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Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (Chapters I–II) by Mark Twain ............................1
The Luck of Roaring Camp by Bret Harte................................................................14
The White Heron (Chapters I–II) by Sarah Orne Jewett........................................27
The Awakening (Chapters I–IV) by Kate Chopin ....................................................39
The Yellow Wallpaper (partial) by Charlotte Perkins Gilman ................................50
The Rise of Silas Lapham (Chapter I—partial) by William Dean Howells............61
The Portrait of a Lady (Chapter I) by Henry James ..............................................75
Ethan Frome (partial) by Edith Wharton ................................................................85
The Bride Comes to Yellow Sky by Stephen Crane..................................................98
Martin Eden (Chapter I) by Jack London..............................................................108
O Pioneers! (Part One—Chapter I) by Willa Cather ............................................120
The Quest of the Silver Fleece (Chapter I) by W.E.B. DuBois..............................127
The Autobiography of an Ex-Colored Man (Chapter I)
by James Weldon Johnson....................................................................................135
The Wife of His Youth (Chapters I–II) by Charles Waddell Chesnutt ..................145
This Side of Paradise (Chapter I—partial) by F. Scott Fitzgerald........................154
Main Street (Chapter I—Sections I–IV) by Sinclair Lewis ..................................166
Three Soldiers (Chapter I) by John Dos Passos ....................................................175
THE ADVENTURES OF
HUCKLEBERRY FINN
by Mark Twain
NOTICE
PERSONS attempting to find a motive in thisBY ORDER OF THE AUTHOR, Per G.G., Chief
narrative will be prosecuted; persons
attempting to find a moral in it will be
banished; persons attempting to find a plot in it
will be shot.
of Ordnance.
EXPLANATORY
IN this book a number of dialects are used, toTHE AUTHOR.
wit: the Missouri negro dialect; the extremest
form of the backwoods Southwestern dialect;
the ordinary “Pike County” dialect; and four
modified varieties of this last. The shadings
have not been done in a haphazard fashion, or
by guesswork; but painstakingly, and with the
trustworthy guidance and support of personal
familiarity with these several forms of speech.
I make this explanation for the reason that
without it many readers would suppose that all
these characters were trying to talk alike and
not succeeding.
HUCKLEBERRY FINN
Scene: The Mississippi Valley
Time: Forty to fifty years ago
CHAPTER I.
YOU don’t know about me without you have
read a book by the name of The Adventures of
Tom Sawyer; but that ain’t no matter. That
book was made by Mr. Mark Twain, and he told
the truth, mainly. There was things which he
stretched, but mainly he told the truth. That is
nothing. I never seen anybody but lied one time
or another, without it was Aunt Polly, or the
widow, or maybe Mary. Aunt Polly—Tom’s Aunt
Polly, she is—and Mary, and the Widow
Douglas is all told about in that book, which is
mostly a true book, with some stretchers, as I
said before.
Now the way that the book winds up is this:
Tom and me found the money that the robbers
hid in the cave, and it made us rich. We got six
thousand dollars apiece—all gold. It was an
awful sight of money when it was piled up.
Well, Judge Thatcher he took it and put it out at
interest, and it fetched us a dollar a day apiece
all the year round—more than a body could tell
what to do with. The Widow Douglas she took
me for her son, and allowed she would sivilize
me; but it was rough living in the house all the
time, considering how dismal regular and
decent the widow was in all her ways; and so
when I couldn’t stand it no longer I lit out. I got
into my old rags and my sugar-hogshead again,
and was free and satisfied. But Tom Sawyer he
hunted me up and said he was going to start a
band of robbers, and I might join if I would go
back to the widow and be respectable. So I went
back.
The widow she cried over me, and called me a
poor lost lamb, and she called me a lot of other
names, too, but she never meant no harm by it.
She put me in them new clothes again, and I
couldn’t do nothing but sweat and sweat, and
feel all cramped up. Well, then, the old thing
commenced again. The widow rung a bell for
supper, and you had to come to time. When you
got to the table you couldn’t go right to eating,
but you had to wait for the widow to tuck down
her head and grumble a little over the victuals,
though there warn’t really anything the matter
with them,—that is, nothing only everything
was cooked by itself. In a barrel of odds and
ends it is different; things get mixed up, and the
juice kind of swaps around, and the things go
better.
After supper she got out her book and learned
me about Moses and the Bulrushers, and I was
1 © 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate.
in a sweat to find out all about him; but by and
by she let it out that Moses had been dead a
considerable long time; so then I didn’t care no
more about him, because I don’t take no stock in
dead people.
Pretty soon I wanted to smoke, and asked the
widow to let me. But she wouldn’t. She said it
was a mean practice and wasn’t clean, and I
must try to not do it any more. That is just the
way with some people. They get down on a
thing when they don’t know nothing about it.
Here she was a-bothering about Moses, which
was no kin to her, and no use to anybody, being
gone, you see, yet finding a power of fault with
me for doing a thing that had some good in it.
And she took snuff, too; of course that was all
right, because she done it herself.
Her sister, Miss Watson, a tolerable slim old
maid, with goggles on, had just come to live
with her, and took a set at me now with a
spelling-book. She worked me middling hard for
about an hour, and then the widow made her
ease up. I couldn’t stood it much longer. Then
for an hour it was deadly dull, and I was fidgety.
Miss Watson would say, “Don’t put your feet up
there, Huckleberry;” and “Don’t scrunch up like
that, Huckleberry—set up straight;” and pretty
soon she would say, “Don’t gap and stretch like
that, Huckleberry—why don’t you try to
behave?” Then she told me all about the bad
place, and I said I wished I was there. She got
mad then, but I didn’t mean no harm. All I
wanted was to go somewheres; all I wanted was
a change, I warn’t particular. She said it was
wicked to say what I said; said she wouldn’t say
it for the whole world; she was going to live so
as to go to the good place. Well, I couldn’t see no
advantage in going where she was going, so I
made up my mind I wouldn’t try for it. But I
never said so, because it would only make
trouble, and wouldn’t do no good.
Now she had got a start, and she went on and
told me all about the good place. She said all a
body would have to do there was to go around
all day long with a harp and sing, forever and
ever. So I didn’t think much of it. But I never
said so. I asked her if she reckoned Tom Sawyer
would go there, and she said not by a
considerable sight. I was glad about that,
because I wanted him and me to be together.
Miss Watson she kept pecking at me, and it got
tiresome and lonesome. By and by they fetched
the niggers in and had prayers, and then
everybody was off to bed. I went up to my room
with a piece of candle, and put it on the table.
Then I set down in a chair by the window and
tried to think of something cheerful, but it
warn’t no use. I felt so lonesome I most wished
I was dead. The stars were shining, and the
leaves rustled in the woods ever so mournful;
and I heard an owl, away off, who-whooing
about somebody that was dead, and a
whippowill and a dog crying about somebody
that was going to die; and the wind was trying
to whisper something to me, and I couldn’t
make out what it was, and so it made the cold
shivers run over me. Then away out in the
woods I heard that kind of a sound that a ghost
makes when it wants to tell about something
that’s on its mind and can’t make itself
understood, and so can’t rest easy in its grave,
and has to go about that way every night
grieving. I got so down-hearted and scared I did
wish I had some company. Pretty soon a spider
went crawling up my shoulder, and I flipped it
off and it lit in the candle; and before I could
budge it was all shriveled up. I didn’t need
anybody to tell me that that was an awful bad
sign and would fetch me some bad luck, so I was
scared and most shook the clothes off of me. I
got up and turned around in my tracks three
times and crossed my breast every time; and
then I tied up a little lock of my hair with a
thread to keep witches away. But I hadn’t no
confidence. You do that when you’ve lost a
horseshoe that you’ve found, instead of nailing
it up over the door, but I hadn’t ever heard
anybody say it was any way to keep off bad luck
when you’d killed a spider.
I set down again, a-shaking all over, and got out
my pipe for a smoke; for the house was all as
still as death now, and so the widow wouldn’t
know. Well, after a long time I heard the clock
away off in the town go boom—boom—boom—
twelve licks; and all still again—stiller than
ever. Pretty soon I heard a twig snap down in
the dark amongst the trees—something was a
© 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate. 2
stirring. I set still and listened. Directly I could
just barely hear a “me-yow! me-yow!” down
there. That was good! Says I, “me-yow! meyow!”
as soft as I could, and then I put out the
light and scrambled out of the window on to the
shed. Then I slipped down to the ground and
crawled in among the trees, and, sure enough,
there was Tom Sawyer waiting for me.
CHAPTER II.
WE went tiptoeing along a path amongst the
trees back towards the end of the widow’s
garden, stooping down so as the branches
wouldn’t scrape our heads. When we was
passing by the kitchen I fell over a root and
made a noise. We scrouched down and laid still.
Miss Watson’s big nigger, named Jim, was
setting in the kitchen door; we could see him
pretty clear, because there was a light behind
him. He got up and stretched his neck out
about a minute, listening. Then he says:
“Who dah?”
He listened some more; then he come tiptoeing
down and stood right between us; we could a
touched him, nearly. Well, likely it was minutes
and minutes that there warn’t a sound, and we
all there so close together. There was a place on
my ankle that got to itching, but I dasn’t scratch
it; and then my ear begun to itch; and next my
back, right between my shoulders. Seemed like
I’d die if I couldn’t scratch. Well, I’ve noticed
that thing plenty times since. If you are with
the quality, or at a funeral, or trying to go to
sleep when you ain’t sleepy—if you are
anywheres where it won’t do for you to scratch,
why you will itch all over in upwards of a
thousand places. Pretty soon Jim says:
“Say, who is you? Whar is you? Dog my cats ef
I didn’ hear sumf’n. Well, I know what I’s gwyne
to do: I’s gwyne to set down here and listen tell
I hears it agin.”
So he set down on the ground betwixt me and
Tom. He leaned his back up against a tree, and
stretched his legs out till one of them most
touched one of mine. My nose begun to itch. It
itched till the tears come into my eyes. But I
dasn’t scratch. Then it begun to itch on the
inside. Next I got to itching underneath. I
didn’t know how I was going to set still. This
miserableness went on as much as six or seven
minutes; but it seemed a sight longer than that.
I was itching in eleven different places now. I
reckoned I couldn’t stand it more’n a minute
longer, but I set my teeth hard and got ready to
try. Just then Jim begun to breathe heavy; next
he begun to snore—and then I was pretty soon
comfortable again.
Tom he made a sign to me—kind of a little noise
with his mouth—and we went creeping away on
our hands and knees. When we was ten foot off
Tom whispered to me, and wanted to tie Jim to
the tree for fun. But I said no; he might wake
and make a disturbance, and then they’d find
out I warn’t in. Then Tom said he hadn’t got
candles enough, and he would slip in the
kitchen and get some more. I didn’t want him
to try. I said Jim might wake up and come. But
Tom wanted to resk it; so we slid in there and
got three candles, and Tom laid five cents on the
table for pay. Then we got out, and I was in a
sweat to get away; but nothing would do Tom
but he must crawl to where Jim was, on his
hands and knees, and play something on him. I
waited, and it seemed a good while, everything
was so still and lonesome.
As soon as Tom was back we cut along the path,
around the garden fence, and by and by fetched
up on the steep top of the hill the other side of
the house. Tom said he slipped Jim’s hat off of
his head and hung it on a limb right over him,
and Jim stirred a little, but he didn’t wake.
Afterwards Jim said the witches be witched
him and put him in a trance, and rode him all
over the State, and then set him under the trees
again, and hung his hat on a limb to show who
done it. And next time Jim told it he said they
rode him down to New Orleans; and, after that,
every time he told it he spread it more and
more, till by and by he said they rode him all
over the world, and tired him most to death,
and his back was all over saddle-boils. Jim was
monstrous proud about it, and he got so he
wouldn’t hardly notice the other niggers.
Niggers would come miles to hear Jim tell about
3 © 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate.
it, and he was more looked up to than any
nigger in that country. Strange niggers would
stand with their mouths open and look him all
over, same as if he was a wonder. Niggers is
always talking about witches in the dark by the
kitchen fire; but whenever one was talking and
letting on to know all about such things, Jim
would happen in and say, “Hm! What you know
‘bout witches?” and that nigger was corked up
and had to take a back seat. Jim always kept
that five-center piece round his neck with a
string, and said it was a charm the devil give to
him with his own hands, and told him he could
cure anybody with it and fetch witches
whenever he wanted to just by saying
something to it; but he never told what it was
he said to it. Niggers would come from all
around there and give Jim anything they had,
just for a sight of that five-center piece; but they
wouldn’t touch it, because the devil had had his
hands on it. Jim was most ruined for a servant,
because he got stuck up on account of having
seen the devil and been rode by witches.
Well, when Tom and me got to the edge of the
hilltop we looked away down into the village
and could see three or four lights twinkling,
where there was sick folks, maybe; and the
stars over us was sparkling ever so fine; and
down by the village was the river, a whole mile
broad, and awful still and grand. We went
down the hill and found Jo Harper and Ben
Rogers, and two or three more of the boys, hid
in the old tanyard. So we unhitched a skiff and
pulled down the river two mile and a half, to the
big scar on the hillside, and went ashore.
We went to a clump of bushes, and Tom made
everybody swear to keep the secret, and then
showed them a hole in the hill, right in the
thickest part of the bushes. Then we lit the
candles, and crawled in on our hands and
knees. We went about two hundred yards, and
then the cave opened up. Tom poked about
amongst the passages, and pretty soon ducked
under a wall where you wouldn’t a noticed that
there was a hole. We went along a narrow place
and got into a kind of room, all damp and
sweaty and cold, and there we stopped. Tom
says:
“Now, we’ll start this band of robbers and call it
Tom Sawyer’s Gang. Everybody that wants to
join has got to take an oath, and write his name
in blood.”
Everybody was willing. So Tom got out a sheet
of paper that he had wrote the oath on, and
read it. It swore every boy to stick to the band,
and never tell any of the secrets; and if anybody
done anything to any boy in the band,
whichever boy was ordered to kill that person
and his family must do it, and he mustn’t eat
and he mustn’t sleep till he had killed them and
hacked a cross in their breasts, which was the
sign of the band. And nobody that didn’t belong
to the band could use that mark, and if he did
he must be sued; and if he done it again he must
be killed. And if anybody that belonged to the
band told the secrets, he must have his throat
cut, and then have his carcass burnt up and the
ashes scattered all around, and his name
blotted off of the list with blood and never
mentioned again by the gang, but have a curse
put on it and be forgot forever.
Everybody said it was a real beautiful oath, and
asked Tom if he got it out of his own head. He
said, some of it, but the rest was out of piratebooks
and robber-books, and every gang that
was high-toned had it.
Some thought it would be good to kill the
FAMILIES of boys that told the secrets. Tom
said it was a good idea, so he took a pencil and
wrote it in. Then Ben Rogers says:
“Here’s Huck Finn, he hain’t got no family;
what you going to do ‘bout him?”
“Well, hain’t he got a father?” says Tom Sawyer.
“Yes, he’s got a father, but you can’t never find
him these days. He used to lay drunk with the
hogs in the tanyard, but he hain’t been seen in
these parts for a year or more.”
They talked it over, and they was going to rule
me out, because they said every boy must have
a family or somebody to kill, or else it wouldn’t
be fair and square for the others. Well, nobody
could think of anything to do—everybody was
© 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate. 4
stumped, and set still. I was most ready to cry;
but all at once I thought of a way, and so I
offered them Miss Watson—they could kill her.
Everybody said:
“Oh, she’ll do. That’s all right. Huck can come
in.”
Then they all stuck a pin in their fingers to get
blood to sign with, and I made my mark on the
paper.
“Now,” says Ben Rogers, “what’s the line of
business of this Gang?”
“Nothing only robbery and murder,” Tom said.
“But who are we going to rob?—houses, or
cattle, or—”
“Stuff! stealing cattle and such things ain’t
robbery; it’s burglary,” says Tom Sawyer. “We
ain’t burglars. That ain’t no sort of style. We
are highwaymen. We stop stages and carriages
on the road, with masks on, and kill the people
and take their watches and money.”
“Must we always kill the people?”
“Oh, certainly. It’s best. Some authorities think
different, but mostly it’s considered best to kill
them—except some that you bring to the cave
here, and keep them till they’re ransomed.”
“Ransomed? What’s that?”
“I don’t know. But that’s what they do. I’ve
seen it in books; and so of course that’s what
we’ve got to do.”
“But how can we do it if we don’t know what it
is?”
“Why, blame it all, we’ve GOT to do it. Don’t I
tell you it’s in the books? Do you want to go to
doing different from what’s in the books, and
get things all muddled up?”
“Oh, that’s all very fine to SAY, Tom Sawyer, but
how in the nation are these fellows going to be
ransomed if we don’t know how to do it to
them?—that’s the thing I want to get at. Now,
what do you reckon it is?”
“Well, I don’t know. But per’aps if we keep them
till they’re ransomed, it means that we keep
them till they’re dead.”
“Now, that’s something LIKE. That’ll answer.
Why couldn’t you said that before? We’ll keep
them till they’re ransomed to death; and a
bothersome lot they’ll be, too—eating up
everything, and always trying to get loose.”
“How you talk, Ben Rogers. How can they get
loose when there’s a guard over them, ready to
shoot them down if they move a peg?”
“A guard! Well, that IS good. So somebody’s got
to set up all night and never get any sleep, just
so as to watch them. I think that’s foolishness.
Why can’t a body take a club and ransom them
as soon as they get here?”
“Because it ain’t in the books so—that’s why.
Now, Ben Rogers, do you want to do things
regular, or don’t you?—that’s the idea. Don’t
you reckon that the people that made the books
knows what’s the correct thing to do? Do you
reckon YOU can learn ‘em anything? Not by a
good deal. No, sir, we’ll just go on and ransom
them in the regular way.”
“All right. I don’t mind; but I say it’s a fool way,
anyhow. Say, do we kill the women, too?”
“Well, Ben Rogers, if I was as ignorant as you I
wouldn’t let on. Kill the women? No; nobody
ever saw anything in the books like that. You
fetch them to the cave, and you’re always as
polite as pie to them; and by and by they fall in
love with you, and never want to go home any
more.”
“Well, if that’s the way I’m agreed, but I don’t
take no stock in it. Mighty soon we’ll have the
cave so cluttered up with women, and fellows
waiting to be ransomed, that there won’t be no
place for the robbers. But go ahead, I ain’t got
nothing to say.”
Little Tommy Barnes was asleep now, and when
they waked him up he was scared, and cried,
and said he wanted to go home to his ma, and
didn’t want to be a robber any more.
So they all made fun of him, and called him crybaby,
and that made him mad, and he said he
would go straight and tell all the secrets. But
Tom give him five cents to keep quiet, and said
we would all go home and meet next week, and
rob somebody and kill some people.
Ben Rogers said he couldn’t get out much, only
Sundays, and so he wanted to begin next
Sunday; but all the boys said it would be wicked
to do it on Sunday, and that settled the thing.
They agreed to get together and fix a day as
soon as they could, and then we elected Tom
Sawyer first captain and Jo Harper second
captain of the Gang, and so started home.
I clumb up the shed and crept into my window
just before day was breaking. My new clothes
was all greased up and clayey, and I was dogtired.
1. From the choices below, select the word or phrase that is closest in meaning to the word
“dialect.”
a. regional variety of speech2. Read the following sentence and choose, from the options below, the word that is closest in
b. common vocabulary
c. international conversation
d. instructional speech
meaning to the word in bold-faced type.
Well, then, the old thing commenced again.
a. ended3. “Then she told me all about the bad place, and I said I wished I was there.” The bad place is
b. resumed
c. angered
d. diminished
most likely
a. a dungeon.4. Read the following sentence and then choose, from below, the choice that is closest in
b. hell.
c. New York City.
d. a slum.
meaning to the word in bold-faced type.
“ . . . Some authorities think different, but mostly it’s considered best to kill them—except some
that you bring to the cave here, and keep them till they’re ransomed.”
a. nearly dead5. Which word best describes Tom’s attitude about capturing women?
b. very sick
c. paid for
d. non-combative
a. stereotypical6. In what way does the author attempt to set a tone with his “Notice” at the opening of the
b. maniacal
c. dangerous
d. factual
passage?
