like a broken neck and two

bulbous eyes stare at you upside down.

I get positively angry with the impertinence of it and the everlastingness. Up and

down and sideways they crawl, and those absurd, unblinking eyes are everywhere

There is one place where two breaths didn't match, and the eyes go all up and down

the line, one a little higher than the other.

I never saw so much expression in an inanimate thing before, and we all know

how much expression they have! I used to lie awake as a child and get more

entertainment and terror out of blank walls and plain furniture than most children

could find in a toy-store.

I remember what a kindly wink the knobs of our big, old bureau used to have, and

there was one chair that always seemed like a strong friend.

I used to feel that if any of the other things looked too fierce I could always hop

into that chair and be safe.

The furniture in this room is no worse than inharmonious, however, for we had to

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bring it all from downstairs. I suppose when this was used as a playroom they had to

take the nursery things out, and no wonder! I never saw such ravages as the children

have made here.

The wall-paper, as I said before, is torn off in spots, and it sticketh closer than a

brother--they must have had perseverance as well as hatred.

Then the floor is scratched and gouged and splintered, the plaster itself is dug out

here and there, and this great heavy bed which is all we found in the room, looks as if

it had been through the wars.

But I don't mind it a bit--only the paper.

There comes John's sister. Such a dear girl as she is, and so careful of me! I must

not let her find me writing.

She is a perfect and enthusiastic housekeeper, and hopes for no better profession. I

verily believe she thinks it is the writing which made me sick!

But I can write when she is out, and see her a long way off from these windows.

There is one that commands the road, a lovely shaded winding road, and one that

just looks off over the country. A lovely country, too, full of great elms and velvet

meadows.

This wall-paper has a kind of sub-pattern in a, different shade, a particularly

irritating one, for you can only see it in certain lights, and not clearly then.

But in the places where it isn't faded and where the sun is just so--I can see a

strange, provoking, formless sort of figure, that seems to skulk about behind that silly

and conspicuous front design.

There's sister on the stairs!

----------

Well, the Fourth of July is over! The people are all gone and I am tired out. John

thought it might do me good to see a little company, so we just had mother and

Nellie and the children down for a week.

Of course I didn't do a thing. Jennie sees to everything now.

But it tired me all the same.

John says if I don't pick up faster he shall send me to Weir Mitchell in the fall.

But I don't want to go there at all. I had a friend who was in his hands once, and

she says he is just like John and my brother, only more so!

Besides, it is such an undertaking to go so far.

I don't feel as if it was worth while to turn my hand over for anything, and I'm

getting dreadfully fretful and querulous.

I cry at nothing, and cry most of the time.

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Of course I don't when John is here, or anybody else, but when I am alone.

And I am alone a good deal just now. John is kept in town very often by serious

cases, and Jennie is good and lets me alone when I want her to.

So I walk a little in the garden or down that lovely lane, sit on the porch under the

roses, and lie down up here a good deal.

I'm getting really fond of the room in spite of the wall-paper. Perhaps because of

the wall-paper.

It dwells in my mind so!

I lie here on this great immovable bed--it is nailed down, I believe--and follow

that pattern about by the hour. It is as good as gymnastics, I assure you. I start, we'll

say, at the bottom, down in the corner over there where it has not been touched, and I

determine for the thousandth time that I will follow that pointless pattern to some sort

of a conclusion.

I know a little of the principle of design, and I know this thing was not arranged

on any laws of radiation, or alternation, or repetition, or symmetry, or anything else

that I ever heard of.

It is repeated, of course, by the breadths, but not otherwise.

Looked at in one way each breadth stands alone, the bloated curves and

flourishes--a kind of "debased Romanesque" with delirium tremens--go waddling up

and down in isolated columns of fatuity.

But, on the other hand, they connect diagonally, and the sprawling outlines run off

in great slanting waves of optic horror, like a lot of wallowing seaweeds in full chase.

The whole thing goes horizontally, too, at least it seems so, and I exhaust myself

in trying to distinguish the order of its going in that direction.

They have used a horizontal breadth for a frieze, and that adds wonderfully to the

confusion.

There is one end of the room where it is almost intact, and there, when the

crosslights fade and the low sun shines directly upon it, I can almost fancy radiation

after all,--the interminable grotesques seem to form around a common centre and

rush off in headlong plunges of equal distraction.

It makes me tired to follow it. I will take a nap I guess.

----------

I don't know why I should write this.

I don't want to.

I don't feel able. And I know John would think it absurd. But I must say what I

feel and think in some way--it is such a relief!

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But the effort is getting to be greater than the relief.

Half the time now I am awfully lazy, and lie down ever so much.

John says I mustn't lose my strength, and has me take cod liver oil and lots of

tonics and things, to say nothing of ale and wine and rare meat.

Dear John! He loves me very dearly, and hates to have me sick. I tried to have a

real earnest reasonable talk with him the other day, and tell him how I wish he would

let me go and make a visit to Cousin Henry and Julia.

But he said I wasn't able to go, nor able to stand it after I got there; and I did not

make out a very good case for myself, for I was crying before I had finished .

It is getting to be a great effort for me to think straight. Just this nervous weakness

I suppose.

And dear John gathered me up in his arms, and just carried me upstairs and laid

me on the bed, and sat by me and read to me till it tired my head.

He said I was his darling and his comfort and all he had, and that I must take care

of myself for his sake, and keep well.

He says no one but myself can help me out of it, that I must use my will and self-

control and not let any silly fancies run away with me.

There's one comfort, the baby is well and happy, and does not have to occupy this

nursery with the horrid wall-paper.

If we had not used it, that blessed child would have! What a fortunate escape!

Why, I wouldn't have a child of mine, an impressionable little thing, live in such a

room for worlds.

I never thought of it before, but it is lucky that John kept me here after all, I can

stand it so much easier than a baby, you see.

Of course I never mention it to them any more--I am too wise,--but I keep watch

of it all the same.

There are things in that paper that nobody knows but me, or ever will.

Behind that outside pattern the dim shapes get clearer every day.

It is always the same shape, only very numerous.

And it is like a woman stooping down and creeping about behind that pattern. I

don't like it a bit. I wonder--I begin to think--I wish John would take me away from

here!

----------

It is so hard to talk with John about my case, because he is so wise, and because

he loves me so.

But I tried it last night.

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It was moonlight. The moon shines in all around just as the sun does.

I hate to see it sometimes, it creeps so slowly, and always comes in by one

window or another.

John was asleep and I hated to waken him, so I kept still and watched the

moonlight on that undulating wall-paper till I felt creepy.

The faint figure behind seemed to shake the pattern, just as if she wanted to get

out.

I got up softly and went to feel and see if the paper did move, and when I came

back John was awake.

"What is it, little girl?" he said. "Don't go walking about like that--you'll get cold."

I thought it was a good time to talk, so I told him that I really was not gaining

here, and that I wished he would take me away.

"Why darling!" said he, "our lease will be up in three weeks, and I can't see how

to leave before.

"The repairs are not done at home, and I cannot possibly leave town just now. Of

course if you were in any danger, I could and would, but you really are better, dear,

whether you can see it or not. I am a doctor, dear, and I know. You are gaining flesh

and color, your appetite is better, I feel really much easier about you."

"I don't weigh a bit more," said 1, "nor as much; and my appetite may be better in

the evening when you are here, but it is worse in the morning when you are away!"

"Bless her little heart!" said he with a big hug, "she shall be as sick as she pleases!

But now let's improve the shining hours by going to sleep, and talk about it in the

morning!"

"And you won't go away?" I asked gloomily.

"Why, how can 1, dear? It is only three weeks more and then we will take a nice

little trip of a few days while Jennie is getting the house ready. Really dear you are

better!"

"Better in body perhaps--" I began, and stopped short, for he sat up straight and

looked at me with such a stern, reproachful look that I could not say another word.

"My darling," said he, "I beg of you, for my sake and for our child's sake, as well

as for your own, that you will never for one instant let that idea enter your mind!

There is nothing so dangerous, so fascinating, to a temperament like yours. It is a

false and foolish fancy. Can you not trust me as a physician when I tell you so?"

So of course I said no more on that score, and we went to sleep before long. He

thought I was asleep first, but I wasn't, and lay there for hours trying to decide

whether that front pattern and the back pattern really did move together or separately.

----------

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On a pattern like this, by daylight, there is a lack of sequence, a defiance of law,

that is a constant irritant to a normal mind.

The color is hideous enough, and unreliable enough, and infuriating enough, but

the pattern is torturing.

You think you have mastered it, but just as you get well underway in following, it

turns a back somersault and there you are. It slaps you in the face, knocks you down,

and tramples upon you. It is like a bad dream.

The outside pattern is a florid arabesque, reminding one of a fungus. If you can

imagine a toadstool in joints, an interminable string of toadstools, budding and

sprouting in endless convolutions--why, that is something like it.

That is, sometimes!

There is one marked peculiarity about this paper, a thing nobody seems to notice

but myself, and that is that it changes as the light changes.

When the sun shoots in through the east window--I always watch for that first

long, straight ray--it changes so quickly that I never can quite believe it.

That is why I watch it always.

By moonlight--the moon shines in all night when there is a moon--I wouldn't

know it was the same paper.

At night in any kind of light, in twilight, candlelight, lamplight, and worst of all

by moonlight, it becomes bars! The outside pattern I mean, and the woman behind it

is as plain as can be.

I didn't realize for a long time what the thing was that showed behind, that dim

sub-pattern, but now I am quite sure it is a woman.

By daylight she is subdued, quiet. I fancy it is the pattern that keeps her so still. It

is so puzzling. It keeps me quiet by the hour.

I lie down ever so much now. John says it is good for me, and to sleep all I can.

Indeed he started the habit by making me lie down for an hour after each meal.

It is a very bad habit I am convinced, for you see I don't sleep.

And that cultivates deceit, for I don't tell them I'm awake--O no!

The fact is I am getting a little afraid of John.

He seems very queer sometimes, and even Jennie has an inexplicable look.

It strikes me occasionally, just as a scientific hypothesis,--that perhaps it is the

paper!

I have watched John when he did not know I was looking, and come into the room

suddenly on the most innocent excuses, and I've caught him several times looking at

the paper! And Jennie too. I caught Jennie with her hand on it once.

She didn't know I was in the room, and when I asked her in a quiet, a very quiet

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voice, with the most restrained manner possible, what she was doing with the paper--

she turned around as if she had been caught stealing, and looked quite angry-- asked

me why I should frighten her so!

Then she said that the paper stained everything it touched, that she had found

yellow smooches on all my clothes and John's, and she wished we would be more

careful!

Did not that sound innocent? But I know she was studying that pattern, and I am

determined that nobody shall find it out but myself!

----------

Life is very much more exciting now than it used to be. You see I have something

more to expect, to look forward to, to watch. I really do eat better, and am more quiet

than I was.

John is so pleased to see me improve ! He laughed a little the other day, and said I

seemed to be flourishing in spite of my wall-paper.

I turned it off with a laugh. I had no intention of telling him it was because of the

wall-paper--he would make fun of me. He might even want to take me away.

I don't want to leave now until I have found it out. There is a week more, and I

think that will be enough.

----------

I'm feeling ever so much better! I don't sleep much at night, for it is so interesting

to watch developments; but I sleep a good deal in the daytime.

In the daytime it is tiresome and perplexing.

There are always new shoots on the fungus, and new shades of yellow all over it. I

cannot keep count of them, though I have tried conscientiously.

It is the strangest yellow, that wall-paper! It makes me think of all the yellow

things I ever saw--not beautiful ones like buttercups, but old foul, bad yellow things.

But there is something else about that paper-- the smell! I noticed it the moment

we came into the room, but with so much air and sun it was not bad. Now we have

had a week of fog and rain, and whether the windows are open or not, the smell is

here.

It creeps all over the house.

I find it hovering in the dining-room, skulking in the parlor, hiding in the hall,

lying in wait for me on the stairs.

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It gets into my hair.

Even when I go to ride, if I turn my head suddenly and surprise it--there is that

smell!

Such a peculiar odor, too! I have spent hours in trying to analyze it, to find what it

smelled like.

It is not bad--at first, and very gentle, but quite the subtlest, most enduring odor I

ever met.

In this damp weather it is awful, I wake up in the night and find it hanging over

me.

It used to disturb me at first. I thought seriously of burning the house--to reach the

smell.

But now I am used to it. The only thing I can think of that it is like is the color of

the paper! A yellow smell.

There is a very funny mark on this wall, low down, near the mopboard. A streak

that runs round the room. It goes behind every piece of furniture, except the bed, a

long, straight, even smooch, as if it had been rubbed over and over.

I wonder how it was done and who did it, and what they did it for. Round and

round and round--round and round and round--it makes me dizzy!

----------

I really have discovered something at last.

Through watching so much at night, when it changes so, I have finally found out.

The front pattern does move--and no wonder! The woman behind shakes it!

Sometimes I think there are a great many women behind, and sometimes only

one, and she crawls around fast, and her crawling shakes it all over.

Then in the very bright spots she keeps still, and in the very shady spots she just

takes hold of the bars and shakes them hard.

And she is all the time trying to climb through. But nobody could climb through

that pattern--it strangles so; I think that is why it has so many heads.

They get through, and then the pattern strangles them off and turns them upside

down, and makes their eyes white!

If those heads were covered or taken off it would not be half so bad.

----------

I think that woman gets out in the daytime!

And I'll tell you why--privately--I've seen her!

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I can see her out of every one of my windows!

It is the same woman, I know, for she is always creeping, and most women do not

creep by daylight.

I see her on that long road under the trees, creeping along, and when a carriage

comes she hides under the blackberry vines.

I don't blame her a bit. It must be very humiliating to be caught creeping by

daylight!

I always lock the door when I creep by daylight. I can't do it at night, for I know

John would suspect something at once.

And John is so queer now, that I don't want to irritate him. I wish he would take

another room! Besides, I don't want anybody to get that woman out at night but

myself.

I often wonder if I could see her out of all the windows at once.

But, turn as fast as I can, I can only see out of one at one time.

And though I always see her, she may be able to creep faster than I can turn!

I have watched her sometimes away off in the open country, creeping as fast as a

cloud shadow in a high wind.

----------

If only that top pattern could be gotten off from the under one! I mean to try it,

little by little.

I have found out another funny thing, but I shan't tell it this time! It does not do to

trust people too much.

There are only two more days to get this paper off, and I believe John is beginning

to notice. I don't like the look in his eyes.

And I heard him ask Jennie a lot of professional questions about me. She had a

very good report to give.

She said I slept a good deal in the daytime.

John knows I don't sleep very well at night, for all I'm so quiet!

He asked me all sorts of questions, too, and pretended to be very loving and kind.

As if I couldn't see through him!

Still, I don't wonder he acts so, sleeping under this paper for three months.

It only interests me, but I feel sure John and Jennie are secretly affected by it.

----------

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Hurrah! This is the last day, but it is enough. John to stay in town over night, and

won't be out until this evening.

Jennie wanted to sleep with me--the sly thing! but I told her I should undoubtedly

rest better for a night all alone.

That was clever, for really I wasn't alone a bit! As soon as it was moonlight and

that poor thing began to crawl and shake the pattern, I got up and ran to help her.

I pulled and she shook, I shook and she pulled, and before morning we had peeled

off yards of that paper.

A strip about as high as my head and half around the room.

And then when the sun came and that awful pattern began to laugh at me, I

declared I would finish it to-day!

We go away to-morrow, and they are moving all my furniture down again to leave

things as they were before.

Jennie looked at the wall in amazement, but I told her merrily that I did it out of

pure spite at the vicious thing.

She laughed and said she wouldn't mind doing it herself, but I must not get tired.

How she betrayed herself that time!

But I am here, and no person touches this paper but me,--not alive !

She tried to get me out of the room--it was too patent! But I said it was so quiet

and empty and clean now that I believed I would lie down again and sleep all I could;

and not to wake me even for dinner--I would call when I woke.

So now she is gone, and the servants are gone, and the things are gone, and there

is nothing left but that great bedstead nailed down, with the canvas mattress we found

on it.

We shall sleep downstairs to-night, and take the boat home to-morrow.

I quite enjoy the room, now it is bare again.

How those children did tear about here!

This bedstead is fairly gnawed!

But I must get to work.

I have locked the door and thrown the key down into the front path.

I don't want to go out, and I don't want to have anybody come in, till John comes.

I want to astonish him.

I've got a rope up here that even Jennie did not find. If that woman does get out,

and tries to get away, I can tie her!

But I forgot I could not reach far without anything to stand on!

This bed will not move!

I tried to lift and push it until I was lame, and then I got so angry I bit off a little

piece at one corner--but it hurt my teeth.

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Then I peeled off all the paper I could reach standing on the floor. It sticks

horribly and the pattern just enjoys it! All those strangled heads and bulbous eyes and

waddling fungus growths just shriek with derision!

I am getting angry enough to do something desperate. To jump out of the window

would be admirable exercise, but the bars are too strong even to try.

Besides I wouldn't do it. Of course not. I know well enough that a step like that is

improper and might be misconstrued.

I don't like to look out of the windows even-- there are so many of those creeping

women, and they creep so fast.

I wonder if they all come out of that wall-paper as I did?

But I am securely fastened now by my well-hidden rope--you don't get me out in

the road there !

I suppose I shall have to get back behind the pattern when it comes night, and that

is hard!

It is so pleasant to be out in this great room and creep around as I please!

I don't want to go outside. I won't, even if Jennie asks me to.

For outside you have to creep on the ground, and everything is green instead of

yellow.

But here I can creep smoothly on the floor, and my shoulder just fits in that long

smooch around the wall, so I cannot lose my way.

Why there's John at the door!

It is no use, young man, you can't open it!

How he does call and pound!

Now he's crying for an axe.

It would be a shame to break down that beautiful door!

"John dear!" said I in the gentlest voice, "the key is down by the front steps, under

a plantain leaf!"

That silenced him for a few moments.

Then he said--very quietly indeed, "Open the door, my darling!"

"I can't," said I. "The key is down by the front door under a plantain leaf!"

And then I said it again, several times, very gently and slowly, and said it so often

that he had to go and see, and he got it of course, and came in. He stopped short by

the door.

"What is the matter?" he cried. "For God's sake, what are you doing!"

I kept on creeping just the same, but I looked at him over my shoulder.

"I've got out at last," said I, "in spite of you and Jane. And I've pulled off most of

the paper, so you can't put me back!"

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Now why should that man have fainted? But he did, and right across my path by

the wall, so that I had to creep over him every time!

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Harrison Bergeron by Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.

THE YEAR WAS 2081, and everybody was finally equal. They weren't only equal

before God and the law. They were equal every which way. Nobody was smarter

than anybody else. Nobody was better looking than anybody else. Nobody was

stronger or quicker than anybody else. All this equality was due to the 211th, 212th,

and 213th Amendments to the Constitution, and to the unceasing vigilance of agents

of the United States Handicapper General.

Some things about living still weren't quite right, though. April for instance, still

drove people crazy by not being springtime. And it was in that clammy month that

the H-G men took George and Hazel Bergeron's fourteen-year-old son, Harrison,

away.

It was tragic, all right, but George and Hazel couldn't think about it very hard. Hazel

had a perfectly average intelligence, which meant she couldn't think about anything

except in short bursts. And George, while his intelligence was way above normal,

had a little mental handicap radio in his ear. He was required by law to wear it at all

times. It was tuned to a government transmitter. Every twenty seconds or so, the

transmitter would send out some sharp noise to keep people like George from taking

unfair advantage of their brains.

George and Hazel were watching television. There were tears on Hazel's cheeks, but

she'd forgotten for the moment what they were about.

On the television screen were ballerinas.

A buzzer sounded in George's head. His thoughts fled in panic, like bandits from a

burglar alarm.

"That was a real pretty dance, that dance they just did," said Hazel.

"Huh" said George.

"That dance-it was nice," said Hazel.

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"Yup," said George. He tried to think a little about the ballerinas. They weren't really

very good-no better than anybody else would have been, anyway. They were

burdened with sashweights and bags of birdshot, and their faces were masked, so that

no one, seeing a free and graceful gesture or a pretty face, would feel like something

the cat drug in. George was toying with the vague notion that maybe dancers

shouldn't be handicapped. But he didn't get very far with it before another noise in his

ear radio scattered his thoughts.

George winced. So did two out of the eight ballerinas.

Hazel saw him wince. Having no mental handicap herself, she had to ask George

what the latest sound had been.

"Sounded like somebody hitting a milk bottle with a ball peen hammer," said George.

"I'd think it would be real interesting, hearing all the different sounds," said Hazel a

little envious. "All the things they think up."

"Um," said George.

"Only, if I was Handicapper General, you know what I would do?" said Hazel. Hazel,

as a matter of fact, bore a strong resemblance to the Handicapper General, a woman

named Diana Moon Glampers. "If I was Diana Moon Glampers," said Hazel, "I'd

have chimes on Sunday-just chimes. Kind of in honor of religion."

"I could think, if it was just chimes," said George.

"Well-maybe make 'em real loud," said Hazel. "I think I'd make a good Handicapper

General."

"Good as anybody else," said George.

"Who knows better than I do what normal is?" said Hazel.

"Right," said George. He began to think glimmeringly about his abnormal son who

was now in jail, about Harrison, but a twenty-one-gun salute in his head stopped that.

"Boy!" said Hazel, "that was a doozy, wasn't it?"

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It was such a doozy that George was white and trembling, and tears stood on the rims

of his red eyes. Two of of the eight ballerinas had collapsed to the studio floor, were

holding their temples.

"All of a sudden you look so tired," said Hazel. "Why don't you stretch out on the

sofa, so's you can rest your handicap bag on the pillows, honeybunch." She was

referring to the forty-seven pounds of birdshot in a canvas bag, which was padlocked

around George's neck. "Go on and rest the bag for a little while," she said. "I don't

care if you're not equal to me for a while."

George weighed the bag with his hands. "I don't mind it," he said. "I don't notice it

any more. It's just a part of me."

"You been so tired lately-kind of wore out," said Hazel. "If there was just some way

we could make a little hole in the bottom of the bag, and just take out a few of them

lead balls. Just a few."

"Two years in prison and two thousand dollars fine for every ball I took out," said

George. "I don't call that a bargain."

"If you could just take a few out when you came home from work," said Hazel. "I

mean-you don't compete with anybody around here. You just sit around."

"If I tried to get away with it," said George, "then other people'd get away with it-and

pretty soon we'd be right back to the dark ages again, with everybody competing

against everybody else. You wouldn't like that, would you?"

"I'd hate it," said Hazel.

"There you are," said George. The minute people start cheating on laws, what do you

think happens to society?"

If Hazel hadn't been able to come up with an answer to this question, George couldn't

have supplied one. A siren was going off in his head.

"Reckon it'd fall all apart," said Hazel.

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"What would?" said George blankly.

"Society," said Hazel uncertainly. "Wasn't that what you just said?

"Who knows?" said George.

The television program was suddenly interrupted for a news bulletin. It wasn't clear

at first as to what the bulletin was about, since the announcer, like all announcers,

had a serious speech impediment. For about half a minute, and in a state of high

excitement, the announcer tried to say, "Ladies and Gentlemen."

He finally gave up, handed the bulletin to a ballerina to read.

"That's all right-" Hazel said of the announcer, "he tried. That's the big thing. He tried

to do the best he could with what God gave him. He should get a nice raise for trying

so hard."

"Ladies and Gentlemen," said the ballerina, reading the bulletin. She must have been

extraordinarily beautiful, because the mask she wore was hideous. And it was easy to

see that she was the strongest and most graceful of all the dancers, for her handicap

bags were as big as those worn by two-hundred pound men.

And she had to apologize at once for her voice, which was a very unfair voice for a

woman to use. Her voice was a warm, luminous, timeless melody. "Excuse me-" she

said, and she began again, making her voice absolutely uncompetitive.

"Harrison Bergeron, age fourteen," she said in a grackle squawk, "has just escaped

from jail, where he was held on suspicion of plotting to overthrow the government.

He is a genius and an athlete, is under-handicapped, and should be regarded as

extremely dangerous."

A police photograph of Harrison Bergeron was flashed on the screen-upside down,

then sideways, upside down again, then right side up. The picture showed the full

length of Harrison against a background calibrated in feet and inches. He was exactly

seven feet tall.

The rest of Harrison's appearance was Halloween and hardware. Nobody had ever

born heavier handicaps. He had outgrown hindrances faster than the H-G men could

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think them up. Instead of a little ear radio for a mental handicap, he wore a

tremendous pair of earphones, and spectacles with thick wavy lenses. The spectacles

were intended to make him not only half blind, but to give him whanging headaches

besides.

Scrap metal was hung all over him. Ordinarily, there was a certain symmetry, a

military neatness to the handicaps issued to strong people, but Harrison looked like a

walking junkyard. In the race of life, Harrison carried three hundred pounds.

And to offset his good looks, the H-G men required that he wear at all times a red

rubber ball for a nose, keep his eyebrows shaved off, and cover his even white teeth

with black caps at snaggle-tooth random.

"If you see this boy," said the ballerina, "do not - I repeat, do not - try to reason with

him."

There was the shriek of a door being torn from its hinges.

Screams and barking cries of consternation came from the television set. The

photograph of Harrison Bergeron on the screen jumped again and again, as though

dancing to the tune of an earthquake.

George Bergeron correctly identified the earthquake, and well he might have - for

many was the time his own home had danced to the same crashing tune. "My God-"

said George, "that must be Harrison!"

The realization was blasted from his mind instantly by the sound of an automobile

collision in his head.

When George could open his eyes again, the photograph of Harrison was gone. A

living, breathing Harrison filled the screen.