7. What did Huck mean when he said, “The Widow Douglas she took me for her son, and
allowed she would sivilize me . . . ”?
.
8. What can you infer about the Widow Douglas from Huck’s disclosure, “The widow she cried
over me, and called me a poor lost lamb, and she called me a lot of other names, too, but she
never meant no harm by it”?
9. Name three of the rules that the Widow Douglas insisted Huck should follow.
© 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate. 8
10. What can you tell about Huck, his upbringing, and his education by his comments regarding
the uselessness of learning about Moses?
11. Is Huck a superstitious boy? How do you know? Why might this be true?
9 © 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate.
12. The word ”nigger” is used repeatedly by Huck in this passage. Is he speaking disrespectfully
for the standards of his time? Why or why not? Explain how his speech would be interpreted
differently if he were to make these comments today.
13. What does Tom leave behind when he takes the candles from Jim’s owner’s home? Is this
surprising to you? What does it tell you about him?
14. Describe Jim’s almost “celebrity status” among his peers. How did this come to be?
15. Summarize the oath that Tom Sawyer makes the boys in the club take. What is strangely
humorous about it?
16. Find one line from the passage that is a definite “giveaway” of the time period in which it
was written. Copy it here and explain your choice.
17. What can you infer about Tom’s education and worldly experiences from this quote?
“Don’t you reckon that the people that made the books knows what’s the correct thing to do?”
© 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate.
There was commotion in Roaring Camp. It
THE LUCK OFROARING CAMPby Bret Harte
could not have been a fight, for in 1850 that was
not novel enough to have called together the
entire settlement. The ditches and claims were
not only deserted, but “Tuttle’s grocery” had
contributed its gamblers, who, it will be
remembered, calmly continued their game the
day that French Pete and Kanaka Joe shot each
other to death over the bar in the front room.
The whole camp was collected before a rude
cabin on the outer edge of the clearing.
Conversation was carried on in a low tone, but
the name of a woman was frequently repeated.
It was a name familiar enough in the camp,—
“Cherokee Sal.”
Perhaps the less said of her the better. She was
a coarse and, it is to be feared, a very sinful
woman. But at that time she was the only
woman in Roaring Camp, and was just then
lying in sore extremity, when she most needed
the ministration of her own sex. Dissolute,
abandoned, and irreclaimable, she was yet
suffering a martyrdom hard enough to bear
even when veiled by sympathizing womanhood,
but now terrible in her loneliness. The primal
curse had come to her in that original isolation
which must have made the punishment of the
first transgression so dreadful. It was, perhaps,
part of the expiation of her sin that, at a
moment when she most lacked her sex’s
intuitive tenderness and care, she met only the
half-contemptuous faces of her masculine
associates. Yet a few of the spectators were, I
think, touched by her sufferings. Sandy Tipton
thought it was “rough on Sal,” and, in the
contemplation of her condition, for a moment
rose superior to the fact that he had an ace and
two bowers in his sleeve.
It will be seen also that the situation was novel.
Deaths were by no means uncommon in Roaring
Camp, but a birth was a new thing. People had
been dismissed from the camp effectively,
finally, and with no possibility of return; but this
was the first time that anybody had been
introduced ab initio. Hence the excitement.
“You go in there, Stumpy,” said a prominent
citizen known as “Kentuck,” addressing one of
the loungers. “Go in there, and see what you kin
do. You’ve had experience in them things.”
Perhaps there was a fitness in the selection.
Stumpy, in other climes, had been the putative
head of two families; in fact, it was owing to
some legal informality in these proceedings that
Roaring Camp—a city of refuge—was indebted
to his company. The crowd approved the choice,
and Stumpy was wise enough to bow to the
majority. The door closed on the extempore
surgeon and midwife, and Roaring Camp sat
down outside, smoked its pipe, and awaited the
issue.
The assemblage numbered about a hundred
men. One or two of these were actual fugitives
from justice, some were criminal, and all were
reckless. Physically they exhibited no
indication of their past lives and character. The
greatest scamp had a Raphael face, with a
profusion of blonde hair; Oakhurst, a gambler,
had the melancholy air and intellectual
abstraction of a Hamlet; the coolest and most
courageous man was scarcely over five feet in
height, with a soft voice and an embarrassed,
timid manner. The term “roughs” applied to
them was a distinction rather than a definition.
Perhaps in the minor details of fingers, toes,
ears, etc., the camp may have been deficient,
but these slight omissions did not detract from
their aggregate force. The strongest man had
but three fingers on his right hand; the best
shot had but one eye.
Such was the physical aspect of the men that
were dispersed around the cabin. The camp lay
in a triangular valley between two hills and a
river. The only outlet was a steep trail over the
summit of a hill that faced the cabin, now
illuminated by the rising moon. The suffering
woman might have seen it from the rude bunk
whereon she lay,—seen it winding like a silver
thread until it was lost in the stars above.
A fire of withered pine boughs added sociability
to the gathering. By degrees the natural levity
of Roaring Camp returned. Bets were freely
offered and taken regarding the result. Three to
five that “Sal would get through with it;” even
that the child would survive; side bets as to the
sex and complexion of the coming stranger. In
the midst of an excited discussion an
exclamation came from those nearest the door,
and the camp stopped to listen. Above the
swaying and moaning of the pines, the swift
rush of the river, and the crackling of the fire
rose a sharp, querulous cry,—a cry unlike
anything heard before in the camp. The pines
stopped moaning, the river ceased to rush, and
the fire to crackle. It seemed as if Nature had
stopped to listen too.
The camp rose to its feet as one man! It was
proposed to explode a barrel of gunpowder; but
in consideration of the situation of the mother,
better counsels prevailed, and only a few
revolvers were discharged; for whether owing to
the rude surgery of the camp, or some other
reason, Cherokee Sal was sinking fast. Within
an hour she had climbed, as it were, that
rugged road that led to the stars, and so passed
out of Roaring Camp, its sin and shame, forever.
I do not think that the announcement disturbed
them much, except in speculation as to the fate
of the child. “Can he live now?” was asked of
Stumpy. The answer was doubtful. The only
other being of Cherokee Sal’s sex and maternal
condition in the settlement was an ass. There
was some conjecture as to fitness, but the
experiment was tried. It was less problematical
than the ancient treatment of Romulus and
Remus, and apparently as successful.
When these details were completed, which
exhausted another hour, the door was opened,
and the anxious crowd of men, who had already
formed themselves into a queue, entered in
single file. Beside the low bunk or shelf, on
which the figure of the mother was starkly
outlined below the blankets, stood a pine table.
On this a candle-box was placed, and within it,
swathed in staring red flannel, lay the last
arrival at Roaring Camp. Beside the candle-box
was placed a hat. Its use was soon indicated.
“Gentlemen,” said Stumpy, with a singular
mixture of authority and ex officio
complacency,—“gentlemen will please pass in at
the front door, round the table, and out at the
back door. Them as wishes to contribute
anything toward the orphan will find a hat
handy.” The first man entered with his hat on;
he uncovered, however, as he looked about him,
and so unconsciously set an example to the
next. In such communities good and bad actions
are catching. As the procession filed in
comments were audible,—criticisms addressed
perhaps rather to Stumpy in the character of
showman: “Is that him?” “Mighty small
specimen;” “Hasn’t more’n got the color;” “Ain’t
bigger nor a derringer.” The contributions were
as characteristic: A silver tobacco box; a
doubloon; a navy revolver, silver mounted; a
gold specimen; a very beautifully embroidered
lady’s handkerchief (from Oakhurst the
gambler); a diamond breastpin; a diamond ring
(suggested by the pin, with the remark from the
giver that he “saw that pin and went two
diamonds better”); a slung-shot; a Bible
(contributor not detected); a golden spur; a
silver teaspoon (the initials, I regret to say, were
not the giver’s); a pair of surgeon’s shears; a
lancet; a Bank of England note for L5; and
about $200 in loose gold and silver coin. During
these proceedings Stumpy maintained a silence
as impassive as the dead on his left, a gravity as
inscrutable as that of the newly born on his
right. Only one incident occurred to break the
monotony of the curious procession. As Kentuck
bent over the candle-box half curiously, the
child turned, and, in a spasm of pain, caught at
his groping finger, and held it fast for a
moment. Kentuck looked foolish and
embarrassed. Something like a blush tried to
assert itself in his weather-beaten cheek. “The
d—d little cuss!” he said, as he extricated his
finger, with perhaps more tenderness and care
than he might have been deemed capable of
showing. He held that finger a little apart from
its fellows as he went out, and examined it
curiously. The examination provoked the same
original remark in regard to the child. In fact,
he seemed to enjoy repeating it. “He rastled
with my finger,” he remarked to Tipton, holding
up the member, “the d—d little cuss!”
It was four o’clock before the camp sought
repose. A light burnt in the cabin where the
watchers sat, for Stumpy did not go to bed that
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night. Nor did Kentuck. He drank quite freely,
and related with great gusto his experience,
invariably ending with his characteristic
condemnation of the newcomer. It seemed to
relieve him of any unjust implication of
sentiment, and Kentuck had the weaknesses of
the nobler sex. When everybody else had gone
to bed, he walked down to the river and
whistled reflectingly. Then he walked up the
gulch past the cabin, still whistling with
demonstrative unconcern. At a large redwoodtree
he paused and retraced his steps, and
again passed the cabin. Halfway down to the
river’s bank he again paused, and then
returned and knocked at the door. It was
opened by Stumpy. “How goes it?” said Kentuck,
looking past Stumpy toward the candle-box.
“All serene!” replied Stumpy. “Anything up?”
“Nothing.” There was a pause—an
embarrassing one—Stumpy still holding the
door. Then Kentuck had recourse to his finger,
which he held up to Stumpy. “Rastled with it,—
the d—d little cuss,” he said, and retired.
The next day Cherokee Sal had such rude
sepulture as Roaring Camp afforded. After her
body had been committed to the hillside, there
was a formal meeting of the camp to discuss
what should be done with her infant. A
resolution to adopt it was unanimous and
enthusiastic. But an animated discussion in
regard to the manner and feasibility of
providing for its wants at once sprang up. It
was remarkable that the argument partook of
none of those fierce personalities with which
discussions were usually conducted at Roaring
Camp. Tipton proposed that they should send
the child to Red Dog,—a distance of forty
miles,—where female attention could be
procured. But the unlucky suggestion met with
fierce and unanimous opposition. It was evident
that no plan which entailed parting from their
new acquisition would for a moment be
entertained. “Besides,” said Tom Ryder, “them
fellows at Red Dog would swap it, and ring in
somebody else on us.” A disbelief in the honesty
of other camps prevailed at Roaring Camp, as in
other places.
The introduction of a female nurse in the camp
also met with objection. It was argued that no
decent woman could be prevailed to accept
Roaring Camp as her home, and the speaker
urged that “they didn’t want any more of the
other kind.” This unkind allusion to the defunct
mother, harsh as it may seem, was the first
spasm of propriety,—the first symptom of the
camp’s regeneration. Stumpy advanced
nothing. Perhaps he felt a certain delicacy in
interfering with the selection of a possible
successor in office. But when questioned, he
averred stoutly that he and “Jinny”—the
mammal before alluded to—could manage to
rear the child. There was something original,
independent, and heroic about the plan that
pleased the camp. Stumpy was retained.
Certain articles were sent for to Sacramento.
“Mind,” said the treasurer, as he pressed a bag
of gold-dust into the expressman’s hand, “the
best that can be got,—lace, you know, and
filigree-work and frills,—d—n the cost!”
Strange to say, the child thrived. Perhaps the
invigorating climate of the mountain camp was
compensation for material deficiencies. Nature
took the foundling to her broader breast. In that
rare atmosphere of the Sierra foothills,—that
air pungent with balsamic odor, that ethereal
cordial at once bracing and exhilarating,—he
may have found food and nourishment, or a
subtle chemistry that transmuted ass’s milk to
lime and phosphorus. Stumpy inclined to the
belief that it was the latter and good nursing.
“Me and that ass,” he would say, “has been
father and mother to him! Don’t you,” he would
add, apostrophizing the helpless bundle before
him, “never go back on us.”
By the time he was a month old the necessity of
giving him a name became apparent. He had
generally been known as “The Kid,” “Stumpy’s
Boy,” “The Coyote” (an allusion to his vocal
powers), and even by Kentuck’s endearing
diminutive of “The d—d little cuss.” But these
were felt to be vague and unsatisfactory, and
were at last dismissed under another influence.
Gamblers and adventurers are generally
superstitious, and Oakhurst one day declared
that the baby had brought “the luck” to Roaring
Camp. It was certain that of late they had been
successful. “Luck” was the name agreed upon,
with the prefix of Tommy for greater
convenience. No allusion was made to the
© 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate. 16
mother, and the father was unknown. “It’s
better,” said the philosophical Oakhurst, “to
take a fresh deal all round. Call him Luck, and
start him fair.” A day was accordingly set apart
for the christening. What was meant by this
ceremony the reader may imagine who has
already gathered some idea of the reckless
irreverence of Roaring Camp. The master of
ceremonies was one “Boston,” a noted wag, and
the occasion seemed to promise the greatest
facetiousness. This ingenious satirist had spent
two days in preparing a burlesque of the
Church service, with pointed local allusions.
The choir was properly trained, and Sandy
Tipton was to stand godfather. But after the
procession had marched to the grove with music
and banners, and the child had been deposited
before a mock altar, Stumpy stepped before the
expectant crowd. “It ain’t my style to spoil fun,
boys,” said the little man, stoutly eying the
faces around him, “but it strikes me that this
thing ain’t exactly on the squar. It’s playing it
pretty low down on this yer baby to ring in fun
on him that he ain’t goin’ to understand. And ef
there’s goin’ to be any godfathers round, I’d like
to see who’s got any better rights than me.” A
silence followed Stumpy’s speech. To the credit
of all humorists be it said that the first man to
acknowledge its justice was the satirist thus
stopped of his fun. “But,” said Stumpy, quickly
following up his advantage, “we’re here for a
christening, and we’ll have it. I proclaim you
Thomas Luck, according to the laws of the
United States and the State of California, so
help me God.” It was the first time that the
name of the Deity had been otherwise uttered
than profanely in the camp. The form of
christening was perhaps even more ludicrous
than the satirist had conceived; but strangely
enough, nobody saw it and nobody laughed.
“Tommy” was christened as seriously as he
would have been under a Christian roof, and
cried and was comforted in as orthodox fashion.
And so the work of regeneration began in
Roaring Camp. Almost imperceptibly a change
came over the settlement. The cabin assigned to
“Tommy Luck”—or “The Luck,” as he was more
frequently called—first showed signs of
improvement. It was kept scrupulously clean
and whitewashed. Then it was boarded, clothed,
and papered. The rosewood, cradle, packed
eighty miles by mule, had, in Stumpy’s way of
putting it, “sorter killed the rest of the
furniture.” So the rehabilitation of the cabin
became a necessity. The men who were in the
habit of lounging in at Stumpy’s to see “how
‘The Luck’ got on” seemed to appreciate the
change, and in self-defense the rival
establishment of “Tuttle’s grocery” bestirred
itself and imported a carpet and mirrors. The
reflections of the latter on the appearance of
Roaring Camp tended to produce stricter habits
of personal cleanliness. Again Stumpy imposed
a kind of quarantine upon those who aspired to
the honor and privilege of holding The Luck. It
was a cruel mortification to Kentuck—who, in
the carelessness of a large nature and the
habits of frontier life, had begun to regard all
garments as a second cuticle, which, like a
snake’s, only sloughed off through decay—to be
debarred this privilege from certain prudential
reasons. Yet such was the subtle influence of
innovation that he thereafter appeared
regularly every afternoon in a clean shirt and
face still shining from his ablutions. Nor were
moral and social sanitary laws neglected.
“Tommy,” who was supposed to spend his whole
existence in a persistent attempt to repose,
must not be disturbed by noise. The shouting
and yelling, which had gained the camp its
infelicitous title, were not permitted within
hearing distance of Stumpy’s. The men
conversed in whispers or smoked with Indian
gravity. Profanity was tacitly given up in these
sacred precincts, and throughout the camp a
popular form of expletive, known as “D—n the
luck!” and “Curse the luck!” was abandoned, as
having a new personal bearing. Vocal music was
not interdicted, being supposed to have a
soothing, tranquilizing quality; and one song,
sung by “Man-o’-War Jack,” an English sailor
from her Majesty’s Australian colonies, was
quite popular as a lullaby. It was a lugubrious
recital of the exploits of “the Arethusa, Seventyfour,”
in a muffled minor, ending with a
prolonged dying fall at the burden of each
verse,” On b- oo-o-ard of the Arethusa.” It was a
fine sight to see Jack holding The Luck, rocking
from side to side as if with the motion of a ship,
and crooning forth this naval ditty. Either
through the peculiar rocking of Jack or the
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© 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate. 18
length of his song,—it contained ninety stanzas,
and was continued with conscientious
deliberation to the bitter end,—the lullaby
generally had the desired effect. At such times
the men would lie at full length under the trees
in the soft summer twilight, smoking their
pipes and drinking in the melodious utterances.
An indistinct idea that this was pastoral
happiness pervaded the camp. “This ‘ere kind o’
think,” said the Cockney Simmons,
meditatively reclining on his elbow, “is ‘evingly.”
It reminded him of Greenwich.
On the long summer days The Luck was usually
carried to the gulch from whence the golden
store of Roaring Camp was taken. There, on a
blanket spread over pine boughs, he would lie
while the men were working in the ditches
below. Latterly there was a rude attempt to
decorate this bower with flowers and sweetsmelling
shrubs, and generally some one would
bring him a cluster of wild honeysuckles,
azaleas, or the painted blossoms of Las
Mariposas. The men had suddenly awakened to
the fact that there were beauty and significance
in these trifles, which they had so long trodden
carelessly beneath their feet. A flake of
glittering mica, a fragment of variegated
quartz, a bright pebble from the bed of the
creek, became beautiful to eyes thus cleared
and strengthened, and were invariably put
aside for The Luck. It was wonderful how many
treasures the woods and hillsides yielded that
“would do for Tommy.” Surrounded by
playthings such as never child out of fairyland
had before, it is to be hoped that Tommy was
content. He appeared to be serenely happy,
albeit there was an infantine gravity about him,
a contemplative light in his round gray eyes,
that sometimes worried Stumpy. He was always
tractable and quiet, and it is recorded that once,
having crept beyond his “corral,”—a hedge of
tessellated pine boughs, which surrounded his
bed,—he dropped over the bank on his head in
the soft earth, and remained with his mottled
legs in the air in that position for at least five
minutes with unflinching gravity. He was
extricated without a murmur. I hesitate to
record the many other instances of his sagacity,
which rest, unfortunately, upon the statements
of prejudiced friends. Some of them were not
without a tinge of superstition. “I crep’ up the
bank just now,” said Kentuck one day, in a
breathless state of excitement, “and dern my
skin if he wasn’t a-talking to a jaybird as was asittin’
on his lap. There they was, just as free
and sociable as anything you please, a-jawin’ at
each other just like two cherrybums.” Howbeit,
whether creeping over the pine boughs or lying
lazily on his back blinking at the leaves above
him, to him the birds sang, the squirrels
chattered, and the flowers bloomed. Nature was
his nurse and playfellow. For him she would let
slip between the leaves golden shafts of
sunlight that fell just within his grasp; she
would send wandering breezes to visit him with
the balm of bay and resinous gum; to him the
tall redwoods nodded familiarly and sleepily,
the bumblebees buzzed, and the rooks cawed a
slumberous accompaniment.
Such was the golden summer of Roaring Camp.
They were “flush times,” and the luck was with
them. The claims had yielded enormously. The
camp was jealous of its privileges and looked
suspiciously on strangers. No encouragement
was given to immigration, and, to make their
seclusion more perfect, the land on either side
of the mountain wall that surrounded the camp
they duly preempted. This, and a reputation for
singular proficiency with the revolver, kept the
reserve of Roaring Camp inviolate. The
expressman—their only connecting link with
the surrounding world—sometimes told
wonderful stories of the camp. He would say,
“They’ve a street up there in ‘Roaring’ that
would lay over any street in Red Dog. They’ve
got vines and flowers round their houses, and
they wash themselves twice a day. But they’re
mighty rough on strangers, and they worship
an Ingin baby.”