Clanking, clownish, and huge, Harrison stood - in the center of the studio. The knob

of the uprooted studio door was still in his hand. Ballerinas, technicians, musicians,

and announcers cowered on their knees before him, expecting to die.

"I am the Emperor!" cried Harrison. "Do you hear? I am the Emperor! Everybody

must do what I say at once!" He stamped his foot and the studio shook.

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"Even as I stand here" he bellowed, "crippled, hobbled, sickened - I am a greater

ruler than any man who ever lived! Now watch me become what I can become!"

Harrison tore the straps of his handicap harness like wet tissue paper, tore straps

guaranteed to support five thousand pounds.

Harrison's scrap-iron handicaps crashed to the floor.

Harrison thrust his thumbs under the bar of the padlock that secured his head harness.

The bar snapped like celery. Harrison smashed his headphones and spectacles against

the wall.

He flung away his rubber-ball nose, revealed a man that would have awed Thor, the

god of thunder.

"I shall now select my Empress!" he said, looking down on the cowering people. "Let

the first woman who dares rise to her feet claim her mate and her throne!"

A moment passed, and then a ballerina arose, swaying like a willow.

Harrison plucked the mental handicap from her ear, snapped off her physical

handicaps with marvelous delicacy. Last of all he removed her mask.

She was blindingly beautiful.

"Now-" said Harrison, taking her hand, "shall we show the people the meaning of the

word dance? Music!" he commanded.

The musicians scrambled back into their chairs, and Harrison stripped them of their

handicaps, too. "Play your best," he told them, "and I'll make you barons and dukes

and earls."

The music began. It was normal at first-cheap, silly, false. But Harrison snatched two

musicians from their chairs, waved them like batons as he sang the music as he

wanted it played. He slammed them back into their chairs.

The music began again and was much improved.

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Harrison and his Empress merely listened to the music for a while-listened gravely,

as though synchronizing their heartbeats with it.

They shifted their weights to their toes.

Harrison placed his big hands on the girls tiny waist, letting her sense the

weightlessness that would soon be hers.

And then, in an explosion of joy and grace, into the air they sprang!

Not only were the laws of the land abandoned, but the law of gravity and the laws of

motion as well.

They reeled, whirled, swiveled, flounced, capered, gamboled, and spun.

They leaped like deer on the moon.

The studio ceiling was thirty feet high, but each leap brought the dancers nearer to it.

It became their obvious intention to kiss the ceiling. They kissed it.

And then, neutraling gravity with love and pure will, they remained suspended in air

inches below the ceiling, and they kissed each other for a long, long time.

It was then that Diana Moon Glampers, the Handicapper General, came into the

studio with a double-barreled ten-gauge shotgun. She fired twice, and the Emperor

and the Empress were dead before they hit the floor.

Diana Moon Glampers loaded the gun again. She aimed it at the musicians and told

them they had ten seconds to get their handicaps back on.

It was then that the Bergerons' television tube burned out.

Hazel turned to comment about the blackout to George. But George had gone out

into the kitchen for a can of beer.

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George came back in with the beer, paused while a handicap signal shook him up.

And then he sat down again. "You been crying" he said to Hazel.

"Yup," she said.

"What about?" he said.

"I forget," she said. "Something real sad on television."

"What was it?" he said.

"It's all kind of mixed up in my mind," said Hazel.

"Forget sad things," said George.

"I always do," said Hazel.

"That's my girl," said George. He winced. There was the sound of a rivetting gun in

his head.

"Gee - I could tell that one was a doozy," said Hazel.

"You can say that again," said George.

"Gee-" said Hazel, "I could tell that one was a doozy."

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Excerpt: 'The Other Wes Moore' by Wes Moore

August 16, 2010 2:39 PM ET

The Other Wes Moore: One Name, Two Fates

By Wes MoorePart I

Fathers and Angels

Wes stared back at me after I'd asked my question, letting a moment pass and a smirk

flicker across his face before responding.

"I really haven't thought too deeply about his impact on my life because, really, he

didn't have one."

Wes leaned back in his seat and threw an even stare at me.

"Come on, man," I pressed on. "You don't think about how things would have been

different if he'd been there? If he cared enough to be there?"

"No, I don't." The lower half of his face was shrouded by the long beard that he'd

grown, an outward sign of the Islamic faith he'd adopted in prison. His eyes danced

with bemusement. He was not moved by my emotional questioning. "Listen," he went

on. "Your father wasn't there because he couldn't be, my father wasn't there because

he chose not to be. We're going to mourn their absence in different ways."

This was one of our first visits. I had driven a half hour from my Baltimore home,

and into the woody hills of central Maryland to Jessup Correctional Institute to see

Wes. Immediately upon entering the building, I was sternly questioned by an armed

guard and roughly searched to ensure I wasn't bringing anything that could be

passed on to Wes. Once cleared, another guard escorted me to a large room that

reminded me of a public school cafeteria. This was the secured area where prisoners

and their visitors came together. Armed guards systematically paced around the

room. Long tables with low metal dividers separating the visitors from the visited

were the room's only furnishing. The prisoners who were marched in, shackled and

dressed in orange or blue jumpsuits, or grey sweatsuits with "DOC" emblazoned

across the chest. The uniforms reinforced the myriad other signals all around us: the

prisoners were owned by the state. Lucky inmates were allowed to sit across a

regular table from loved ones. They could exchange an initial hug and then talk face-

to-face. The rest had to talk to their families and friends through bulletproof glass

using a telephone, visitor and the prisoner connected by receivers they held tight to

their ears.

Just as I was about to ask another question, Wes interrupted me.

"Let me ask you a question. You come here and ask me all these questions but you

haven't shared any of yourself up with me. So tell me, what impact did your father

not being there have on your childhood?"

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"I don't know—" I was about to say more when I realized that I didn't really have

more to say.

"Do you miss him?" he asked me.

"Every day. All the time." I replied softly. I was having trouble finding my voice. It

always amazed me how I could love someone so deeply, so intensely, that I barely

even knew.

I was taught to remember, but never question. Wes was taught himself to forget, and

never ask why. We learned our lessons well, and were showing them off to a tee. We

sat there, just a few feet from each other, both silent, pondering an absence.

"Is Daddy Coming With Us?"

-1982-

Nikki and I would play this game: I would sit on the living room chair while Nikki

deeply inhaled and then blew directly in my face, eliciting hysterical laughs on both

sides. This was our ritual. It always ended with me jabbing playfully at her face.

She'd run away and bait me to give chase. Most times before today I never came

close to catching her but today, I caught her and realized, like a dog chasing a car, I

had no idea what to do. So, in the spirit of three-year-old boys everywhere who've

run out of better ideas, I decided to punch her. Of course my mother walked into the

room right as I swung and connected.

The yell startled me, but her eyes are what I remember.

"Get up to your damn room," came my mother's command from the doorway. "I told

you, don't you ever put your hands on a woman!"

I looked up, confused, as she quickly closed the distance between us.

My mother had what we called "Thomas Hands," a tag derived from her maiden

name: hands that hit so hard you only had to be hit once to know you never wanted to

be hit again. The nickname began generations ago, but each generation took on the

mantle of justifying it. Those hands were now reaching for me. Her eyes told me it

was time to get moving.

I darted up the stairs still unsure about what exactly I'd done so terribly wrong. I

headed to the bedroom I shared with my baby sister, Shani. Our room was tiny,

barely big enough for my small bed and her crib. There was no place to hide. I was

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running in circles, frantic to find a way to conceal myself. And still trying to figure

why I was in so much trouble. I couldn't even figure out the meaning of half the

words she was using.

In a panic, I kicked the door shut behind me, just as her voice reached the second

floor. "And don't let me hear you slam that —" boom! I stared for a moment at the

closed door, knowing it would soon be flying open again. I sat in the middle of the

room, next to my sister's empty crib, awaiting my fate.

Then, deliverance.

"Joy, you can't get on him like that," my father's baritone voice drifted up through the

thin floor. "He's only three. He doesn't even understand what he did wrong. Do you

really think he knows what a woman beater is?"

My father was in the living room, ten feet from where the entire incident began. He

was a very slender 6'2 with a bushy mustache and a large afro. It wasn't his style to

yell. When he heard my mother's outburst he rose from his chair, his eyes widening

in confusion. My mother slowly reeled herself in. But she wasn't completely

mollified.

"Wes, he needs to learn what is acceptable and what is not!" My father agreed, but

with a gentle laugh, reminded her that cursing at a young boy wasn't the smartest way

of making a point. I was saved, for the moment.

Excerpted from The Other Wes Moore: One Name, Two Fates by Wes Moore.

Copyright 2010 by Wes Moore. Excerpted by permission of Spiegel & Grau, a

division of Random House Inc.

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Half the Sky by Nicholas D. Kristof

New York Times Magazine August 23, 2009

The Women’s Crusade

By NICHOLAS D. KRISTOF and SHERYL WuDUNN

IN THE 19TH CENTURY, the paramount moral challenge was slavery. In the 20th

century, it was totalitarianism. In this century, it is the brutality inflicted on so many

women and girls around the globe: sex trafficking, acid attacks, bride burnings and

mass rape.

Yet if the injustices that women in poor countries suffer are of paramount

importance, in an economic and geopolitical sense the opportunity they represent is

even greater. “Women hold up half the sky,” in the words of a Chinese saying, yet

that’s mostly an aspiration: in a large slice of the world, girls are uneducated and

women marginalized, and it’s not an accident that those same countries are

disproportionately mired in poverty and riven by fundamentalism and chaos. There’s

a growing recognition among everyone from the World Bank to the U.S. military’s

Joint Chiefs of Staff to aid organizations like CARE that focusing on women and

girls is the most effective way to fight global poverty and extremism. That’s why

foreign aid is increasingly directed to women. The world is awakening to a powerful

truth: Women and girls aren’t the problem; they’re the solution.

One place to observe this alchemy of gender is in the muddy back alleys of Pakistan.

In a slum outside the grand old city of Lahore, a woman named Saima Muhammad

used to dissolve into tears every evening. A round-faced woman with thick black hair

tucked into a head scarf, Saima had barely a rupee, and her deadbeat husband was

unemployed and not particularly employable. He was frustrated and angry, and he

coped by beating Saima each afternoon. Their house was falling apart, and Saima had

to send her young daughter to live with an aunt, because there wasn’t enough food to

go around.

“My sister-in-law made fun of me, saying, ‘You can’t even feed your children,’ ”

recalled Saima when Nick met her two years ago on a trip to Pakistan. “My husband

beat me up. My brother-in-law beat me up. I had an awful life.” Saima’s husband

accumulated a debt of more than $3,000, and it seemed that these loans would hang

over the family for generations. Then when Saima’s second child was born and

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turned out to be a girl as well, her mother-in-law, a harsh, blunt woman named

Sharifa Bibi, raised the stakes.

“She’s not going to have a son,” Sharifa told Saima’s husband, in front of her. “So

you should marry again. Take a second wife.” Saima was shattered and ran off

sobbing. Another wife would leave even less money to feed and educate the children.

And Saima herself would be marginalized in the household, cast off like an old sock.

For days Saima walked around in a daze, her eyes red; the slightest incident would

send her collapsing into hysterical tears.

It was at that point that Saima signed up with the Kashf Foundation, a Pakistani

microfinance organization that lends tiny amounts of money to poor women to start

businesses. Kashf is typical of microfinance institutions, in that it lends almost

exclusively to women, in groups of 25. The women guarantee one another’s debts

and meet every two weeks to make payments and discuss a social issue, like family

planning or schooling for girls. A Pakistani woman is often forbidden to leave the

house without her husband’s permission, but husbands tolerate these meetings

because the women return with cash and investment ideas.

Saima took out a $65 loan and used the money to buy beads and cloth, which she

transformed into beautiful embroidery that she then sold to merchants in the markets

of Lahore. She used the profit to buy more beads and cloth, and soon she had an

embroidery business and was earning a solid income — the only one in her

household to do so. Saima took her elder daughter back from the aunt and began

paying off her husband’s debt.

When merchants requested more embroidery than Saima could produce, she paid

neighbors to assist her. Eventually 30 families were working for her, and she put her

husband to work as well — “under my direction,” she explained with a twinkle in her

eye. Saima became the tycoon of the neighborhood, and she was able to pay off her

husband’s entire debt, keep her daughters in school, renovate the house, connect

running water and buy a television.

“Now everyone comes to me to borrow money, the same ones who used to criticize

me,” Saima said, beaming in satisfaction. “And the children of those who used to

criticize me now come to my house to watch TV.”

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Today, Saima is a bit plump and displays a gold nose ring as well as several other

rings and bracelets on each wrist. She exudes self-confidence as she offers a grand

tour of her home and work area, ostentatiously showing off the television and the

new plumbing. She doesn’t even pretend to be subordinate to her husband. He spends

his days mostly loafing around, occasionally helping with the work but always

having to accept orders from his wife. He has become more impressed with females

in general: Saima had a third child, also a girl, but now that’s not a problem. “Girls

are just as good as boys,” he explained.

Saima’s new prosperity has transformed the family’s educational prospects. She is

planning to send all three of her daughters through high school and maybe to college

as well. She brings in tutors to improve their schoolwork, and her oldest child,

Javaria, is ranked first in her class. We asked Javaria what she wanted to be when she

grew up, thinking she might aspire to be a doctor or lawyer. Javaria cocked her head.

“I’d like to do embroidery,” she said.

As for her husband, Saima said, “We have a good relationship now.” She explained,

“We don’t fight, and he treats me well.” And what about finding another wife who

might bear him a son? Saima chuckled at the question: “Now nobody says anything

about that.” Sharifa Bibi, the mother-in-law, looked shocked when we asked whether

she wanted her son to take a second wife to bear a son. “No, no,” she said. “Saima is

bringing so much to this house. . . . She puts a roof over our heads and food on the

table.”

Sharifa even allows that Saima is now largely exempt from beatings by her husband.

“A woman should know her limits, and if not, then it’s her husband’s right to beat

her,” Sharifa said. “But if a woman earns more than her husband, it’s difficult for

him to discipline her.”

WHAT SHOULD we make of stories like Saima’s? Traditionally, the status of

women was seen as a “soft” issue — worthy but marginal. We initially reflected that

view ourselves in our work as journalists. We preferred to focus instead on the

“serious” international issues, like trade disputes or arms proliferation. Our

awakening came in China.

After we married in 1988, we moved to Beijing to be correspondents for The New

York Times. Seven months later we found ourselves standing on the edge of

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Tiananmen Square watching troops fire their automatic weapons at prodemocracy

protesters. The massacre claimed between 400 and 800 lives and transfixed the

world; wrenching images of the killings appeared constantly on the front page and on

television screens.

Yet the following year we came across an obscure but meticulous demographic study

that outlined a human rights violation that had claimed tens of thousands more lives.

This study found that 39,000 baby girls died annually in China because parents didn’t

give them the same medical care and attention that boys received — and that was just

in the first year of life. A result is that as many infant girls died unnecessarily every

week in China as protesters died at Tiananmen Square. Those Chinese girls never

received a column inch of news coverage, and we began to wonder if our journalistic

priorities were skewed.

A similar pattern emerged in other countries. In India, a “bride burning” takes place

approximately once every two hours, to punish a woman for an inadequate dowry or

to eliminate her so a man can remarry — but these rarely constitute news. When a

prominent dissident was arrested in China, we would write a front-page article; when

100,000 girls were kidnapped and trafficked into brothels, we didn’t even consider it

news.

Amartya Sen, the ebullient Nobel Prize-winning economist, developed a gauge of

gender inequality that is a striking reminder of the stakes involved. “More than 100

million women are missing,” Sen wrote in a classic essay in 1990 in The New York

Review of Books, spurring a new field of research. Sen noted that in normal

circumstances, women live longer than men, and so there are more females than

males in much of the world. Yet in places where girls have a deeply unequal status,

they vanish. China has 107 males for every 100 females in its overall population (and

an even greater disproportion among newborns), and India has 108. The implication

of the sex ratios, Sen later found, is that about 107 million females are missing from

the globe today. Follow-up studies have calculated the number slightly differently,

deriving alternative figures for “missing women” of between 60 million and 107

million.

Girls vanish partly because they don’t get the same health care and food as boys. In

India, for example, girls are less likely to be vaccinated than boys and are taken to

the hospital only when they are sicker. A result is that girls in India from 1 to 5 years

of age are 50 percent more likely to die than boys their age. In addition, ultrasound

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machines have allowed a pregnant woman to find out the sex of her fetus — and then

get an abortion if it is female.

The global statistics on the abuse of girls are numbing. It appears that more girls and

women are now missing from the planet, precisely because they are female, than men

were killed on the battlefield in all the wars of the 20th century. The number of

victims of this routine “gendercide” far exceeds the number of people who were

slaughtered in all the genocides of the 20th century.

For those women who live, mistreatment is sometimes shockingly brutal. If you’re

reading this article, the phrase “gender discrimination” might conjure thoughts of

unequal pay, underfinanced sports teams or unwanted touching from a boss. In the

developing world, meanwhile, millions of women and girls are actually enslaved.

While a precise number is hard to pin down, the International Labor Organization, a

U.N. agency, estimates that at any one time there are 12.3 million people engaged in

forced labor of all kinds, including sexual servitude. In Asia alone about one million

children working in the sex trade are held in conditions indistinguishable from

slavery, according to a U.N. report. Girls and women are locked in brothels and

beaten if they resist, fed just enough to be kept alive and often sedated with drugs —

to pacify them and often to cultivate addiction. India probably has more modern

slaves than any other country.

Another huge burden for women in poor countries is maternal mortality, with one

woman dying in childbirth around the world every minute. In the West African

country Niger, a woman stands a one-in-seven chance of dying in childbirth at some

point in her life. (These statistics are all somewhat dubious, because maternal

mortality isn’t considered significant enough to require good data collection.) For all

of India’s shiny new high-rises, a woman there still has a 1-in-70 lifetime chance of

dying in childbirth. In contrast, the lifetime risk in the United States is 1 in 4,800; in

Ireland, it is 1 in 47,600. The reason for the gap is not that we don’t know how to

save lives of women in poor countries. It’s simply that poor, uneducated women in

Africa and Asia have never been a priority either in their own countries or to donor

nations.

ABBAS BE, A BEAUTIFUL teenage girl in the Indian city of Hyderabad, has

chocolate skin, black hair and gleaming white teeth — and a lovely smile, which

made her all the more marketable.

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Money was tight in her family, so when she was about 14 she arranged to take a job

as a maid in the capital, New Delhi. Instead, she was locked up in a brothel, beaten

with a cricket bat, gang-raped and told that she would have to cater to customers.

Three days after she arrived, Abbas and all 70 girls in the brothel were made to

gather round and watch as the pimps made an example of one teenage girl who had

fought customers. The troublesome girl was stripped naked, hogtied, humiliated and

mocked, beaten savagely and then stabbed in the stomach until she bled to death in

front of Abbas and the others.

Abbas was never paid for her work. Any sign of dissatisfaction led to a beating or

worse; two more times, she watched girls murdered by the brothel managers for

resisting. Eventually Abbas was freed by police and taken back to Hyderabad. She

found a home in a shelter run by Prajwala, an organization that takes in girls rescued

from brothels and teaches them new skills. Abbas is acquiring an education and has

learned to be a bookbinder; she also counsels other girls about how to avoid being

trafficked. As a skilled bookbinder, Abbas is able to earn a decent living, and she is

now helping to put her younger sisters through school as well. With an education,

they will be far less vulnerable to being trafficked. Abbas has moved from being a

slave to being a producer, contributing to India’s economic development and helping

raise her family.

Perhaps the lesson presented by both Abbas and Saima is the same: In many poor

countries, the greatest unexploited resource isn’t oil fields or veins of gold; it is the

women and girls who aren’t educated and never become a major presence in the

formal economy. With education and with help starting businesses, impoverished

women can earn money and support their countries as well as their families. They

represent perhaps the best hope for fighting global poverty.

In East Asia, as we saw in our years of reporting there, women have already

benefited from deep social changes. In countries like South Korea and Malaysia,

China and Thailand, rural girls who previously contributed negligibly to the economy

have gone to school and received educations, giving them the autonomy to move to

the city to hold factory jobs. This hugely increased the formal labor force; when the

women then delayed childbearing, there was a demographic dividend to the country

as well. In the 1990s, by our estimations, some 80 percent of the employees on the

assembly lines in coastal China were female, and the proportion across the

manufacturing belt of East Asia was at least 70 percent.

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The hours were long and the conditions wretched, just as in the sweatshops of the

Industrial Revolution in the West. But peasant women were making money, sending

it back home and sometimes becoming the breadwinners in their families. They

gained new skills that elevated their status. Westerners encounter sweatshops and see

exploitation, and indeed, many of these plants are just as bad as critics say. But it’s

sometimes said in poor countries that the only thing worse than being exploited in a

sweatshop is not being exploited in a sweatshop. Low-wage manufacturing jobs

disproportionately benefited women in countries like China because these were jobs

for which brute physical force was not necessary and women’s nimbleness gave them

an advantage over men — which was not the case with agricultural labor or

construction or other jobs typically available in poor countries. Strange as it may

seem, sweatshops in Asia had the effect of empowering women. One hundred years

ago, many women in China were still having their feet bound. Today, while

discrimination and inequality and harassment persist, the culture has been

transformed. In the major cities, we’ve found that Chinese men often do more

domestic chores than American men typically do. And urban parents are often not

only happy with an only daughter; they may even prefer one, under the belief that

daughters are better than sons at looking after aging parents.

WHY DO MICROFINANCE organizations usually focus their assistance on

women? And why does everyone benefit when women enter the work force and

bring home regular pay checks? One reason involves the dirty little secret of global

poverty: some of the most wretched suffering is caused not just by low incomes but

also by unwise spending by the poor — especially by men. Surprisingly frequently,

we’ve come across a mother mourning a child who has just died of malaria for want

of a $5 mosquito bed net; the mother says that the family couldn’t afford a bed net

and she means it, but then we find the father at a nearby bar. He goes three evenings

a week to the bar, spending $5 each week.

Our interviews and perusal of the data available suggest that the poorest families in

the world spend approximately 10 times as much (20 percent of their incomes on

average) on a combination of alcohol, prostitution, candy, sugary drinks and lavish

feasts as they do on educating their children (2 percent). If poor families spent only

as much on educating their children as they do on beer and prostitutes, there would

be a breakthrough in the prospects of poor countries. Girls, since they are the ones

kept home from school now, would be the biggest beneficiaries. Moreover, one way

to reallocate family expenditures in this way is to put more money in the hands of

women. A series of studies has found that when women hold assets or gain incomes,

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family money is more likely to be spent on nutrition, medicine and housing, and

consequently children are healthier.

In Ivory Coast, one research project examined the different crops that men and

women grow for their private kitties: men grow coffee, cocoa and pineapple, and

women grow plantains, bananas, coconuts and vegetables. Some years the “men’s

crops” have good harvests and the men are flush with cash, and other years it is the

women who prosper. Money is to some extent shared. But even so, the economist

Esther Duflo of M.I.T. found that when the men’s crops flourish, the household

spends more money on alcohol and tobacco. When the women have a good crop, the

households spend more money on food. “When women command greater power,

child health and nutrition improves,” Duflo says.

Such research has concrete implications: for example, donor countries should nudge

poor countries to adjust their laws so that when a man dies, his property is passed on

to his widow rather than to his brothers. Governments should make it easy for

women to hold property and bank accounts — 1 percent of the world’s landowners

are women — and they should make it much easier for microfinance institutions to

start banks so that women can save money.

OF COURSE, IT’S FAIR to ask: empowering women is well and good, but can one

do this effectively? Does foreign aid really work? William Easterly, an economist at

New York University, has argued powerfully that shoveling money at poor countries

accomplishes little. Some Africans, including Dambisa Moyo, author of “Dead Aid,”

have said the same thing. The critics note that there has been no correlation between

amounts of aid going to countries and their economic growth rates.

Our take is that, frankly, there is something to these criticisms. Helping people is far

harder than it looks. Aid experiments often go awry, or small successes turn out to be

difficult to replicate or scale up. Yet we’ve also seen, anecdotally and in the statistics,

evidence that some kinds of aid have been enormously effective. The delivery of

vaccinations and other kinds of health care has reduced the number of children who

die every year before they reach the age of 5 to less than 10 million today from 20

million in 1960.

In general, aid appears to work best when it is focused on health, education and

microfinance (although microfinance has been somewhat less successful in Africa

than in Asia). And in each case, crucially, aid has often been most effective when

aimed at women and girls; when policy wonks do the math, they often find that these

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investments have a net economic return. Only a small proportion of aid specifically

targets women or girls, but increasingly donors are recognizing that that is where

they often get the most bang for the buck.

Bill Gates recalls once being invited to speak in Saudi Arabia and finding himself

facing a segregated audience. Four-fifths of the listeners were men, on the left. The

remaining one-fifth were women, all covered in black cloaks and veils, on the right.

A partition separated the two groups. Toward the end, in the question-and-answer

session, a member of the audience noted that Saudi Arabia aimed to be one of the

Top 10 countries in the world in technology by 2010 and asked if that was realistic.

“Well, if you’re not fully utilizing half the talent in the country,” Gates said, “you’re

not going to get too close to the Top 10.” The small group on the right erupted in

wild cheering.

SO WHAT WOULD an agenda for fighting poverty through helping women look

like? You might begin with the education of girls — which doesn’t just mean

building schools. There are other innovative means at our disposal. A study in Kenya

by Michael Kremer, a Harvard economist, examined six different approaches to

improving educational performance, from providing free textbooks to child-

sponsorship programs. The approach that raised student test scores the most was to

offer girls who had scored in the top 15 percent of their class on sixth-grade tests a

$19 scholarship for seventh and eighth grade (and the glory of recognition at an

assembly). Boys also performed better, apparently because they were pushed by the

girls or didn’t want to endure the embarrassment of being left behind.