With the prosperity of the camp came a desire
for further improvement. It was proposed to
build a hotel in the following spring, and to
invite one or two decent families to reside there
for the sake of The Luck, who might perhaps
profit by female companionship. The sacrifice
that this concession to the sex cost these men,
who were fiercely skeptical in regard to its
general virtue and usefulness, can only be
accounted for by their affection for Tommy. A
few still held out. But the resolve could not be
carried into effect for three months, and the
minority meekly yielded in the hope that
something might turn up to prevent it. And it
did.
The winter of 1851 will long be remembered in
the foothills. The snow lay deep on the Sierras,
and every mountain creek became a river, and
every river a lake. Each gorge and gulch was
transformed into a tumultuous watercourse
that descended the hillsides, tearing down giant
trees and scattering its drift and debris along
the plain. Red Dog had been twice under water,
and Roaring Camp had been forewarned.
“Water put the gold into them gulches,” said
Stumpy. “It’s been here once and will be here
again!” And that night the North Fork suddenly
leaped over its banks and swept up the
triangular valley of Roaring Camp.
In the confusion of rushing water, crashing
trees, and crackling timber, and the darkness
which seemed to flow with the water and blot
out the fair valley, but little could be done to
collect the scattered camp. When the morning
broke, the cabin of Stumpy, nearest the riverbank,
was gone. Higher up the gulch they found
the body of its unlucky owner; but the pride, the
hope, the joy, The Luck, of Roaring Camp had
disappeared. They were returning with sad
hearts when a shout from the bank recalled
them.
It was a relief-boat from down the river. They
had picked up, they said, a man and an infant,
nearly exhausted, about two miles below. Did
anybody know them, and did they belong here?
It needed but a glance to show them Kentuck
lying there, cruelly crushed and bruised, but
still holding The Luck of Roaring Camp in his
arms. As they bent over the strangely assorted
pair, they saw that the child was cold and
pulseless. “He is dead,” said one. Kentuck
opened his eyes. “Dead?” he repeated feebly.
“Yes, my man, and you are dying too.” A smile lit
the eyes of the expiring Kentuck. “Dying!” he
repeated; “he’s a-taking me with him. Tell the
boys I’ve got The Luck with me now;” and the
strong man, clinging to the frail babe as a
drowning man is said to cling to a straw, drifted
away into the shadowy river that flows forever
to the unknown sea.
1. What important event has caused the residents of Roaring Camp to gather together?
a. a mayoral inauguration
b. a town parade2. Read the following sentence and then choose, from the choices below, the word or phrase that
c. the birth of a baby
d. a church fire
is closet in meaning to the word in bold-faced type.
It was, perhaps, part of the expiation of her sin that, at a moment when she most lacked her
sex’s intuitive tenderness and care, she met only the half-contemptuous faces of her masculine
associates.
a. atonement3. Which literary element is used in the following sentence taken from the story?
b. publicity
c. danger
d. innocence
.
“ . . . —seen it winding like a silver thread until it was lost in the stars above.”
a. metaphor4. Read the following sentence and then select, from below, the word or phrase that is closest in
b. consonance
c. simile
d. personification
meaning to the word in bold-faced type.
The next day Cherokee Sal had such rude sepulture as Roaring Camp afforded.
a. burial5. Which characters end up with the primary responsibility of raising the baby?
b. treatment
c. medical care
d. legal advice
a. Jinny and Tipton6. Read the following sentence and then select, from below, the word or phrase that is closest in
b. Jinny and Stumpy
c. Stumpy and Tipton
d. all of the residents
meaning to the word in bold-faced type.
A flake of glittering mica, a fragment of variegated quartz, a bright pebble from the bed of the
creek, became beautiful to eyes thus cleared and strengthened, and were invariably put aside
for The Luck.
a. constantly7. Why is the arrival of the baby so shocking? Did Roaring Camp have a “family”-type
b. carelessly
c. cautiously
d. quickly
atmosphere? Explain.
8. Describe the appearance of the average resident of Roaring Camp.
9. Describe the result of Cherokee Sal’s difficult experience. What did the residents do
afterwards?
10. What makes the man known as Kentuck most excited?
11. What was the overwhelming, albeit surprising, response from the residents when the topic of
the baby’s future living arrangements and custody situation began?
12. How is the baby’s name ultimately determined?
13. Describe the christening ceremony. How did it manage to be genuine in feeling despite its
unorthodox presentation?
14. What was meant by the expression “the work of regeneration” in Roaring Camp? How did it
manifest in the settlement?
15. What deeper realization did the men come to see as a result of spending leisurely time
outdoors with Tommy?
16. Discuss the relationship Tommy had with nature. How was it manifested? What was the
reaction from the men in Roaring Camp?
.
17. Ultimately, what happens to Tommy Luck? What can be interpreted in the last line of the
story?
© 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate.
The White Heron (Chapters I–II) by Sarah Orne Jewett
The Awakening (Chapters I–IV) by Kate Chopin
The Yellow Wallpaper (partial) by Charlotte Perkins Gilman
Ethan Frome (partial) by Edith Wharton
O Pioneers! (Part One—Chapter I) by Willa Cather
A WHITE HERON
by Sarah Orne JewettI.
The woods were already filled with shadows one
June evening, just before eight o’clock, though a
bright sunset still glimmered faintly among the
trunks of the trees. A little girl was driving
home her cow, a plodding, dilatory, provoking
creature in her behavior, but a valued
companion for all that. They were going away
from whatever light there was, and striking
deep into the woods, but their feet were familiar
with the path, and it was no matter whether
their eyes could see it or not.
There was hardly a night the summer through
when the old cow could be found waiting at the
pasture bars; on the contrary, it was her
greatest pleasure to hide herself away among
the huckleberry bushes, and though she wore a
loud bell she had made the discovery that if one
stood perfectly still it would not ring. So Sylvia
had to hunt for her until she found her, and call
Co’ ! Co’ ! with never an answering Moo, until
her childish patience was quite spent. If the
creature had not given good milk and plenty of
it, the case would have seemed very different to
her owners. Besides, Sylvia had all the time
there was, and very little use to make of it.
Sometimes in pleasant weather it was a
consolation to look upon the cow’s pranks as an
intelligent attempt to play hide and seek, and
as the child had no playmates she lent herself to
this amusement with a good deal of zest.
Though this chase had been so long that the
wary animal herself had given an unusual
signal of her whereabouts, Sylvia had only
laughed when she came upon Mistress Moolly
at the swamp-side, and urged her affectionately
homeward with a twig of birch leaves. The old
cow was not inclined to wander farther, she
even turned in the right direction for once as
they left the pasture, and stepped along the
road at a good pace. She was quite ready to be
milked now, and seldom stopped to browse.
Sylvia wondered what her grandmother would
say because they were so late. It was a great
while since she had left home at half-past five
o’clock, but everybody knew the difficulty of
making this errand a short one. Mrs. Tilley had
chased the hornéd torment too many summer
evenings herself to blame any one else for
lingering, and was only thankful as she waited
that she had Sylvia, nowadays, to give such
valuable assistance. The good woman suspected
that Sylvia loitered occasionally on her own
account; there never was such a child for
straying about out-of-doors since the world was
made! Everybody said that it was a good change
for a little maid who had tried to grow for eight
years in a crowded manufacturing town, but, as
for Sylvia herself, it seemed as if she never had
been alive at all before she came to live at the
farm. She thought often with wistful
compassion of a wretched geranium that
belonged to a town neighbor.
“ ‘Afraid of folks,’ ” old Mrs. Tilley said to
herself, with a smile, after she had made the
unlikely choice of Sylvia from her daughter’s
houseful of children, and was returning to the
farm. “ ‘Afraid of folks,’ they said! I guess she
won’t be troubled no great with ‘em up to the old
place!” When they reached the door of the lonely
house and stopped to unlock it, and the cat
came to purr loudly, and rub against them, a
deserted pussy, indeed, but fat with young
robins, Sylvia whispered that this was a
beautiful place to live in, and she never should
wish to go home.
The companions followed the shady wood-road,
the cow taking slow steps and the child very
fast ones. The cow stopped long at the brook to
drink, as if the pasture were not half a swamp,
and Sylvia stood still and waited, letting her
bare feet cool themselves in the shoal water,
while the great twilight moths struck softly
against her. She waded on through the brook as
the cow moved away, and listened to the
thrushes with a heart that beat fast with
pleasure. There was a stirring in the great
boughs overhead. They were full of little birds
and beasts that seemed to be wide awake, and
going about their world, or else saying goodnight
to each other in sleepy twitters. Sylvia
herself felt sleepy as she walked along.
However, it was not much farther to the house,
and the air was soft and sweet. She was not
often in the woods so late as this, and it made
her feel as if she were a part of the gray
shadows and the moving leaves. She was just
thinking how long it seemed since she first
came to the farm a year ago, and wondering if
everything went on in the noisy town just the
same as when she was there, the thought of the
great red-faced boy who used to chase and
frighten her made her hurry along the path to
escape from the shadow of the trees.
Suddenly this little woods-girl is horrorstricken
to hear a clear whistle not very far
away. Not a bird’s-whistle, which would have a
sort of friendliness, but a boy’s whistle,
determined, and somewhat aggressive. Sylvia
left the cow to whatever sad fate might await
her, and stepped discreetly aside into the
bushes, but she was just too late. The enemy
had discovered her, and called out in a very
cheerful and persuasive tone, “Halloa, little
girl, how far is it to the road?” and trembling
Sylvia answered almost inaudibly, “A good
ways.”
She did not dare to look boldly at the tall young
man, who carried a gun over his shoulder, but
she came out of her bush and again followed the
cow, while he walked alongside.
“I have been hunting for some birds,” the
stranger said kindly, “and I have lost my way,
and need a friend very much. Don’t be afraid,”
he added gallantly. “Speak up and tell me what
your name is, and whether you think I can
spend the night at your house, and go out
gunning early in the morning.”
Sylvia was more alarmed than before. Would
not her grandmother consider her much to
blame? But who could have foreseen such an
accident as this? It did not seem to be her fault,
and she hung her head as if the stem of it were
broken, but managed to answer “Sylvy,” with
much effort when her companion again asked
her name.
Mrs. Tilley was standing in the doorway when
the trio came into view. The cow gave a loud
moo by way of explanation.
“Yes, you’d better speak up for yourself, you old
trial! Where’d she tucked herself away this
time, Sylvy?” But Sylvia kept an awed silence;
she knew by instinct that her grandmother did
not comprehend the gravity of the situation.
She must be mistaking the stranger for one of
the farmer-lads of the region.
The young man stood his gun beside the door,
and dropped a lumpy game-bag beside it; then
he bade Mrs. Tilley good-evening, and repeated
his wayfarer’s story, and asked if he could have
a night’s lodging.
“Put me anywhere you like,” he said. “I must be
off early in the morning, before day; but I am
very hungry, indeed. You can give me some milk
at any rate, that’s plain.”
“Dear sakes, yes,” responded the hostess, whose
long slumbering hospitality seemed to be easily
awakened. “You might fare better if you went
out to the main road a mile or so, but you’re
welcome to what we’ve got. I’ll milk right off,
and you make yourself at home. You can sleep
on husks or feathers,” she proffered graciously.
“I raised them all myself. There’s good
pasturing for geese just below here towards the
ma’sh. Now step round and set a plate for the
gentleman, Sylvy!” And Sylvia promptly
stepped. She was glad to have something to do,
and she was hungry herself.
It was a surprise to find so clean and
comfortable a little dwelling in this New
England wilderness. The young man had
known the horrors of its most primitive
housekeeping, and the dreary squalor of that
level of society which does not rebel at the
companionship of hens. This was the best thrift
of an old-fashioned farmstead, though on such a
small scale that it seemed like a hermitage. He
listened eagerly to the old woman’s quaint talk,
he watched Sylvia’s pale face and shining gray
eyes with ever growing enthusiasm, and
insisted that this was the best supper he had
eaten for a month, and afterward the new-made
friends sat down in the door-way together while
the moon came up.
Soon it would be berry-time, and Sylvia was a
great help at picking. The cow was a good
milker, though a plaguy thing to keep track of,
the hostess gossiped frankly, adding presently
29 © 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate.
that she had buried four children, so Sylvia’s
mother, and a son (who might be dead) in
California were all the children she had left.
“Dan, my boy, was a great hand to go gunning,”
she explained sadly. “I never wanted for
pa’tridges or gray squer’ls while he was to
home. He’s been a great wand’rer, I expect, and
he’s no hand to write letters. There, I don’t
blame him, I’d ha’ seen the world myself if it
had been so I could.
“Sylvy takes after him,” the grandmother
continued affectionately, after a minute’s pause.
“There ain’t a foot o’ ground she don’t know her
way over, and the wild creaturs counts her one
o’ themselves. Squer’ls she’ll tame to come an’
feed right out o’ her hands, and all sorts o’ birds.
Last winter she got the jay-birds to bangeing
here, and I believe she’d ‘a’ scanted herself of
her own meals to have plenty to throw out
amongst ‘em, if I hadn’t kep’ watch. Anything
but crows, I tell her, I’m willin’ to help
support—though Dan he had a tamed one o’
them that did seem to have reason same as
folks. It was round here a good spell after he
went away. Dan an’ his father they didn’t
hitch,—but he never held up his head ag’in
after Dan had dared him an’ gone off.”
The guest did not notice this hint of family
sorrows in his eager interest in something else.
“So Sylvy knows all about birds, does she?” he
exclaimed, as he looked round at the little girl
who sat, very demure but increasingly sleepy, in
the moonlight. “I am making a collection of
birds myself. I have been at it ever since I was
a boy.” (Mrs. Tilley smiled.) “There are two or
three very rare ones I have been hunting for
these five years. I mean to get them on my own
ground if they can be found.”
“Do you cage ‘em up?” asked Mrs. Tilley
doubtfully, in response to this enthusiastic
announcement.
“Oh no, they’re stuffed and preserved, dozens
and dozens of them,” said the ornithologist,
“and I have shot or snared every one myself. I
caught a glimpse of a white heron a few miles
from here on Saturday, and I have followed it in
this direction. They have never been found in
this district at all. The little white heron, it is,”
and he turned again to look at Sylvia with the
hope of discovering that the rare bird was one of
her acquaintances.
But Sylvia was watching a hop-toad in the
narrow footpath.
“You would know the heron if you saw it,” the
stranger continued eagerly. “A queer tall white
bird with soft feathers and long thin legs. And it
would have a nest perhaps in the top of a high
tree, made of sticks, something like a hawk’s
nest.”
Sylvia’s heart gave a wild beat; she knew that
strange white bird, and had once stolen softly
near where it stood in some bright green swamp
grass, away over at the other side of the woods.
There was an open place where the sunshine
always seemed strangely yellow and hot, where
tall, nodding rushes grew, and her grandmother
had warned her that she might sink in the soft
black mud underneath and never be heard of
more. Not far beyond were the salt marshes just
this side the sea itself, which Sylvia wondered
and dreamed much about, but never had seen,
whose great voice could sometimes be heard
above the noise of the woods on stormy nights.
“I can’t think of anything I should like so much
as to find that heron’s nest,” the handsome
stranger was saying. “I would give ten dollars to
anybody who could show it to me,” he added
desperately, “and I mean to spend my whole
vacation hunting for it if need be. Perhaps it
was only migrating, or had been chased out of
its own region by some bird of prey.”
Mrs. Tilley gave amazed attention to all this,
but Sylvia still watched the toad, not divining,
as she might have done at some calmer time,
that the creature wished to get to its hole under
the door-step, and was much hindered by the
unusual spectators at that hour of the evening.
No amount of thought, that night, could decide
how many wished-for treasures the ten dollars,
so lightly spoken of, would buy.
The next day the young sportsman hovered
about the woods, and Sylvia kept him company,
having lost her first fear of the friendly lad, who
proved to be most kind and sympathetic. He
told her many things about the birds and what
they knew and where they lived and what they
did with themselves. And he gave her a jackknife,
which she thought as great a treasure as
if she were a desert-islander. All day long he did
not once make her troubled or afraid except
when he brought down some unsuspecting
singing creature from its bough. Sylvia would
have liked him vastly better without his gun;
she could not understand why he killed the very
birds he seemed to like so much. But as the day
waned, Sylvia still watched the young man with
loving admiration. She had never seen anybody
so charming and delightful; the woman’s heart,
asleep in the child, was vaguely thrilled by a
dream of love. Some premonition of that great
power stirred and swayed these young
creatures who traversed the solemn woodlands
with soft-footed silent care. They stopped to
listen to a bird’s song; they pressed forward
again eagerly, parting the branches—speaking
to each other rarely and in whispers; the young
man going first and Sylvia following,
fascinated, a few steps behind, with her gray
eyes dark with excitement.
She grieved because the longed-for white heron
was elusive, but she did not lead the guest, she
only followed, and there was no such thing as
speaking first. The sound of her own
unquestioned voice would have terrified her—it
was hard enough to answer yes or no when
there was need of that. At last evening began to
fall, and they drove the cow home together, and
Sylvia smiled with pleasure when they came to
the place where she heard the whistle and was
afraid only the night before.
II.
Half a mile from home, at the farther edge of
the woods, where the land was highest, a great
pine-tree stood, the last of its generation.
Whether it was left for a boundary mark, or for
what reason, no one could say; the
woodchoppers who had felled its mates were
dead and gone long ago, and a whole forest of
sturdy trees, pines and oaks and maples, had
grown again. But the stately head of this old
pine towered above them all and made a
landmark for sea and shore miles and miles
away. Sylvia knew it well. She had always
believed that whoever climbed to the top of it
could see the ocean; and the little girl had often
laid her hand on the great rough trunk and
looked up wistfully at those dark boughs that
the wind always stirred, no matter how hot and
still the air might be below. Now she thought of
the tree with a new excitement, for why, if one
climbed it at break of day, could not one see all
the world, and easily discover from whence the
white heron flew, and mark the place, and find
the hidden nest?
What a spirit of adventure, what wild ambition!
What fancied triumph and delight and glory for
the later morning when she could make known
the secret! It was almost too real and too great
for the childish heart to bear.
All night the door of the little house stood open
and the whippoorwills came and sang upon the
very step. The young sportsman and his old
hostess were sound asleep, but Sylvia’s great
design kept her broad awake and watching. She
forgot to think of sleep. The short summer night
seemed as long as the winter darkness, and at
last when the whippoorwills ceased, and she
was afraid the morning would after all come too
soon, she stole out of the house and followed the
pasture path through the woods, hastening
toward the open ground beyond, listening with
a sense of comfort and companionship to the
drowsy twitter of a half-awakened bird, whose
perch she had jarred in passing. Alas, if the
great wave of human interest which flooded for
the first time this dull little life should sweep
away the satisfactions of an existence heart to
heart with nature and the dumb life of the
forest!
There was the huge tree asleep yet in the paling
moonlight, and small and silly Sylvia began
with utmost bravery to mount to the top of it,
with tingling, eager blood coursing the channels
of her whole frame, with her bare feet and
fingers, that pinched and held like bird’s claws
to the monstrous ladder reaching up, up, almost
to the sky itself. First she must mount the white
oak tree that grew alongside, where she was
almost lost among the dark branches and the
© 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate. 30
green leaves heavy and wet with dew; a bird
fluttered off its nest, and a red squirrel ran to
and fro and scolded pettishly at the harmless
housebreaker. Sylvia felt her way easily. She
had often climbed there, and knew that higher
still one of the oak’s upper branches chafed
against the pine trunk, just where its lower
boughs were set close together. There, when she
made the dangerous pass from one tree to the
other, the great enterprise would really begin.
She crept out along the swaying oak limb at
last, and took the daring step across into the old
pine-tree. The way was harder than she
thought; she must reach far and hold fast, the
sharp dry twigs caught and held her and
scratched her like angry talons, the pitch made
her thin little fingers clumsy and stiff as she
went round and round the tree’s great stem,
higher and higher upward. The sparrows and
robins in the woods below were beginning to
wake and twitter to the dawn, yet it seemed
much lighter there aloft in the pine-tree, and
the child knew she must hurry if her project
were to be of any use.