Another Kenyan study found that giving girls a new $6 school uniform every 18

months significantly reduced dropout rates and pregnancy rates. Likewise, there’s

growing evidence that a cheap way to help keep high-school girls in school is to help

them manage menstruation. For fear of embarrassing leaks and stains, girls

sometimes stay home during their periods, and the absenteeism puts them behind and

eventually leads them to drop out. Aid workers are experimenting with giving

African teenage girls sanitary pads, along with access to a toilet where they can

change them. The Campaign for Female Education, an organization devoted to

getting more girls into school in Africa, helps girls with their periods, and a new

group, Sustainable Health Enterprises, is trying to do the same.

ONE OF THE MANY aid groups that for pragmatic reasons has increasingly focused

on women is Heifer International, a charitable organization based in Arkansas that

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has been around for decades. The organization gives cows, goats and chickens to

farmers in poor countries. On assuming the presidency of Heifer in 1992, the activist

Jo Luck traveled to Africa, where one day she found herself sitting on the ground

with a group of young women in a Zimbabwean village. One of them was Tererai

Trent.

Tererai is a long-faced woman with high cheekbones and a medium brown

complexion; she has a high forehead and tight cornrows. Like many women around

the world, she doesn’t know when she was born and has no documentation of her

birth. As a child, Tererai didn’t get much formal education, partly because she was a

girl and was expected to do household chores. She herded cattle and looked after her

younger siblings. Her father would say, Let’s send our sons to school, because they

will be the breadwinners. Tererai’s brother, Tinashe, was forced to go to school,

where he was an indifferent student. Tererai pleaded to be allowed to attend but

wasn’t permitted to do so. Tinashe brought his books home each afternoon, and

Tererai pored over them and taught herself to read and write. Soon she was doing her

brother’s homework every evening.

The teacher grew puzzled, for Tinashe was a poor student in class but always handed

in exemplary homework. Finally, the teacher noticed that the handwriting was

different for homework and for class assignments and whipped Tinashe until he

confessed the truth. Then the teacher went to the father, told him that Tererai was a

prodigy and begged that she be allowed to attend school. After much argument, the

father allowed Tererai to attend school for a couple of terms, but then married her off

at about age 11.

Tererai’s husband barred her from attending school, resented her literacy and beat her

whenever she tried to practice her reading by looking at a scrap of old newspaper.

Indeed, he beat her for plenty more as well. She hated her marriage but had no way

out. “If you’re a woman and you are not educated, what else?” she asks.

Yet when Jo Luck came and talked to Tererai and other young women in her village,

Luck kept insisting that things did not have to be this way. She kept saying that they

could achieve their goals, repeatedly using the word “achievable.” The women

caught the repetition and asked the interpreter to explain in detail what “achievable”

meant. That gave Luck a chance to push forward. “What are your hopes?” she asked

the women, through the interpreter. Tererai and the others were puzzled by the

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question, because they didn’t really have any hopes. But Luck pushed them to think

about their dreams, and reluctantly, they began to think about what they wanted.

Tererai timidly voiced hope of getting an education. Luck pounced and told her that

she could do it, that she should write down her goals and methodically pursue them.

After Luck and her entourage disappeared, Tererai began to study on her own, in

hiding from her husband, while raising her five children. Painstakingly, with the help

of friends, she wrote down her goals on a piece of paper: “One day I will go to the

United States of America,” she began, for Goal 1. She added that she would earn a

college degree, a master’s degree and a Ph.D. — all exquisitely absurd dreams for a

married cattle herder in Zimbabwe who had less than one year’s formal education.

But Tererai took the piece of paper and folded it inside three layers of plastic to

protect it, and then placed it in an old can. She buried the can under a rock where she

herded cattle.

Then Tererai took correspondence classes and began saving money. Her self-

confidence grew as she did brilliantly in her studies, and she became a community

organizer for Heifer. She stunned everyone with superb schoolwork, and the Heifer

aid workers encouraged her to think that she could study in America. One day in

1998, she received notice that she had been admitted to Oklahoma State University.

Some of the neighbors thought that a woman should focus on educating her children,

not herself. “I can’t talk about my children’s education when I’m not educated

myself,” Tererai responded. “If I educate myself, then I can educate my children.” So

she climbed into an airplane and flew to America.

At Oklahoma State, Tererai took every credit she could and worked nights to make

money. She earned her undergraduate degree, brought her five children to America

and started her master’s, then returned to her village. She dug up the tin can under the

rock and took out the paper on which she had scribbled her goals. She put check

marks beside the goals she had fulfilled and buried the tin can again.

In Arkansas, she took a job working for Heifer — while simultaneously earning a

master’s degree part time. When she had her M.A., Tererai again returned to her

village. After embracing her mother and sister, she dug up her tin can and checked

off her next goal. Now she is working on her Ph.D. at Western Michigan University.

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Tererai has completed her course work and is completing a dissertation about AIDS

programs among the poor in Africa. She will become a productive economic asset for

Africa and a significant figure in the battle against AIDS. And when she has her

doctorate, Tererai will go back to her village and, after hugging her loved ones, go

out to the field and dig up her can again.

There are many metaphors for the role of foreign assistance. For our part, we like to

think of aid as a kind of lubricant, a few drops of oil in the crankcase of the

developing world, so that gears move freely again on their own. That is what the

assistance to Tererai amounted to: a bit of help where and when it counts most,

which often means focusing on women like her. And now Tererai is gliding along

freely on her own — truly able to hold up half the sky.

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On Dumpster Diving by Lars Eighner

Long before I began Dumpster diving I was impressed with Dumpsters, enough so

that I wrote the Merriam-Webster research service to discover what I could about the

word “Dumpster.” I learned from them that “Dumpster” is a proprietary word

belonging to the Dempsey Dumpster company.Since then I have dutifully capitalized

the word although it was lowercased in almost all of the citations Merriam-Webster

photocopied for me. Dempsey’s word is too apt. I have never heard these things

called anything but Dumpsters. I do not know anyone who knows the generic name

for these objects. From time to time, however, I hear a wino or hobo give some

corrupted credit to the original and call them Dipsy Dumpsters.

I began Dumpster diving about a year before I became homeless.

I prefer the term “scavenging” and use the word “scrounging” when I mean to be

obscure. I have heard people, evidently meaning to be polite, using the word

“foraging,” but I prefer to reserve that word for gathering nuts and berries and such

which I do also according to the season and the opportunity. “Dumpster diving”

seems to me to be a little too cute and, in my case, inaccurate, because I lack the

athletic ability to lower myself into the Dumpsters as the true divers do, much to their

increased profit.

I like the frankness of the word “scavenging,” which I can hardly think of without

picturing a big black snail on an aquarium wall. I live from the refuse of others. I am

a scavenger. I think it a sound and honorable niche, although if I could I would

naturally prefer to live the comfortable consumer life, perhaps—and only perhaps—

as a slightly less wasteful consumer owing to what I have learned as a scavenger.

While my dog Lizbeth and I were still living in the house on Avenue B in Austin, as

my savings ran out, I put almost all of my sporadic income into rent. The necessities

of daily life I began to extract from Dumpsters. Yes, we ate from Dumpsters. Except

for jeans, all my clothes came from Dumpsters. Boom boxes, candles, bedding, toilet

paper, medicine, books, a typewriter, change sometimes amounting to many dollars: I

have acquired many things from the Dumpsters.

I have learned much as a scavenger. I mean to put some of what I have learned down

here, beginning with the practical art of dumpster diving and proceeding to the

abstract.

What is safe to eat?

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After all, the finding of objects is becoming something of an urban art. Even

respectable employed people will sometimes find something tempting sticking out of

a Dumpster or standing beside one. Quite a number of people, not all of them of the

bohemian type, are willing to brag that they found this or that piece in the trash. But

eating from Dumpsters is the thing that separates the dilettanti from the professionals.

Eating safely from the Dumpsters involves three principles: using the senses and

common sense to evaluate the condition of the found materials, knowing the

Dumpsters of a given area and checking them regularly, and seeking always to

answer the question, “Why was this discarded?”

Perhaps everyone who has a kitchen and a regular supply of groceries has, at one

time or another, made a sandwich and eaten half of it before discovering mold on the

bread or got a mouthful of milk before realizing the milk had turned. Nothing of the

sort is likely to happen to a Dumpster diver because he is constantly reminded that

most food is discarded for a reason. Yet a lot of perfectly good food can be found in

Dumpsters.

Canned goods, for example, turn up fairly often in the Dumpsters I frequent. All

except the most phobic people would be willing to eat from a can even if it came

from a Dumpster. Canned goods are among the safest of foods to be found in

dumpsters, but are not utterly foolproof.

Although very rare with modern canning methods, botulism is a possibility. Most

other forms of food poisoning seldom do lasting harm to a healthy person. But

botulism is almost certainly fatal and often the first symptom is death. Except for

carbonated beverages, all canned goods should contain a slight vacuum and suck air

when first punctured. Bulging, rusty, dented cans and cans that spew when punctured

should be avoided, especially when the contents are not very acidic or syrupy.

Heat can break down the botulin, but this requires much more cooking than most

people do to canned goods. To the extent that botulism occurs at all, of course, it can

occur in cans on pantry shelves as well as in cans from Dumpsters. Need I say that

home-canned goods found in Dumpsters are simply too risky to be recommended.

From time to time one of my companions, aware of the source of my provisions, will

ask, “Do you think these crackers are really safe to eat?” For some reason it is most

often the crackers they ask about.

The question always makes me angry. Of course I would not offer my companion

anything I had doubts about. But more than that I wonder why he cannot evaluate the

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condition of the crackers for himself. I have no special knowledge and I have been

wrong before. Since he knows where the food comes from, it seems to me he ought

to assume some of the responsibility for deciding what he will put in his mouth.For

myself I have few qualms about dry foods such as crackers, cookies, cereal, chips,

and pasta if they are free of visible contaminates and still dry and crisp. Most often

such things are found in the original packaging, which is not so much a positive sign

as it is the absence of a negative one.

Raw fruits and vegetables with intact skins seem perfectly safe to me, excluding of

course the obviously rotten. Many are discarded for minor imperfections which can

be pared away. Leafy vegetables, grapes, cauliflower, broccoli, and similar things

may be contaminated by liquids and may be impractical to wash.

Candy, especially hard candy, is usually safe if it has not drawn ants. Chocolate is

often discarded only because it has become discolored as the cocoa butter de-

emulsified. Candying after all is one method of food preservation because pathogens

do not like very sugary substances.

All of these foods might be found in any Dumpster and can be evaluated with some

confidence largely on the basis of appearance. Beyond these are foods which cannot

be correctly evaluated without additional information.

I began scavenging by pulling pizzas out of the Dumpster behind a pizza delivery

shop. In general prepared food requires caution, but in this case I knew when the

shop closed and went to the Dumpster as soon as the last of the help left.

Such shops often get prank orders, called “bogus.” Because help seldom stays long at

these places pizzas are often made with the wrong topping, refused on delivery for

being cold, or baked incorrectly. The products to be discarded are boxed up because

inventory is kept by counting boxes: a boxed pizza can be written off an unboxed

pizza does not exist.

I never placed a bogus order to increase the supply of pizzas and I believe no one else

was scavenging in this Dumpster. But the people in the shop became suspicious and

began to retain their garbage in the shop overnight.While it lasted I had a steady

supply of fresh, sometimes warm pizza. Because I knew the Dumpster I knew the

source of the pizza, and because I visited the Dumpster regularly I knew what was

fresh and what was yesterday’s.

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The area I frequent is inhabited by many affluent college students. I am not here by

chance; the Dumpsters in this area are very rich. Students throw out many good

things, including food. In particular they tend to throw everything out when they

move at the end of a semester, before and after breaks, and around midterm when

many of them despair of college. So I find it advantageous to keep an eye on the

academic calendar.

The students throw food away around the breaks because they do not know whether

it has spoiled or will spoil before they return. A typical discard is a half jar of peanut

butter. In fact non-organic peanut butter does not require refrigeration and is unlikely

to spoil in any reasonable time. The student does not know that, and since it is

Daddy’s money, the student decides not to take a chance.Opened containers require

caution and some attention to the question “Why was this discarded?” But in the case

of discards from student apartments, the answer may be that the item was discarded

through carelessness, ignorance, or wastefulness. This can sometimes be deduced

when the item is found with many others, including some that are obviously perfectly

good.

Some students, and others, approach defrosting a freezer by chucking out the whole

lot. Not only do the circumstances of such a find tell the story, but also the mass of

frozen goods stays cold for a long time and items may be found still frozen or freshly

thawed. Yogurt, cheese, and sour cream are items that are often thrown out while

they are still good. Occasionally I find a cheese with a spot of mold, which of course

I just pare off, and because it is obvious why such a cheese was discarded, I treat it

with less suspicion than an apparently perfect cheese found in similar circumstances.

Yogurt is often discarded, still sealed, only because the expiration date on the carton

has passed. This is one of my favorite finds because yogurt will keep for several

days, even in warm weather.

Students throw out canned goods and staples at the end of semesters and when they

give up college at midterm. Drugs, pornography, spirits, and the like are often

discarded when parents are expected—Dad’s day, for example. And spirits also turn

up after big party weekends, presumably discarded by the newly reformed. Wine and

spirits, of course, keep perfectly well even after opened.

My test for carbonated soft drinks is whether they still fizz vigorously. Many juices

or other beverages are too acid or too syrupy to cause much concern provided they

are not visibly contaminated. Liquids, however, require some care.One hot day I

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found a large jug of Pat O’Brien’s Hurricane mix. The jug had been opened, but it

was still ice cold. I drank three large glasses before it became apparent to me that

someone had added the rum to the mix, and not a little rum. I never tasted the rum

and by the time I began to feel the effects I had already ingest-ed a very large

quantity of the beverage. Some divers would have considered this a boon, but being

suddenly and thoroughly intoxicated in a public place in the early afternoon is not my

idea of a good time.

I have heard of people maliciously contaminating discarded food and even handouts,

but mostly I have heard of this from people with vivid imaginations who have had no

experience with Dumpsters themselves. Just before the pizza shop stopped discarding

its garbage at night, jalapenos began showing up on most of the discarded pizzas. If

indeed this was meant to discourage me it was a wasted effort because I am a native

Texan.

For myself, I avoid game, poultry, pork, and egg-based foods whether I find them

raw or cooked. I seldom have the means to cook what I find, but when I do I avail

myself of plentiful supplies of beef which is often in very good condition. I suppose

fish becomes disagreeable before it becomes dangerous. The dog is happy to have

any such thing that is past its prime and, in fact, does not recognize fish as food until

it is quite strong.

Home leftovers, as opposed to surpluses from restaurants, are very often bad.

Evidently, especially among students, there is a common type of personality that

carefully wraps up even the smallest leftover and shoves it into the back of the

refrigerator for six months or so before discarding it. Characteristic of this type are

the reused jars and margarine tubs which house the remains.I avoid ethnic foods I am

unfamiliar with. If I do not know what it is supposed to look like when it is good, I

cannot be certain I will be able to tell if it is bad.

No matter how careful I am I still get dysentery at least once a month, oftener in

warm weather. I do not want to paint too romantic a picture. Dumpster diving has

serious drawbacks as a way of life.

I learned to scavenge gradually, on my own. Since then I have initiated several

companions into the trade. I have learned that there is a predictable series of stages a

person goes through in learning to scavenge.

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At first the new scavenger is filled with disgust and self-loathing. He is ashamed of

being seen and may lurk around, trying to duck behind things, or he may try to dive

at night. (In fact, most people instinctively look away from a scavenger. By skulking

around, the novice calls attention to himself and arouses suspicion. Diving at night is

ineffective and needlessly messy.)

Every grain of rice seems to be a maggot. Everything seems to stink. He can wipe the

egg yolk off the found can, but he cannot erase the stigma of eating garbage out of

his mind.

That stage passes with experience. The scavenger finds a pair of running shoes that

fit and look and smell brand new. He finds a pocket calculator in perfect working

order. He finds pristine ice cream, still frozen, more than he can eat or keep. He

begins to understand: people do throw away perfectly good stuff, a lot of perfectly

good stuff.

At this stage, Dumpster shyness begins to dissipate. The diver, after all, has the last

laugh. He is finding all manner of good things which are his for the taking. Those

who disparage his profession are the fools, not he.

He may begin to hang onto some perfectly good things for which he has neither a use

nor a market. Then he begins to take note of the things which are not perfectly good

but are nearly so. He mates a Walkman with broken earphones and one that is

missing a battery cover. He picks up things which he can repair.

At this stage he may become lost and never recover. Dumpsters are full of things of

some potential value to someone and also of things which never have much intrinsic

value but are interesting. All the Dumpster divers I have known come to the point of

trying to acquire everything they touch. Why not take it, they reason, since it is all

free.This is, of course, hopeless. Most divers come to realize that they must restrict

themselves to items of relatively immediate utility. But in some cases the diver

simply cannot control himself. I have met several of these pack-rat types. Their ideas

of the values of various pieces of junk verge on the psychotic. Every bit of glass may

be a diamond, they think, and all that glistens, gold.

I tend to gain weight when I am scavenging. Partly this is because I always find far

more pizza and doughnuts than water-packed tuna, nonfat yogurt, and fresh

vegetables. Also I have not developed much faith in the reliability of Dumpsters as a

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food source, although it has been proven to me many times. I tend to eat as if I have

no idea where my next meal is coming from. But mostly I just hate to see food go to

waste and so I eat much more than I should. Something like this drives the obsession

to collect junk.

As for collecting objects, I usually restrict myself to collecting one kind of small

object at a time, such as pocket calculators, sun- glasses, or campaign buttons. To

live on the street I must anticipate my needs to a certain extent: I must pick up and

save warm bedding I find in August because it will not be found in Dumpsters in

November. But even if I had a home with extensive storage space I could not save

everything that might be valuable in some contingency.

I have proprietary feelings about my Dumpsters. As I have suggested, it is no

accident that I scavenge from Dumpsters where good finds are common. But my

limited experience with Dumpsters in other areas suggests to me that it is the

population of competitors rather than the affluence of the dumpers that most affects

the feasibility of survival by scavenging. The large number of competitors is what

puts me off the idea of trying to scavenge in places like Los Angeles.

Curiously, I do not mind my direct competition, other scavengers, so much as I hate

the can scroungers.

People scrounge cans because they have to have a little cash. I have tried scrounging

cans with an able-bodied companion. Afoot a can scrounger simply cannot make

more than a few dollars a day. One can extract the necessities of life from the

Dumpsters directly with far less effort than would be required to accumulate the

equivalent value in cans.

Can scroungers, then, are people who must have small amounts of cash. These are

drug addicts and winos, mostly the latter because the amounts of cash are so

small.Spirits and drugs do, like all other commodities, turn up in dumpsters and the

scavenger will from time to time have a half bottle of a rather good wine with his

dinner. But the wino cannot survive on these occasional finds; he must have his daily

dose to stave off the DTs. All the cans he can carry will buy about three bottles of

Wild Irish Rose.

I do not begrudge them the cans, but can scroungers tend to tear up the Dumpster,

mixing the contents and littering the area. They become so specialized that they can

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see only cans. They earn my contempt by passing up change, canned goods, and

readily hock-able items.

There are precious few courtesies among scavengers. But it is a common practice to

set aside surplus items: pairs of shoes, clothing, canned goods, and such. A true

scavenger hates to see good stuff go to waste and what he cannot use he leaves in

good condition in plain sight.

Can scroungers lay waste to everything in their path and will stir so one of a pair of

good shoes to the bottom of a Dumpster, to be lost or ruined in the muck. Can

scroungers will even go through individual garbage cans, something I have never

seen a scavenger do.

Individual garbage cans are set out on the public easement only on garbage days. On

other days going through them requires trespassing close to a dwelling. Going

through individual garbage cans without scattering litter is almost impossible. Litter

is likely to reduce the public’s tolerance of scavenging. Individual garbage cans are

simply not as productive as Dumpsters; people in houses and duplexes do not move

as often and for some reason do not tend to discard as much useful material.

Moreover, the time required to go through one garbage can that serves one household

is not much less than the time required to go through a Dumpster that contains the

refuse of twenty apartments.

But likely strongest reservation about going through individual garbage cans is that

this seems to me a very personal kind of invasion to which I would object if I were a

householder. Although many things in Dumpsters are obviously meant never to come

to light, a Dumpster is somehow less personal.

I avoid trying to draw conclusions about the people who dump in the Dumpsters I

frequent. I think it would be unethical to do so, although I know many people will

find the idea of scavenger ethics too funny for words.

Dumpsters contain bank statements, bills, correspondence, and other documents, just

as anyone might expect. But there are also less obvious sources of information. Pill

bottles, for example. The labels on pill bottles contain the name of the patient, the

name of the doctor, and the name of the drug. AIDS drugs and antipsychotic

medicines, to name but two groups, are specific and are seldom prescribed for any

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other disorders. The plastic compacts for birth control pills usually have complete

label information.

Despite all of this sensitive information, I have had only one apartment resident

object to my going through the Dumpster. In that case it turned out the resident was a

university athlete who was taking bets and was afraid I would turn up his wager slips.

Occasionally a find tells a story. Dumpster things are often sad—abandoned teddy

bears, shredded wedding books, despaired-of sales kits. I find many pets lying in

state in Dumpsters. Although I hope to get off the streets so that Lizbeth can have a

long and comfortable old age, I know this hope is not very realistic. So I suppose

when her time comes she too will go into a Dumpster. I will have no better place for

her. And after all, for most of her life her livelihood has come from the Dumpster.

When she finds something I think is safe that has been spilled into the Dumpster I let

her have it. She already knows the route around the best Dumpsters. I like to think

that if she survives me she will have a chance of evading the dog catcher and of

finding her sustenance on the route.

Silly vanities also come to rest in the Dumpsters. I am a rather accomplished

needleworker. I get a lot of materials from the Dumpsters. Evidently sorority girls,

hoping to impress someone, perhaps themselves, with their mastery of a womanly

art, buy a lot of embroider-by-number kits, work a few stitches horribly, and

eventually discard the whole mess. I pull out their stitches, turn the canvas over, and

work original designs. Do not think I refrain from chuckling as I make original gifts

from these kits.

I find diaries and journals. I have often thought of compiling a book of literary found

objects. And perhaps I will one day. But what I find is hopelessly commonplace and

bad without being, even unconsciously, camp. College students also discard their

papers. I am horrified to discover the kind of paper which now merits an “A” in an

undergraduate course. I am grateful, however, for the number of good books and

magazines the students throw out.

In the area I know best I have never discovered vermin in the Dumpster, but there are

two kinds of kitty surprise. One is alley cats which I meet as they leap, claws first,

out of Dumpsters. This is especially thrilling when I have Lizbeth in tow. The other

kind of kitty surprise is a plastic garbage bag filled with some ponderous, amorphous

mass. This always proves to be used cat litter.

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City bees harvest doughnut glaze and this makes the Dumpster at the doughnut shop

more interesting. My faith in the instinctive wisdom of animals is always shaken

whenever I see Lizbeth attempt to catch a bee in her mouth, which she does

whenever bees are present. Evidently some birds find Dumpsters profitable, for

birdie surprise is almost as common as kitty surprise of the first kind. In hunting

season all kinds of small game turn up in Dumpsters, some of it, sadly, not entirely

dead. Curiously, summer and winter, maggots are uncommon.

The worst of the living and near-living hazards of the Dumpsters are the fire ants.

The food that they claim is not much of a loss, but they are vicious and aggressive. It

is very easy to brush against some surface of the Dumpster and pick up half a dozen

or more fire ants, usually in some sensitive area such as the underarm. One advantage

of bringing Lizbeth along as I make Dumpster rounds is that, for obvious reasons,

she is very alert to ground-based fire ants. When Lizbeth recognizes the signs of fire

ant infestation around our feet she does the Dance of the Zillion Fire Ants. I have

learned not to ignore this warning from Lizbeth, whether I perceive the tiny ants or

not, but to remove ourselves at Lizbeth’s first pas de bourrée. All the more so

because the ants are the worst in the months I wear flip-flops, if I have them.(Perhaps

someone will misunderstand the above. Lizbeth does the Dance of the Zillion Fire

Ants when she recognizes more fire ants than she cares to eat, not when she is being

bitten. Since I have learned to react promptly, she does not get bitten at all. It is the

isolated patrol of fire ants that falls in Lizbeth’s range that deserve pity. Lizbeth finds

them quite tasty.)

By far the best way to go through a Dumpster is to lower yourself into it. Most of the

good stuff tends to settle at the bottom because it is usually weightier than the

rubbish. My more athletic companions have often demonstrated to me that they can

extract much good material from a Dumpster I have already been over.

To those psychologically or physically unprepared to enter a Dumpster, I recommend

a stout stick, preferably with some barb or hook at one end. The hook can be used to

grab plastic garbage bags. When I find canned goods or other objects loose at the

bottom of a Dumpster I usually can roll them into a small bag that I can then hoist up.

Much Dumpster diving is a matter of experience for which nothing will do except

practice.

Dumpster diving is outdoor work, often surprisingly pleasant. It is not entirely

predictable; things of interest turn up every day and some say there are finds of great

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value. I am always very pleased when I can turn up exactly the thing I most wanted

to find. Yet in spite of the element of chance, scavenging more than most other

pursuits tends to yield returns in some proportion to the effort and intelligence

brought to bear. It is very sweet to turn up a few dollars in change from a Dumpster

that has just been gone over by a wino.

The land is now covered with cities. The cities are full of Dumpsters. I think of

scavenging as a modern form of self-reliance. In any event, after ten years of

government service, where everything is geared to the lowest common denominator,

I find work that rewards initiative and effort refreshing. Certainly I would be happy

to have a sinecure again, but I am not heartbroken not to have one anymore.

I find from the experience of scavenging two rather deep lessons. The first is to take

what I can use and let the rest go by. I have come to think that there is no value in the

abstract. A thing I cannot use or make useful, perhaps by trading, has no value

however fine or rare it may be. I mean useful in a broad sense—so, for example,

some art I would think useful and valuable, but other art might be otherwise for me.

I was shocked to realize that some things are not worth acquiring, but now I think it

is so. Some material things are white elephants that eat up the possessor’s

substance.The second lesson is of the transience of material being. This has not quite

converted me to a dualist, but it has made some headway in that direction. I do not

suppose that ideas are immortal, but certainly mental things are longer-lived than

other material things.

Once I was the sort of person who invests material objects with sentimental value.

Now I no longer have those things, but I have the sentiments yet.

Many times in my travels I have lost everything but the clothes I was wearing and

Lizbeth. The things I find in Dumpsters, the love letters and ragdolls of so many

lives, remind me of this lesson. Now I hardly pick up a thing without envisioning the

time I will cast it away. This I think is a healthy state of mind. Almost everything I

have now has already been cast out at least once, proving that what I own is valueless

to someone.

Anyway, I find my desire to grab for the gaudy bauble has been largely sated. I think

this is an attitude I share with the very wealthy—we both know there is plenty more

where what we have came from. Between us are the rat-race millions who have

confounded their selves with the objects they grasp and who nightly scavenge the

cable channels looking for they know not what.

I am sorry for them.

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Senate Appropriations Subcommittee on Labor, Health and Human Services, and

Education Hearing on Parkinson's Research and Treatment September 28, 1999

The Testimony of Michael J. Fox

Fox:

Mr. Chairman, members of the Subcommittee, thank

you for inviting me to testify today about the need

for greater federal investment in Parkinson's

research. Some, or perhaps all of you, most of you,

are familiar with me from my work in film and

television. What I wish to speak to you about today

has little or nothing to do with celebrity, save for

this brief reference.

When I first spoke publicly about my eight years of experience as a person with

Parkinson's many were surprised, in part because of my age, although 30% of all

Parkinson's patients are under 50, 20% are under 40, and that number is growing.

I had hidden my symptoms and struggles very well, through increasing amounts of

medication, through surgery and by employing the hundreds of little tricks and

techniques a person with Parkinson's learns to mask his or her condition for as long

as possible. While the changes in my life were profound and progressive, I kept them

to myself for a number of reasons: fear, denial for sure, but I also felt that it was

important for me to just quietly "soldier on." When I did share my story the response

was overwhelming, humbling and deeply inspiring. I heard from thousands of

Americans affected by Parkinson's, writing and calling to offer encouragement and to

tell me of their experience. They spoke of pain, frustration, fear and hope. Always

hope.

What I understood very clearly is that the time for "quietly soldiering on" is through.

The war against Parkinson's is a winnable war and I have resolved to play a role in

that victory. What celebrity has given me is the opportunity to raise the visibility of

Parkinson's disease and focus attention on the desperate need for more research

dollars. While I am able for the time being to continue doing what I love best, others

are not so fortunate. These are doctors, teachers, policemen, nurses, as you had

indicated earlier, legislators, and parents who are no longer able to work to provide

for their families and live out their dreams.

The one million Americans living with Parkinson's want to beat this disease. So do

the millions more Americans who have family members suffering from Parkinson's

but it won't happen until Congress adequately funds Parkinson's research.

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For many people with Parkinson's, managing their disease is a full-time job; it is a

constant balancing act. Too little medicine causes tremors and stiffness, too much

medicine produces uncontrollable movement and slurring, and far too often

Parkinson's patients wait and wait (as I am right now) for their medicines to kick in.

New investigational therapies have helped some people like me control symptoms,

but in the end we all face the same reality: the medicine stops working. For people

living with Parkinson's the status quo is not good enough. As I began to understand

what research might promise for the future I became hopeful that I would not face the

terrible suffering so many with Parkinson's endure. But I was shocked and frustrated

to learn the amount of funding for Parkinson's research is so meager. Compared with

the amount of federal funding going to other diseases, research funding for

Parkinson's lags far behind. In a country with a $15 billion investment in medical

research we can and must do better.

At present Parkinson's is inadequately funded, no matter how one cares to spin it.

Meager funding means a continued lack of effective treatments, slow progress in

understanding the cause of the disease and little chance that a cure will come in time.

I applaud the steps we are taking to fulfill the promise of the Udall Parkinson's

Research Act, but we must be clear we aren't there yet.

If, however, an adequate investment is made there is much to be hopeful for. We

have a tremendous opportunity to close the gap for Parkinson's. We are learning

more and more about this disease. The scientific community believes that with a

significant investment in Parkinson's research new discoveries and improved

treatment strategies are close at hand. Many have called Parkinson's the most curable

neurological disorder, and the one expected to produce a breakthrough first.

Scientists tell me that a cure is possible, some say even by the end of the next decade,

if the research dollars match the research opportunity.

Mr. Chairman, you and the members of the Subcommittee have done so much to

increase the investment in medical research in this country. I thank you for your

vision. Most people don't know just how important this research is until they or

someone in their family faces a serious illness. I know I didn't. The Parkinson's

community strongly supports your efforts to double medical research funding. At the

same time, I implore you to do more for people with Parkinson's. Take up

Parkinson's as if your life depended on it. Increase funding for Parkinson's research

by $75 million over the current levels for the coming fiscal year. Make this a down

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payment for a fully funded Parkinson's research agenda that will make Parkinson's

nothing more than a footnote in medical textbooks.

(Turning pages isn't always easy!) I would like to close on a personal note. Today

you will hear from, or have already heard from, more than a few experts, in the fields

of science, bookkeeping, other areas. I am an expert in only one: what it is like to be

a young man, husband and father, with Parkinson's disease. With the help of daily

medication and selective exertion I can still perform my job, in my case in a very

public arena. I can still help out with the daily tasks and rituals involved in home life,

but I don't kid myself; that will change.

Physical and mental exhaustion will become more and more of a factor, as will

increased rigidity, tremor and dyskinesia. I can expect in my forties to face

challenges most won't expect until their seventies or eighties, if ever. But with your

help, if we all do everything we can to eradicate this disease, in my fifties I'll be

dancing at my children's weddings. And mine will be one of millions of happy

stories. Thank you for your time and attention.

Specter:

Thank you very much Mr. Fox for those very profound and moving words

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What Redburn Saw in Launcelott's-Hey: Excerpt from Redburn by Herman Melville

The dead-house reminds me of other sad

things; for in the vicinity of the docks are

many very painful sights.

In going to our boarding-house, the sign

of the Baltimore Clipper, I generally

passed through a narrow street called

"Launcelott's-Hey," lined with dingy,

prison-like cotton warehouses. In this

street, or rather alley, you seldom sees

any one but a truck-man, or some

solitary old warehouse-keeper, haunting

his smoky den like a ghost.

Once, passing through this place, I heard

a feeble wail, which seemed to come out

of the earth. It was but a strip of crooked

side-walk where I stood; the dingy wall

was on every side, converting the mid-

day into twilight; and not a soul was in

sight. I started, and could almost have

run, when I heard that dismal sound. It

seemed the low, hopeless, endless wail

of some one forever lost. At last I

advanced to an opening which

communicated downward with deep tiers

of cellars beneath a crumbling old

warehouse; and there, some fifteen feet

below the walk, crouching in nameless

squalor, with her head bowed over, was

the figure of what had been a woman.

Her blue arms folded to her livid bosom

two shrunken things like children, that

leaned toward her, one on each side. At

first, I knew not whether they were alive

or dead. They made no sign; they did not

move or stir; but from the vault came

that soul-sickening wail.

I made a noise with my foot, which, in

the silence, echoed far and near; but

there was no response. Louder still;

when one of the children lifted its head,

and cast upward a faint glance; then

closed its eyes, and lay motionless. The

woman also, now gazed up, and

perceived me; but let fall her eye again.

They were dumb and next to dead with

want. How they had crawled into that

den, I could not tell; but there they had

crawled to die. At that moment I never

thought of relieving them; for death was

so stamped in their glazed and

unimploring eyes, that I almost regarded

them as already no more. I stood looking

down on them, while my whole soul

swelled within me; and I asked myself,

What right had any body in the wide

world to smile and be glad, when sights

like this were to be seen? It was enough

to turn the heart to gall; and make a man-

hater of a Howard. For who were these

ghosts that I saw? Were they not human

beings? A woman and two girls? With

eyes, and lips, and ears like any queen?

with hearts which, though they did not

bound with blood, yet beat with a dull,

dead ache that was their life.

At last, I walked on toward an open lot

in the alley, hoping to meet there some

ragged old women, whom I had daily

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noticed groping amid foul rubbish for

little particles of dirty cotton, which they

washed out and sold for a trifle.

I found them; and accosting one, I asked

if she knew of the persons I had just left.

She replied, that she did not; nor did she

want to. I then asked another, a

miserable, toothless old woman, with a

tattered strip of coarse baling stuff round

her body. Looking at me for an instant,

she resumed her raking in the rubbish,

and said that she knew who it was that I

spoke of; but that she had no time to

attend to beggars and their brats.

Accosting still another, who seemed to

know my errand, I asked if there was no

place to which the woman could be

taken.

"Yes," she replied, "to the church-yard."

I said she was alive, and not dead.

"Then she'll never die," was the

rejoinder. "She's been down there these

three days, with nothing to eat;--that I

know myself."

"She desarves it," said an old hag, who

was just placing on her crooked

shoulders her bag of pickings, and who

was turning to totter off, "that Betsy

Jennings desarves it--was she ever

married? tell me that."

Leaving Launcelott's-Hey, I turned into a

more frequented street; and soon meeting

a policeman, told him of the condition of

the woman and the girls.

"It's none of my business, Jack," said he.

"I don't belong to that street."

"Who does then?"

"I don't know. But what business is it of

yours? Are you not a Yankee?"

"Yes," said I, "but come, I will help you

remove that woman, if you say so."

"There, now, Jack, go on board your ship

and stick to it; and leave these matters to

the town."

I accosted two more policemen, but with

no better success; they would not even

go with me to the place. The truth was, it

was out of the way, in a silent, secluded

spot; and the misery of the three

outcasts, hiding away in the ground, did

not obtrude upon any one.

Returning to them, I again stamped to

attract their attention; but this time, none

of the three looked up, or even stirred.

While I yet stood irresolute, a voice

called to me from a high, iron-shuttered

window in a loft over the way; and asked

what I was about. I beckoned to the man,

a sort of porter, to come down, which he

did; when I pointed down into the vault.

"Well," said he, "what of it?"

"Can't we get them out?" said I, "haven't

you some place in your warehouse where

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you can put them? have you nothing for

them to eat?"

"You're crazy, boy," said he; "do you

suppose, that Parkins and Wood want

their warehouse turned into a hospital?"

I then went to my boarding-house, and

told Handsome Mary of what I had seen;

asking her if she could not do something

to get the woman and girls removed; or

if she could not do that, let me have

some food for them. But though a kind

person in the main, Mary replied that she

gave away enough to beggars in her own

street (which was true enough) without

looking after the whole neighborhood.

Going into the kitchen, I accosted the

cook, a little shriveled-up old

Welshwoman, with a saucy tongue,

whom the sailors called Brandy-Nan;

and begged her to give me some cold

victuals, if she had nothing better, to take

to the vault. But she broke out in a storm

of swearing at the miserable occupants

of the vault, and refused. I then stepped

into the room where our dinner was

being spread; and waiting till the girl had

gone out, I snatched some bread and

cheese from a stand, and thrusting it into

the bosom of my frock, left the house.

Hurrying to the lane, I dropped the food

down into the vault. One of the girls

caught at it convulsively, but fell back,

apparently fainting; the sister pushed the

other's arm aside, and took the bread in

her hand; but with a weak uncertain

grasp like an infant's. She placed it to her

mouth; but letting it fall again,

murmuring faintly something like

"water." The woman did not stir; her

head was bowed over, just as I had first

seen her.

Seeing how it was, I ran down toward

the docks to a mean little sailor tavern,

and begged for a pitcher; but the cross

old man who kept it refused, unless I

would pay for it. But I had no money. So

as my boarding-house was some way off,

and it would be lost time to run to the

ship for my big iron pot; under the

impulse of the moment, I hurried to one

of the Boodle Hydrants, which I

remembered having seen running near

the scene of a still smoldering fire in an

old rag house; and taking off a new

tarpaulin hat, which had been loaned me

that day, filled it with water.

With this, I returned to Launcelott's-Hey;

and with considerable difficulty, like

getting down into a well, I contrived to

descend with it into the vault; where

there was hardly space enough left to let

me stand. The two girls drank out of the

hat together; looking up at me with an

unalterable, idiotic expression, that

almost made me faint. The woman spoke

not a word, and did not stir. While the

girls were breaking and eating the bread,

I tried to lift the woman's head; but,

feeble as she was, she seemed bent upon

holding it down. Observing her arms still

clasped upon her bosom, and that

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something seemed hidden under the rags

there, a thought crossed my mind, which

impelled me forcibly to withdraw her

hands for a moment; when I caught a

glimpse of a meager little babe--the

lower part of its body thrust into an old

bonnet. Its face was dazzlingly white,

even in its squalor; but the closed eyes

looked like balls of indigo. It must have

been dead some hours.

The woman refusing to speak, eat, or

drink, I asked one of the girls who they

were, and where they lived; but she only

stared vacantly, muttering something that

could not be understood.

The air of the place was now getting too

much for me; but I stood deliberating a

moment, whether it was possible for me

to drag them out of the vault. But if I did,

what then? They would only perish in

the street, and here they were at least

protected from the rain; and more than

that, might die in seclusion.

I crawled up into the street, and looking

down upon them again, almost repented

that I had brought them any food; for it

would only tend to prolong their misery,

without hope of any permanent relief: for

die they must very soon; they were too

far gone for any medicine to help them. I

hardly know whether I ought to confess

another thing that occurred to me as I

stood there; but it was this-I felt an

almost irresistible impulse to do them the

last mercy, of in some way putting an

end to their horrible lives; and I should

almost have done so, I think, had I not

been deterred by thoughts of the law. For

I well knew that the law, which would let

them perish of themselves without giving

them one cup of water, would spend a

thousand pounds, if necessary, in

convicting him who should so much as

offer to relieve them from their

miserable existence.

The next day, and the next, I passed the

vault three times, and still met the same

sight. The girls leaning up against the

woman on each side, and the woman

with her arms still folding the babe, and

her head bowed.

The first evening I did not see the bread

that I had dropped down in the morning;

but the second evening, the bread I had

dropped that morning remained

untouched. On the third morning the

smell that came from the vault was such,

that I accosted the same policeman I had

accosted before, who was patrolling the

same street, and told him that the persons

I had spoken to him about were dead,

and he had better have them removed.

He looked as if he did not believe me,

and added, that it was not his street.

When I arrived at the docks on my way

to the ship, I entered the guard-house

within the walls, and asked for one of the

captains, to whom I told the story; but,

from what he said, was led to infer that

the Dock Police was distinct from that of

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the town, and this was not the right place

to lodge my information.

I could do no more that morning, being

obliged to repair to the ship; but at

twelve o'clock, when I went to dinner, I

hurried into Launcelott's-Hey, when I

found that the vault was empty. In place

of the women and children, a heap of

quick-lime was glistening.

I could not learn who had taken them

away, or whither they had gone; but my

prayer was answered--they were dead,

departed, and at peace.

But again I looked down into the vault,

and in fancy beheld the pale, shrunken

forms still crouching there. Ah! what are

our creeds, and how do we hope to be

saved? Tell me, oh Bible, that story of

Lazarus again, that I may find comfort in

my heart for the poor and forlorn.

Surrounded as we are by the wants and

woes of our fellowmen, and yet given to

follow our own pleasures, regardless of

their pains, are we not like people sitting

up with a corpse, and making merry in

the house of the dead?

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“House Taken Over” by Julio Cortazar

We liked the house because, apart from its being old and spacious (in a day when

old houses go down for a profitable auction of their construction materials), it kept

the memories of great-grandparents, our paternal grandfather, our parents and the

whole of childhood.

Irene and I got used to staying in the house by ourselves, which was crazy; eight

people could have lived in that place and not have gotten in each other's way. We

rose at seven in the morning and got the cleaning done, and about eleven I left Irene

to finish off whatever rooms and went to the kitchen. We lunched at noon precisely;

then there was nothing left to do but a few dirty plates. It was pleasant to take lunch

and commune with the great hollow, silent house, and it was enough for us just to

keep it clean. We ended up thinking, at times, that that was what had kept us from

marrying. Irene turned down two suitors for no particular reason, and Maria Esther

went and died on me before we could manage to get engaged. We were easing into

our forties with the unvoiced concept that the quiet, simple marriage of sister and

brother was the indispensable end to a line established in this house by our

grandparents. We would die here someday, obscure and distant cousins would

inherit the place, have it torn down, sell the bricks and get rich on the building plot;

or more justly and better yet, we would topple it ourselves before it was too late.

Irene never bothered anyone. Once the morning housework was finished, she spent

the rest of the day on the sofa in her bedroom, knitting. I couldn't tell you why she

knitted so much; I think women knit when they discover that it's a fat excuse to do

nothing at all. But Irene was not like that; she always knitted necessities, sweaters

for winter, socks for me, handy morning robes and bed jackets for herself.

Sometimes she would do a jacket, then unravel it the next moment because there

was something that didn't please her; it was pleasant to see a pile of tangled wool in

her knitting basket fighting a losing battle for a few hours to retain its shape.

Saturdays I went downtown to buy wool; Irene had faith in my good taste, was

pleased with the colors and never a skein had to be returned. I took advantage of

these trips to make the rounds of the bookstores, uselessly asking if they had

anything new in French literature. Nothing worthwhile had arrived in Argentina

since1939.

But it's the house I want to talk about, the house and Irene; I'm not very important. I

wonder what Irene would have done without her knitting. One can reread a book,

but once a pullover is finished you can't do it over again, it's some kind of disgrace.

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One day I found that the drawer at the bottom of the chiffonier, replete with

mothballs, was filled with shawls, white, green, lilac. Stacked amid a great smell of

camphor--it was like a shop; I didn’t have the nerve to ask her what she planned to

do with them. We didn’t have to earn our living, there was plenty coming in from

the farms each month, even piling up. But Irene was only interested in the knitting

and showed a wonderful dexterity, and for me the hours slipped away watching her,

her hands like silver sea-urchins, needles flashing, and one or two knitting baskets

on the floor, the balls of yarn jumping about. It was lovely.

How not to remember the layout of that house. The dining room, a living room

with tapestries, the library, and three large bedrooms in the section most recessed

the one that faced toward Rodriguez Pena. Only a corridor with its massive oak

door separated that part from the front wing, where there was a bath, the kitchen,

our bedrooms and the hall. One entered the house through a vestibule with

enameled tiles, and a wrought-iron gated door opened onto the living room. You

had to come in through the vestibule and open the gate to go into the living room;

the doors to our bedrooms were on either side of this, and opposite was the corridor

leading to the back section; going down the passage, one swung open the oak door

beyond which was the other part of the house; or just before the door, one could

turn to the left and go down a narrower passageway which led to the kitchen and the

bath. When the door was open, you became aware of the size of the house; when it

was closed, you had the impression of an apartment, like the ones they build today,

with barely enough room to move around in. Irene and I always lived in this part of

the house and hardly ever went beyond the oak door except to do the cleaning.

Incredible how much dust collected on the furniture. It may be Buenos Aires is a

clean city, but she owes it to her population and nothing else. There's too much dust

in the air, the slightest breeze and it's back on the marble console tops and in the

diamond patterns of the tooled-leather desk set. It's a lot of work to get it off with a

feather duster; the motes rise and hang in the air, and settle again a minute later on

the pianos and the furniture.

I'll always have a clear memory of it because it happened so simply and without

fuss. Irene was knitting in her bedroom, it was eight at night, and I suddenly

decided to put the water up for mate. I went down the corridor as far as the oak

door, which was ajar, then turned into the hall toward the kitchen, when I heard

something in the library or the dining room. The sound came through muted and

indistinct, a chair being knocked over onto the carpet or the muffled buzzing of a

conversation. At the same time, or a second later, I heard it at the end of the passage

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which led from those two rooms toward the door. I hurled myself against the door

before it was too late and shut it, leaned on it with the weight of my body; luckily,

the key was on our side; moreover, I ran the great bolt into place, just to be safe.

I went down to the kitchen, heated the kettle, and when I got back with the tray of

mate, I told Irene:

"I had to shut the door to the passage. They’ve taken over the back part."

She let her knitting fall and looked at me with her tired, serious eyes.

"You're sure?"

I nodded.

"In that case," she said, picking up her knitting again, "we'll have to live on this

side."

I sipped at the mate very carefully, but she took her time starting her work again. I

remember it was a gray vest she was knitting. I liked that vest.

The first few days were painful, since we'd both left so many things in the part that

had been taken over. My collection of French literature, for example, was still in the

library. Irene had left several folios of stationery and a pair of slippers that she used

a lot in the winter. I missed my briar pipe, and Irene, I think, regretted the loss of an

ancient bottle of Hesperidins It happened repeatedly (but only in the first few days)

that we would close some drawer or cabinet and look at one another sadly.

"It's not here."

One thing more among the many lost on the other side of the house.

But there were advantages, too. The cleaning was so much simplified that, even

when we got up late, nine-thirty for instance, by eleven we were sitting around with

our arms folded. Irene got into the habit of coming to the kitchen with me to help

get lunch. We thought about it and decided on this: while I prepared the lunch, Irene

would cook up dishes that could be eaten cold in the evening. We were happy with

the arrangement because it was always such a bother to have to leave our bedrooms

in the evening and start to cook. Now we made do with the table in Irene's room and

platters of cold supper.

Since it left her more time for knitting, Irene was content. I was a little lost without

my books, but so as not to inflict myself on my sister, I set about reordering papa's

stamp collection; that killed some time. We amused ourselves sufficiently, each

with his own thing, almost always getting together in Irene's bedroom, which was

the more comfort­able. Every once in a while, Irene might say:

"Look at this pattern I just figured out, doesn't it look like clover?"

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After a bit it was I, pushing a small square of paper in front of her so that she could

see the excellence of some stamp or another from Eupen-et­Malmedy. We were

fine, and little by little we stopped thinking. You can live without thinking.

(Whenever Irene talked in her sleep, I woke up immediately and stayed awake. I

never could get used to this voice from a statue or a parrot, a voice that came out of

the dreams, not from a throat. Irene said that in my sleep I flailed about erroneously

and shook the blankets off. We had the living room between us, but at night you

could hear everything in the house. We heard each other breathing, coughing, could

even feel each other reaching for the light switch when, as happened frequently,

neither of us could fall asleep.

Aside from our nocturnal rumblings, everything was quiet in the house. During the

day there were the household sounds, the metallic click of knitting needles, the

rustle of stamp-album pages turning. The oak door was massive, I think I said that.

In the kitchen or the bath, which adjoined the part that was taken over, we managed

to talk loudly, or Irene sang lullabies. In a kitchen there's always too much noise,

the plates and glasses, for there to be interruptions from other sounds. We seldom

allowed ourselves silence there, but when we went back to our rooms or to the

living room, then the house grew quiet, half-lit, we ended by stepping around more

slowly so as not to disturb one another. I think it was because of this that I woke up

irremediably and at once when Irene be­gan to talk in her sleep.)

Except for the consequences, it's nearly a matter of repeating the same scene over

again. I was thirsty that night, and before we went to sleep, I told Irene that I was

going to the kitchen for a glass of water. From the door of the bedroom (she was

knitting) I heard the noise in the kitchen; if not the kitchen, then the bath, the

passage off at that angle dulled the sound. Irene noticed how brusquely I had

paused, and came up beside me without a word. We stood listening to the noises,

growing more and more sure that they were on our side of the oak door, if not the

kitchen then the bath, or in the hall itself at the turn, almost next to us.

We didn't wait to look at one another. I took Irene's arm and forced her to run with

me to the wrought-iron door, not waiting to look back. You could hear the noises,

still muffled but louder, just behind us. I slammed the grating and we stopped in the

vestibule. Now there was nothing to be heard.

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"They've taken over our section," Irene said. The knitting had reeled off from her

hands and the yarn ran back toward the door and disappeared under it. When she

saw that the balls of yarn were on the other side, she dropped the knitting without

looking at it.

"Did you have time to bring anything?" I asked hopelessly.

"No, Nothing.”

We had what we had on. I remembered fifteen thousand pesos in the wardrobe in

my bedroom. Too late now.

I still had my wristwatch on and saw that it was 11 P.M. I took Irene around the

waist (I think she was crying) and that was how we went into the street. Before we

left, I felt terrible; I locked the front door up tight and tossed the key down the

sewer. It wouldn't do to have some poor devil decide to go in and rob the house, at

that hour and with the house taken over.

Translated by Paul Blackburn

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“Living in Two Worlds” by Marcus Mabry

Newsweek on Campus, April 1988

A round, green cardboard sign hangs from a string proclaiming, “We built a proud

new feeling,” the slogan of a local supermarket. It is a souvenir from one of my

brother’s last jobs. In addition to being a bagger, he’s worked at a fast-food

restaurant, a gas station, a garage and a textile factory. Now, in the icy clutches of

the Northeastern winter, he is unemployed. He will soon be a father. He is 19 years

old.