The tree seemed to lengthen itself out as she
went up, and to reach farther and farther
upward. It was like a great main-mast to the
voyaging earth; it must truly have been amazed
that morning through all its ponderous frame
as it felt this determined spark of human spirit
wending its way from higher branch to branch.
Who knows how steadily the least twigs held
themselves to advantage this light, weak
creature on her way! The old pine must have
loved his new dependent. More than all the
hawks, and bats, and moths, and even the
sweet voiced thrushes, was the brave, beating
heart of the solitary gray-eyed child. And the
tree stood still and frowned away the winds
that June morning while the dawn grew bright
in the east.
Sylvia’s face was like a pale star, if one had seen
it from the ground, when the last thorny bough
was past, and she stood trembling and tired but
wholly triumphant, high in the tree-top. Yes,
there was the sea with the dawning sun making
a golden dazzle over it, and toward that glorious
east flew two hawks with slow-moving pinions.
How low they looked in the air from that height
when one had only seen them before far up, and
dark against the blue sky. Their gray feathers
were as soft as moths; they seemed only a little
way from the tree, and Sylvia felt as if she too
could go flying away among the clouds.
Westward, the woodlands and farms reached
miles and miles into the distance; here and
there were church steeples, and white villages,
truly it was a vast and awesome world.
The birds sang louder and louder. At last the
sun came up bewilderingly bright. Sylvia could
see the white sails of ships out at sea, and the
clouds that were purple and rose-colored and
yellow at first began to fade away. Where was
the white heron’s nest in the sea of green
branches, and was this wonderful sight and
pageant of the world the only reward for having
climbed to such a giddy height? Now look down
again, Sylvia, where the green marsh is set
among the shining birches and dark hemlocks;
there where you saw the white heron once you
will see him again; look, look! a white spot of
him like a single floating feather comes up from
the dead hemlock and grows larger, and rises,
and comes close at last, and goes by the
landmark pine with steady sweep of wing and
outstretched slender neck and crested head.
And wait! wait! do not move a foot or a finger,
little girl, do not send an arrow of light and
consciousness from your two eager eyes, for the
heron has perched on a pine bough not far
beyond yours, and cries back to his mate on the
nest and plumes his feathers for the new day!
The child gives a long sigh a minute later when
a company of shouting cat-birds comes also to
the tree, and vexed by their fluttering and
lawlessness the solemn heron goes away. She
knows his secret now, the wild, light, slender
bird that floats and wavers, and goes back like
an arrow presently to his home in the green
world beneath. Then Sylvia, well satisfied,
makes her perilous way down again, not daring
to look far below the branch she stands on,
ready to cry sometimes because her fingers ache
and her lamed feet slip. Wondering over and
over again what the stranger would say to her,
and what he would think when she told him
how to find his way straight to the heron’s nest.
“Sylvy, Sylvy!” called the busy old grandmother
again and again, but nobody answered, and the
small husk bed was empty and Sylvia had
disappeared.
The guest waked from a dream, and
remembering his day’s pleasure hurried to
dress himself that it might sooner begin. He
was sure from the way the shy little girl looked
once or twice yesterday that she had at least
seen the white heron, and now she must really
be made to tell. Here she comes now, paler than
ever, and her worn old frock is torn and
tattered, and smeared with pine pitch. The
grandmother and the sportsman stand in the
door together and question her, and the
splendid moment has come to speak of the dead
hemlock-tree by the green marsh.
But Sylvia does not speak after all, though the
old grandmother fretfully rebukes her, and the
young man’s kind, appealing eyes are looking
straight in her own. He can make them rich
with money; he has promised it, and they are
poor now. He is so well worth making happy,
and he waits to hear the story she can tell.
No, she must keep silence! What is it that
suddenly forbids her and makes her dumb? Has
she been nine years growing and now, when the
great world for the first time puts out a hand to
her, must she thrust it aside for a bird’s sake?
The murmur of the pine’s green branches is in
her ears, she remembers how the white heron
came flying through the golden air and how
they watched the sea and the morning together,
and Sylvia cannot speak; she cannot tell the
heron’s secret and give its life away.
Dear loyalty, that suffered a sharp pang as the
guest went away disappointed later in the day,
that could have served and followed him and
loved him as a dog loves! Many a night Sylvia
heard the echo of his whistle haunting the
pasture path as she came home with the
loitering cow. She forgot even her sorrow at the
sharp report of his gun and the sight of
thrushes and sparrows dropping silent to the
ground, their songs hushed and their pretty
feathers stained and wet with blood. Were the
birds better friends than their hunter might
have been,—who can tell? Whatever treasures
were lost to her, woodlands and summer-time,
remember! Bring your gifts and graces and tell
your secrets to this lonely country child!
31 © 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate.
© 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate. 32
1. Sylvia’s cow is called
a. Lillybell.2. Read the following sentence and then select, from below, the word that is closest in meaning
b. Mistress Moolly.
c. Mrs. Tilley.
d. Little Nana.
to the word in bold-faced type.
The cow was a good milker, though a plaguy thing to keep track of . . .
a. annoying3. The young hunter is actually a(n)
b. frightening
c. sickening
d. impossible
a. psychologist.4. Read the following sentence and then select, from the choices below, the word closest in
b. naturalist.
c. scientist.
d. ornithologist.
meaning to the word in bold-faced type.
She grieved because the longed-for white heron was elusive, but she did not lead the guest,
she only followed, and there was no such thing as speaking first.
a. bold5. “ . . . do not send an arrow of light and consciousness from your two eager eyes . . . ” This line
b. evasive
c. endangered
d. rare
from the story is an elaborate way of saying,
a. “Hide!”6. Which literary term is used in the following sentence from the story?
b. “Don’t even move!”
c. “Get down!”
d. “Don’t look at it!”
“It was like a great main-mast to the voyaging earth . . . ”
a. onomatopoeia7. Describe the game apparently played by the cow and her owner.
b. alliteration
c. assonance
d. simile
8. Explain the relationship between Sylvia and Mrs. Tilley. How did Sylvia come to live with
her?
9. What sound frightens Sylvia? Who was responsible for it?
10. Identify and describe the bird that the young man wants.
11. Discuss the change in Sylvia’s feelings towards the young hunter. How did she feel about him
when they first met? How does she feel about him after they have spent a day together?
12. With regard to his occupation, which aspect of the young man’s behavior is puzzling to
Sylvia?
13. On a literal and a figurative level, describe the significance of the great pine tree. In other
words, what does it symbolize or offer to Sylvia?
14. Describe the sights that Sylvia sees from the top of the tree.
15. Sylvia returns home fully prepared to tell the young hunter the location of the white heron;
however, she decides not to reveal the information after all. Why?
© 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate.
THE AWAKENINGI
by Kate Chopin
A green and yellow parrot, which hung in a cage
outside the door, kept repeating over and over:
“Allez vous-en! Allez vous-en! Sapristi! That’s
all right!”
He could speak a little Spanish, and also a
language which nobody understood, unless it
was the mocking-bird that hung on the other
side of the door, whistling his fluty notes out
upon the breeze with maddening persistence.
Mr. Pontellier, unable to read his newspaper
with any degree of comfort, arose with an
expression and an exclamation of disgust.
He walked down the gallery and across the
narrow “bridges” which connected the Lebrun
cottages one with the other. He had been seated
before the door of the main house. The parrot
and the mockingbird were the property of
Madame Lebrun, and they had the right to
make all the noise they wished. Mr. Pontellier
had the privilege of quitting their society when
they ceased to be entertaining.
He stopped before the door of his own cottage,
which was the fourth one from the main
building and next to the last. Seating himself
in a wicker rocker which was there, he once
more applied himself to the task of reading the
newspaper. The day was Sunday; the paper
was a day old. The Sunday papers had not yet
reached Grand Isle. He was already acquainted
with the market reports, and he glanced
restlessly over the editorials and bits of news
which he had not had time to read before
quitting New Orleans the day before.
Mr. Pontellier wore eye-glasses. He was a man
of forty, of medium height and rather slender
build; he stooped a little. His hair was brown
and straight, parted on one side. His beard was
neatly and closely trimmed.
Once in a while he withdrew his glance from
the newspaper and looked about him. There
was more noise than ever over at the house.
The main building was called “the house,” to
distinguish it from the cottages. The chattering
and whistling birds were still at it. Two young
girls, the Farival twins, were playing a duet
from “Zampa” upon the piano. Madame Lebrun
was bustling in and out, giving orders in a high
key to a yard-boy whenever she got inside the
house, and directions in an equally high voice to
a dining-room servant whenever she got
outside. She was a fresh, pretty woman, clad
always in white with elbow sleeves. Her
starched skirts crinkled as she came and went.
Farther down, before one of the cottages, a lady
in black was walking demurely up and down,
telling her beads. A good many persons of the
pension had gone over to the Cheniere
Caminada in Beaudelet’s lugger to hear mass.
Some young people were out under the
wateroaks playing croquet. Mr. Pontellier’s two
children were there sturdy little fellows of four
and five. A quadroon nurse followed them about
with a faraway, meditative air.
Mr. Pontellier finally lit a cigar and began to
smoke, letting the paper drag idly from his
hand. He fixed his gaze upon a white sunshade
that was advancing at snail’s pace from the
beach. He could see it plainly between the
gaunt trunks of the water-oaks and across the
stretch of yellow camomile. The gulf looked far
away, melting hazily into the blue of the
horizon. The sunshade continued to approach
slowly. Beneath its pink-lined shelter were his
wife, Mrs. Pontellier, and young Robert Lebrun.
When they reached the cottage, the two seated
themselves with some appearance of fatigue
upon the upper step of the porch, facing each
other, each leaning against a supporting post.
“What folly! to bathe at such an hour in such
heat!” exclaimed Mr. Pontellier. He himself had
taken a plunge at daylight. That was why the
morning seemed long to him.
“You are burnt beyond recognition,” he added,
looking at his wife as one looks at a valuable
piece of personal property which has suffered
some damage. She held up her hands, strong,
39 © 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate.
© 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate. 40
shapely hands, and surveyed them critically,
drawing up her fawn sleeves above the wrists.
Looking at them reminded her of her rings,
which she had given to her husband before
leaving for the beach. She silently reached out
to him, and he, understanding, took the rings
from his vest pocket and dropped them into her
open palm. She slipped them upon her fingers;
then clasping her knees, she looked across at
Robert and began to laugh. The rings sparkled
upon her fingers. He sent back an answering
smile.
“What is it?” asked Pontellier, looking lazily and
amused from one to the other. It was some
utter nonsense; some adventure out there in the
water, and they both tried to relate it at once. It
did not seem half so amusing when told. They
realized this, and so did Mr. Pontellier. He
yawned and stretched himself. Then he got up,
saying he had half a mind to go over to Klein’s
hotel and play a game of billiards.
“Come go along, Lebrun,” he proposed to
Robert. But Robert admitted quite frankly that
he preferred to stay where he was and talk to
Mrs. Pontellier.
“Well, send him about his business when he
bores you, Edna,” instructed her husband as he
prepared to leave.
“Here, take the umbrella,” she exclaimed,
holding it out to him. He accepted the
sunshade, and lifting it over his head descended
the steps and walked away.
“Coming back to dinner?” his wife called after
him. He halted a moment and shrugged his
shoulders. He felt in his vest pocket; there was
a ten-dollar bill there. He did not know;
perhaps he would return for the early dinner
and perhaps he would not. It all depended upon
the company which he found over at Klein’s and
the size of “the game.” He did not say this, but
she understood it, and laughed, nodding goodby
to him.
Both children wanted to follow their father
when they saw him starting out. He kissed
them and promised to bring them back bonbons
and peanuts.
II
Mrs. Pontellier’s eyes were quick and bright;
they were a yellowish brown, about the color of
her hair. She had a way of turning them swiftly
upon an object and holding them there as if lost
in some inward maze of contemplation or
thought.
Her eyebrows were a shade darker than her
hair. They were thick and almost horizontal,
emphasizing the depth of her eyes. She was
rather handsome than beautiful. Her face was
captivating by reason of a certain frankness of
expression and a contradictory subtle play of
features. Her manner was engaging.
Robert rolled a cigarette. He smoked cigarettes
because he could not afford cigars, he said. He
had a cigar in his pocket which Mr. Pontellier
had presented him with, and he was saving it
for his after-dinner smoke.
This seemed quite proper and natural on his
part. In coloring he was not unlike his
companion. A clean-shaved face made the
resemblance more pronounced than it would
otherwise have been. There rested no shadow of
care upon his open countenance. His eyes
gathered in and reflected the light and languor
of the summer day.
Mrs. Pontellier reached over for a palm-leaf fan
that lay on the porch and began to fan herself,
while Robert sent between his lips light puffs
from his cigarette. They chatted incessantly:
about the things around them; their amusing
adventure out in the water—it had again
assumed its entertaining aspect; about the
wind, the trees, the people who had gone to the
Cheniere; about the children playing croquet
under the oaks, and the Farival twins, who
were now performing the overture to “The Poet
and the Peasant.”
Robert talked a good deal about himself. He
was very young, and did not know any better.
Mrs. Pontellier talked a little about herself for
the same reason. Each was interested in what
the other said. Robert spoke of his intention to
go to Mexico in the autumn, where fortune
awaited him. He was always intending to go to
41 © 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate.
Mexico, but some way never got there.
Meanwhile he held on to his modest position in
a mercantile house in New Orleans, where an
equal familiarity with English, French and
Spanish gave him no small value as a clerk and
correspondent.
He was spending his summer vacation, as he
always did, with his mother at Grand Isle. In
former times, before Robert could remember,
“the house” had been a summer luxury of the
Lebruns. Now, flanked by its dozen or more
cottages, which were always filled with
exclusive visitors from the “Quartier Francais,”
it enabled Madame Lebrun to maintain the
easy and comfortable existence which appeared
to be her birthright.
Mrs. Pontellier talked about her father’s
Mississippi plantation and her girlhood home in
the old Kentucky bluegrass country. She was
an American woman, with a small infusion of
French which seemed to have been lost in
dilution. She read a letter from her sister, who
was away in the East, and who had engaged
herself to be married. Robert was interested,
and wanted to know what manner of girls the
sisters were, what the father was like, and how
long the mother had been dead.
When Mrs. Pontellier folded the letter it was
time for her to dress for the early dinner.
“I see Leonce isn’t coming back,” she said, with
a glance in the direction whence her husband
had disappeared. Robert supposed he was not,
as there were a good many New Orleans club
men over at Klein’s.
When Mrs. Pontellier left him to enter her
room, the young man descended the steps and
strolled over toward the croquet players, where,
during the half-hour before dinner, he amused
himself with the little Pontellier children, who
were very fond of him.
III
It was eleven o’clock that night when Mr.
Pontellier returned from Klein’s hotel. He was
in an excellent humor, in high spirits, and very
talkative. His entrance awoke his wife, who
was in bed and fast asleep when he came in. He
talked to her while he undressed, telling her
anecdotes and bits of news and gossip that he
had gathered during the day. From his trousers
pockets he took a fistful of crumpled bank notes
and a good deal of silver coin, which he piled on
the bureau indiscriminately with keys, knife,
handkerchief, and whatever else happened to
be in his pockets. She was overcome with sleep,
and answered him with little half utterances.
He thought it very discouraging that his wife,
who was the sole object of his existence, evinced
so little interest in things which concerned him,
and valued so little his conversation.
Mr. Pontellier had forgotten the bonbons and
peanuts for the boys. Notwithstanding he loved
them very much, and went into the adjoining
room where they slept to take a look at them
and make sure that they were resting
comfortably. The result of his investigation was
far from satisfactory. He turned and shifted the
youngsters about in bed. One of them began to
kick and talk about a basket full of crabs.
Mr. Pontellier returned to his wife with the
information that Raoul had a high fever and
needed looking after. Then he lit a cigar and
went and sat near the open door to smoke it.
Mrs. Pontellier was quite sure Raoul had no
fever. He had gone to bed perfectly well, she
said, and nothing had ailed him all day. Mr.
Pontellier was too well acquainted with fever
symptoms to be mistaken. He assured her the
child was consuming at that moment in the
next room.
He reproached his wife with her inattention,
her habitual neglect of the children. If it was
not a mother’s place to look after children,
whose on earth was it? He himself had his
hands full with his brokerage business. He
could not be in two places at once; making a
living for his family on the street, and staying
at home to see that no harm befell them. He
talked in a monotonous, insistent way.
Mrs. Pontellier sprang out of bed and went into
the next room. She soon came back and sat on
the edge of the bed, leaning her head down on
the pillow. She said nothing, and refused to
answer her husband when he questioned her.
When his cigar was smoked out he went to bed,
and in half a minute he was fast asleep.
Mrs. Pontellier was by that time thoroughly
awake. She began to cry a little, and wiped her
eyes on the sleeve of her peignoir. Blowing out
the candle, which her husband had left burning,
she slipped her bare feet into a pair of satin
mules at the foot of the bed and went out on the
porch, where she sat down in the wicker chair
and began to rock gently to and fro.
It was then past midnight. The cottages were
all dark. A single faint light gleamed out from
the hallway of the house. There was no sound
abroad except the hooting of an old owl in the
top of a water-oak, and the everlasting voice of
the sea, that was not uplifted at that soft hour.
It broke like a mournful lullaby upon the night.
The tears came so fast to Mrs. Pontellier’s eyes
that the damp sleeve of her peignoir no longer
served to dry them. She was holding the back of
her chair with one hand; her loose sleeve had
slipped almost to the shoulder of her uplifted
arm. Turning, she thrust her face, steaming
and wet, into the bend of her arm, and she went
on crying there, not caring any longer to dry her
face, her eyes, her arms. She could not have
told why she was crying. Such experiences as
the foregoing were not uncommon in her
married life. They seemed never before to have
weighed much against the abundance of her
husband’s kindness and a uniform devotion
which had come to be tacit and self-understood.
An indescribable oppression, which seemed to
generate in some unfamiliar part of her
consciousness, filled her whole being with a
vague anguish. It was like a shadow, like a mist
passing across her soul’s summer day. It was
strange and unfamiliar; it was a mood. She did
not sit there inwardly upbraiding her husband,
lamenting at Fate, which had directed her
footsteps to the path which they had taken. She
was just having a good cry all to herself. The
mosquitoes made merry over her, biting her
firm, round arms and nipping at her bare
insteps.
The little stinging, buzzing imps succeeded in
dispelling a mood which might have held her
there in the darkness half a night longer.
The following morning Mr. Pontellier was up in
good time to take the rockaway which was to
convey him to the steamer at the wharf. He
was returning to the city to his business, and
they would not see him again at the Island till
the coming Saturday. He had regained his
composure, which seemed to have been
somewhat impaired the night before. He was
eager to be gone, as he looked forward to a lively
week in Carondelet Street.
Mr. Pontellier gave his wife half of the money
which he had brought away from Klein’s hotel
the evening before. She liked money as well as
most women, and, accepted it with no little
satisfaction.
“It will buy a handsome wedding present for
Sister Janet!” she exclaimed, smoothing out the
bills as she counted them one by one.
“Oh! we’ll treat Sister Janet better than that,
my dear,” he laughed, as he prepared to kiss her
good-by.
The boys were tumbling about, clinging to his
legs, imploring that numerous things be
brought back to them. Mr. Pontellier was a
great favorite, and ladies, men, children, even
nurses, were always on hand to say goodby to
him. His wife stood smiling and waving, the
boys shouting, as he disappeared in the old
rockaway down the sandy road.
A few days later a box arrived for Mrs.
Pontellier from New Orleans. It was from her
husband. It was filled with friandises, with
luscious and toothsome bits—the finest of
fruits, pates, a rare bottle or two, delicious
syrups, and bonbons in abundance.
Mrs. Pontellier was always very generous with
the contents of such a box; she was quite used to
receiving them when away from home. The
pates and fruit were brought to the diningroom;
the bonbons were passed around. And
the ladies, selecting with dainty and
discriminating fingers and a little greedily, all
declared that Mr. Pontellier was the best
husband in the world. Mrs. Pontellier was
forced to admit that she knew of none better.
IV
It would have been a difficult matter for Mr.