In mid-December I was at Stanford, among the palm trees and weighty chores of

academe. And all I wanted to do was get out. I joined the rest of the undergrads in a

chorus of excitement, singing the praises of Christmas break. No classes, no

midterms, no finals . . . and no freshmen! (I’m a resident assistant.) Awesome! I

was looking forward to escaping. I never gave a thought to what I was escaping to.

Once I got home to New Jersey, reality returned. My dreaded freshmen had been

replaced by unemployed relatives; badgering professors had been replaced by hard-

working single mothers, and cold classrooms by dilapidated bedrooms and kitchens.

The room in which the “proud new feeling” sign hung contained the belongings of

myself, my mom and my brother. But for these two weeks it was mine. They slept

downstairs on couches.

Most students who travel between the universes of poverty and affluence during

breaks experience similar conditions, as well as the guilt, the helplessness and,

sometimes, the embarrassment associated with them. Our friends are willing to

listen, but most of them are unable to imagine the pain of the impoverished lives

that we see every six months. Each time I return home I feel further away from the

realities of poverty in America and more ashamed that they are allowed to persist.

What frightens me most is not that the American socioeconomic system permits

poverty to continue, but that by participating in that system I share some of the

blame.

Last year I lived in an on-campus apartment, with a (relatively) modern bathroom,

kitchen and two bedrooms. Using summer earnings, I added some expensive prints,

a potted palm and some other plants, making the place look like the more-than-

humble abode of a New York City Yuppie. I gave dinner parties, even a soirée

française.

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For my roommate, a doctor’s son, this kind of life was nothing extraordinary. But

my mom was struggling to provide a life for herself and my brother. In addition to

working 24-hour-a-day cases as a practical nurse, she was trying to ensure that my

brother would graduate from high school and have a decent life. She knew that she

had to compete for his attention with drugs and other potentially dangerous things

that can look attractive to a young man when he sees no better future.

Living in my grandmother’s house this Christmas break restored all the forgotten,

and the never acknowledged, guilt. I had gone to boarding school on a full

scholarship since the ninth grade, so being away from poverty was not new.

But my own growing affluence has increased my distance. My friends say that I

should not feel guilty: what could I do substantially for my family at this age, they

ask. Even though I know that education is the right thing to do, I can’t help but feel,

sometimes, that I have it too good. There is no reason that I deserve security and

warmth, while my brother has to cope with potential unemployment and prejudice.

I, too, encounter prejudice, but it is softened by my status as a student in an affluent

and intellectual community.

More than my sense of guilt, my sense of helplessness increases each time I return

home. As my success leads me further away for longer periods of time, poverty

becomes harder to conceptualize and feels that much more oppressive when I visit

with it. The first night of break, I lay in our bedroom, on a couch that let out into a

bed that took up the whole room, except for a space heater. It was a little hard to

sleep because the springs from the couch stuck through at inconvenient spots. But it

would have been impossible to sleep anyway because of the groans coming from

my grandmother’s room next door. Only in her early 60s, she suffers from many

chronic diseases and couldn’t help but moan, then pray aloud, then moan, then pray

aloud.

Not very festive: This wrenching of my heart was interrupted by the 3 a.m. entry of

a relative who had been allowed to stay at the house despite rowdy behavior and

threats toward the family in the past. As he came into the house, he slammed the

door, and his heavy steps shook the second floor as he stomped into my

grandmother’s room to take his place, at the foot of her bed. There he slept, without

blankets on a bare mattress. This was the first night. Later in the vacation, a

Christmas turkey and a Christmas ham were stolen from my aunt’s refrigerator on

Christmas Eve. We think the thief was a relative. My mom and I decided not to

exchange gifts that year because it just didn’t seem festive.

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A few days after New Year’s I returned to California. The Northeast was soon hit

by a blizzard. They were there, and I was here. That was the way it had to be, for

now. I haven’t forgotten; the ache of knowing their suffering is always there. It has

to be kept deep down, or I can’t find the logic in studying and partying while

people, my people, are being killed by poverty. Ironically, success drives me away

from those I most want to help by getting an education.

Somewhere in the midst of all that misery, my family has built, within me, “a proud

feeling.” As I travel between the two worlds it becomes harder to remember just

how proud I should be — not just because of where I have come from and where I

am going, but because of where they are. The fact that they survive in the world in

which they live is something to be very proud of, indeed. It inspires within me a

sense of tenacity and accomplishment that I hope every college graduate will

someday possess.

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Mrs. Flowers from I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou

For nearly a year, I sopped around the house, the Store, the school, and the church,

like an old biscuit, dirty and inedible. Then I met, or rather got to know, the lady

who threw me my first lifeline.

Mrs. Bertha Flowers was the aristocrat of Black Stamps. She had the grace of

control to appear warm in the coldest weather, and on the Arkansas summer days it

seemed she had a private breeze which swirled around, cooling her. She was thin

without the taut look of wiry people, and her printed voile dresses and flowered hats

were as right for her as denim overalls for a farmer. She was our side’s answer to

the richest white woman in town.

Her skin was a rich black that would have peeled like a plum if snagged, but then

no one would have thought of getting close enough to Mrs. Flowers to ruffle her

dress, let alone snag her skin. She didn’t encourage familiarity. She wore gloves

too.

I don’t think I ever saw Mrs. Flowers laugh, but she smiled often. A slow widening

of her thin black lips to show even, small white teeth, then the slow effortless

closing. When she chose to smile on me, I always wanted to thank her. The action

was so graceful and inclusively benign.

She was one of the few gentlewomen I have ever known, and has remained

throughout my life the measure of what a human being can be.

One summer afternoon, sweet-milk fresh in my memory, she stopped at the Store to

buy provisions. Another Negro woman of her health and age would have been

expected to carry the paper sacks home in one hand, but Momma said, “Sister

Flowers, I’ll send Bailey up to your house with these things.”

She smiled that slow dragging smile, “Thank you, Mrs. Henderson. I’d prefer

Marguerite, though.” My name was beautiful when she said it. “I’ve been meaning

to talk to her, anyway.” They gave each other age-group looks.

There was a little path beside the rocky road, and Mrs. Flowers walked in front

swinging her arms and picking her way over the stones.

She said, without turning her head, to me, “I hear you’re doing very good

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schoolwork, Marguerite, but that it’s all written. The teachers report that they have

trouble getting you to talk in class.” We passed the triangular farm on our left and

the path widened to allow us to walk together. I hung back in the separate unasked

and unanswerable questions.

“Come and walk along with me, Marguerite.” I couldn’t have refused even if I

wanted to. She pronounced my name so nicely. Or more correctly, she spoke each

word with such clarity that I was certain a foreigner who didn’t understand English

could have understood her.

“Now no one is going to make you talk—possibly no one can. But bear in mind,

language is man’s way of communicating with his fellow man and it is language

alone which separates him from the lower animals.” That was a totally new idea to

me, and I would need time to think about it.

“Your grandmother says you read a lot. Every chance you get. That’s good, but not

good enough. Words mean more than what is set down on paper. It takes the human

voice to infuse them with the shades of deeper meaning.”

I memorized the part about the human voice infusing words. It seemed so valid and

poetic.

She said she was going to give me some books and that I not only must read them, I

must read them aloud. She suggested that I try to make a sentence sound in as many

different ways as possible.

“I’ll accept no excuse if you return a book to me that has been badly handled.” My

imagination boggled at the punishment I would deserve if in fact I did abuse a book

of Mrs. Flowers’s. Death would be too kind and brief.

The odors in the house surprised me. Somehow I had never connected Mrs. Flowers

with food or eating or any other common experience of common people. There

must have been an outhouse, too, but my mind never recorded it.

The sweet scent of vanilla had met us as she opened the door.

“I made tea cookies this morning. You see, I had planned to invite you for cookies

and lemonade so we could have this little chat. The lemonade is in the icebox.”

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It followed that Mrs. Flowers would have ice on an ordinary day, when most

families in our town bought ice late on Saturdays only a few times during the

summer to be used in the wooden ice cream freezers.

She took the bags from me and disappeared through the kitchen door. I looked

around the room that I had never in my wildest fantasies imagined I would see.

Browned photographs leered or threatened from the walls and the white, freshly

done curtains pushed against themselves and against the wind. I wanted to gobble

up the room entire and take it to Bailey, who would help me analyze and enjoy it.

“Have a seat, Marguerite. Over there by the table.” She carried a platter covered

with a tea towel. Although she warned that she hadn’t tried her hand at baking

sweets for some time, I was certain that like everything else about her the cookies

would be perfect.

They were flat round wafers, slightly browned on the edges and butter-yellow in the

center. With the cold lemonade they were sufficient for childhood’s lifelong diet.

Remembering my manners, I took nice little ladylike bites off the edges. She said

she had made them expressly for me and that she had a few in the kitchen that I

could take home to my brother. So I jammed one whole cake in my mouth and the

rough crumbs scratched the insides of my jaws, and if I hadn’t had to swallow, it

would have been a dream come true.

As I ate she began the first of what we later called “my lessons in living.” She said

that I must always be intolerant of ignorance but understanding of illiteracy. That

some people, unable to go to school, were more educated and even more intelligent

than college professors. She encouraged me to listen carefully to what country

people called mother wit. That in those homely sayings was couched the collective

wisdom of generations.

When I finished the cookies she brushed off the table and brought a thick, small

book from the bookcase. I had read A Tale of Two Cities and found it up to my

standards as a romantic novel. She opened the first page and I heard poetry for the

first time in my life.

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. . . .” Her voice slid in and curved

down through and over the words. She was nearly singing. I wanted to look at the

pages. Were they the same that I had read? Or were there notes, music, lined on the

pages, as in a hymn book? Her sounds began cascading gently. I knew from

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listening to a thousand preachers that she was nearing the end of her reading, and I

hadn’t really heard, heard to understand, a single word.

“How do you like that?”

It occurred to me that she expected a response. The sweet vanilla flavor was still on

my tongue and her reading was a wonder in my ears. I had to speak.

I said, “Yes, ma’am.” It was the least I could do, but it was the most also.

“There’s one more thing. Take this book of poems and memorize one for me. Next

time you pay me a visit, I want you to recite.”

I have tried often to search behind the sophistication of years for the enchantment I

so easily found in those gifts. The essence escapes but its aura remains. To be

allowed, no, invited, into the private lives of strangers, and to share their joys and

fears, was a chance to exchange the Southern bitter wormwood for a cup of mead

with Beowulf or a hot cup of tea and milk with Oliver Twist. When I said aloud, “It

is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done . . .” tears of love filled my

eyes at my selflessness.

On that first day, I ran down the hill and into the road (few cars ever came along it)

and had the good sense to stop running before I reached the Store.

I was liked, and what a difference it made. I was respected not as Mrs. Henderson’s

grandchild or Bailey’s sister but for just being Marguerite Johnson.

Childhood’s logic never asks to be proved (all conclusions are absolute). I didn’t

question why Mrs. Flowers had singled me out for attention, nor did it occur to me

that Momma might have asked her to give me a little talking-to. All I cared about

was that she had made tea cookies for me and read to me from her favorite book. It

was enough to prove that she liked me.

THE END

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Eleven By Sandra Cisneros

What they don’t understand about birthdays and what they never tell you is that

when you’re eleven, you’re also ten, and nine, and eight, and seven, and six, and

five, and four, and three, and two, and one. And when you wake up on your

eleventh birthday you expect to feel eleven, but you don’t. You open your eyes and

everything’s just like yesterday, only it’s today. And you don’t feel eleven at all.

You feel like you’re still ten. And you are—underneath the year that makes you

eleven.

Like some days you might say something stupid, and that’s the part of you that’s

still ten. Or maybe some days you might need to sit on your mama’s lap because

you’re scared, and that’s the part of you that’s five. And maybe one day when

you’re all grown up maybe you will need to cry like if you’re three, and that’s okay.

That’s what I tell Mama when she’s sad and needs to cry. Maybe she’s feeling

three.

Because the way you grow old is kind of like an onion or like the rings inside a tree

trunk or like my little wooden dolls that fit one inside the other, each year inside the

next one. That’s how being eleven years old is.

You don’t feel eleven. Not right away. It takes a few days, weeks even, sometimes

even months before you say Eleven when they ask you. And you don’t feel smart

eleven, not until you’re almost twelve. That’s the way it is.

Only today I wish I didn’t have only eleven years rattling inside me like pennies in

a tin Band-Aid box. Today I wish I was one hundred and two instead of eleven

because if I was one hundred and two I’d have known what to say when Mrs. Price

put the red sweater on my desk. I would’ve known how to tell her it wasn’t mine

instead of just sitting there with that look on my face and nothing coming out of my

mouth.

“Whose is this?” Mrs. Price says, and she holds the red sweater up in the air for all

the class to see. “Whose? It’s been sitting in the coatroom for a month.”

“Not mine,” says everybody. “Not me.”

“It has to belong to somebody,” Mrs. Price keeps saying, but nobody can remember.

It’s an ugly sweater with red plastic buttons and a collar and sleeves all stretched

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out like you could use it for a jump rope. It’s maybe a thousand years old and even

if it belonged to me I wouldn’t say so.

Maybe because I’m skinny, maybe because she doesn’t like me, that stupid Sylvia

Saldivar says, “I think it belongs to Rachel.” An ugly sweater like that, all raggedy

and old, but Mrs. Price believes her. Mrs. Price takes the sweater and puts it right

on my desk, but when I open my mouth nothing comes out.

“That’s not, I don’t, you’re not . . . Not mine,” I finally say in a little voice that was

maybe me when I was four.

“Of course it’s yours,” Mrs. Price says, “I remember you wearing it once.” Because

she’s older and the teacher, she’s right and I’m not.

Not mine, not mine, not mine, but Mrs. Price is already turning to page thirty-two,

and math problem number four. I don’t know why but all of a sudden I’m feeling

sick inside, like the part of me that’s three wants to come out of my eyes, only I

squeeze them shut tight and bite down on my teeth real hard and try to remember

today I am eleven, eleven. Mama is making a cake for me for tonight, and when

Papa comes home everybody will sing Happy birthday, happy birthday to you.

But when the sick feeling goes away and I open my eyes, the red sweater’s still

sitting there like a big red mountain. I move the red sweater to the corner of my

desk with my ruler. I move my pencil and books and eraser as far from it as

possible. I even move my chair a little to the right. Not mine, not mine, not mine.

In my head I’m thinking how long till lunchtime, how long till I can take the red

sweater and throw it over the schoolyard fence, or leave it hanging on a parking

meter, or bunch it up into a little ball and toss it in the alley. Except when math

period ends Mrs. Price says loud and in front of everybody, “Now, Rachel, that’s

enough,” because she sees I’ve shoved the red sweater to the tippy-tip corner of my

desk and it’s hanging all over the edge like a waterfall, but I don’t care.

“Rachel,” Mrs. Price says. She says it like she’s getting mad. “You put that sweater

on right now and no more nonsense.”

“But it’s not—“

“Now!” Mrs. Price says.

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This is when I wish I wasn’t eleven, because all the years inside of me—ten, nine,

eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, and one—are pushing at the back of my eyes

when I put one arm through one sleeve of the sweater that smells like cottage

cheese, and then the other arm through the other and stand there with my arms apart

like if the sweater hurts me and it does, all itchy and full of germs that aren’t mine.

That’s when everything I’ve been holding in since this morning, since when Mrs.

Price put the sweater on my desk, finally lets go, and all of a sudden I’m crying in

front of everybody. I wish I was invisible but I’m not. I’m eleven and it’s my

birthday today and I’m crying like I’m three in front of everybody. I put my head

down on the desk and bury my face in my stupid clown-sweater arms. My face all

hot and spit coming out of my mouth because I can’t stop the little animal noises

from coming out of me, until there aren’t any more tears left in my eyes, and it’s

just my body shaking like when you have the hiccups, and my whole head hurts like

when you drink milk too fast.

But the worst part is right before the bell rings for lunch. That stupid Phyllis Lopez,

who is even dumber than Sylvia Saldivar, says she remembers the red sweater is

hers! I take it off right away and give it to her, only Mrs. Price pretends like

everything’s okay.

Today I’m eleven. There’s a cake Mama’s making for tonight, and when Papa

comes home from work we’ll eat it. There’ll be candles and presents and everybody

will sing Happy birthday, happy birthday to you, Rachel, only it’s too late.

I’m eleven today. I’m eleven, ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, and

one, but I wish I was one hundred and two. I wish I was anything but eleven,

because I want today to be far away already, far away like a runaway balloon, like a

tiny o in the sky, so tiny-tiny you have to close your eyes to see it.

From Woman Hollering Creek Copyright © 1991 by Sandra Cisneros. Reprinted by

permission of Susan Bergholtz Literary Services, New York. All rights reserved.

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Recitatif by Toni Morrison

My mother danced all night and Roberta's was sick. That's why we were taken to

St. Bonny's. People want to put their arms around you when you tell them you were

in a shelter, but it really wasn't bad. No big long room with one hundred beds like

Bellevue. There were four to a room, and when Roberta and me came, there was a

shortage of state kids, so we were the only ones assigned to 406 and could go from

bed to bed if we wanted to. And we wanted to, too. We changed beds every night

and for the whole four months we were there we never picked one out as our own

permanent bed.

It didn't start out that way. The minute I walked in and the Big Bozo introduced

us, I got sick to my stomach. It was one thing to be taken out of your own bed early

in the morning-it was something else to be stuck in a strange place with a girl from

a whole other race. And Mary, that's my mother, she was right. Every now and then

she would stop dancing long enough to tell me something important and one of the

things she said was that they never washed their hair and they smelled funny.

Roberta sure did. Smell funny, I mean. So when the Big Bozo (nobody ever called

her Mrs. Itkin, just like nobody every said St. Bonaventure)-when she said, "Twyla,

this is Roberta. Roberta, this is Twyla. Make each other welcome." I said, "My

mother won't like you putting me in here."

"Good," said Bozo. "Maybe then she'll come and take you home."

How's that for mean? If Roberta had laughed I would have killed her, but she

didn't. She just walked over to the window and stood with her back to us."

Turn around," said the Bozo. "Don't be rude. Now Twyla. Roberta. When you

hear a loudbuzzer, that's the call for dinner. Come down to the first floor. Any fights

and no movie." And then, just to make sure we knew what we would be missing,

"The Wizard of Oz.

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"Roberta must have thought I meant that my mother would be mad about my

being put in the shelter. Not about rooming with her, because as soon as Bozo left

she came over to me and said, "Is your mother sick too?"

"No," I said. "She just likes to dance all night."

"Oh," she nodded her head and I liked the way she understood things so fast. So

for the moment it didn't matter that we looked like salt and pepper standing there

and that's what the other kids called us sometimes. We were eight years old and got

F's all the time. Me because I couldn't remember what I read or what the teacher

said. And Roberta because she couldn't read at all and didn't even listen to the

teacher. She wasn't good at anything except jacks, at which she was a killer: pow

scoop pow scoop pow scoop.

We didn't like each other all that much at first, but nobody else wanted to play

with us because we weren't real orphans with beautiful dead parents in the sky. We

were dumped. Even the New York City Puerto Ricans and the upstate Indians

ignored us. All kinds of kids were in there, black ones, white ones, even two

Koreans. The food was good, though. At least I thought so. Roberta hated it and left

whole pieces of things on her plate: Spam, Salisbury steak-even jello with fruit

cocktail in it, and she didn't care if I ate what she wouldn't. Mary's idea of supper

was popcorn and a can of Yoo-Hoo. Hot mashed potatoes and two weenies was like

Thanksgiving for me.

It really wasn't bad, St. Bonny's. The big girls on the second floor pushed us

around now and then. But that was all. They wore lipstick and eyebrow pencil and

wobbled their knees while they watched TV. Fifteen, sixteen, even, some of them

were. They were put-out girls, scared runaways most of them. Poor little girls who

fought their uncles off but looked tough to us, and mean. Goddid they look mean.

The staff tried to keep them separate from the younger children, but sometimes they

caught us watching them in the orchard where they played radios and danced with

each other. They'd light out after us and pull our hair or twist our arms. We were

scared of them, Roberta and me, but neither of us wanted the other one to know it.

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So we got a good list of dirty names we could shout back when we ran from them

through the orchard. I used to dream a lot and almost always the orchard was there.

Two acres, four maybe, of these little apple trees. Hundreds of them. Empty and

crooked like beggar women when I first came to St. Bonny's but fat with flowers

when I left. I don't know why I dreamt about that orchard so much. Nothing really

happened there. Nothing all that important, I mean. Just the big girls dancing and

playing the radio. Roberta and me watching. Maggie fell down there once. The

kitchen woman with legs like parentheses. And the big girls laughed at her. We

should have helped her up, I know, but we were scared of those girls with lipstick

and eyebrow pencil. Maggie couldn't talk. The kids said she had her tongue cut out,

but I think she was just born that way: mute. She was old and sandy-colored and she

worked in the kitchen. I don't know if she was nice or not. I just remember her legs

like parentheses and how she rocked when she walked. She worked from early in

the morning till two o'clock, and if she was late, if she had too much cleaning and

didn't get out till two-fifteen or so, she'd cut through the orchard so she wouldn't

miss her bus and have to wait another hour. She wore this really stupid little hat-a

kid's hat with ear flaps-and she wasn't much taller than we were. A really awful

little hat. Even for a mute, it was dumb-dressing like a kid and never saying

anything at all."

But what about if somebody tries to kill her?" I used to wonder about that. "Or

what if she wants to cry? Can she cry?"

"Sure," Roberta said. "But just tears. No sounds come out."

"She can't scream?"

"Nope. Nothing."

"Can she hear?"

"I guess."

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"Let's call her," I said. And we did.

"Dummy! Dummy!" She never turned her head

"Bow legs! Bow legs!" Nothing. She just rocked on, the chin straps of her baby-

boy hat swaying from side to side. I think we were wrong. I think she could hear

and didn't let on. And it shames me even now to think there was somebody in there

after all who heard us call her those names and couldn't tell on us.

We got along all right, Roberta and me. Changed beds every night, got F's in

civics and communication skills and gym. The Bozo was disappointed in us, she

said. Out of 130 of us statecases, 90 were under twelve. Almost all were real

orphans with beautiful dead parents in the sky. We were the only ones dumped and

the only ones with F's in three classes including gym. So we got along-what with

her leaving whole pieces of things on her plate and being nice about no tasking

questions.

I think it was the day before Maggie fell down that we found out our mothers

were coming to visit us on the same Sunday. We had been at the shelter twenty-

eight days (Roberta twenty-eight and a half) and this was their first visit with us.

Our mothers would come at ten o'clock in time for chapel, then lunch with us in the

teachers' lounge. I thought if my dancing mother met her sick mother it might be

good for her. And Roberta thought her sick mother would get a big bang out of a

dancing one. We got excited about it and curled each other's hair. After breakfast

we sat on the bed watching the road from the window. Roberta's socks were still

wet. She washed them the night before and put them on the radiator to dry. They

hadn't, but she put them on anyway because their tops were so pretty- scalloped in

pink. Each of us had a purple construction-paper basket that we had made in craft

class. Mine had a yellow crayon rabbit on it. Roberta's had eggs with wiggly lines

of color. Inside were cellophane grass and just the jelly beans because I'd eaten the

two marshmallow eggs they gave us. The Big Bozo came herself to get us. Smiling

she told us we looked very nice and to come downstairs. We were so surprised by

the smile we'd never seen before, neither of us moved.

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"Don't you want to see your mommies?"

I stood up first and spilled the jelly beans all over the floor. Bozo's smile

disappeared while we scrambled to get the candy up off the floor and put it back in

the grass.

She escorted us downstairs to the first floor, where the other girls were lining up

to file into the chapel. A bunch of grown-ups stood to one side. Viewers mostly.

The old biddies who wanted servants and the fags who wanted company looking for

children they might want to adopt. Once in a while a grandmother. Almost never

anybody young or anybody whose face wouldn't scare you in the night. Because if

any of the real orphans had young relatives they wouldn't be real orphans. I saw

Mary right away. She had on those green slacks I hated and hated even more now

because didn't she know we were going to chapel? And that fur jacket with the

pocket linings so ripped she had to pull to get her hands out of them. But her face

was pretty-like always, and she smiled and waved like she was the little girl looking

for her mother- not me.

I walked slowly, trying not to drop the jelly beans and hoping the paper handle

would hold. I had to use my last Chiclet because by the time I finished cutting

everything out, all the Elmer's was gone. I am left-handed and the scissors never

worked for me. It didn't matter, though; I might just as well have chewed the gum.

Mary dropped to her knees and grabbed me, mashing the basket, the jelly beans,

and the grass into her ratty fur jacket.

"Twyla, baby. Twyla, baby!"

I could have killed her. Already I heard the big girls in the orchard the next time

saying, "Twyyyyyla, baby!" But I couldn't stay mad at Mary while she was smiling

and hugging me and smelling of Lady Esther dusting powder. I wanted to stay

buried in her fur all day.

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To tell the truth I forgot about Roberta. Mary and I got in line for the traipse into

chapel and I was feeling proud because she looked so beautiful even in those ugly

green slacks that made her behind stick out. A pretty mother on earth is better than a

beautiful dead one in the sky even if she did leave you all alone to go dancing.

I felt a tap on my shoulder, turned, and saw Roberta smiling. I smiled back, but

not too much lest somebody think this visit was the biggest thing that ever

happened in my life. Then Roberta said, "Mother, I want you to meet my roommate,

Twyla. And that's Twyla's mother."

I looked up it seemed for miles. She was big. Bigger than any man and on her

chest was the biggest cross I'd ever seen. I swear it was six inches long each way.

And in the crook of her arm was the biggest Bible ever made.

Mary, simple-minded as ever, grinned and tried to yank her hand out of the

pocket with the raggedy lining-to shake hands, I guess. Roberta's mother looked

down at me and then looked down at Mary too. She didn't say anything, just

grabbed Roberta with her Bible-free hand and stepped tout of line, walking quickly

to the rear of it. Mary was still grinning because she's not too swift when it comes to

what's really going on. Then this light bulb goes off in her head and she says "That

bitch!" really loud and us almost in the chapel now. Organ music whining; the

Bonny Angels singing sweetly. Everybody in the world turned around to look. And

Mary would have kept it up-kept calling names if I hadn't squeezed her hand as

hard as I could. That helped a little, but she still twitched and crossed and uncrossed

her legs all through service. Even groaned a couple of times. Why did I think she

would come there and act right? Slacks. No hat like the grandmothers and viewers,

and groaning all the while. When we stood for hymns she kept her mouth shut.

Wouldn't even look at the words on the page. She actually reached in her purse for a

mirror to check her lipstick. All I could think of was that she really needed to be

killed. The sermon lasted a year, and I knew the real orphans were looking smug

again.

We were supposed to have lunch in the teachers' lounge, but Mary didn't bring

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anything, so we picked fur and cellophane grass off the mashed jelly beans and ate

them. I could have killed her. I sneaked a look at Roberta. Her mother had brought

chicken legs and ham sandwiches and oranges and a whole box of chocolate-

covered grahams. Roberta drank milk from a thermos while her mother read the

Bible to her.

Things are not right. The wrong food is always with the wrong people. Maybe

that's why I got into waitress work later-to match up the right people with the right

food. Roberta just let those chicken legs sit there, but she did bring a stack of

grahams up to me later when the visit was over. I think she was sorry that her

mother would not shake my mother's hand. And I liked that and I liked the fact that

she didn't say a word about Mary groaning all the way through the service and not

bringing any lunch.

Roberta left in May when the apple trees were heavy and white. On her last day

we went to the orchard to watch the big girls smoke and dance by the radio. It didn't

matter that they said, "Twyyyyyla, baby." We sat on the ground and breathed. Lady

Esther. Apple blossoms. I still go soft when I smell one or the other. Roberta was

going home. The big cross and the big Bible was coming to get her and she seemed

sort of glad and sort of not. I thought I would die in that room of four beds without

her and I knew Bozo had plans to move some other dumped kid in there with me.

Roberta promised to write every day, which was really sweet of her because she

couldn't read a lick so how could she write anybody. I would have drawn pictures

and sent them to her but she never gave me her address. Little by little she faded.

Her wet socks with the pink scalloped tops and her big serious-looking eyes-that's

all I could catch when I tried to bring her to mind.

I was working behind the counter at the Howard Johnson's on the Thruway just

before the Kingston exit. Not a bad job. Kind of a long ride from Newburgh, but

okay once I got there. Mine was the second night shift-eleven to seven. Very light

until a Greyhound checked in for breakfast around six-thirty. At that hour the sun

was all the way clear of the hills behind the restaurant. The place looked better at

night-more like shelter- but I loved it when the sun broke in, even if it did show all

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the cracks in the vinyl and the speckled floor looked dirty no matter what the mop

boy did.

It was August and a bus crowd was just unloading. They would stand around a

long while: going to the john, and looking at gifts and junk-for-sale machines,

reluctant to sit down so soon. Even to eat. I was trying to fill the coffee pots and get

them all situated on the electric burners when I saw her. She was sitting in a booth

smoking a cigarette with two guys smothered in head and facial hair. Her own hair

was so big and wild I could hardly see her face. But the eyes. I would know them

anywhere. She had on a powder-blue halter and shorts outfit and earrings the size of

bracelets. Talk about lipstick and eyebrow pencil. She made the big girls look like

nuns. I couldn't get off the counter until seven o'clock, but I kept watching the booth

in case they got up to leave before that. My replacement was on time for a change,

so I counted and stacked my receipts as fast as I could and signed off. I walked over

to the booths, smiling and wondering if she would remember me. Or even if she

wanted to remember me. Maybe she didn't want to be reminded of St. Bonny's or to

have anybody know she was ever there. I know I never talked about it to anybody.

I put my hands in my apron pockets and leaned against the back of the booth

facing them.

"Roberta? Roberta Fisk?"

She looked up. "Yeah?"

"Twyla."

She squinted for a second and then said, "Wow."

"Remember me?"

"Sure. Hey. Wow."

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"It's been a while," I said, and gave a smile to the two hairy guys.

"Yeah. Wow. You work here?"

"Yeah," I said. "I live in Newburgh."

"Newburgh? No kidding?" She laughed then a private laugh that included the

guys but only the guys, and they laughed with her. What could I do but laugh too

and wonder why I was standing there with my knees showing out from under that

uniform. Without looking I could see the blue and white triangle on my head, my

hair shapeless in a net, my ankles thick in white oxfords. Nothing could have been

less sheer than my stockings. There was this silence that came downright after I

laughed. A silence it was her turn to fill up. With introductions, maybe, to her

boyfriends or an invitation to sit down and have a Coke. Instead she lit a cigarette

off the one she'd just finished and said, "We're on our way to the Coast. He's got an

appointment with Hendrix."

She gestured casually toward the boy next to her.

"Hendrix Fantastic," I said. "Really fantastic. What's she doing now?"

Roberta coughed on her cigarette and the two guys rolled their eyes up at the

ceiling."

Hendrix. Jimi Hendrix, asshole. He's only the biggest-Oh, wow. Forget it."

I was dismissed without anyone saying goodbye, so I thought I would do it for

her.

"How's your mother?" I asked. Her grin cracked her whole face. She swallowed.

"Fine," she said. "How's yours?"

"Pretty as a picture," I said and turned away. The backs of my knees were damp.

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Howard Johnson's really was a dump in the sunlight.

James is as comfortable as a house slipper. He liked my cooking and I liked his

big loud family. They have lived in Newburgh all of their lives and talk about it the

way people do who have always known a home. His grandmother is a porch swing

older than his father and when they talk about streets and avenues and buildings

they call them names they no longer have. They still call the A & P Rico's because

it stands on property once a mom and pop store owned by Mr. Rico. And they call

the new community college Town Hall because it once was. My mother-in-law puts

up jelly and cucumbers and buys butter wrapped in cloth from a dairy. James and

his father talk about fishing and baseball and I can see them all together on the

Hudson in a raggedy skiff. Half the population of Newburgh is on welfare now, but

to my husband's family it was still some upstate paradise of a time long past. A time

of ice houses and vegetable wagons, coal furnaces and children weeding gardens.

When our son was born my mother-in-law gave me the crib blanket that had been

hers.

But the town they remembered had changed. Something quick was in the air.

Magnificent old houses, so ruined they had become shelter for squatters and rent

risks, were bought and renovated. Smart IBM people moved out of their suburbs

back into the city and put shutters up and herb gardens in their backyards. A

brochure came in the mail announcing the opening of a Food Emporium. Gourmet

food it said-and listed items the rich IBM crowd would want. It was located in a

new mall at the edge of town and I drove out to shop there one day-just to see. It

was late in June. After the tulips were gone and the Queen Elizabeth roses were

open everywhere. It railed my cart along the aisle tossing in smoked oysters and

Robert's sauce and things I knew would sit in my cupboard for years. Only when I

found some Klondike ice cream bars did I feel less guilty about spending James's

fireman's salary so foolishly. My father-in-law ate them with the same gusto little

Joseph did.

Waiting in the check-out line I heard a voice say, "Twyla!"

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The classical music piped over the aisles had affected me and the woman leaning

toward me was dressed to kill. Diamonds on her hand, a smart white summer dress.

"I'm Mrs. Benson," I said.

"Ho. Ho. The Big Bozo," she sang.

For a split second I didn't know what she was talking about. She had a bunch of

asparagus and two cartons of fancy water.

"Roberta!"

"Right."

"For heaven's sake. Roberta."

"You look great," she said.

"So do you. Where are you? Here? In Newburgh?"

"Yes. Over in Annandale."

I was opening my mouth to say more when the cashier called my attention to her

empty counter.

"Meet you outside." Roberta pointed her finger and went into the express line.

I placed the groceries and kept myself from glancing around to check Roberta's

progress. I remembered Howard Johnson's and looking for a chance to speak only

to be greeted with a stingy "wow." But she was waiting for me and her huge hair

was sleek now, smooth around a small, nicely shaped head. Shoes, dress, everything

lovely and summery and rich. I was dying to know what happened to her, how she

got from Jimi Hendrix to Annandale, a neighborhood full of doctors and IBM

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executives. Easy, I thought. Everything is so easy for them. They think they own

the world.

"How long," I asked her. "How long have you been here?"

"A year. I got married to a man who lives here. And you, you're married too,

right? Benson, you said."

"Yeah. James Benson."

"And is he nice?"

"Oh, is he nice?"

"Well, is he?" Roberta's eyes were steady as though she really meant the question

and wanted an answer."

He's wonderful, Roberta. Wonderful."

"So you're happy."

"Very."

"That's good," she said and nodded her head. "I always hoped you'd be happy.

Any kids? I know you have kids."

"One. A boy. How about you?"

"Four."

"Four?"

She laughed. "Step kids. He's a widower."

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"Oh."

"Got a minute? Let's have a coffee."

I thought about the Klondikes melting and the inconvenience of going all the way

to my car and putting the bags in the trunk. Served me right for buying all that stuff

I didn't need. Roberta was ahead of me."

Put them in my car. It's right here."

And then I saw the dark blue limousine.

"You married a Chinaman?"

"No," she laughed. "He's the driver."

"Oh, my. If the Big Bozo could see you now."

We both giggled. Really giggled. Suddenly, in just a pulse beat, twenty years

disappeared and all of it came rushing back. The big girls (whom we called gar

girls-Roberta's misheard word for the evil stone faces described in a civics class)

there dancing in the orchard, the ploppy mashed potatoes, the double weenies, the

Spam with pineapple. We went into the coffee shop holding onto one another and I

tried to think why we were glad to see each other this time and not before. Once,

twelve years ago, we passed like strangers. A black girl and a white girl meeting in

a Howard Johnson's on the road and having nothing to say. One in a blue and white

triangle waitresshat-the other on her way to see, Hendrix. Now we were behaving

like sisters separated for much too long. Those four short months were nothing in

time. Maybe it was the thing itself. Just being there, together. Two little girls who

knew what nobody else in the world knew-how not to ask questions. How to believe

what had to be believed. There was politeness in that reluctance and generosity as

well. Is your mother sick too? No, she dances all night. Oh--and an understanding

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nod.

We sat in a booth by the window and fell into recollection like veterans."

Did you ever learn to read?"

"Watch." She picked up the menu. "Special of the day. Cream of corn soup.

Entrees. Two dots and a wriggly line. Quiche. Chef salad, scallops . . .

I was laughing and applauding when the waitress came up.

"Remember the Easter baskets?"

"And how we tried to introduce them?"

"Your mother with that cross like two telephone poles."

"And yours with those tight slacks."

We laughed so loudly heads turned and made the laughter harder to suppress."

What happened to the Jimi Hendrix date?"

Roberta made a blow-out sound with her lips."

When he died I thought about you."

"Oh, you heard about him finally?"

"Finally. Come on, I was a small-town country waitress."

"And I was a small-town country dropout. God, were we wild. I still don't know

how I got out of there alive."

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"But you did."

"I did. I really did. Now I'm Mrs. Kenneth Norton."

"Sounds like a mouthful."

"It is."

"Servants and all?"

Roberta held up two fingers.

"Ow! What does he do?"

"Computers and stuff. What do I know?"

"I don't remember a hell of a lot from those days, but Lord, St. Bonny's is as clear

as daylight. Remember Maggie? The day she fell down and those gar girls laughed

at her?"

Roberta looked up from her salad and stared at me. "Maggie didn't fall," she

said."

Yes, she did. You remember."

"No, Twyla. They knocked her down. Those girls pushed her down and tore her

clothes. In the orchard."

"I don't--that's not what happened."

"Sure it is. In the orchard. Remember how scared we were?"

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"Wait a minute. I don't remember any of that."

"And Bozo was fired."

"You're crazy. She was there when I left. You left before me."

"I went back. You weren't there when they fired Bozo."

"What?"

"Twice. Once for a year when I was about ten, another for two months when I

was fourteen. That's when I ran away."

"You ran away from St. Bonny's?"

"I had to. What do you want? Me dancing in that orchard?"

"Are you sure about Maggie?"

"Of course I'm sure. You've blocked it, Twyla. It happened. Those girls had

behavior problems, you know."

"Didn't they, though. But why can't I remember the Maggie thing?"

"Believe me. It happened. And we were there."

"Who did you room with when you went back?" I asked her as if I would know

her. The Maggie thing was troubling me."

Creeps. They tickled themselves in the night."

My ears were itching and I wanted to go home suddenly. This was all very well

but she couldn't just comb her hair, wash her face and pretend everything was

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hunky-dory. After the Howard Johnson's snub. And no apology. Nothing.

"Were you on dope or what that time at Howard Johnson's?" I tried to make my

voice sound friendlier than I felt."

Maybe, a little. I never did drugs much. Why?"

"I don't know; you acted sort of like you didn't want to know me then."

"Oh, Twyla, you know how it was in those days: black-white. You know how

everything was."

But I didn't know. I thought it was just the opposite. Busloads of blacks and

whites came into Howard Johnson's together. They roamed together then: students,

musicians, lovers, protesters. You got to see everything at Howard Johnson's and

blacks were very friendly with whites in those days. But sitting there with nothing

on my plate but two hard tomato wedges wondering about the melting Klondikes it

seemed childish remembering the slight. We went to her car, and with the help of

the driver, got my stuff into my station wagon.

"We'll keep in touch this time," she said.

"Sure," I said. "Sure. Give me a call."

"I will," she said, and then just as I was sliding behind the wheel, she leaned into

the window. "By the way. Your mother. Did she ever stop dancing?"

I shook my head. "No. Never."

Roberta nodded.

"And yours? Did she ever get well?"

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She smiled a tiny sad smile. "No. She never did. Look, call me, okay?"

"Okay," I said, but I knew I wouldn't. Roberta had messed up my past somehow

with that business about Maggie. I wouldn't forget a thing like that. Would I?

Strife came to us that fall. At least that's what the paper called it. Strife. Racial

strife. The word made me think of a bird-a big shrieking bird out of 1,000,000,000

B.C. Flapping its wings and cawing. Its eye with no lid always bearing down on

you. All day it screeched and at night it slept on the rooftops. It woke you in the

morning and from the Today show to the eleven o'clock news it kept you an awful

company. I couldn't figure it out from one day to the next. I knew I was supposed to

feel something strong, but I didn't know what, and James wasn't any help. Joseph

was on the list of kids to be transferred from the junior high school to another one at

some far-out-of-the-way place and I thought it was a good thing until I heard it was

a bad thing. I mean I didn't know. All the schools seemed dumps tome, and the fact

that one was nicer looking didn't hold much weight. But the papers were full of it

and then the kids began to get jumpy. In August, mind you. Schools weren't even

open yet. I thought Joseph might be frightened to go over there, but he didn't seem

scared so I forgot about it, until I found myself driving along Hudson Street out

there by the school they were trying to integrate and saw a line of women marching.

And who do you suppose was in line, big as life, holding a sign in front of her

bigger than her mother s cross? MOTHERS HAVE RIGHTS TOO! it said.

I drove on, and then changed my mind. I circled the block, slowed down, and

honked my horn.

Roberta looked over and when she saw me she waved. I didn't wave back, but I

didn't move either. She handed her sign to another woman and came over to where I

was parked."

Hi."

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"What are you doing?"

"Picketing. What's it look like?"

"What for?"

"What do you mean, 'What for?' They want to take my kids and send them out of

the neighborhood. They don't want to go."

"So what if they go to another school? My boy's being bussed too, and I don't

mind. Why should you?"

"It's not about us, Twyla. Me and you. It's about our kids."

"What's more us than that?"

"Well, it is a free country."

"Not yet, but it will be."

"What the hell does that mean? I'm not doing anything to you."

"You really think that?"

"I know it."

"I wonder what made me think you were different."

"I wonder what made me think you were different."

"Look at them," I said. "Just look. Who do they think they are? Swarming all

over the place like they own it. And now they think they can decide where my child

goes to school. Look at them, Roberta. They're Bozos."

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Roberta turned around and looked at the women. Almost all of them were

standing still now, waiting. Some were even edging toward us. Roberta looked at

me out of some refrigerator behind her eyes. "No, they're not. They're just mothers."

"And what am I? Swiss cheese?"

"I used to curl your hair."

"I hated your hands in my hair."

The women were moving. Our faces looked mean to them of course and they

looked as though they could not wait to throw themselves in front of a police car, or

better yet, into my car and drag me away by my ankles. Now they surrounded my

car and gently, gently began to rock it. I swayed back and forth like a sideways yo-

yo. Automatically I reached for Roberta, like the old days in the orchard when they

saw us watching them and we had to get out of there, and if one of us fell the other

pulled her up and if one of us was caught the other stayed to kick and scratch, and

neither would leave the other behind. My arm shot out of the car window but no

receiving hand was there. Roberta was looking at me sway from side to side in the

car and her face was still. My purse slid from the car seat down under the

dashboard. The four policemen who had been drinking Tab in their car finally got

the message and strolled over, forcing their way through the women. Quietly, firmly

they spoke. "Okay, ladies. Back in line or off the streets."

Some of them went away willingly; others had to be urged away from the car

doors and the hood. Roberta didn't move. She was looking steadily at me. I was

fumbling to turn on the ignition, which wouldn't catch because the gearshift was

still in drive. The seats of the car were a mess because the swaying had thrown my

grocery coupons all over it and my purse was sprawled on the floor."

Maybe I am different now, Twyla. But you're not. You're the same little state kid

who kicked a poor old black lady when she was down on the ground. You kicked a

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black lady and you have the nerve to call me a bigot."

The coupons were everywhere and the guts of my purse were bunched under the

dashboard. What was she saying? Black? Maggie wasn't black.

"She wasn't black," I said.

"Like hell she wasn't, and you kicked her. We both did. You kicked a black lady

who couldn't even scream."

"Liar!"

"You're the liar! Why don't you just go on home and leave us alone, huh?"

She turned away and I skidded away from the curb.

The next morning I went into the garage and cut the side out of the carton our

portable TV had come in. It wasn't nearly big enough, but after a while I had a

decent sign: red spray-painted letters on a white background-AND SO DO

CHILDREN****. I meant just to go down to the school and tack it up somewhere

so those cows on the picket line across the street could see it, but when I got there,

some ten or so others had already assembled- protesting the cows across the street.

Police permits and everything. I got in line and we strutted in time on our side while

Roberta's group strutted on theirs. That first day we were all dignified, pretending

the other side didn't exist. The second day there was name calling and finger

gestures. But that was about all. People changed signs from time to time, but

Roberta never did and neither did I. Actually my sign didn't make sense without

Roberta's. "And so do children what?" one of the women on my side asked me.

Have rights, I said, as though it was obvious.

Roberta didn't acknowledge my presence in any way and I got to thinking maybe

she didn't know I was there. I began to pace myself in the line, jostling people one

minute and lagging behind the next, so Roberta and I could reach the end of our

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respective lines at the same time and there would be a moment in our tum when we

would face each other. Still, I couldn't tell whether she saw meand knew my sign

was for her. The next day I went early before we were scheduled to assemble. I

waited until she got there before I exposed my new creation. As soon as she hoisted

her MOTHERS HAVE RIGHTS TOO I began to wave my new one, which said,

HOW WOULD YOU KNOW? I know she saw that one, but I had gotten addicted

now. My signs got crazier each day, and the women on my side decided that I was a

kook. They couldn't make heads or tails out of my brilliant screaming posters.

I brought a painted sign in queenly red with huge black letters that said, IS

YOUR MOTHER WELL? Roberta took her lunch break and didn't come back for

the rest of the day or any day after. Two days later I stopped going too and couldn't

have been missed because nobody understood my signs anyway.

It was a nasty six weeks. Classes were suspended and Joseph didn't go to

anybody's school until October. The children- everybody's children-soon got bored

with that extended vacation they thought was going to be so great. They looked at

TV until their eyes flattened. I spent a couple of mornings tutoring my son, as the

other mothers said we should. Twice I opened a text from last year that he had

never turned in. Twice he yawned in my face. Other mothers organized living room

sessions so the kids would keep up. None of the kids could concentrate so they

drifted back to The Price Is Right and The Brady Bunch. When the school finally

opened there were fights once or twice and some sirens roared through the streets

every once in a while. There were a lot of photographers from Albany. And just

when ABC was about to send up a news crew, the kids settled down like nothing in

the world had happened. Joseph hung my HOW WOULD YOU KNOW? sign in

his bedroom. I don't know what became of AND SO DO CHILDREN****. I think

my father-in-law cleaned some fish on it. He was always puttering around in our

garage. Each of his five children lived in Newburgh and he acted as though he had

five extra homes.

I couldn't help looking for Roberta when Joseph graduated from high school, but

I didn't see her. It didn't trouble me much what she had said to me in the car. I mean

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the kicking part. I know I didn't do that, I couldn't do that. But I was puzzled by her

telling me Maggie was black. When I thought about it I actually couldn't be certain.

She wasn't pitch-black, I knew, or I would have remembered that. What I remember

was the kiddie hat, and the semicircle legs. I tried to reassure myself about the race

thing for a long time until it dawned on me that the truth was already there, and

Roberta knew it. I didn't kick her; I didn't join in with the gar girls and kick that

lady, but I sure did want to. We watched and never tried to help her and never

called for help. Maggie was my dancing mother. Deaf, I thought, and dumb.

Nobody inside. Nobody who would hear you if you cried in the night. Nobody who

could tell you anything important that you could use. Rocking, dancing, swaying as

she walked. And when the gar girls pushed her down, and started roughhousing, I

knew she wouldn't scream, couldn't-just like me and I was glad about that.

We decided not to have a tree, because Christmas would be at my mother-in-

law's house, so why have a tree at both places? Joseph was at SUNY New Paltz and

we had to economize, we said. But at the last minute, I changed my mind. Nothing

could be that bad. So I rushed around town looking for a tree, something small but

wide. By the time I found a place, it was snowing and very late. I dawdled like it

was the most important purchase in the world and the tree man was fed up with me.

Finally I chose one and had it tied onto the trunk of the car. I drove away slowly

because the sand trucks were not out yet and the streets could be murder at the

beginning of a snowfall. Downtown the streets were wide and rather empty except

for a cluster of people coming out of the Newburgh Hotel. The one hotel in town

that wasn't built out of cardboard and Plexiglas. A party, probably. The men

huddled in the snow were dressed in tails and the women had on furs. Shiny things

glittered from underneath their coats. It made me tired to look at them. Tired, tired,

tired. On the next corner was a small diner with loops and loops of paper bells in

the window. I stopped the car and went in. Just for a cup of coffee and twenty

minutes of peace before I went home and tried to finish everything before

Christmas Eve.

"Twyla?"

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There she was. In a silvery evening gown and dark fur coat. A man and another

woman were with her, the man fumbling for change to put in the cigarette machine.

The woman was humming and tapping on the counter with her fingernails. They all

looked a little bit drunk.

"Well. It's you."

"How are you?"

I shrugged. "Pretty good. Frazzled. Christmas and all."

"Regular?" called the woman from the counter.

"Fine," Roberta called back and then, "Wait for me in the car."

She slipped into the booth beside me. "I have to tell you something, Twyla. I

made up my mind if I ever saw you again, I'd tell you."

"I'd just as soon not hear anything, Roberta. It doesn't matter now, anyway."

"No," she said. "Not about that."

"Don't be long," said the woman. She carried two regulars to go and the man

peeled his cigarette pack as they left.

"It's about St. Bonny's and Maggie."

"Oh, please."

"Listen to me. I really did think she was black. I didn't make that up. I really

thought so. But now I can't be sure. I just remember her as old, so old. And because

she couldn't talk- well, you know, I thought she was crazy. She'd been brought up in

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an institution like my mother was and like I thought I would be too. And you were

right. We didn't kick her. It was the gar girls. Only them. But, well, I wanted to. I

really wanted them to hurt her. I said we did it, too. You and me, but that's not true.

And I don't want you to carry that around. It was just that I wanted to do it so bad

that day-wanting to is doing it."

Her eyes were watery from the drinks she'd had, I guess. I know it's that way with

me. One glass of wine and I start bawling over the littlest thing.

"We were kids, Roberta."

"Yeah. Yeah. I know, just kids."

"Eight."

"Eight."

"And lonely."

"Scared, too."

She wiped her cheeks with the heel of her hand and smiled. "Well that's all I

wanted to say."

I nodded and couldn't think of any way to fill the silence that went from the diner

past the paperbells on out into the snow. It was heavy now. I thought I'd better wait

for the sand trucks before starting home.

"Thanks, Roberta."

"Sure."

"Did I tell you My mother, she never did stop dancing."

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"Yes. You told me. And mine, she never got well." Roberta lifted her hands from

the tabletop and covered her face with her palms. When she took them away she

really was crying. "Oh shit, Twyla. Shit, shit, shit. What the hell happened to

Maggie?"

1983

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The Gift of the Magi by O. Henry

One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in

pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the grocer and the

vegetable man and the butcher until one's cheeks burned with the

silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied. Three times Della

counted it. One dollar and eighty- seven cents. And the next day would be

Christmas.

There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and howl.

So Della did it. Which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs,

sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating.

While the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding from the first stage to the

second, take a look at the home. A furnished flat at $8 per week. It did not exactly

beggar description, but it certainly had that word on the lookout for

the mendicancy squad.