Pontellier to define to his own satisfaction or
any one else’s wherein his wife failed in her
duty toward their children. It was something
which he felt rather than perceived, and he
never voiced the feeling without subsequent
regret and ample atonement.
If one of the little Pontellier boys took a tumble
whilst at play, he was not apt to rush crying to
his mother’s arms for comfort; he would more
likely pick himself up, wipe the water out of his
eves and the sand out of his mouth, and go on
playing. Tots as they were, they pulled together
and stood their ground in childish battles with
doubled fists and uplifted voices, which usually
prevailed against the other mother-tots. The
quadroon nurse was looked upon as a huge
encumbrance, only good to button up waists
and panties and to brush and part hair; since it
seemed to be a law of society that hair must be
parted and brushed.
In short, Mrs. Pontellier was not a motherwoman.
The motherwomen seemed to prevail
that summer at Grand Isle. It was easy to know
them, fluttering about with extended,
protecting wings when any harm, real or
imaginary, threatened their precious brood.
They were women who idolized their children,
worshiped their husbands, and esteemed it a
holy privilege to efface themselves as
individuals and grow wings as ministering
angels.
Many of them were delicious in the role; one of
them was the embodiment of every womanly
grace and charm. If her husband did not adore
her, he was a brute, deserving of death by slow
torture. Her name was Adele Ratignolle. There
are no words to describe her save the old ones
that have served so often to picture the bygone
heroine of romance and the fair lady of our
dreams. There was nothing subtle or hidden
about her charms; her beauty was all there,
flaming and apparent: the spun-gold hair that
comb nor confining pin could restrain; the blue
eyes that were like nothing but sapphires; two
lips that pouted, that were so red one could only
think of cherries or some other delicious
crimson fruit in looking at them. She was
growing a little stout, but it did not seem to
detract an iota from the grace of every step,
pose, gesture. One would not have wanted her
white neck a mite less full or her beautiful arms
more slender. Never were hands more exquisite
than hers, and it was a joy to look at them when
she threaded her needle or adjusted her gold
thimble to her taper middle finger as she sewed
away on the little night-drawers or fashioned a
bodice or a bib.
Madame Ratignolle was very fond of Mrs.
Pontellier, and often she took her sewing and
went over to sit with her in the afternoons. She
was sitting there the afternoon of the day the
box arrived from New Orleans. She had
possession of the rocker, and she was busily
engaged in sewing upon a diminutive pair of
night-drawers.
She had brought the pattern of the drawers for
Mrs. Pontellier to cut out—a marvel of
construction, fashioned to enclose a baby’s body
so effectually that only two small eyes might
look out from the garment, like an Eskimo’s.
They were designed for winter wear, when
treacherous drafts came down chimneys and
insidious currents of deadly cold found their
way through key-holes.
Mrs. Pontellier’s mind was quite at rest
concerning the present material needs of her
children, and she could not see the use of
anticipating and making winter night garments
the subject of her summer meditations. But she
did not want to appear unamiable and
uninterested, so she had brought forth
newspapers, which she spread upon the floor of
the gallery, and under Madame Ratignolle’s
directions she had cut a pattern of the
impervious garment.
Robert was there, seated as he had been the
Sunday before, and Mrs. Pontellier also
occupied her former position on the upper step,
leaning listlessly against the post. Beside her
was a box of bonbons, which she held out at
intervals to Madame Ratignolle.
That lady seemed at a loss to make a selection,
but finally settled upon a stick of nougat,
wondering if it were not too rich; whether it
could possibly hurt her. Madame Ratignolle
had been married seven years. About every two
years she had a baby. At that time she had
three babies, and was beginning to think of a
fourth one. She was always talking about her
“condition.” Her “condition” was in no way
apparent, and no one would have known a thing
about it but for her persistence in making it the
subject of conversation.
Robert started to reassure her, asserting that
he had known a lady who had subsisted upon
nougat during the entire—but seeing the color
mount into Mrs. Pontellier’s face he checked
himself and changed the subject.
Mrs. Pontellier, though she had married a
Creole, was not thoroughly at home in the
society of Creoles; never before had she been
thrown so intimately among them. There were
only Creoles that summer at Lebrun’s. They all
knew each other, and felt like one large family,
among whom existed the most amicable
relations. A characteristic which distinguished
them and which impressed Mrs. Pontellier most
forcibly was their entire absence of prudery.
Their freedom of expression was at first
incomprehensible to her, though she had no
difficulty in reconciling it with a lofty chastity
which in the Creole woman seems to be inborn
and unmistakable.
Never would Edna Pontellier forget the shock
with which she heard Madame Ratignolle
relating to old Monsieur Farival the harrowing
story of one of her accouchements, withholding
no intimate detail. She was growing
accustomed to like shocks, but she could not
keep the mounting color back from her cheeks.
Oftener than once her coming had interrupted
the droll story with which Robert was
entertaining some amused group of married
women.
A book had gone the rounds of the pension.
When it came her turn to read it, she did so
with profound astonishment. She felt moved to
read the book in secret and solitude, though
none of the others had done so,—to hide it from
view at the sound of approaching footsteps. It
was openly criticized and freely discussed at
table. Mrs. Pontellier gave over being
astonished, and concluded that wonders would
never cease.
1. Read the following sentence and then select, from the choices below, the word that is closest
in meaning to the word in bold-faced type.
There rested no shadow of care upon his open countenance.
a. novel2. Read the following sentence and select, from the choices below, the word that is closest in
b. face
c. thoughts
d. heart
meaning to the word in bold-faced type.
From his trousers pockets he took a fistful of crumpled bank notes and a good deal of silver
coin, which he piled on the bureau indiscriminately with keys, knife, handkerchief, and
whatever else happened to be in his pockets.
3. Mr. Pontellier expresses his concern that Mrs. Pontellier is habitually
a. carefully
b. painstakingly
c. randomly
d. sloppily
a. hateful to him.4. In order to appear as the generous and romantic husband, Mr. Pontellier sends
b. neglectful of the children.
c. drunk and inappropriate.
d. selfish and uncaring.
a. flowers to his wife every Thursday.5. According to Mrs. Pontellier, Creole people were somewhat different from most other groups
b. his wife on a trip in the fall.
c. his wife a box of assorted treats and cordials.
d. love letters to his family when he is away on business.
due to their obvious lack of
a. conviction.6. Describe the setting of the story. What unique features can you discover from the description
b. morals.
c. prudery.
d. initiative.
provided?
7. What can you surmise about Mr. Pontellier’s attitude from the following comment, “What
folly! To bathe at such an hour in such heat!”?
8. How does the following line from the story give you an insight into the way Mr. Pontellier
views his wife?
“You are burnt beyond recognition,” he added, looking at his wife as one looks at a valuable piece of property which has suffered some damage.9. What are the Pontelliers like as parents? Is one more “devoted” to the children than the
other? Is either one obviously vested in the nurturing of the children?
10. Describe the appearance of Mrs. Pontellier.
11. Compare and contrast how Mrs. Pontellier and Robert LeBrun were brought up. What did
they have in common?
12. The term used by the narrator to describe Mrs. Pontellier’s feeling was “indescribable
oppression.” What does this mean to you? How did she feel?
13. Interpret the meaning behind this statement made about Mme. Pontellier:
“Mrs. Pontellier was forced to admit that she knew of none better.”
14. Who was Adele Ratignolle? What did she look like? Why was she so admired by Mr.
Pontellier?
49 © 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate.
THE YELLOW WALLPAPER
by Charlotte Perkins GilmanIt 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 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.
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.
© 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate. 50
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 oldfashioned
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.
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 other things.
51 © 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate.
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.
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 oldfashioned
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 breadths 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.
© 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate. 52
53 © 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate.
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 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
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.
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
© 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate. 54
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!
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 musn’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.
55 © 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate.
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.
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 I, “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 I, 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.
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.
1. Read the sentence and then select, from the choices below, the words that are closest in
meaning to the word in bold-faced type.
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!
a. great happiness2. From which primary point of view is this story told?
b. powerful despair
c. awesome fright
d. mild appreciation
a. first person3. Why won’t John repaper the room despite his wife’s protests?
b. second person
c. third person
d. omniscient
a. He likes the wallpaper.4. Read the following sentence and then select, from below, the literary term that was
b. He doesn’t think it’s healthy to indulge her fantasies.
c. He cannot find anyone to do the job.
d. He is being stubborn in order to try and shake her out of her depression.
employed.
There is a recurrent spot where the pattern lolls like a broken neck . . .
a. metaphor5. Discuss the personality traits of John. On what types of things does he base his beliefs? What
b. onomatopoeia
c. simile
d. assonance
does he do for a living? Are these things related?
© 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate. 56
6. Describe the house in which the characters live for the summer.
57 © 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate.
7. Discuss the wallpaper. How is it described? Is the description superficial or thorough? Which
literary techniques are used to create an image for the reader? Are they effective?
8. How does John view his wife’s condition? Does he believe she is ill? Why or why not?
© 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate. 58
9. The woman appears to be eager to write. What benefit does she get from writing? Why do
you think John doesn’t like her to engage in the activity of writing?
10. The woman in the story discusses her feelings about the expression she finds in inanimate
objects. What kinds of things does she mention? List two or three.
59 © 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate.
11. Read the following excerpt from the story and try to explain what it means. Is she really
talking about wallpaper? Or do you believe she might be trying to say more?
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 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.
© 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate.
THE RISE OF
SILAS LAPHAM
by William Dean Howells
I.
WHEN Bartley Hubbard went to interview
Silas Lapham for the “Solid Men of Boston”
series, which he undertook to finish up in “The
Events,” after he replaced their original
projector on that newspaper, Lapham received
him in his private office by previous
appointment.
“Walk right in!” he called out to the journalist,
whom he caught sight of through the door of the
counting-room.
He did not rise from the desk at which he was
writing, but he gave Bartley his left hand for
welcome, and he rolled his large head in the
direction of a vacant chair. “Sit down! I’ll he
with you in just half a minute.”
“Take your time,” said Bartley, with the ease he
instantly felt. “I’m in no hurry.” He took a notebook
from his pocket, laid it on his knee, and
began to sharpen a pencil.
“There!” Lapham pounded with his great hairy
fist on the envelope he had been addressing.
“William!” he called out, and he handed the
letter to a boy who came to get it. “I want that
to go right away. Well, sir,” he continued,
wheeling round in his leather-cushioned swivelchair,
and facing Bartley, seated so near that
their knees almost touched, “so you want my
life, death, and Christian sufferings, do you,
young man?”
“That’s what I’m after,” said Bartley. “Your
money or your life.”
“I guess you wouldn’t want my life without the
money,” said Lapham, as if he were willing to
prolong these moments of preparation.
“Take ‘em both,” Bartley suggested. “Don’t
want your money without your life, if you come
to that. But you’re just one million times more
interesting to the public than if you hadn’t a
dollar; and you know that as well as I do, Mr.
Lapham. There‘s no use beating about the
bush.”
“No,” said Lapham, somewhat absently. He put
out his huge foot and pushed the ground-glass
door shut between his little den and the bookkeepers,
in their larger den outside.
“In personal appearance,” wrote Bartley in the
sketch for which he now studied his subject,
while he waited patiently for him to continue,
“Silas Lapham is a fine type of the successful
American. He has a square, bold chin, only
partially concealed by the short reddish-grey
beard, growing to the edges of his firmly closing
lips. His nose is short and straight; his
forehead good, but broad rather than high; his
eyes blue, and with a light in them that is
kindly or sharp according to his mood. He is of
medium height, and fills an average arm-chair
with a solid bulk, which on the day of our
interview was unpretentiously clad in a
business suit of blue serge. His head droops
somewhat from a short neck, which does not
trouble itself to rise far from a pair of massive
shoulders.”
“I don’t know as I know just where you want me
to begin,” said Lapham.
“Might begin with your birth; that’s where most
of us begin,” replied Bartley.
A gleam of humorous appreciation shot into
Lapham’s blue eyes.
“I didn’t know whether you wanted me to go
quite so far back as that,” he said. “But there’s
no disgrace in having been born, and I was born
in the State of Vermont, pretty well up under
the Canada line—so well up, in fact, that I came
very near being an adoptive citizen; for I was
bound to be an American of some sort, from the
word Go! That was about—well, let me see!—
pretty near sixty years ago: this is ‘75, and that
was ‘20. Well, say I’m fifty-five years old; and
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© 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate. 62
I’ve lived ‘em, too; not an hour of waste time
about me, anywheres! I was born on a farm,
and——”
“Worked in the fields summers and went to
school winters: regulation thing?” Bartley cut
in.
“Regulation thing,” said Lapham, accepting this
irreverent version of his history somewhat
dryly.
“Parents poor, of course,” suggested the
journalist. “Any barefoot business? Early
deprivations of any kind, that would encourage
the youthful reader to go and do likewise?
Orphan myself, you know,” said Bartley, with a
smile of cynical good-comradery.
Lapham looked at him silently, and then said
with quiet self-respect, “I guess if you see these
things as a joke, my life won’t interest you.”
“Oh yes, it will,” returned Bartley, unabashed.
“You’ll see; it’ll come out all right.” And in fact it
did so, in the interview which Bartley printed.
“Mr. Lapham,” he wrote, “passed rapidly over
the story of his early life, its poverty and its
hardships, sweetened, however, by the
recollections of a devoted mother, and a father
who, if somewhat her inferior in education, was
no less ambitious for the advancement of his
children. They were quiet, unpretentious
people, religious, after the fashion of that time,
and of sterling morality, and they taught their
children the simple virtues of the Old
Testament and Poor Richard’s Almanac.”
Bartley could not deny himself this gibe; but he
trusted to Lapham’s unliterary habit of mind
for his security in making it, and most other
people would consider it sincere reporter’s
rhetoric.
“You know,” he explained to Lapham, “that we
have to look at all these facts as material, and
we get the habit of classifying them. Sometimes
a leading question will draw out a whole line of
facts that a man himself would never think of.”
He went on to put several queries, and it was
from Lapham’s answers that he generalised the
history of his childhood. “Mr. Lapham,
although he did not dwell on his boyish trials
and struggles, spoke of them with deep feeling
and an abiding sense of their reality.” This was
what he added in the interview, and by the time
he had got Lapham past the period where risen
Americans are all pathetically alike in their
narrow circumstances, their sufferings, and
their aspirations, he had beguiled him into
forgetfulness of the check he had received, and
had him talking again in perfect enjoyment of
his autobiography.
“Yes, sir,” said Lapham, in a strain which
Bartley was careful not to interrupt again, “a
man never sees all that his mother has been to
him till it’s too late to let her know that he sees
it. Why, my mother—” he stopped. “It gives me
a lump in the throat,” he said apologetically,
with an attempt at a laugh. Then he went on:
“She was a little frail thing, not bigger than a
good-sized intermediate school-girl; but she did
the whole work of a family of boys, and boarded
the hired men besides. She cooked, swept,
washed, ironed, made and mended from
daylight till dark—and from dark till daylight,
I was going to say; for I don’t know how she got
any time for sleep. But I suppose she did. She
got time to go to church, and to teach us to read
the Bible, and to misunderstand it in the old
way. She was good. But it ain’t her on her
knees in church that comes back to me so much
like the sight of an angel as her on her knees
before me at night, washing my poor, dirty little
feet, that I’d run bare in all day, and making me
decent for bed. There were six of us boys; it
seems to me we were all of a size; and she was
just so careful with all of us. I can feel her
hands on my feet yet!” Bartley looked at
Lapham’s No. 10 boots, and softly whistled
through his teeth. “We were patched all over;
but we wa’n’t ragged. I don’t know how she got
through it. She didn’t seem to think it was
anything; and I guess it was no more than my
father expected of her. HE worked like a horse
in doors and out—up at daylight, feeding the
stock, and groaning round all day with his
rheumatism, but not stopping.”
Bartley hid a yawn over his note-book, and
probably, if he could have spoken his mind, he
would have suggested to Lapham that he was
not there for the purpose of interviewing his
ancestry. But Bartley had learned to practise a
patience with his victims which he did not
always feel, and to feign an interest in their
digressions till he could bring them up with a
round turn.
“I tell you,” said Lapham, jabbing the point of
his penknife into the writing-pad on the desk
before him, “when I hear women complaining
nowadays that their lives are stunted and
empty, I want to tell ‘em about my mother’s life.
I could paint it out for ‘em.”
Bartley saw his opportunity at the word paint,
and cut in. “And you say, Mr. Lapham, that you
discovered this mineral paint on the old farm
yourself?”
Lapham acquiesced in the return to business. “I
didn’t discover it,” he said scrupulously. “My
father found it one day, in a hole made by a tree
blowing down. There it was, lying loose in the
pit, and sticking to the roots that had pulled up
a big, cake of dirt with ‘em. I don’t know what
give him the idea that there was money in it, but
he did think so from the start. I guess, if they’d
had the word in those days, they’d considered
him pretty much of a crank about it. He was
trying as long as he lived to get that paint
introduced; but he couldn’t make it go. The
country was so poor they couldn’t paint their
houses with anything; and father hadn’t any
facilities. It got to be a kind of joke with us; and
I guess that paint-mine did as much as any one
thing to make us boys clear out as soon as we got
old enough. All my brothers went West, and
took up land; but I hung on to New England and
I hung on to the old farm, not because the paintmine
was on it, but because the old house was—
and the graves. Well,” said Lapham, as if
unwilling to give himself too much credit, “there
wouldn’t been any market for it, anyway. You
can go through that part of the State and buy
more farms than you can shake a stick at for less
money than it cost to build the barns on ‘em. Of
course, it’s turned out a good thing. I keep the
old house up in good shape, and we spend a
month or so there every summer. M’ wife kind
of likes it, and the girls. Pretty place; sightly all
round it. I’ve got a force of men at work there
the whole time, and I’ve got a man and his wife
in the house. Had a family meeting there last
year; the whole connection from out West.
There!” Lapham rose from his seat and took
down a large warped, unframed photograph
from the top of his desk, passing his hand over
it, and then blowing vigorously upon it, to clear
it of the dust. “There we are, ALL of us.”
“I don’t need to look twice at you,” said Bartley,
putting his finger on one of the heads.
“Well, that’s Bill,” said Lapham, with a gratified
laugh. “He’s about as brainy as any of us, I
guess. He’s one of their leading lawyers, out
Dubuque way; been judge of the Common Pleas
once or twice. That’s his son—just graduated at
Yale—alongside of my youngest girl. Goodlooking
chap, ain’t he?”
“She’s a good-looking chap,” said Bartley, with
prompt irreverence. He hastened to add, at the
frown which gathered between Lapham’s eyes,
“What a beautiful creature she is! What a
lovely, refined, sensitive face! And she looks
good, too.”
“She is good,” said the father, relenting.
“And, after all, that’s about the best thing in a
woman,” said the potential reprobate. “If my
wife wasn’t good enough to keep both of us
straight, I don’t know what would become of
me.” “My other daughter,” said Lapham,
indicating a girl with eyes that showed large,
and a face of singular gravity. “Mis’ Lapham,”
he continued, touching his wife’s effigy with his
little finger. “My brother Willard and his
family—farm at Kankakee. Hazard Lapham
and his wife—Baptist preacher in Kansas. Jim
and his three girls—milling business at
Minneapolis. Ben and his family—practising
medicine in Fort Wayne.”
The figures were clustered in an irregular
group in front of an old farm-house, whose
original ugliness had been smartened up with a
coat of Lapham’s own paint, and heightened
with an incongruous piazza. The photographer
had not been able to conceal the fact that they
were all decent, honest-looking, sensible people,
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© 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate. 64
with a very fair share of beauty among the
young girls; some of these were extremely
pretty, in fact. He had put them into awkward
and constrained attitudes, of course; and they
all looked as if they had the instrument of
torture which photographers call a head-rest
under their occiputs. Here and there an elderly
lady’s face was a mere blur; and some of the
younger children had twitched themselves into
wavering shadows, and might have passed for
spirit-photographs of their own little ghosts. It
was the standard family-group photograph, in
which most Americans have figured at some
time or other; and Lapham exhibited a just
satisfaction in it. “I presume,” he mused aloud,
as he put it back on top of his desk, “that we
sha’n’t soon get together again, all of us.”