In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no letter would go, and an

electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring. Also appertaining

thereunto was a card bearing the name "Mr. James Dillingham Young."

The "Dillingham" had been flung to the breeze during a former period of prosperity

when its possessor was being paid $30 per week. Now, when the income was

shrunk to $20, though, they were thinking seriously of contracting to a modest and

unassuming D. But whenever Mr. James Dillingham Young came home and

reached his flat above he was called "Jim" and greatly hugged by Mrs. James

Dillingham Young, already introduced to you as Della. Which is all very good.

Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the powder rag. She stood by

the window and looked out dully at a gray cat walking a gray fence in a gray

backyard. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and she had only $1.87 with which

to buy Jim a present. She had been saving every penny she could for months, with

this result. Twenty dollars a week doesn't go far. Expenses had been greater than

she had calculated. They always are. Only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim.

Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him. Something

fine and rare and sterling--something just a little bit near to being worthy of the

honor of being owned by Jim.

There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you have seen a

pier-glass in an $8 flat. A very thin and very agile person may, by observing his

reflection in a rapid sequence of longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate

conception of his looks. Della, being slender, had mastered the art.

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Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. her eyes were

shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its color within twenty seconds. Rapidly she

pulled down her hair and let it fall to its full length.

Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in which they

both took a mighty pride. One was Jim's gold watch that had been his father's and

his grandfather's. The other was Della's hair. Had the queen of Sheba lived in the

flat across the airshaft, Della would have let her hair hang out the window some day

to dry just to depreciate Her Majesty's jewels and gifts. Had King Solomon been the

janitor, with all his treasures piled up in the basement, Jim would have pulled out

his watch every time he passed, just to see him pluck at his beard from envy.

So now Della's beautiful hair fell about her rippling and shining like a cascade of

brown waters. It reached below her knee and made itself almost a garment for her.

And then she did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered for a minute

and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet.

On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a whirl of skirts and

with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered out the door and down the

stairs to the street.

Where she stopped the sign read: "Mne. Sofronie. Hair Goods of All Kinds." One

flight up Della ran, and collected herself, panting. Madame, large, too white, chilly,

hardly looked the "Sofronie."

"Will you buy my hair?" asked Della.

"I buy hair," said Madame. "Take yer hat off and let's have a sight at the looks of

it."

Down rippled the brown cascade.

"Twenty dollars," said Madame, lifting the mass with a practised hand.

"Give it to me quick," said Della.

Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forget the hashed metaphor.

She was ransacking the stores for Jim's present.

She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else. There was no

other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a

platinum fob chain simple and chaste in design, properly proclaiming its value by

substance alone and not by meretricious ornamentation--as all good things should

do. It was even worthy of The Watch. As soon as she saw it she knew that it must

be Jim's. It was like him. Quietness and value--the description applied to both.

Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she hurried home with the 87

cents. With that chain on his watch Jim might be properly anxious about the time in

any company. Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly on

account of the old leather strap that he used in place of a chain.

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When Della reached home her intoxication gave way a little to prudence and

reason. She got out her curling irons and lighted the gas and went to work repairing

the ravages made by generosity added to love. Which is always a tremendous task,

dear friends--a mammoth task.

Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, close-lying curls that made

her look wonderfully like a truant schoolboy. She looked at her reflection in the

mirror long, carefully, and critically.

"If Jim doesn't kill me," she said to herself, "before he takes a second look at me,

he'll say I look like a Coney Island chorus girl. But what could I do--oh! what could

I do with a dollar and eighty- seven cents?"

At 7 o'clock the coffee was made and the frying-pan was on the back of the stove

hot and ready to cook the chops.

Jim was never late. Della doubled the fob chain in her hand and sat on the corner of

the table near the door that he always entered. Then she heard his step on the stair

away down on the first flight, and she turned white for just a moment. She had a

habit for saying little silent prayer about the simplest everyday things, and now she

whispered: "Please God, make him think I am still pretty."

The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and very serious.

Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two--and to be burdened with a family! He needed

a new overcoat and he was without gloves.

Jim stopped inside the door, as immovable as a setter at the scent of quail. His eyes

were fixed upon Della, and there was an expression in them that she could not read,

and it terrified her. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor

any of the sentiments that she had been prepared for. He simply stared at her fixedly

with that peculiar expression on his face.

Della wriggled off the table and went for him.

"Jim, darling," she cried, "don't look at me that way. I had my hair cut off and sold

because I couldn't have lived through Christmas without giving you a present. It'll

grow out again--you won't mind, will you? I just had to do it. My hair grows

awfully fast. Say `Merry Christmas!' Jim, and let's be happy. You don't know what

a nice-- what a beautiful, nice gift I've got for you."

"You've cut off your hair?" asked Jim, laboriously, as if he had not arrived at that

patent fact yet even after the hardest mental labor.

"Cut it off and sold it," said Della. "Don't you like me just as well, anyhow? I'm me

without my hair, ain't I?"

Jim looked about the room curiously.

"You say your hair is gone?" he said, with an air almost of idiocy.

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"You needn't look for it," said Della. "It's sold, I tell you--sold and gone, too. It's

Christmas Eve, boy. Be good to me, for it went for you. Maybe the hairs of my head

were numbered," she went on with sudden serious sweetness, "but nobody could

ever count my love for you. Shall I put the chops on, Jim?"

Out of his trance Jim seemed quickly to wake. He enfolded his Della. For ten

seconds let us regard with discreet scrutiny some inconsequential object in the other

direction. Eight dollars a week or a million a year--what is the difference? A

mathematician or a wit would give you the wrong answer. The magi brought

valuable gifts, but that was not among them. This dark assertion will be illuminated

later on.

Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon the table.

"Don't make any mistake, Dell," he said, "about me. I don't think there's anything in

the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that could make me like my girl any

less. But if you'll unwrap that package you may see why you had me going a while

at first."

White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And then an ecstatic scream

of joy; and then, alas! a quick feminine change to hysterical tears and wails,

necessitating the immediate employment of all the comforting powers of the lord of

the flat.

For there lay The Combs--the set of combs, side and back, that Della had

worshipped long in a Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell, with

jewelled rims--just the shade to wear in the beautiful vanished hair. They were

expensive combs, she knew, and her heart had simply craved and yearned over

them without the least hope of possession. And now, they were hers, but the tresses

that should have adorned the coveted adornments were gone.

But she hugged them to her bosom, and at length she was able to look up with dim

eyes and a smile and say: "My hair grows so fast, Jim!"

And them Della leaped up like a little singed cat and cried, "Oh, oh!"

Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him eagerly upon her

open palm. The dull precious metal seemed to flash with a reflection of her bright

and ardent spirit.

"Isn't it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You'll have to look at the

time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I want to see how it looks on

it."

Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands under the

back of his head and smiled.

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"Dell," said he, "let's put our Christmas presents away and keep 'em a while.

They're too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to get the money to buy your

combs. And now suppose you put the chops on."

The magi, as you know, were wise men--wonderfully wise men--who brought gifts

to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents.

Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of

exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the

uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed

for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of

these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. O all

who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest.

They are the magi.

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A Christmas Memory by Truman Capote

Imagine a morning in late November. A coming of winter morning more than

twenty years ago. Consider the kitchen of a spreading old house in a country town.

A great black stove is its main feature; but there is also a big round table and a

fireplace with two rocking chairs placed in front of it. Just today the fireplace

commenced its seasonal roar.

A woman with shorn white hair is standing at the kitchen window. She is wearing

tennis shoes and a shapeless gray sweater over a summery calico dress. She is small

and sprightly, like a bantam hen; but, due to a long youthful illness, her shoulders

are pitifully hunched. Her face is remarkable—not unlike Lincoln’s, craggy like

that, and tinted by sun and wind; but it is delicate too, finely boned, and her eyes are

sherry-colored and timid. “Oh my,” she exclaims, her breath smoking the

windowpane, “it’s fruitcake weather!”

The person to whom she is speaking is myself. I am seven; she is sixty-something.

We are cousins, very distant ones, and we have lived together—well, as long as I

can remember. Other people inhabit the house, relatives; and though they have

power over us, and frequently make us cry, we are not, on the whole, too much

aware of them. We are each other’s best friend. She calls me Buddy, in memory of

a boy who was formerly her best friend. The other Buddy died in the 1880s, when

she was still a child. She is still a child.

“I knew it before I got out of bed,” she says, turning away from the window with a

purposeful excitement in her eyes. “The courthouse bell sounded so cold and clear.

And there were no birds singing; they’ve gone to warmer country, yes indeed. Oh,

Buddy, stop stuffing biscuit and fetch our buggy. Help me find my hat. We’ve thirty

cakes to bake.”

It’s always the same: A morning arrives in November, and my friend, as though

officially inaugurating the Christmas time of year that exhilarates her imagination

and fuels the blaze of her heart, announces: “It’s fruitcake weather! Fetch our

buggy. Help me find my hat.”

The hat is found, a straw cartwheel corsaged with velvet roses out-of-doors has

faded; it once belonged to a more fashionable relative. Together, we guide our

buggy, a dilapidated baby carriage, out to the garden and into a grove of pecan

trees. The buggy is mine; that is, it was bought for me when I was born. It is made

of wicker, rather unraveled, and the wheels wobble like a drunkard’s legs. But it is a

faithful object; springtimes, we take it to the woods and fill it with flowers, herbs,

wild fern for our porch pots; in the summer, we pile it with picnic paraphernalia and

sugar-cane fishing poles and roll it down to the edge of the creek; it has its winter

uses, too: as a truck for hauling firewood from the yard to the kitchen, as a warm

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bed for Queenie, our tough little orange and white rat terrier who has survived

distemper and two rattlesnake bites. Queenie is trotting beside it now.

Three hours later we are back in the kitchen hulling a heaping buggyload of

windfall pecans. Our backs hurt from gathering them: How hard they were to find

(the main crop having been shaken off the trees and sold by the orchard’s owners,

who are not us) among the concealing leaves, the frosted, deceiving grass.

Caarackle! A cheery crunch, scraps of miniature thunder sound as the shells

collapse and the golden mound of sweet, oily, ivory meat mounts in the milk-glass

bowl. Queenie begs to taste, and now and again my friend sneaks her a mite, though

insisting we deprive ourselves. “We mustn’t, Buddy. If we start, we won’t stop.

And there’s scarcely enough as there is. For thirty cakes.” The kitchen is growing

dark. Dusk turns the window into a mirror: Our reflections mingle with the rising

moon as we work by the fireside in the firelight. At last, when the moon is quite

high, we toss the final hull into the fire and, with joined sighs, watch it catch flame.

The buggy is empty; the bowl is brimful.

We eat our supper (cold biscuits, bacon, blackberry jam) and discuss tomorrow.

Tomorrow the kind of work I like best begins: buying. Cherries and citron, ginger

and vanilla and canned Hawaiian pineapple, rinds and raisins and walnuts and

whiskey and oh, so much flour, butter, so many eggs, spices, flavorings: Why, we’ll

need a pony to pull the buggy home.

But before these purchases can be made, there is the question of money. Neither of

us has any. Except for skinflint sums persons in the house occasionally provide (a

dime is considered very big money); or what we earn ourselves from various

activities: holding rummage sales, selling buckets of handpicked blackberries, jars

of homemade jam and apple jelly and peach preserves, rounding up flowers for

funerals and weddings. Once we won seventy-ninth prize, five dollars, in a national

football contest. Not that we know a fool thing about football. It’s just that we enter

any contest we hear about: At the moment our hopes are centered on the fifty-

thousand-dollar Grand Prize being offered to name a new brand of coffee (we

suggested “A.M.”; and, after some hesitation, for my friend thought it perhaps

sacrilegious, the slogan “A.M.! Amen!”). To tell the truth, our only really profitable

enterprise was the Fun and Freak Museum we conducted in a backyard woodshed

two summers ago. The Fun was a stereopticon with slide views of Washington and

New York lent us by a relative who had been to those places (she was furious when

she discovered why we’d borrowed it); the Freak was a three-legged biddy chicken

hatched by one of our own hens. Everybody hereabouts wanted to see that biddy:

We charged grown-ups a nickel, kids two cents. And took in a good twenty dollars

before the museum shut down due to the decease of the main attraction.

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But one way and another we do each year accumulate Christmas savings, a

Fruitcake Fund. These moneys we keep hidden in an ancient bead purse under a

loose board under the floor under a chamber pot under my friend’s bed. The purse

is seldom removed from this safe location except to make a deposit, or, as happens

every Saturday, a withdrawal; for on Saturdays I am allowed ten cents to go to the

picture show. My friend has never been to a picture show, nor does she intend to:

“I’d rather hear you tell the story, Buddy. That way I can imagine it more. Besides,

a person my age shouldn’t squander their eyes. When the Lord comes, let me see

Him clear.” In addition to never having seen a movie, she has never: eaten in a

restaurant, traveled more than five miles from home, received or sent a telegram,

read anything except funny papers and the Bible, worn cosmetics, cursed, wished

someone harm, told a lie on purpose, let a hungry dog go hungry. Here are a few

things she has done, does do: killed with a hoe the biggest rattlesnake ever seen in

this county (sixteen rattles), dip snuff (secretly), tame hummingbirds (just try it) till

they balance on her finger, tell ghost stories (we both believe in ghosts) so tingling

they chill you in July, talk to herself, take walks in the rain, grow the prettiest

japonicas in town, know the recipe for every sort of old-time Indian cure, including

a magical wart-remover.

Now, with supper finished, we retire to the room in a faraway part of the house

where my friend sleeps in a scrap-quilt-covered iron bed painted rose pink, her

favorite color. Silently, wallowing in the pleasures of conspiracy, we take the bead

purse from its secret place and spill its contents on the scrap quilt. Dollar bills,

tightly rolled and green as May buds. Somber fifty-cent pieces, heavy enough to

weight a dead man’s eyes. Lovely dimes, the liveliest coin, the one that really

jingles. Nickels and quarters, worn smooth as creek pebbles. But mostly a hateful

heap of bitter-odored pennies. Last summer others in the house contracted to pay us

a penny for every twenty-five flies we killed. Oh, the carnage of August: the flies

that flew to heaven! Yet it was not work in which we took pride. And, as we sit

counting pennies, it is as though we were back tabulating dead flies. Neither of us

has a head for figures; we count slowly, lose track, start again. According to her

calculations, we have $12.73. According to mine, exactly $13. “I do hope you’re

wrong, Buddy. We can’t mess around with thirteen. The cakes will fall. Or put

somebody in the cemetery. Why, I wouldn’t dream of getting out of bed on the

thirteenth.” This is true: She always spends thirteenths in bed. So, to be on the safe

side, we subtract a penny and toss it out the window.

Of the ingredients that go into our fruitcakes, whiskey is the most expensive, as

well as the hardest to obtain: State laws forbid its sale. But everybody knows you

can buy a bottle from Mr. Haha Jones. And the next day, having completed our

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more prosaic shopping, we set out for Mr. Haha’s business address, a “sinful” (to

quote public opinion) fish-fry and dancing cafe down by the river. We’ve been

there before, and on the same errand; but in previous years our dealings have been

with Haha’s wife, an iodine-dark Indian woman with brassy peroxided hair and a

dead-tired disposition. Actually, we’ve never laid eyes on her husband, though

we’ve heard that he’s an Indian too. A giant with razor scars across his cheeks.

They call him Haha because he’s so gloomy, a man who never laughs. As we

approach his cafe (a large log cabin festooned inside and out with chains of garish-

gay naked light bulbs and standing by the river’s muddy edge under the shade of

river trees where moss drifts through the branches like gray mist) our steps slow

down. Even Queenie stops prancing and sticks close by. People have been

murdered in Haha’s cafe. Cut to pieces. Hit on the head. There’s a case coming up

in court next month. Naturally these goings-on happen at night when the colored

lights cast crazy patterns and the Victrola wails. In the daytime Haha’s is shabby

and deserted. I knock at the door, Queenie barks, my friend calls: “Mrs. Haha,

ma’am? Anyone to home?”

Footsteps. The door opens. Our hearts overturn. It’s Mr. Haha Jones himself! And

he is a giant; he does have scars; he doesn’t smile. No, he glowers at us through

Satan-tilted eyes and demands to know: “What you want with Haha?”

For a moment we are too paralyzed to tell. Presently my friend half finds her voice,

a whispery voice at best: “If you please, Mr. Haha, we’d like a quart of your finest

whiskey.”

His eyes tilt more. Would you believe it? Haha is smiling! Laughing, too. “Which

one of you is a drinkin’ man?”

“It’s for making fruitcakes, Mr. Haha. Cooking.”

This sobers him. He frowns. “That’s no way to waste good whiskey.” Nevertheless,

he retreats into the shadowed cafe and seconds later appears carrying a bottle of

daisy-yellow unlabeled liquor. He demonstrates its sparkle in the sunlight and says:

“Two dollars.”

We pay him with nickels and dimes and pennies. Suddenly, jangling the coins in his

hand like a fistful of dice, his face softens. “Tell you what,” he proposes, pouring

the money back into our bead purse, “just send me one of them fruitcakes instead.”

“Well,” my friend remarks on our way home, “there’s a lovely man. We’ll put an

extra cup of raisins in his cake.”

The black stove, stoked with coal and firewood, glows like a lighted pumpkin.

Eggbeaters whirl, spoons spin round in bowls of butter and sugar, vanilla sweetens

the air, ginger spices it; melting, nose-tingling odors saturate the kitchen, suffuse

the house, drift out to the world on puffs of chimney smoke. In four days our work

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is done. Thirty-one cakes, dampened with whiskey, bask on window sills and

shelves.

Who are they for?

Friends. Not necessarily neighbor friends: Indeed, the larger share are intended for

persons we’ve met maybe once, perhaps not at all. People who’ve struck our fancy.

Like President Roosevelt. Like the Reverend and Mrs. J. C. Lucey, Baptist

missionaries to Borneo who lectured here last winter. Or the little knife grinder who

comes through town twice a year. Or Abner Packer, the driver of the six o’clock bus

from Mobile, who exchanges waves with us every day as he passes in a dust-cloud

whoosh. Or the young Wistons, a California couple whose car one afternoon broke

down outside the house and who spent a pleasant hour chatting with us on the porch

(young Mr. Wiston snapped our picture, the only one we’ve ever had taken). Is it

because my friend is shy with everyone except strangers that these strangers, and

merest acquaintances, seem to us our truest friends? I think yes. Also, the

scrapbooks we keep of thank-you’s on White House stationery, time-to-time

communications from California and Borneo, the knife grinder’s penny postcards,

make us feel connected to eventful worlds beyond the kitchen with its views of a

sky that stops.

Now a nude December fig branch grates against the window. The kitchen is empty,

the cakes are gone; yesterday we carted the last of them to the post office, where the

cost of stamps turned our purse inside out. We’re broke. That rather depresses me,

but my friend insists on celebrating—with two inches of whiskey left in Haha’s

bottle. Queenie has a spoonful in a bowl of coffee (she likes her coffee chicory-

flavored and strong). The rest we divide between a pair of jelly glasses. We’re both

quite awed at the prospect of drinking straight whiskey; the taste of it brings

screwed-up expressions and sour shudders. But by and by we begin to sing, the two

of us singing different songs simultaneously. I don’t know the words to mine, just:

Come on along, come on along, to the dark-town strutters’ ball. But I can dance:

That’s what I mean to be, a tap-dancer in the movies. My dancing shadow rollicks

on the walls; our voices rock the chinaware; we giggle as if unseen hands were

tickling us. Queenie rolls on her back, her paws plow the air, something like a grin

stretches her black lips. Inside myself, I feel warm and sparky as those crumbling

logs, carefree as the wind in the chimney. My friend waltzes round the stove, the

hem of her poor calico skirt pinched between her fingers as though it were a party

dress: Show me the way to go home, she sings, her tennis shoes squeaking on the

floor. Show me the way to go home.

Enter: two relatives. Very angry. Potent with eyes that scold, tongues that scald.

Listen to what they have to say, the words tumbling together into a wrathful tune:

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“A child of seven! whiskey on his breath! are you out of your mind? feeding a child

of seven! must be loony! road to ruination! remember Cousin Kate? Uncle Charlie?

Uncle Charlie’s brother-in-law? shame! scandal! humiliation! kneel, pray, beg the

Lord!”

Queenie sneaks under the stove. My friend gazes at her shoes, her chin quivers, she

lifts her skirt and blows her nose and runs to her room. Long after the town has

gone to sleep and the house is silent except for the chimings of clocks and the

sputter of fading fires, she is weeping into a pillow already as wet as a widow’s

handkerchief.

“Don’t cry,” I say, sitting at the bottom of her bed and shivering despite my flannel

nightgown that smells of last winter’s cough syrup, “don’t cry,” I beg, teasing her

toes, tickling her feet, “you’re too old for that.”

“It’s because,” she hiccups, “I am too old. Old and funny.”

“Not funny. Fun. More fun than anybody. Listen. If you don’t stop crying you’ll be

so tired tomorrow we can’t go cut a tree.”

She straightens up. Queenie jumps on the bed (where Queenie is not allowed) to

lick her cheeks. “I know where we’ll find real pretty trees, Buddy. And holly, too.

With berries big as your eyes. It’s way off in the woods. Farther than we’ve ever

been. Papa used to bring us Christmas trees from there: carry them on his shoulder.

That’s fifty years ago. Well, now: I can’t wait for morning.”

Morning. Frozen rime lusters the grass; the sun, round as an orange and orange as

hot-weather moons, balances on the horizon, burnishes the silvered winter woods.

A wild turkey calls. A renegade hog grunts in the undergrowth. Soon, by the edge

of knee-deep, rapid-running water, we have to abandon the buggy. Queenie wades

the stream first, paddles across, barking complaints at the swiftness of the current,

the pneumonia-making coldness of it. We follow, holding our shoes and equipment

(a hatchet, a burlap sack) above our heads. A mile more: of chastising thorns, burs

and briers that catch at our clothes; of rusty pine needles brilliant with gaudy fungus

and molted feathers. Here, there, a flash, a flutter, an ecstasy of shrillings remind us

that not all the birds have flown south. Always, the path unwinds through lemony

sun pools and pitch vine tunnels. Another creek to cross: A disturbed armada11 of

speckled trout froths the water round us, and frogs the size of plates practice belly

flops; beaver workmen are building a dam. On the farther shore, Queenie shakes

herself and trembles. My friend shivers, too: not with cold but enthusiasm. One of

her hat’s ragged roses sheds a petal as she lifts her head and inhales the pine-heavy

air. “We’re almost there; can you smell it, Buddy?” she says, as though we were

approaching an ocean.

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And, indeed, it is a kind of ocean. Scented acres of holiday trees, prickly-leafed

holly. Red berries shiny as Chinese bells: Black crows swoop upon them screaming.

Having stuffed our burlap sacks with enough greenery and crimson to garland a

dozen windows, we set about choosing a tree. “It should be,” muses my friend,

“twice as tall as a boy. So a boy can’t steal the star.” The one we pick is twice as

tall as me. A brave, handsome brute that survives thirty hatchet strokes before it

keels with a creaking, rending cry. Lugging it like a kill, we commence the long

trek out. Every few yards we abandon the struggle, sit down, and pant. But we have

the strength of triumphant huntsmen; that and the tree’s virile, icy perfume revive

us, goad us on. Many compliments accompany our sunset return along the red clay

road to town; but my friend is sly and noncommittal when passers-by praise the

treasure perched in our buggy: What a fine tree and where did it come from?

“Yonderways,” she murmurs vaguely. Once a car stops and the rich mill owner’s

lazy wife leans out and whines: “Giveya twobits cash for that ol tree.” Ordinarily

my friend is afraid of saying no; but on this occasion she promptly shakes her head:

“We wouldn’t take a dollar.” The mill owner’s wife persists. “A dollar, my foot!

Fifty cents. That’s my last offer. Goodness, woman, you can get another one.” In

answer, my friend gently reflects: “I doubt it. There’s never two of anything.”

Home: Queenie slumps by the fire and sleeps till tomorrow, snoring loud as a

human.

A trunk in the attic contains: a shoe box of ermine tails (off the opera cape of a

curious lady who once rented a room in the house), coils of frazzled tinsel gone

gold with age, one silver star, a brief rope of dilapidated, undoubtedly dangerous

candylike light bulbs. Excellent decorations, as far as they go, which isn’t far

enough: My friend wants our tree to blaze “like a Baptist window,” droop with

weighty snows of ornament. But we can’t afford the made-in-Japan splendors at the

five-and-dime. So we do what we’ve always done: sit for days at the kitchen table

with scissors and crayons and stacks of colored paper. I make sketches and my

friend cuts them out: lots of cats, fish too (because they’re easy to draw), some

apples, some watermelons, a few winged angels devised from saved-up sheets of

Hershey-bar tinfoil. We use safety pins to attach these creations to the tree; as a

final touch, we sprinkle the branches with shredded cotton (picked in August for

this purpose). My friend, surveying the effect, clasps her hands together. “Now

honest, Buddy. Doesn’t it look good enough to eat?” Queenie tries to eat an angel.

It’s bad enough in life to do without something you want; but confound it, what gets

my goat is not being able to give somebody something you want them to have.

After weaving and ribboning holly wreaths for all the front windows, our next

project is the fashioning of family gifts. Tie-dye scarves for the ladies, for the men a

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home-brewed lemon and licorice and aspirin syrup to be taken “at the first

Symptoms of a Cold and after Hunting.” But when it comes time for making each

other’s gift, my friend and I separate to work secretly. I would like to buy her a

pearl-handled knife, a radio, a whole pound of chocolate-covered cherries (we

tasted some once and she always swears: “I could live on them, Buddy, Lord yes I

could—and that’s not taking His name in vain”). Instead, I am building her a kite.

She would like to give me a bicycle (she’s said so on several million occasions: “If

only I could, Buddy. It’s bad enough in life to do without something you want; but

confound it, what gets my goat is not being able to give somebody something you

want them to have. Only one of these days, I will, Buddy. Locate you a bike. Don’t

ask how. Steal it, maybe”). Instead, I’m fairly certain that she is building me a

kite—the same as last year, and the year before: The year before that we exchanged

slingshots. All of which is fine by me. For we are champion kite-fliers who study

the wind like sailors; my friend, more accomplished than I, can get a kite aloft when

there isn’t enough breeze to carry clouds.

Christmas Eve afternoon we scrape together a nickel and go to the butcher’s to buy

Queenie’s traditional gift, a good gnawable beef bone. The bone, wrapped in funny

paper, is placed high in the tree near the silver star. Queenie knows it’s there. She

squats at the foot of the tree, staring up in a trance of greed: When bedtime arrives

she refuses to budge. Her excitement is equaled by my own. I kick the covers and

turn my pillow as though it were a scorching summer’s night. Somewhere a rooster

crows: falsely, for the sun is still on the other side of the world.

“Buddy, are you awake?” It is my friend, calling from her room, which is next to

mine; and an instant later she is sitting on my bed holding a candle. “Well, I can’t

sleep a hoot,” she declares. “My mind’s jumping like a jack rabbit. Buddy, do you

think Mrs. Roosevelt will serve our cake at dinner?” We huddle in the bed, and she

squeezes my hand I-love-you. “Seems like your hand used to be so much smaller. I

guess I hate to see you grow up. When you’re grown up, will we still be friends?” I

say always. “But I feel so bad, Buddy. I wanted so bad to give you a bike. I tried to

sell my cameo Papa gave me. Buddy—” she hesitates, as though embarrassed. “I

made you another kite.” Then I confess that I made her one, too; and we laugh. The

candle burns too short to hold. Out it goes, exposing the starlight, the stars spinning

at the window like a visible caroling that slowly, slowly daybreak silences. Possibly

we doze; but the beginnings of dawn splash us like cold water: We’re up, wide-eyed

and wandering while we wait for others to waken. Quite deliberately my friend

drops a kettle on the kitchen floor. I tapdance in front of closed doors. One by one

the household emerges, looking as though they’d like to kill us both; but it’s

Christmas, so they can’t. First, a gorgeous breakfast: just everything you can

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imagine—from flapjacks and fried squirrel to hominy grits and honey-in-the-comb.

Which puts everyone in a good humor except my friend and me. Frankly, we’re so

impatient to get at the presents we can’t eat a mouthful.

Well, I’m disappointed. Who wouldn’t be? With socks, a Sunday school shirt, some

handkerchiefs, a hand-me-down sweater, and a year’s subscription to a religious

magazine for children, The Little Shepherd. It makes me boil. It really does.

My friend has a better haul. A sack of satsumas, that’s her best present. She is

proudest, however, of a white wool shawl knitted by her married sister. But she says

her favorite gift is the kite I built her. And it is very beautiful; though not as

beautiful as the one she made me, which is blue and scattered with gold and green

Good Conduct stars; moreover, my name is painted on it, “Buddy.”

“Buddy, the wind is blowing.”

The wind is blowing, and nothing will do till we’ve run to a pasture below the

house where Queenie has scooted to bury her bone (and where, a winter hence,

Queenie will be buried, too). There, plunging through the healthy, waist-high grass,

we unreel our kites, feel them twitching at the string like sky fish as they swim into

the wind. Satisfied, sun-warmed, we sprawl in the grass and peel satsumas and

watch our kites cavort. Soon I forget the socks and hand-me-down sweater. I’m as

happy as if we’d already won the fifty-thousand-dollar Grand Prize in that coffee-

naming contest.

I’ll wager at the very end a body realizes the Lord has already shown Himself. That

things as they are”—her hand circles in a gesture that gathers clouds and kites and

grass and Queenie pawing earth over her bone—“just what they’ve always seen,

was seeing Him. As for me, I could leave the world with today in my eyes.” “My,

how foolish I am!” my friend cries, suddenly alert, like a woman remembering too

late she has biscuits in the oven. “You know what I’ve always thought?” she asks in

a tone of discovery, and smiling not at me but a point beyond. “I’ve always thought

a body would have to be sick and dying before they saw the Lord. And I imagined

that when He came it would be like looking at the Baptist window: pretty as colored

glass with the sun pouring through, such a shine you don’t know it’s getting dark.

And it’s been a comfort: to think of that shine taking away all the spooky feeling.

But I’ll wager it never happens. I’ll wager at the very end a body realizes the Lord

has already shown Himself. That things as they are”—her hand circles in a gesture

that gathers clouds and kites and grass and Queenie pawing earth over her bone—

“just what they’ve always seen, was seeing Him. As for me, I could leave the world

with today in my eyes.”

This is our last Christmas together.

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Life separates us. Those who Know Best decide that I belong in a military school.

And so follows a miserable succession of bugle-blowing prisons, grim reveille-

ridden summer camps. I have a new home too. But it doesn’t count. Home is where

my friend is, and there I never go.

“Oh my, it’s fruitcake weather!” And there she remains, puttering around the

kitchen. Alone with Queenie. Then alone. (“Buddy dear,” she writes in her wild

hard-to-read script, “yesterday Jim Macy’s horse kicked Queenie bad. Be thankful

she didn’t feel much. I wrapped her in a Fine Linen sheet and rode her in the buggy

down to Simpson’s pasture where she can be with all her Bones. . . .”) For a few

Novembers she continues to bake her fruitcakes single-handed; not as many, but

some: And, of course, she always sends me “the best of the batch.” Also, in every

letter she encloses a dime wadded in toilet paper: “See a picture show and write me

the story.” But gradually in her letters she tends to confuse me with her other friend,

the Buddy who died in the 1880s; more and more, thirteenths are not the only days

she stays in bed: A morning arrives in November, a leafless birdless coming of

winter morning, when she cannot rouse herself to exclaim: “Oh my, it’s fruitcake

weather!”

And when that happens, I know it. A message saying so merely confirms a piece of

news some secret vein had already received, severing from me an irreplaceable part

of myself, letting it loose like a kite on a broken string. That is why, walking across

a school campus on this particular December morning, I keep searching the sky. As

if I expected to see, rather like hearts, a lost pair of kites hurrying toward heaven.

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The Scarlet Ibis by James Hurst

Summer was dead, but autumn had not yet been born when the ibis came to the

bleeding tree. It's strange that all this is so clear to me, now that time has had its

way. But sometimes (like right now) I sit in the cool green parlor, and I remember

Doodle.

Doodle was about the craziest brother a boy ever had. Doodle was born when I was

seven and was, from the start, a disappointment. He seemed all head, with a tiny

body that was red and shriveled like an old man's. Everybody thought he was going

to die.

Daddy had the carpenter build a little coffin, and when he was three months old,

Mama and Daddy named him William Armstrong. Such a name sounds good only

on a tombstone.

When he crawled on the rug, he crawled backward, as if he were in reverse and

couldn't change gears. This made him look like a doodlebug, so I began calling him

'Doodle.' Renaming my brother was probably the kindest thing I ever did for him,

because nobody expects much from someone called Doodle.

Daddy built him a cart and I had to pull him around. If I so much as picked up my

hat, he'd start crying to go with me; and Mama would call from wherever she was,

"Take Doodle with you."

So I dragged him across the cotton field to share the beauty of Old Woman Swamp.

I lifted him out and sat him down in the soft grass. He began to cry.

"What's the matter?"

"It's so pretty, Brother, so pretty."

After that, Doodle and I often went down to Old Woman Swamp.

There is inside me (and with sadness I have seen it in others) a knot of cruelty borne

by the stream of love. And at times I was mean to Doodle. One time I showed him

his casket, telling him how we all believed he would die. When I made him touch

the casket, he screamed. And even when we were outside in the bright sunshine he

clung to me, crying, "Don't leave me, Brother! Don't leave me!"

Doodle was five years old when I turned 13. I was embarrassed at having a brother

of that age who couldn't walk, so I set out to teach him. We were down in Old

Woman Swamp. "I'm going to teach you to walk, Doodle," I said.

"Why?"

"So I won't have to haul you around all the time."

"I can't walk, Brother."

"Who says so?"

"Mama, the doctor–everybody."

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"Oh, you can walk." I took him by the arms and stood him up. He collapsed on to

the grass like a half-empty flour sack. It was as if his little legs had no bones.

"Don't hurt me, Brother."

"Shut up. I'm not going to hurt you. I'm going to teach you to walk." I heaved him

up again, and he collapsed.

"I just can't do it."

"Oh, yes, you can, Doodle. All you got to do is try. Now come on," and I hauled

him up once more.

It seemed so hopeless that it's a miracle I didn't give up. But all of us must have

something to be proud of, and Doodle had become my something.

Finally one day he stood alone for a few seconds. When he fell, I grabbed him in

my arms and hugged him, our laughter ringing through the swamp like a bell. Now

we knew it could be done.

We decided not to tell anyone until he was actually walking. At breakfast on our

chosen day I brought Doodle to the door in the cart. I helped Doodle up; and when

he was standing alone, I let them look. There wasn't a sound as Doodle walked

slowly across the room and sat down at the table. Then Mama began to cry and ran

over to him, hugging him and kissing him. Daddy hugged him, too. Doodle told

them it was I who had taught him to walk, so they wanted to hug me, and I began to

cry.

"What are you crying for?" asked Daddy, but I couldn't answer. They didn't know

that I did it just for myself, that Doodle walked only because I was ashamed of

having a crippled brother.

Within a few months, Doodle had learned to walk well. Since I had succeeded in

teaching Doodle to walk, I began to believe in my own infallibility. I decided to

teach him to run, to row, to swim, to climb trees, and to fight. Now he, too, believed

in me; so, we set a deadline when Doodle could start school.

But Doodle couldn't keep up with the plan. Once, he collapsed on the ground and

began to cry.

"Aw, come on, Doodle. You can do it. Do you want to be different from everybody

else when you start school?"

"Does that make any difference?"

"It certainly does. Now, come on."

And so we came to those days when summer was dead but autumn had not yet been

born. It was Saturday noon, just a few days before the start of school. Daddy,

Mama, Doodle, and I were seated at the dining room table, having lunch. Suddenly

from out in the yard came a strange croaking noise. Doodle stopped eating. "What's

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that?" He slipped out into the yard, and looked up into the bleeding tree. "It's a big

red bird!"

Mama and Daddy came out. On the topmost branch perched a bird the size of a

chicken, with scarlet feathers and long legs.

At that moment, the bird began to flutter. It tumbled down through the bleeding tree

and landed at our feet with a thud. Its graceful neck jerked twice and then

straightened out, and the bird was still. It lay on the earth like a broken vase of red

flowers, and even death could not mar its beauty.

"What is it?" Doodle asked.

"It's a scarlet ibis," Daddy said.

Sadly, we all looked at the bird. How many miles had it traveled to die like this,

in our yard, beneath the bleeding tree?

Doodle knelt beside the ibis. "I'm going to bury him."

As soon as I had finished eating, Doodle and I hurried off to Horsehead Landing. It

was time for a swimming lesson, but Doodle said he was too tired. When we

reached Horsehead landing, lightning was flashing across half the sky, and thunder

was drowning out the sound of the sea.

Doodle was both tired and frightened. He slipped on the mud and fell. I helped him

up, and he smiled at me ashamedly. He had failed and we both knew it. He would

never be like the other boys at school.

We started home, trying to beat the storm. The lightning was near now. The faster I

walked, the faster he walked, so I began to run.

The rain came, roaring through the pines. And then, like a bursting Roman candle, a

gum tree ahead of us was shattered by a bolt of lightning. When the deafening

thunder had died, I heard Doodle cry out, "Brother, Brother, don't leave me! Don't

leave me!"

The knowledge that our plans had come to nothing was bitter, and that streak of

cruelty within me awakened. I ran as fast as I could, leaving him far behind with a

wall of rain dividing us. Soon I could hear his voice no more.

I stopped and waited for Doodle. The sound of rain was everywhere, but the wind

had died and it fell straight down like ropes hanging from the sky.

I peered through the downpour, but no one came. Finally I went back and found

him huddled beneath a red nightshade bush beside the road. He was sitting on the

ground, his face buried in his arms, which were resting on drawn-up knees. "Let's

go, Doodle."

He didn't answer so I gently lifted his head. He toppled backward onto the earth. He

had been bleeding from the mouth, and his neck and the front of his shirt were

stained a brilliant red.

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"Doodle, Doodle." There was no answer but the ropy rain. I began to weep, and the

tear-blurred vision in red before me looked very familiar. "Doodle!" I screamed

above the pounding storm and threw my body to the earth above his. For a long

time, it seemed forever, I lay there crying, sheltering my fallen scarlet ibis

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Sojourner Truth: Ain't I A Woman?

Delivered 1851

Women's Convention, Akron, Ohio

Well, children, where there is so much racket there must be something out of kilter.

I think that 'twixt the negroes of the South and the women at the North, all talking

about rights, the white men will be in a fix pretty soon. But what's all this here

talking about?

That man over there says that women need to be helped into carriages, and lifted

over ditches, and to have the best place everywhere. Nobody ever helps me into

carriages, or over mud-puddles, or gives me any best place! And ain't I a woman?

Look at me! Look at my arm! I have ploughed and planted, and gathered into barns,

and no man could head me! And ain't I a woman? I could work as much and eat as

much as a man - when I could get it - and bear the lash as well! And ain't I a

woman? I have borne thirteen children, and seen most all sold off to slavery, and

when I cried out with my mother's grief, none but Jesus heard me! And ain't I a

woman?

Then they talk about this thing in the head; what's this they call it? [member of

audience whispers, "intellect"] That's it, honey. What's that got to do with women's

rights or negroes' rights? If my cup won't hold but a pint, and yours holds a quart,

wouldn't you be mean not to let me have my little half measure full?

Then that little man in black there, he says women can't have as much rights as

men, 'cause Christ wasn't a woman! Where did your Christ come from? Where did

your Christ come from? From God and a woman! Man had nothing to do with Him.

If the first woman God ever made was strong enough to turn the world upside down

all alone, these women together ought to be able to turn it back , and get it right side

up again! And now they is asking to do it, the men better let them.

Obliged to you for hearing me, and now old Sojourner ain't got nothing more to

say.

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Poetry

I'm nobody! Who are you? by Emily

Dickinson

I'm nobody! Who are you?

Are you nobody, too?

Then there's a pair of us -don't tell!

They'd banish us, you know.

How dreary to be somebody!

How public, like a frog

To tell your name the livelong day

To an admiring bog!

I felt a funeral in my brain by Emily

Dickinson

I felt a funeral in my brain,

And mourners, to and fro,

Kept treading, treading, till it seemed

That sense was breaking through.

And when they all were seated,

A service like a drum

Kept beating, beating, till I thought

My mind was going numb

And then I heard them lift a box,

And creak across my soul

With those same boots of lead, again.

Then space began to toll

As all the heavens were a bell,

And being, but an ear,

And I and Silence some strange Race

Wrecked, solitary, here.

And then a Plank in Reason, broke,

And I dropped down, and down -

And hit a World, at every plunge,

And Finished knowing - then -

Emily Dickinson

Success is counted sweetest by Emily

Dickinson

Success is counted sweetest

By those who ne'er succeed.

To comprehend a nectar

Requires sorest need.

Not one of all the purple Host

Who took the Flag today

Can tell the definition

So clear of Victory

As he defeated--dying--

On whose forbidden ear

The distant strains of triumph

Burst agonized and clear!

Hope is the thing with feathers by

Emily Dickinson

Hope is the thing with feathers

That perches in the soul,

And sings the tune--without the words,

And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;

And sore must be the storm

That could abash the little bird

That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,

And on the strangest sea;

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Yet, never, in extremity,

It asked a crumb of me.

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When roses cease to bloom, dear by

Emily Dickinson

When roses cease to bloom, dear

and violets are done,

When bumblebees in solemn flight

Have passed beyond the sun,

The hand that paused to gather

Upon this summer's day

Will idle lie, in Auburn.--

Then take my flower, pray

A narrow fellow in the grass

Occasionally rides;

You may have met him,--did you not,

His notice sudden is.

The grass divides as with a comb,

A spotted shaft is seen;

And then it closes at your feet

And opens further on.

He likes a boggy acre,

A floor too cool for corn.

Yet when a child, and barefoot,

I more than once, at morn,

Have passed, I thought, a whip-lash

Unbraiding in the sun,--

When, stooping to secure it,

It wrinkled, and was gone.

Several of nature's people

I know, and they know me;

I feel for them a transport

Of cordiality;

But never met this fellow,

Attended or alone,

Without a tighter breathing,

And zero at the bone.

A Dream Deferred by Langston

Hughes

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up

like a raisin in the sun?

Or fester like a sore--

And then run?

Does it stink like rotten meat?

Or crust and sugar over--

like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags

like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

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Day in the Barrio by -Judith Ortiz

Cofer

You ride it out on a wave of sound

pouring from the cinder-block jukebox

of El Building,

with stereos blasting salsas from open

windows,

where men in phosphorescent white T-

shirts

hang over the sills, tossing piropos

down to the girls going somewhere in

a hurry,

fanning the sidewalk heat with their

swinging skirts,

crossing single file over the

treacherous bridge

of a wino's legs at his daily post.

And Cheo the Bodega man sweeps the

steps

to his store and tells the doubting

woman

with hands on her hips that green

bananas

are hard to get. Everyone knows he

skims.

Still, Cheo’s is the best place for fresh

codfish,

plantains, and gossip.

At day’s end,

you scale the seven flights to an oasis

on the roof,

high above the city noise, where you

can think

to the rhymes of your own band.

Discordant notes rise

with the traffic at five, mellow to a

bolero at sundown.

Keeping company with the pigeons,

you watch the people below,

flowing in currents on the street where

you live,

each one alone in a crowd,

each one an island like you.

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“Sympathy” by Paul Laurence Dunbar (1872-1906)

I KNOW what the caged bird feels, alas!

When the sun is bright on the upland slopes;

When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass,

And the river flows like a stream of glass;

When the first bird sings and the first bud opes,

And the faint perfume from its chalice steals —

I know what the caged bird feels!

I know why the caged bird beats his wing

Till its blood is red on the cruel bars;

For he must fly back to his perch and cling

When he fain would be on the bough a-swing;

And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars

And they pulse again with a keener sting —

I know why he beats his wing!

I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,

When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,—

When he beats his bars and he would be free;

It is not a carol of joy or glee,

But a prayer that he sends from his heart's deep core,

But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings —

I know why the caged bird sings!

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“Cross” by Langston Hughes

My old man's a white old man

And my old mother's black.

If ever I cursed my white old man

I take my curses back.

If ever I cursed my black old mother

And wished she were in hell,

I'm sorry for that evil wish

And now I wish her well

My old man died in a fine big house.

My ma died in a shack.

I wonder where I'm going to die,

Being neither white nor black?

“We Wear the Mask” by Paul Laurence Dunbar (1872-1906)

WE wear the mask that grins and lies,

It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,—

This debt we pay to human guile;

With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,

And mouth with myriad subtleties.

Why should the world be over-wise,

In counting all our tears and sighs?

Nay, let them only see us, while

We wear the mask.

We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries

To thee from tortured souls arise.

We sing, but oh the clay is vile

Beneath our feet, and long the mile;

But let the world dream otherwise,

We wear the mask!

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Sonnet 116 By William Shakespeare

Let me not to the marriage of true minds

Admit impediments. Love is not love 2: impediments: obstacles,

barriers

Which alters when it alteration finds,

Or bends with the remover to remove:

O no! it is an ever-fixed mark 5: mark: focal point

That looks on tempests and is never shaken;

It is the star to every wandering bark, 7:bark: ship

Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.

Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

Within his bending sickle's compass come: 10: in the range of his

compass arrow

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

But bears it out even to the edge of doom. 12:bears out: endures

If this be error and upon me proved,

I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

Fire and Ice by Robert Frost

Some say the world will end in fire,

Some say in ice.

From what I’ve tasted of desire

I hold with those who favor fire.

But if it had to perish twice,

I think I know enough of hate

To say that for destruction ice

Is also great

And would suffice

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After Apple Picking By Robert Frost

My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree

Toward heaven still,

And there's a barrel that I didn't fill

Beside it, and there may be two or three

Apples I didn't pick upon some bough.

But I am done with apple-picking now.

Essence of winter sleep is on the night,

The scent of apples: I am drowsing off. 8: drowsing: drifting to sleep

I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight

I got from looking through a pane of glass

I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough

And held against the world of hoary grass. 12: hoary: white crystals of ice,

very old

It melted, and I let it fall and break.

But I was well

Upon my way to sleep before it fell,

And I could tell

What form my dreaming was about to take.

Magnified apples appear and disappear,

Stem end and blossom end,

And every fleck of russet showing clear. 20: reddish brown

My instep arch not only keeps the ache,

It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.

I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.

And I keep hearing from the cellar bin

The rumbling sound

Of load on load of apples coming in.

For I have had too much

Of apple-picking: I am overtired

Of the great harvest I myself desired.

There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,

Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall. 31: cherish: treat with love

For all

That struck the earth,

No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,

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Went surely to the cider-apple heap

As of no worth.

One can see what will trouble

This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.

Were he not gone,

The woodchuck could say whether it's like his

Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,

Or just some human sleep.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.

His house is in the village though;

He will not see me stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer

To stop without a farmhouse near

Between the woods and frozen lake

The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake

To ask if there is some mistake.

The only other sound’s the sweep

Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

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There Came a Wind Like a Bugle By Emily Dickinson

There came a wind like a bugle; 1: bugle: trumpet

It quivered through the grass, 2: quivered: shook

And a green chill upon the heat

So ominous did pass 4: ominous: threatening

We barred the windows and the doors

As from an emerald ghost;

The doom's electric moccasin 7: moccasin: snake

That very instant passed.

On a strange mob of panting trees,

And fences fled away,

And rivers where the houses ran

The living looked that day.

The bell within the steeple wild

The flying tidings whirled. 14: tidings: news

How much can come

And much can go,

And yet abide the world! 17: abide: accept

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Do not go gentle into that good night by Dylan Thomas, 1914 – 1953

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

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Crossing the Bar by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Sunset and evening star,

And one clear call for me!

And may there be no moaning of the bar,

When I put out to sea,

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,

Too full for sound and foam,

When that which drew from out the boundless deep

Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,

And after that the dark!

And may there be no sadness of farewell,

When I embark;

For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place

The flood may bear me far,

I hope to see my Pilot face to face

When I have crost the bar.

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Richard Cory by Edwin Arlington Robinson

Whenever Richard Cory went down town,

We people on the pavement looked at him:

He was a gentleman from sole to crown,

Clean favored, and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed,

And he was always human when he talked;

But still he fluttered pulses when he said,

'Good-morning,' and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich - yes, richer than a king -

And admirably schooled in every grace:

In fine, we thought that he was everything

To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked, and waited for the light,

And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;

And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,

Went home and put a bullet through his head.

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Women by Alice Walker

They were women then

My mama’s generation

Husky of voice—stout of

Step

With fists as well as

Hands

How they battered down

Doors

And ironed

Starched white

Shirts

How they led

Armies

Headragged generals

Across mined

Fields

Booby-trapped

Ditches

To discover books

Desks

A place for us

How they knew what we

Must know

Without knowing a page

Of it

Themselves.

The Courage That My Mother

Had by Edna St. Vincent Millay

The courage that my mother had

Went with her, and is with her still:

Rock from New England quarried;

Now granite in a granite hill.

The golden brooch my mother wore

She left behind for me to wear;

I have no thing I treasure more:

Yet, it is something I could spare.

Oh, if instead she’d left to me

The thing she took into the grave!—

That courage like a rock, which she

Has no more need of, and I have.

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Legal Alien by Pat Mora

Bi-lingual, Bi-cultural,

able to slip from "How's life?"

to "Me'stan volviendo loca,"

able to sit in a paneled office

drafting memos in smooth English,

able to order in fluent Spanish

at a Mexican restaurant,

American but hyphenated,

viewed by Anglos as perhaps exotic,

perhaps inferior, definitely different,

viewed by Mexicans as alien,

(their eyes say, "You may speak

Spanish but you're not like me")

an American to Mexicans

a Mexican to Americans

a handy token

sliding back and forth

between the fringes of both worlds

by smiling

by masking the discomfort

of being pre-judged

Bi-laterally.

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"Strange Fruit" Billie Holiday

Southern trees bear a strange fruit

Blood on the leaves and blood at the root

Black bodies swingin' in the Southern breeze

Strange fruit hangin' from the poplar trees

Pastoral scene of the gallant South

The bulgin' eyes and the twisted mouth

Scent of magnolias sweet and fresh

Then the sudden smell of burnin' flesh

Here is a fruit for the crows to pluck

For the rain to gather, for the wind to suck

For the sun to rot, for the tree to drop

Here is a strange and bitter crop

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Art

Analyzing art can be very similar to analyzing a text. You should look for the same

things: symbols, tone, theme, purpose, audience, mood, etc. You evidence will

come from

Colors/ shading

Focus

Facial expression/ body language

Background

Texture

Lighting/ shadow

Medium (clay, steel, oil, crayon, water color, etc.)

Details, like objects

Perspective, depth, and angles

Lines (soft, sharp, thick, thin)

Pattern

Subject

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His First Offence by Lady Dorothy Stanley

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By Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec

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The Triumph of Death by Bruegel

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By Jan Vermeer

By Jan Vermeer

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Primavera by Botticelli

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Narcissus by Caravaggio

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The Tower of Babel by Bruegel

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La Pieta by Michelangelo