“And you say,” suggested Bartley, “that you
stayed right along on the old place, when the
rest cleared out West?”
“No-o-o-o,” said Lapham, with a long, loud
drawl; “I cleared out West too, first off. Went to
Texas. Texas was all the cry in those days. But
I got enough of the Lone Star in about three
months, and I come back with the idea that
Vermont was good enough for me.”
“Fatted calf business?” queried Bartley, with his
pencil poised above his note-book.
“I presume they were glad to see me,” said
Lapham, with dignity. “Mother,” he added
gently, “died that winter, and I stayed on with
father. I buried him in the spring; and then I
came down to a little place called Lumberville,
and picked up what jobs I could get. I worked
round at the saw-mills, and I was ostler a while
at the hotel—I always did like a good horse.
Well, I wa’n’t exactly a college graduate, and I
went to school odd times. I got to driving the
stage after while, and by and by I bought the
stage and run the business myself. Then I
hired the tavern-stand, and—well to make a
long story short, then I got married. Yes,” said
Lapham, with pride, “I married the schoolteacher.
We did pretty well with the hotel, and
my wife she was always at me to paint up. Well,
I put it off, and put it off, as a man will, till one
day I give in, and says I, ‘Well, let’s paint up.
Why, Pert,’—m’wife’s name’s Persis,—‘I’ve got a
whole paint-mine out on the farm. Let’s go out
and look at it.’ So we drove out. I’d let the place
for seventy-five dollars a year to a shif ’less kind
of a Kanuck that had come down that way; and
I’d hated to see the house with him in it; but we
drove out one Saturday afternoon, and we
brought back about a bushel of the stuff in the
buggy-seat, and I tried it crude, and I tried it
burnt; and I liked it. M’wife she liked it too.
There wa’n’t any painter by trade in the village,
and I mixed it myself. Well, sir, that tavern’s
got that coat of paint on it yet, and it hain’t ever
had any other, and I don’t know’s it ever will.
Well, you know, I felt as if it was a kind of
harumscarum experiment, all the while; and I
presume I shouldn’t have tried it but I kind of
liked to do it because father’d always set so
much store by his paint-mine. And when I’d got
the first coat on,”—Lapham called it cut,—“I
presume I must have set as much as half an
hour; looking at it and thinking how he would
have enjoyed it. I’ve had my share of luck in
this world, and I ain’t a-going to complain on
my own account, but I’ve noticed that most
things get along too late for most people. It
made me feel bad, and it took all the pride out
my success with the paint, thinking of father.
Seemed to me I might ‘a taken more interest in
it when he was by to see; but we’ve got to live
and learn. Well, I called my wife out,—I’d tried
it on the back of the house, you know,—and she
left her dishes,—I can remember she came out
with her sleeves rolled up and set down
alongside of me on the trestle,— and says I,
‘What do you think, Persis?’ And says she, ‘Well,
you hain’t got a paint-mine, Silas Lapham;
you’ve got a gold-mine.’ She always was just so
enthusiastic about things. Well, it was just
after two or three boats had burnt up out West,
and a lot of lives lost, and there was a great cry
about non-inflammable paint, and I guess that
was what was in her mind. ‘Well, I guess it ain’t
any gold-mine, Persis,’ says I; ‘but I guess it IS
a paint-mine. I’m going to have it analysed, and
if it turns out what I think it is, I’m going to
work it. And if father hadn’t had such a long
name, I should call it the Nehemiah Lapham
Mineral Paint. But, any rate, every barrel of it,
and every keg, and every bottle, and every
package, big or little, has got to have the initials
and figures N.L.f. 1835, S.L.t. 1855, on it.
Father found it in 1835, and I tried it in 1855.’ ”
“ ‘S.T.—1860—X.’ business,” said Bartley.
“Yes,” said Lapham, “but I hadn’t heard of
Plantation Bitters then, and I hadn’t seen any
of the fellow’s labels. I set to work and I got a
man down from Boston; and I carried him out to
the farm, and he analysed it—made a regular
Job of it. Well, sir, we built a kiln, and we kept
a lot of that paint-ore red-hot for forty-eight
hours; kept the Kanuck and his family up,
firing. The presence of iron in the ore showed
with the magnet from the start; and when he
came to test it, he found out that it contained
about seventy-five per cent. of the peroxide of
iron.”
Lapham pronounced the scientific phrases with
a sort of reverent satisfaction, as if awed
through his pride by a little lingering
uncertainty as to what peroxide was. He
accented it as if it were purr-ox-eyed; and
Bartley had to get him to spell it.
“Well, and what then?” he asked, when he had
made a note of the percentage.
“What then?” echoed Lapham. “Well, then, the
fellow set down and told me, ‘You’ve got a paint
here,’ says he, ‘that’s going to drive every other
mineral paint out of the market. Why’ says he,
‘it’ll drive ‘em right into the Back Bay!’ Of
course, I didn’t know what the Back Bay was
then, but I begun to open my eyes; thought I’d
had ‘em open before, but I guess I hadn’t. Says
he, ‘That paint has got hydraulic cement in it,
and it can stand fire and water and acids;’ he
named over a lot of things. Says he, ‘It’ll mix
easily with linseed oil, whether you want to use
it boiled or raw; and it ain’t a-going to crack nor
fade any; and it ain’t a-going to scale. When
you’ve got your arrangements for burning it
properly, you’re going to have a paint that will
stand like the everlasting hills, in every climate
under the sun.’ Then he went into a lot of
particulars, and I begun to think he was
drawing a long-bow, and meant to make his bill
accordingly. So I kept pretty cool; but the
fellow’s bill didn’t amount to anything hardly—
said I might pay him after I got going; young
chap, and pretty easy; but every word he said
was gospel. Well, I ain’t a-going to brag up my
paint; I don’t suppose you came here to hear me
blow.”
“Oh yes, I did,” said Bartley. “That’s what I
want. Tell all there is to tell, and I can boil it
down afterward. A man can’t make a greater
mistake with a reporter than to hold back
anything out of modesty. It may be the very
thing we want to know. What we want is the
whole truth; and more; we’ve got so much
modesty of our own that we can temper almost
any statement.”
Lapham looked as if he did not quite like this
tone, and he resumed a little more quietly. “Oh,
there isn’t really very much more to say about
the paint itself. But you can use it for almost
anything where a paint is wanted, inside or out.
It’ll prevent decay, and it’ll stop it, after it’s
begun, in tin or iron. You can paint the inside
of a cistern or a bath-tub with it, and water
won’t hurt it; and you can paint a steam-boiler
with it, and heat won’t. You can cover a brick
wall with it, or a railroad car, or the deck of a
steamboat, and you can’t do a better thing for
either.”
“Never tried it on the human conscience, I
suppose,” suggested Bartley.
“No, sir,” replied Lapham gravely. “I guess you
want to keep that as free from paint as you can,
if you want much use of it. I never cared to try
any of it on mine.” Lapham suddenly lifted his
bulk up out of his swivel-chair, and led the way
out into the wareroom beyond the office
partitions, where rows and ranks of casks,
barrels, and kegs stretched dimly back to the
rear of the building, and diffused an honest,
clean, wholesome smell of oil and paint. They
were labelled and branded as containing each
so many pounds of Lapham’s Mineral Paint,
and each bore the mystic devices, N.L.f. 1835—
S.L.t. 1855. “There!” said Lapham, kicking one
of the largest casks with the toe of his boot,
“that’s about our biggest package; and here,” he
added, laying his hand affectionately on the
head of a very small keg, as if it were the head
of a child, which it resembled in size, “this is the
smallest. We used to put the paint on the
market dry, but now we grind every ounce of it
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© 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate. 66
in oil—very best quality of linseed oil—and
warrant it. We find it gives more satisfaction.
Now, come back to the office, and I’ll show you
our fancy brands.”
It was very cool and pleasant in that dim
wareroom, with the rafters showing overhead in
a cloudy perspective, and darkening away into
the perpetual twilight at the rear of the
building; and Bartley had found an agreeable
seat on the head of a half-barrel of the paint,
which he was reluctant to leave. But he rose
and followed the vigorous lead of Lapham back
to the office, where the sun of a long summer
afternoon was just beginning to glare in at the
window. On shelves opposite Lapham’s desk
were tin cans of various sizes, arranged in
tapering cylinders, and showing, in a pattern
diminishing toward the top, the same label
borne by the casks and barrels in the wareroom.
Lapham merely waved his hand toward these;
but when Bartley, after a comprehensive glance
at them, gave his whole attention to a row of
clean, smooth jars, where different tints of the
paint showed through flawless glass, Lapham
smiled, and waited in pleased expectation.
“Hello!” said Bartley. “That’s pretty!”
“Yes,” assented Lapham, “it is rather nice. It’s
our latest thing, and we find it takes with
customers first-rate. Look here!” he said, taking
down one of the jars, and pointing to the first
line of the label.
Bartley read, “The Persis brand,” and then he
looked at Lapham and smiled.
“After her, of course,” said Lapham. “Got it up
and put the first of it on the market her last
birthday. She was pleased.”
“I should think she might have been,” said
Bartley, while he made a note of the appearance
of the jars.
“I don’t know about your mentioning it in your
interview,” said Lapham dubiously.
“That’s going into the interview, Mr. Lapham, if
nothing else does. Got a wife myself, and I
know just how you feel.” It was in the dawn of
Bartley’s prosperity on the Boston Events,
before his troubles with Marcia had seriously
begun.
“Is that so?” said Lapham, recognising with a
smile another of the vast majority of married
Americans; a few underrate their wives, but the
rest think them supernal in intelligence and
capability. “Well,” he added, “we must see about
that. Where’d you say you lived?”
“We don’t live; we board. Mrs. Nash, 13 Canary
Place.”
“Well, we’ve all got to commence that way,”
suggested Lapham consolingly.
“Yes; but we’ve about got to the end of our
string. I expect to be under a roof of my own on
Clover Street before long. I suppose,” said
Bartley, returning to business, “that you didn’t
let the grass grow under your feet much after
you found out what was in your paint-mine?”
“No, sir,” answered Lapham, withdrawing his
eyes from a long stare at Bartley, in which he
had been seeing himself a young man again, in
the first days of his married life. “I went right
back to Lumberville and sold out everything,
and put all I could rake and scrape together into
paint. And Mis’ Lapham was with me every
time. No hang back about her. I tell you she
was a woman!”
Bartley laughed. “That’s the sort most of us
marry.”
“No, we don’t,” said Lapham. “Most of us marry
silly little girls grown up to look like women.”
“Well, I guess that’s about so,” assented Bartley,
as if upon second thought.
“If it hadn’t been for her,” resumed Lapham,
“the paint wouldn’t have come to anything. I
used to tell her it wa’n’t the seventy-five per
cent. of purr-ox-eyed of iron in the ore that
made that paint go; it was the seventy-five per
cent. of purr-ox-eyed of iron in her.”
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“Good!” cried Bartley. “I’ll tell Marcia that.”
“In less’n six months there wa’n’t a board-fence,
nor a bridge-girder, nor a dead wall, nor a barn,
nor a face of rock in that whole region that
didn’t have ‘Lapham’s Mineral Paint—
Specimen’ on it in the three colours we begun by
making.” Bartley had taken his seat on the
window-sill, and Lapham, standing before him,
now put up his huge foot close to Bartley’s
thigh; neither of them minded that.
“I’ve heard a good deal of talk about that S.T.—
1860— X. man, and the stove-blacking man,
and the kidney-cure man, because they
advertised in that way; and I’ve read articles
about it in the papers; but I don’t see where the
joke comes in, exactly. So long as the people
that own the barns and fences don’t object, I
don’t see what the public has got to do with it.
And I never saw anything so very sacred about
a big rock, along a river or in a pasture, that it
wouldn’t do to put mineral paint on it in three
colours. I wish some of the people that talk
about the landscape, and write about it, had to
bu’st one of them rocks out of the landscape
with powder, or dig a hole to bury it in, as we
used to have to do up on the farm; I guess they’d
sing a little different tune about the profanation
of scenery. There ain’t any man enjoys a sightly
bit of nature—a smooth piece of interval with
half a dozen good-sized wine-glass elms in it—
more than I do. But I ain’t a-going to stand up
for every big ugly rock I come across, as if we
were all a set of dumn Druids. I say the
landscape was made for man, and not man for
the landscape.”
“Yes,” said Bartley carelessly; “it was made for
the stove-polish man and the kidney-cure man.”
“It was made for any man that knows how to
use it,” Lapham returned, insensible to
Bartley’s irony. “Let ‘em go and live with nature
in the winter, up there along the Canada line,
and I guess they’ll get enough of her for one
while. Well—where was I?”
“Decorating the landscape,” said Bartley.
“Yes, sir; I started right there at Lumberville,
and it give the place a start too. You won’t find
it on the map now; and you won’t find it in the
gazetteer. I give a pretty good lump of money to
build a town-hall, about five years back, and the
first meeting they held in it they voted to
change the name,—Lumberville wa’n’’t a
name,—and it’s Lapham now.”
“Isn’t it somewhere up in that region that they
get the old Brandon red?” asked Bartley.
“We’re about ninety miles from Brandon. The
Brandon’s a good paint,” said Lapham
conscientiously. “Like to show you round up at
our place some odd time, if you get off.”
“Thanks. I should like it first-rate. Works
there?”
“Yes; works there. Well, sir, just about the time
I got started, the war broke out; and it knocked
my paint higher than a kite. The thing dropped
perfectly dead. I presume that if I’d had any
sort of influence, I might have got it into
Government hands, for gun-carriages and army
wagons, and may be on board Government
vessels. But I hadn’t, and we had to face the
music. I was about broken-hearted, but m’wife
she looked at it another way. ‘I guess it’s a
providence,’ says she. ‘Silas, I guess you’ve got
a country that’s worth fighting for. Any rate,
you better go out and give it a chance.’Well, sir,
I went. I knew she meant business. It might
kill her to have me go, but it would kill her sure
if I stayed. She was one of that kind. I went.
Her last words was, ‘I’ll look after the paint, Si.’
We hadn’t but just one little girl then,—boy’d
died,—and Mis’ Lapham’s mother was livin’
with us; and I knew if times did anyways come
up again, m’wife’d know just what to do. So I
went. I got through; and you can call me
Colonel, if you want to. Feel there!” Lapham
took Bartley’s thumb and forefinger and put
them on a bunch in his leg, just above the knee.
“Anything hard?”
“Ball?”
Lapham nodded. “Gettysburg. That’s my
thermometer. If it wa’n’t for that, I shouldn’t
know enough to come in when it rains.”
Bartley laughed at a joke which betrayed some
evidences of wear. “And when you came back,
you took hold of the paint and rushed it.”
“I took hold of the paint and rushed it—all I
could,” said Lapham, with less satisfaction than
he had hitherto shown in his autobiography.
“But I found that I had got back to another
world. The day of small things was past, and I
don’t suppose it will ever come again in this
country. My wife was at me all the time to take
a partner—somebody with capital; but I
couldn’t seem to bear the idea. That paint was
like my own blood to me. To have anybody else
concerned in it was like—well, I don’t know
what. I saw it was the thing to do; but I tried to
fight it off, and I tried to joke it off. I used to
say, ‘Why didn’t you take a partner yourself,
Persis, while I was away?’ And she’d say, ‘Well,
if you hadn’t come back, I should, Si.’ Always
DID like a joke about as well as any woman I
ever saw. Well, I had to come to it. I took a
partner.” Lapham dropped the bold blue eyes
with which he had been till now staring into
Bartley’s face, and the reporter knew that here
was a place for asterisks in his interview, if
interviews were faithful. “He had money
enough,” continued Lapham, with a suppressed
sigh; “but he didn’t know anything about paint.
We hung on together for a year or two. And
then we quit.”
“And he had the experience,” suggested Bartley,
with companionable ease.
“I had some of the experience too,” said
Lapham, with a scowl; and Bartley divined,
through the freemasonry of all who have sore
places in their memories, that this was a point
which he must not touch again.
“And since that, I suppose, you’ve played it
alone.”
“I’ve played it alone.”
1. Bartley Hubbard went to see Silas Lapham to
a. hire him for a job.2. Lapham called his father’s discovery a
b. interview him for an article.
c. borrow money from him.
d. give him some unfortunate news.
a. gold mine.3. Read the sentence and choose the word(s) closest in meaning to the word in bold-faced type.
b. paint mine.
c. joke.
d. money pit.
“He had put them into awkward and constrained attitudes, of course; and they all looked as if
they had the instrument of torture which photographers call a head-rest under their
occiputs.”
a. noses4. Silas shows reverence to his father by
b. chins
c. backs of the skulls
d. fronts of the skulls
a. naming the paint with his initials.5. The event that caused the business to struggle was
b. naming his first child Nehemiah.
c. joining the church.
d. taking a holiday on the anniversary of his death.
a. the Great Depression.6. Describe Silas Lapham’s physical appearance.
b. World War II.
c. the Civil War.
d. World War I.
7. As the interview begins, it is easy to sense a bit of tension between the two men. Who
appears “in control” of the interview? Why is this somewhat surprising?
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8. Bartley reads what he has written about Silas’s parents: “They were quiet, unpretentious
people, religious, after the fashion of that time, and of sterling morality, and they taught
their children the simple virtues of the Old Testament and Poor Richard’s Almanac.”
The narrator then goes on to say, “Bartley could not deny himself this gibe; but he trusted to
Lapham’s unliterary habit of mind for his security in making it, and most other people would
consider it sincere reporter’s rhetoric.”
What does the narrator imply by the use of the word, “gibe”?
9. What is implied by the following line?
“This was what he added in the interview, and by the time he had got Lapham past the period
where risen Americans are all pathetically alike in their narrow circumstances, their
sufferings, and their aspirations . . . ”
10. Why is the word, “victims,” used in the following sentence? What does it tell you about
Bartley?
But Bartley had learned to practise a patience with his victims which he did not always
feel . . .
11. List three of the jobs which Silas had done before he began the paint business.
12. Silas states, “ . . . but I’ve noticed that most things get along too late for most people.” What
do you think he means? Do you agree? Explain your answer.
13. What was so unique about the Lapham family brand of paint? What was its particular
strength?
14. Interpret this statement made by Bartley:
“ . . . A man can’t make a greater mistake with a reporter than to hold back anything out of
modesty. It may be the very thing we want to know. What we want is the whole truth; and
more; we’ve got so much modesty of our own that we can temper almost any statement.”
What is he implying about reporters?
15. Why did Silas initially resist taking on a partner?
16. What can you infer from the closing statements of the story? Is he speaking about his
professional life, his personal life, or both? Explain your answer.
THE PORTRAIT
OF A LADY
by Henry James
CHAPTER I
Under certain circumstances there are few
hours in life more agreeable than the hour
dedicated to the ceremony known as afternoon
tea. There are circumstances in which, whether
you partake of the tea or not—some people of
course never do,—the situation is in itself
delightful. Those that I have in mind in
beginning to unfold this simple history offered
an admirable setting to an innocent pastime.
The implements of the little feast had been
disposed upon the lawn of an old English
country-house, in what I should call the perfect
middle of a splendid summer afternoon. Part of
the afternoon had waned, but much of it was
left, and what was left was of the finest and
rarest quality. Real dusk would not arrive for
many hours; but the flood of summer light had
begun to ebb, the air had grown mellow, the
shadows were long upon the smooth, dense turf.
They lengthened slowly, however, and the scene
expressed that sense of leisure still to come
which is perhaps the chief source of one’s
enjoyment of such a scene at such an hour.
From five o’clock to eight is on certain occasions
a little eternity; but on such an occasion as this
the interval could be only an eternity of
pleasure. The persons concerned in it were
taking their pleasure quietly, and they were not
of the sex which is supposed to furnish the
regular votaries of the ceremony I have
mentioned. The shadows on the perfect lawn
were straight and angular; they were the
shadows of an old man sitting in a deep wickerchair
near the low table on which the tea had
been served, and of two younger men strolling
to and fro, in desultory talk, in front of him. The
old man had his cup in his hand; it was an
unusually large cup, of a different pattern from
the rest of the set and painted in brilliant
colours. He disposed of its contents with much
circumspection, holding it for a long time close
to his chin, with his face turned to the house.
His companions had either finished their tea or
were indifferent to their privilege; they smoked
cigarettes as they continued to stroll. One of
them, from time to time, as he passed, looked
with a certain attention at the elder man, who,
unconscious of observation, rested his eyes
upon the rich red front of his dwelling. The
house that rose beyond the lawn was a
structure to repay such consideration and was
the most characteristic object in the peculiarly
English picture I have attempted to sketch.
It stood upon a low hill, above the river—the
river being the Thames at some forty miles from
London. A long gabled front of red brick, with the
complexion of which time and the weather had
played all sorts of pictorial tricks, only, however,
to improve and refine it, presented to the lawn
its patches of ivy, its clustered chimneys, its
windows smothered in creepers. The house had a
name and a history; the old gentleman taking his
tea would have been delighted to tell you these
things: how it had been built under Edward the
Sixth, had offered a night’s hospitality to the
great Elizabeth (whose august person had
extended itself upon a huge, magnificent and
terribly angular bed which still formed the
principal honour of the sleeping apartments),
had been a good deal bruised and defaced in
Cromwell’s wars, and then, under the
Restoration, repaired and much enlarged; and
how, finally, after having been remodelled and
disfigured in the eighteenth century, it had
passed into the careful keeping of a shrewd
American banker, who had bought it originally
because (owing to circumstances too complicated
to set forth) it was offered at a great bargain:
bought it with much grumbling at its ugliness,
its antiquity, its incommodity, and who now, at
the end of twenty years, had become conscious of
a real aesthetic passion for it, so that he knew all
its points and would tell you just where to stand
to see them in combination and just the hour
when the shadows of its various protuberances
which fell so softly upon the warm, weary
brickwork—were of the right measure. Besides
this, as I have said, he could have counted off
most of the successive owners and occupants,
several of whom were known to general fame;
doing so, however, with an undemonstrative
conviction that the latest phase of its destiny was
not the least honourable. The front of the house
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overlooking that portion of the lawn with which
we are concerned was not the entrance-front;
this was in quite another quarter. Privacy here
reigned supreme, and the wide carpet of turf that
covered the level hill-top seemed but the
extension of a luxurious interior. The great still
oaks and beeches flung down a shade as dense as
that of velvet curtains; and the place was
furnished, like a room, with cushioned seats,
with rich-coloured rugs, with the books and
papers that lay upon the grass. The river was at
some distance; where the ground began to slope
the lawn, properly speaking, ceased. But it was
none the less a charming walk down to the water.
The old gentleman at the tea-table, who had
come from America thirty years before, had
brought with him, at the top of his baggage, his
American physiognomy; and he had not only
brought it with him, but he had kept it in the
best order, so that, if necessary, he might have
taken it back to his own country with perfect
confidence. At present, obviously, nevertheless,
he was not likely to displace himself; his
journeys were over and he was taking the rest
that precedes the great rest. He had a narrow,
clean-shaven face, with features evenly
distributed and an expression of placid
acuteness. It was evidently a face in which the
range of representation was not large, so that
the air of contented shrewdness was all the
more of a merit. It seemed to tell that he had
been successful in life, yet it seemed to tell also
that his success had not been exclusive and
invidious, but had had much of the
inoffensiveness of failure. He had certainly had
a great experience of men, but there was an
almost rustic simplicity in the faint smile that
played upon his lean, spacious cheek and
lighted up his humorous eye as he at last slowly
and carefully deposited his big tea-cup upon the
table. He was neatly dressed, in well-brushed
black; but a shawl was folded upon his knees,
and his feet were encased in thick, embroidered
slippers. A beautiful collie dog lay upon the
grass near his chair, watching the master’s face
almost as tenderly as the master took in the
still more magisterial physiognomy of the
house; and a little bristling, bustling terrier
bestowed a desultory attendance upon the other
gentlemen.
One of these was a remarkably well-made man
of five-and-thirty, with a face as English as that
of the old gentleman I have just sketched was
something else; a noticeably handsome face,
fresh-coloured, fair and frank, with firm,
straight features, a lively grey eye and the rich
adornment of a chestnut beard. This person had
a certain fortunate, brilliant exceptional look—
the air of a happy temperament fertilised by a
high civilisation—which would have made
almost any observer envy him at a venture. He
was booted and spurred, as if he had
dismounted from a long ride; he wore a white
hat, which looked too large for him; he held his
two hands behind him, and in one of them—a
large, white, well-shaped fist—was crumpled a
pair of soiled dog-skin gloves.
His companion, measuring the length of the
lawn beside him, was a person of quite a
different pattern, who, although he might have
excited grave curiosity, would not, like the
other, have provoked you to wish yourself,
almost blindly, in his place. Tall, lean, loosely
and feebly put together, he had an ugly, sickly,
witty, charming face, furnished, but by no
means decorated, with a straggling moustache
and whisker. He looked clever and ill—a
combination by no means felicitous; and he
wore a brown velvet jacket. He carried his
hands in his pockets, and there was something
in the way he did it that showed the habit was
inveterate. His gait had a shambling,
wandering quality; he was not very firm on his
legs. As I have said, whenever he passed the old
man in the chair he rested his eyes upon him;
and at this moment, with their faces brought
into relation, you would easily have seen they
were father and son. The father caught his son’s
eye at last and gave him a mild, responsive
smile.
“I’m getting on very well,” he said.
“Have you drunk your tea?” asked the son.
“Yes, and enjoyed it.”
“Shall I give you some more?”
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The old man considered, placidly. “Well, I guess
I’ll wait and see.” He had, in speaking, the
American tone.
“Are you cold?” the son enquired.
The father slowly rubbed his legs. “Well, I don’t
know. I can’t tell till I feel.”
“Perhaps some one might feel for you,” said the
younger man, laughing.
“Oh, I hope some one will always feel for me!
Don’t you feel for me, Lord Warburton?”
“Oh yes, immensely,” said the gentleman
addressed as Lord Warburton, promptly. “I’m
bound to say you look wonderfully comfortable.”
“Well, I suppose I am, in most respects.” And
the old man looked down at his green shawl and
smoothed it over his knees. “The fact is I’ve
been comfortable so many years that I suppose
I’ve got so used to it I don’t know it.”
“Yes, that’s the bore of comfort,” said Lord
Warburton. “We only know when we’re
uncomfortable.”
“It strikes me we’re rather particular,” his
companion remarked.
“Oh yes, there’s no doubt we’re particular,” Lord
Warburton murmured. And then the three men
remained silent a while; the two younger ones
standing looking down at the other, who
presently asked for more tea. “I should think
you would be very unhappy with that shawl,”
Lord Warburton resumed while his companion
filled the old man’s cup again.
“Oh no, he must have the shawl!” cried the
gentleman in the velvet coat. “Don’t put such
ideas as that into his head.”
“It belongs to my wife,” said the old man simply.
“Oh, if it’s for sentimental reasons—” And Lord
Warburton made a gesture of apology.
“I suppose I must give it to her when she
comes,” the old man went on.
“You’ll please to do nothing of the kind. You’ll
keep it to cover your poor old legs.”
“Well, you mustn’t abuse my legs,” said the old
man. “I guess they are as good as yours.”
“Oh, you’re perfectly free to abuse mine,” his
son replied, giving him his tea.
“Well, we’re two lame ducks; I don’t think
there’s much difference.”
“I’m much obliged to you for calling me a duck.
How’s your tea?”
“Well, it’s rather hot.”
“That’s intended to be a merit.”
“Ah, there’s a great deal of merit,” murmured
the old man, kindly. “He’s a very good nurse,
Lord Warburton.”
“Isn’t he a bit clumsy?” asked his lordship.
“Oh no, he’s not clumsy—considering that he’s
an invalid himself. He’s a very good nurse—for
a sick-nurse. I call him my sick-nurse because
he’s sick himself.”
“Oh, come, daddy!” the ugly young man
exclaimed.
“Well, you are; I wish you weren’t. But I suppose
you can’t help it.”
“I might try: that’s an idea,” said the young
man.
“Were you ever sick, Lord Warburton?” his
father asked.
Lord Warburton considered a moment. “Yes, sir,
once, in the Persian Gulf.”
“He’s making light of you, daddy,” said the other
young man. “That’s a sort of joke.”
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“Well, there seem to be so many sorts now,”
daddy replied, serenely. “You don’t look as if you
had been sick, any way, Lord Warburton.”
“He’s sick of life; he was just telling me so; going
on fearfully about it,” said Lord Warburton’s
friend.
“Is that true, sir?” asked the old man gravely.
“If it is, your son gave me no consolation. He’s a
wretched fellow to talk to—a regular cynic. He
doesn’t seem to believe in anything.”
“That’s another sort of joke,” said the person
accused of cynicism.
“It’s because his health is so poor,” his father
explained to Lord Warburton. “It affects his
mind and colours his way of looking at things;
he seems to feel as if he had never had a chance.
But it’s almost entirely theoretical, you know; it
doesn’t seem to affect his spirits. I’ve hardly
ever seen him when he wasn’t cheerful—about
as he is at present. He often cheers me up.”
The young man so described looked at Lord
Warburton and laughed. “Is it a glowing eulogy
or an accusation of levity? Should you like me to
carry out my theories, daddy?”
“By Jove, we should see some queer things!”
cried Lord Warburton.
“I hope you haven’t taken up that sort of tone,”
said the old man.
“Warburton’s tone is worse than mine; he
pretends to be bored. I’m not in the least bored;
I find life only too interesting.”
“Ah, too interesting; you shouldn’t allow it to be
that, you know!”
“I’m never bored when I come here,” said Lord
Warburton. “One gets such uncommonly good
talk.”
“Is that another sort of joke?” asked the old
man. “You’ve no excuse for being bored
anywhere. When I was your age I had never
heard of such a thing.”
“You must have developed very late.”
“No, I developed very quick; that was just the
reason. When I was twenty years old I was very
highly developed indeed. I was working tooth
and nail. You wouldn’t be bored if you had
something to do; but all you young men are too
idle. You think too much of your pleasure. You’re
too fastidious, and too indolent, and too rich.”
“Oh, I say,” cried Lord Warburton, “you’re
hardly the person to accuse a fellow-creature of
being too rich!”
“Do you mean because I’m a banker?” asked the
old man.
“Because of that, if you like; and because you
have—haven’t you?—such unlimited means.”
“He isn’t very rich,” the other young man
mercifully pleaded. “He has given away an
immense deal of money.”
“Well, I suppose it was his own,” said Lord
Warburton; “and in that case could there be a
better proof of wealth? Let not a public
benefactor talk of one’s being too fond of
pleasure.”
“Daddy’s very fond of pleasure—of other
people’s.”
The old man shook his head. “I don’t pretend to
have contributed anything to the amusement of
my contemporaries.”
“My dear father, you’re too modest!”
“That’s a kind of joke, sir,” said Lord Warburton.
“You young men have too many jokes. When
there are no jokes you’ve nothing left.”
“Fortunately there are always more jokes,” the
ugly young man remarked.
“I don’t believe it—I believe things are getting
more serious. You young men will find that out.”
“The increasing seriousness of things, then
that’s the great opportunity of jokes.”
“They’ll have to be grim jokes,” said the old
man. “I’m convinced there will be great
changes, and not all for the better.”
“I quite agree with you, sir,” Lord Warburton
declared. “I’m very sure there will be great
changes, and that all sorts of queer things will
happen. That’s why I find so much difficulty in
applying your advice; you know you told me the
other day that I ought to ‘take hold’ of
something. One hesitates to take hold of a thing
that may the next moment be knocked skyhigh.”
“You ought to take hold of a pretty woman,” said
his companion. “He’s trying hard to fall in love,”
he added, by way of explanation, to his father.
“The pretty women themselves may be sent
flying!” Lord Warburton exclaimed.
“No, no, they’ll be firm,” the old man rejoined;
“they’ll not be affected by the social and political
changes I just referred to.”
“You mean they won’t be abolished? Very well,
then, I’ll lay hands on one as soon as possible
and tie her round my neck as a life-preserver.”
“The ladies will save us,” said the old man; “that
is the best of them will—for I make a difference
between them. Make up to a good one and
marry her, and your life will become much more
interesting.”
A momentary silence marked perhaps on the
part of his auditors a sense of the magnanimity
of this speech, for it was a secret neither for his
son nor for his visitor that his own experiment
in matrimony had not been a happy one. As he
said, however, he made a difference; and these
words may have been intended as a confession
of personal error; though of course it was not in
place for either of his companions to remark
that apparently the lady of his choice had not
been one of the best.
“If I marry an interesting woman I shall be
interested: is that what you say?” Lord
Warburton asked. “I’m not at all keen about
marrying—your son misrepresented me; but
there’s no knowing what an interesting woman
might do with me.”
“I should like to see your idea of an interesting
woman,” said his friend.
“My dear fellow, you can’t see ideas—especially
such highly ethereal ones as mine. If I could
only see it myself—that would be a great step in
advance.”
“Well, you may fall in love with whomsoever you
please; but you mustn’t fall in love with my
niece,” said the old man.
His son broke into a laugh. “He’ll think you
mean that as a provocation! My dear father,
you’ve lived with the English for thirty years,
and you’ve picked up a good many of the things
they say. But you’ve never learned the things
they don’t say!”
“I say what I please,” the old man returned with
all his serenity.
“I haven’t the honour of knowing your niece,”
Lord Warburton said. “I think it’s the first time
I’ve heard of her.”
“She’s a niece of my wife’s; Mrs. Touchett brings
her to England.”
Then young Mr. Touchett explained. “My
mother, you know, has been spending the
winter in America, and we’re expecting her
back. She writes that she has discovered a niece
and that she has invited her to come out with
her.”
“I see,—very kind of her,” said Lord Warburton.
Is the young lady interesting?”
“We hardly know more about her than you; my
mother has not gone into details. She chiefly
communicates with us by means of telegrams,
and her telegrams are rather inscrutable. They
say women don’t know how to write them, but
my mother has thoroughly mastered the art of
condensation. ‘Tired America, hot weather
awful, return England with niece, first steamer
decent cabin.’ That’s the sort of message we get
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© 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate. 80
from her—that was the last that came. But
there had been another before, which I think
contained the first mention of the niece.
‘Changed hotel, very bad, impudent clerk,
address here. Taken sister’s girl, died last year,
go to Europe, two sisters, quite independent.’
Over that my father and I have scarcely stopped
puzzling; it seems to admit of so many
interpretations.”
“There’s one thing very clear in it,” said the old
man; “she has given the hotel-clerk a dressing.”
“I’m not sure even of that, since he has driven
her from the field. We thought at first that the
sister mentioned might be the sister of the
clerk; but the subsequent mention of a niece
seems to prove that the allusion is to one of my
aunts. Then there was a question as to whose
the two other sisters were; they are probably
two of my late aunt’s daughters. But who’s
‘quite independent,’ and in what sense is the
term used?—that point’s not yet settled. Does
the expression apply more particularly to the
young lady my mother has adopted, or does it
characterise her sisters equally?—and is it used
in a moral or in a financial sense? Does it mean
that they’ve been left well off, or that they wish
to be under no obligations? or does it simply
mean that they’re fond of their own way?”
“Whatever else it means, it’s pretty sure to
mean that,” Mr. Touchett remarked.
“You’ll see for yourself,” said Lord Warburton.
“When does Mrs. Touchett arrive?”
“We’re quite in the dark; as soon as she can find
a decent cabin. She may be waiting for it yet; on
the other hand she may already have
disembarked in England.”
“In that case she would probably have
telegraphed to you.”
“She never telegraphs when you would expect
it—only when you don’t,” said the old man. “She
likes to drop on me suddenly; she thinks she’ll
find me doing something wrong. She has never
done so yet, but she’s not discouraged.”
“It’s her share in the family trait, the
independence she speaks of.” Her son’s
appreciation of the matter was more
favourable. “Whatever the high spirit of those
young ladies may be, her own is a match for it.
She likes to do everything for herself and has no
belief in any one’s power to help her. She thinks
me of no more use than a postage-stamp
without gum, and she would never forgive me if
I should presume to go to Liverpool to meet
her.”
“Will you at least let me know when your cousin
arrives?” Lord Warburton asked.
“Only on the condition I’ve mentioned—that
you don’t fall in love with her!” Mr. Touchett
replied.
“That strikes me as hard, don’t you think me
good enough?”
“I think you too good—because I shouldn’t like
her to marry you. She hasn’t come here to look
for a husband, I hope; so many young ladies are
doing that, as if there were no good ones at
home. Then she’s probably engaged; American
girls are usually engaged, I believe. Moreover
I’m not sure, after all, that you’d be a
remarkable husband.”
“Very likely she’s engaged; I’ve known a good
many American girls, and they always were;
but I could never see that it made any
difference, upon my word! As for my being a
good husband,” Mr. Touchett’s visitor pursued,
“I’m not sure of that either. One can but try!”
“Try as much as you please, but don’t try on my
niece,” smiled the old man, whose opposition to
the idea was broadly humorous.
“Ah, well,” said Lord Warburton with a humour
broader still, “perhaps, after all, she’s not worth
trying on!”
1. The story begins with a description of the ceremony known as
a. the raising of the flag.2. Read the following sentence and then select, from the choices below, the word that is closest
b. afternoon tea.
c. Sunday brunch.
d. cutting the ribbon.
in meaning to the word in bold-faced type.
The shadows on the perfect lawn were straight and angular; they were the shadows of an old
man sitting in a deep wicker-chair near the low table on which the tea had been served, and of
two younger men strolling to and fro, in desultory talk, in front of him.
a. aimless4. What does the word, “physiognomy,” mean?
b. angry
c. agitated
d. enthusiastic
a. anatomy5. Henry James describes one of the younger gentlemen at the house as having a face that was
b. body type
c. facial features
d. morals
a. furnished, but by no means decorated, with a straggling moustache.6. Both the old man and his gangly son shared
b. adorned appropriately with a bushy moustache.
c. hindered beyond repair by a straggling moustache.
d. embellished handsomely with a well-groomed moustache.
a. a gift for conversation.7. Describe the physical appearance and the rich history of the house.
b. an athletic ability.
c. a physical disability.
d. an interest in books.
8. How is the following comment by the old man evidence of a “generation gap” concept?
“Is that another sort of joke? You’ve no excuse for being bored anywhere. When I was your age
I had never heard of such a thing.”
9. What is the status of the old gentleman’s marriage? How do you know? Give an example
from the story to support what you are saying.
10. In the older gentleman’s opinion, why does his wife like to drop in on him suddenly? What
does this tell you about her? What does it further confirm for you about the relationship?
11. How do the men feel about American girls? How do you know? How would you sum up their
attitudes?
© 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate.
ETHAN FROME
by Edith Wharton
I had the story, bit by bit, from various people,
and, as generally happens in such cases, each
time it was a different story.
If you know Starkfield, Massachusetts, you
know the post-office. If you know the post-office
you must have seen Ethan Frome drive up to it,
drop the reins on his hollow-backed bay and
drag himself across the brick pavement to the
white colonnade: and you must have asked who
he was.
It was there that, several years ago, I saw him
for the first time; and the sight pulled me up
sharp. Even then he was the most striking
figure in Starkfield, though he was but the ruin
of a man. It was not so much his great height
that marked him, for the “natives” were easily
singled out by their lank longitude from the
stockier foreign breed: it was the careless
powerful look he had, in spite of a lameness
checking each step like the jerk of a chain.
There was something bleak and
unapproachable in his face, and he was so
stiffened and grizzled that I took him for an old
man and was surprised to hear that he was not
more than fifty-two. I had this from Harmon
Gow, who had driven the stage from
Bettsbridge to Starkfield in pre-trolley days and
knew the chronicle of all the families on his
line.
“He’s looked that way ever since he had his
smash-up; and that’s twenty-four years ago
come next February,” Harmon threw out
between reminiscent pauses.
The “smash-up” it was—I gathered from the
same informant—which, besides drawing the
red gash across Ethan Frome’s forehead, had so
shortened and warped his right side that it cost
him a visible effort to take the few steps from
his buggy to the post-office window. He used to
drive in from his farm every day at about noon,
and as that was my own hour for fetching my
mail I often passed him in the porch or stood
beside him while we waited on the motions of
the distributing hand behind the grating. I
noticed that, though he came so punctually, he
seldom received anything but a copy of the
Bettsbridge Eagle, which he put without a
glance into his sagging pocket. At intervals,
however, the post-master would hand him an
envelope addressed to Mrs. Zenobia—or Mrs.
Zeena-Frome, and usually bearing
conspicuously in the upper left-hand corner the
address of some manufacturer of patent
medicine and the name of his specific. These
documents my neighbour would also pocket
without a glance, as if too much used to them to
wonder at their number and variety, and would
then turn away with a silent nod to the postmaster.
Every one in Starkfield knew him and gave him
a greeting tempered to his own grave mien; but
his taciturnity was respected and it was only on
rare occasions that one of the older men of the
place detained him for a word. When this
happened he would listen quietly, his blue eyes
on the speaker’s face, and answer in so low a
tone that his words never reached me; then he
would climb stiffly into his buggy, gather up the
reins in his left hand and drive slowly away in
the direction of his farm.
“It was a pretty bad smash-up?” I questioned
Harmon, looking after Frome’s retreating
figure, and thinking how gallantly his lean
brown head, with its shock of light hair, must
have sat on his strong shoulders before they
were bent out of shape.
“Wust kind,” my informant assented. “More’n
enough to kill most men. But the Fromes are
tough. Ethan’ll likely touch a hundred.”
“Good God!” I exclaimed. At the moment Ethan
Frome, after climbing to his seat, had leaned
over to assure himself of the security of a
wooden box-also with a druggist’s label on it—
which he had placed in the back of the buggy,
and I saw his face as it probably looked when he
thought himself alone. “That man touch a
hundred? He looks as if he was dead and in hell
now!”
Harmon drew a slab of tobacco from his pocket,
cut off a wedge and pressed it into the leather
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© 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate. 86
pouch of his cheek. “Guess he’s been in
Starkfield too many winters. Most of the smart
ones get away.”
“Why didn’t he?”
“Somebody had to stay and care for the folks.
There warn’t ever anybody but Ethan. Fust his
father—then his mother—then his wife.”
“And then the smash-up?”
Harmon chuckled sardonically. “That’s so. He
had to stay then.”
“I see. And since then they’ve had to care for
him?”
Harmon thoughtfully passed his tobacco to the
other cheek. “Oh, as to that: I guess it’s always
Ethan done the caring.”
Though Harmon Gow developed the tale as far
as his mental and moral reach permitted there
were perceptible gaps between his facts, and I
had the sense that the deeper meaning of the
story was in the gaps. But one phrase stuck in
my memory and served as the nucleus about
which I grouped my subsequent inferences:
“Guess he’s been in Starkfield too many
winters.”
Before my own time there was up I had learned
to know what that meant. Yet I had come in the
degenerate day of trolley, bicycle and rural
delivery, when communication was easy
between the scattered mountain villages, and
the bigger towns in the valleys, such as
Bettsbridge and Shadd’s Falls, had libraries,
theatres and Y. M. C. A. halls to which the
youth of the hills could descend for recreation.
But when winter shut down on Starkfield and
the village lay under a sheet of snow
perpetually renewed from the pale skies, I
began to see what life there—or rather its
negation—must have been in Ethan Frome’s
young manhood.
I had been sent up by my employers on a job
connected with the big power-house at Corbury
Junction, and a long-drawn carpenters’ strike
had so delayed the work that I found myself
anchored at Starkfield-the nearest habitable
spot—for the best part of the winter. I chafed at
first, and then, under the hypnotising effect of
routine, gradually began to find a grim
satisfaction in the life. During the early part of
my stay I had been struck by the contrast
between the vitality of the climate and the
deadness of the community. Day by day, after
the December snows were over, a blazing blue
sky poured down torrents of light and air on the
white landscape, which gave them back in an
intenser glitter. One would have supposed that
such an atmosphere must quicken the emotions
as well as the blood; but it seemed to produce no
change except that of retarding still more the
sluggish pulse of Starkfield. When I had been
there a little longer, and had seen this phase of
crystal clearness followed by long stretches of
sunless cold; when the storms of February had
pitched their white tents about the. devoted
village and the wild cavalry of March winds had
charged down to their support; I began to
understand why Starkfield emerged from its six
months’ siege like a starved garrison
capitulating without quarter. Twenty years
earlier the means of resistance must have been
far fewer, and the enemy in command of almost
all the lines of access between the beleaguered
villages; and, considering these things, I felt the
sinister force of Harmon’s phrase: “Most of the
smart ones get away.” But if that were the case,
how could any combination of obstacles have
hindered the flight of a man like Ethan Frome?
During my stay at Starkfield I lodged with a
middle-aged widow colloquially known as Mrs.
Ned Hale. Mrs. Hale’s father had been the
village lawyer of the previous generation, and
“lawyer Varnum’s house,” where my landlady
still lived with her mother, was the most
considerable mansion in the village. It stood at
one end of the main street, its classic portico
and small-paned windows looking down a
flagged path between Norway spruces to the
slim white steeple of the Congregational
church. It was clear that the Varnum fortunes
were at the ebb, but the two women did what
they could to preserve a decent dignity; and
Mrs. Hale, in particular, had a certain wan
refinement not out of keeping with her pale oldfashioned
house.
In the “best parlour,” with its black horse-hair
and mahogany weakly illuminated by a
gurgling Carcel lamp, I listened every evening
to another and more delicately shaded version
of the Starkfield chronicle. It was not that Mrs.
Ned Hale felt, or affected, any social superiority
to the people about her; it was only that the
accident of a finer sensibility and a little more
education had put just enough distance
between herself and her neighbours to enable
her to judge them with detachment. She was
not unwilling to exercise this faculty, and I had
great hopes of getting from her the missing
facts of Ethan Frome’s story, or rather such a
key to his character as should co-ordinate the
facts I knew. Her mind was a store-house of
innocuous anecdote and any question about her
acquaintances brought forth a volume of detail;
but on the subject of Ethan Frome I found her
unexpectedly reticent. There was no hint of
disapproval in her reserve; I merely felt in her
an insurmountable reluctance to speak of him
or his affairs, a low “Yes, I knew them both . . .
it was awful . . . ” seeming to be the utmost
concession that her distress could make to my
curiosity.
So marked was the change in her manner, such
depths of sad initiation did it imply, that, with
some doubts as to my delicacy, I put the case
anew to my village oracle, Harmon Gow; but got
for my pains only an uncomprehending grunt.
“Ruth Varnum was always as nervous as a rat;
and, come to think of it, she was the first one to
see ‘em after they was picked up. It happened
right below lawyer Varnum’s, down at the bend
of the Corbury road, just round about the time
that Ruth got engaged to Ned Hale. The young
folks was all friends, and I guess she just can’t
bear to talk about it. She’s had troubles enough
of her own.”
All the dwellers in Starkfield, as in more
notable communities, had had troubles enough
of their own to make them comparatively
indifferent to those of their neighbours; and
though all conceded that Ethan Frome’s had
been beyond the common measure, no one gave
me an explanation of the look in his face which,
as I persisted in thinking, neither poverty nor
physical suffering could have put there.
Nevertheless, I might have contented myself
with the story pieced together from these hints
had it not been for the provocation of Mrs.
Hale’s silence, and—a little later—for the
accident of personal contact with the man.
On my arrival at Starkfield, Denis Eady, the
rich Irish grocer, who was the proprietor of
Starkfield’s nearest approach to a livery stable,
had entered into an agreement to send me over
daily to Corbury Flats, where I had to pick up
my train for the Junction. But about the middle
of the winter Eady’s horses fell ill of a local
epidemic. The illness spread to the other
Starkfield stables and for a day or two I was put
to it to find a means of transport. Then Harmon
Gow suggested that Ethan Frome’s bay was still
on his legs and that his owner might be glad to
drive me over.
I stared at the suggestion. “Ethan Frome? But
I’ve never even spoken to him. Why on earth
should he put himself out for me?”
Harmon’s answer surprised me still more. “I
don’t know as he would; but I know he wouldn’t
be sorry to earn a dollar.”
I had been told that Frome was poor, and that
the saw-mill and the arid acres of his farm
yielded scarcely enough to keep his household
through the winter; but I had not supposed him
to be in such want as Harmon’s words implied,
and I expressed my wonder.
“Well, matters ain’t gone any too well with
him,” Harmon said. “When a man’s been setting
round like a hulk for twenty years or more,
seeing things that want doing, it eats inter him,
and he loses his grit. That Frome farm was
always ‘bout as bare’s a milkpan when the cat’s
been round; and you know what one of them old
water-mills is wuth nowadays. When Ethan
could sweat over ‘em both from sunup to dark
he kinder choked a living out of ‘em; but his
folks ate up most everything, even then, and I
don’t see how he makes out now. Fust his father
got a kick, out haying, and went soft in the
brain, and gave away money like Bible texts
afore he died. Then his mother got queer and
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© 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate. 88
dragged along for years as weak as a baby; and
his wife Zeena, she’s always been the greatest
hand at doctoring in the county. Sickness and
trouble: that’s what Ethan’s had his plate full
up with, ever since the very first helping.”
The next morning, when I looked out, I saw the
hollow-backed bay between the Varnum
spruces, and Ethan Frome, throwing back his
worn bearskin, made room for me in the sleigh
at his side. After that, for a week, he drove me
over every morning to Corbury Flats, and on my
return in the afternoon met me again and
carried me back through the icy night to
Starkfield. The distance each way was barely
three miles, but the old bay’s pace was slow, and
even with firm snow under the runners we were
nearly an hour on the way. Ethan Frome drove
in silence, the reins loosely held in his left hand,
his brown seamed profile, under the helmet-like
peak of the cap, relieved against the banks of
snow like the bronze image of a hero. He never
turned his face to mine, or answered, except in
monosyllables, the questions I put, or such
slight pleasantries as I ventured. He seemed a
part of the mute melancholy landscape, an
incarnation of its frozen woe, with all that was
warm and sentient in him fast bound below the
surface; but there was nothing unfriendly in his
silence. I simply felt that he lived in a depth of
moral isolation too remote for casual access,
and I had the sense that his loneliness was not
merely the result of his personal plight, tragic
as I guessed that to be, but had in it, as Harmon
Gow had hinted, the profound accumulated cold
of many Starkfield winters.
Only once or twice was the distance between us
bridged for a moment; and the glimpses thus
gained confirmed my desire to know more. Once
I happened to speak of an engineering job I had
been on the previous year in Florida, and of the
contrast between the winter landscape about us
and that in which I had found myself the year
before; and to my surprise Frome said
suddenly: “Yes: I was down there once, and for a
good while afterward I could call up the sight of
it in winter. But now it’s all snowed under.”
He said no more, and I had to guess the rest
from the inflection of his voice and his sharp
relapse into silence.
Another day, on getting into my train at the
Flats, I missed a volume of popular science—I
think it was on some recent discoveries in biochemistry—
which I had carried with me to read
on the way. I thought no more about it till I got
into the sleigh again that evening, and saw the
book in Frome’s hand.
“I found it after you were gone,” he said.
I put the volume into my pocket and we dropped
back into our usual silence; but as we began to
crawl up the long hill from Corbury Flats to the
Starkfield ridge I became aware in the dusk
that he had turned his face to mine.
“There are things in that book that I didn’t
know the first word about,” he said.
I wondered less at his words than at the queer
note of resentment in his voice. He was
evidently surprised and slightly aggrieved at
his own ignorance.
“Does that sort of thing interest you?” I asked.
“It used to.”
“There are one or two rather new things in the
book: there have been some big strides lately in
that particular line of research.” I waited a
moment for an answer that did not come; then I
said: “If you’d like to look the book through I’d
be glad to leave it with you.”
He hesitated, and I had the impression that he
felt himself about to yield to a stealing tide of
inertia; then, “Thank you—I’ll take it,” he
answered shortly.
I hoped that this incident might set up some
more direct communication between us. Frome
was so simple and straightforward that I was
sure his curiosity about the book was based on
a genuine interest in its subject. Such tastes
and acquirements in a man of his condition
made the contrast more poignant between his
outer situation and his inner needs, and I hoped
that the chance of giving expression to the
latter might at least unseal his lips. But
something in his past history, or in his present
way of living, had apparently driven him too
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deeply into himself for any casual impulse to
draw him back to his kind. At our next meeting
he made no allusion to the book, and our
intercourse seemed fated to remain as negative
and one-sided as if there had been no break in
his reserve.
Frome had been driving me over to the Flats for
about a week when one morning I looked out of
my window into a thick snow-fall. The height of
the white waves massed against the gardenfence
and along the wall of the church showed
that the storm must have been going on all
night, and that the drifts were likely to be
heavy in the open. I thought it probable that my
train would be delayed; but I had to be at the
power-house for an hour or two that afternoon,
and I decided, if Frome turned up, to push
through to the Flats and wait there till my train
came in. I don’t know why I put it in the
conditional, however, for I never doubted that
Frome would appear. He was not the kind of
man to be turned from his business by any
commotion of the elements; and at the
appointed hour his sleigh glided up through the
snow like a stage-apparition behind thickening
veils of gauze.
I was getting to know him too well to express
either wonder or gratitude at his keeping his
appointment; but I exclaimed in surprise as I
saw him turn his horse in a direction opposite to
that of the Corbury road.
“The railroad’s blocked by a freight-train that
got stuck in a drift below the Flats,” he
explained, as we jogged off into the stinging
whiteness.
“But look here—where are you taking me,
then?”
“Straight to the Junction, by the shortest way,”
he answered, pointing up School House Hill
with his whip.
“To the Junction—in this storm? Why, it’s a
good ten miles!”
“The bay’ll do it if you give him time. You said
you had some business there this afternoon. I’ll
see you get there.”
He said it so quietly that I could only answer:
“You’re doing me the biggest kind of a favour.”
“That’s all right,” he rejoined.
Abreast of the schoolhouse the road forked, and
we dipped down a lane to the left, between
hemlock boughs bent inward to their trunks by
the weight of the snow. I had often walked that
way on Sundays, and knew that the solitary
roof showing through bare branches near the
bottom of the hill was that of Frome’s saw-mill.
It looked exanimate enough, with its idle wheel
looming above the black stream dashed with
yellow-white spume, and its cluster of sheds
sagging under their white load. Frome did not
even turn his head as we drove by, and still in
silence we began to mount the next slope. About
a mile farther, on a road I had never travelled,
we came to an orchard of starved apple-trees
writhing over a hillside among outcroppings of
slate that nuzzled up through the snow like
animals pushing out their noses to breathe.
Beyond the orchard lay a field or two, their
boundaries lost under drifts; and above the
fields, huddled against the white immensities of
land and sky, one of those lonely New England
farm-houses that make the landscape lonelier.
“That’s my place,” said Frome, with a sideway
jerk of his lame elbow; and in the distress and
oppression of the scene I did not know what to
answer. The snow had ceased, and a flash of
watery sunlight exposed the house on the slope
above us in all its plaintive ugliness. The black
wraith of a deciduous creeper flapped from the
porch, and the thin wooden walls, under their
worn coat of paint, seemed to shiver in the wind
that had risen with the ceasing of the snow.
“The house was bigger in my father’s time: I
had to take down the ‘L,’ a while back,” Frome
continued, checking with a twitch of the left
rein the bay’s evident intention of turning in
through the broken-down gate.
I saw then that the unusually forlorn and
stunted look of the house was partly due to the
loss of what is known in New England as the
“L”: that long deep-roofed adjunct usually built
at right angles to the main house, and
connecting it, by way of storerooms and tool©
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house, with the wood-shed and cow-barn.
Whether because of its symbolic sense, the
image it presents of a life linked with the soil,
and enclosing in itself the chief sources of
warmth and nourishment, or whether merely
because of the consolatory thought that it
enables the dwellers in that harsh climate to
get to their morning’s work without facing the
weather, it is certain that the “L” rather than
the house itself seems to be the centre, the
actual hearth-stone of the New England farm.
Perhaps this connection of ideas, which had
often occurred to me in my rambles about
Starkfield, caused me to hear a wistful note in
Frome’s words, and to see in the diminished
dwelling the image of his own shrunken body.
“We’re kinder side-tracked here now,” he added,
“but there was considerable passing before the
railroad was carried through to the Flats.” He
roused the lagging bay with another twitch;
then, as if the mere sight of the house had let
me too deeply into his confidence for any farther
pretence of reserve, he went on slowly: “I’ve
always set down the worst of mother’s trouble
to that. When she got the rheumatism so bad
she couldn’t move around she used to sit up
there and watch the road by the hour; and one
year, when they was six months mending the
Bettsbridge pike after the floods, and Harmon
Gow had to bring his stage round this way, she
picked up so that she used to get down to the
gate most days to see him. But after the trains
begun running nobody ever come by here to
speak of, and mother never could get it through
her head what had happened, and it preyed on
her right along till she died.”
As we turned into the Corbury road the snow
began to fall again, cutting off our last glimpse
of the house; and Frome’s silence fell with it,
letting down between us the old veil of
reticence. This time the wind did not cease with
the return of the snow. Instead, it sprang up to
a gale which now and then, from a tattered sky,
flung pale sweeps of sunlight over a landscape
chaotically tossed. But the bay was as good as
Frome’s word, and we pushed on to the Junction
through the wild white scene.
In the afternoon the storm held off, and the
clearness in the west seemed to my
inexperienced eye the pledge of a fair evening. I
finished my business as quickly as possible, and
we set out for Starkfield with a good chance of
getting there for supper. But at sunset the
clouds gathered again, bringing an earlier
night, and the snow began to fall straight and
steadily from a sky without wind, in a soft
universal diffusion more confusing than the
gusts and eddies of the morning. It seemed to be
a part of the thickening darkness, to be the
winter night itself descending on us layer by
layer.
The small ray of Frome’s lantern was soon lost
in this smothering medium, in which even his
sense of direction, and the bay’s homing
instinct, finally ceased to serve us. Two or three
times some ghostly landmark sprang up to
warn us that we were astray, and then was
sucked back into the mist; and when we finally
regained our road the old horse began to show
signs of exhaustion. I felt myself to blame for
having accepted Frome’s offer, and after a short
discussion I persuaded him to let me get out of
the sleigh and walk along through the snow at
the bay’s side. In this way we struggled on for
another mile or two, and at last reached a point
where Frome, peering into what seemed to me
formless night, said: “That’s my gate down
yonder.”
The last stretch had been the hardest part of
the way. The bitter cold and the heavy going
had nearly knocked the wind out of me, and I
could feel the horse’s side ticking like a clock
under my hand.
“Look here, Frome,” I began, “there’s no earthly
use in your going any farther—” but he
interrupted me: “Nor you neither. There’s been
about enough of this for anybody.”
I understood that he was offering me a night’s
shelter at the farm, and without answering I
turned into the gate at his side, and followed
him to the barn, where I helped him to
unharness and bed down the tired horse. When
this was done he unhooked the lantern from the
sleigh, stepped out again into the night, and
called to me over his shoulder: “This way.”
1. Choose from below, the literary term used in the following line from the story:
. . . in spite of a lameness checking each step like the jerk of a chain.
a. irony
b. hyperbole
c. metaphor
d. simile
2. Read the following sentence and then select, from the choices below, the word closest in
meaning to the word in bold-faced type.
Every one in Starkfield knew him and gave him a greeting tempered to his own grave mien;
but his taciturnity was respected and it was only on rare occasions that one of the older men
of the place detained him for a word.
a. silence
b. boisterousness
c. rudeness
d. boldness
3. Read the following sentence and select, from below, the literary term that is used.
In the afternoon the storm held off, and the clearness in the west seemed to my inexperienced
eye the pledge of a fair evening.
a. metaphor
b. foreshadowing
c. hyperbole
d. onomatopoeia
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Far off above us a square of light trembled
through the screen of snow. Staggering along in
Frome’s wake I floundered toward it, and in the
darkness almost fell into one of the deep drifts
against the front of the house. Frome scrambled
up the slippery steps of the porch, digging a way
through the snow with his heavily booted foot.
Then he lifted his lantern, found the latch, and
led the way into the house. I went after him into
a low unlit passage, at the back of which a
ladder-like staircase rose into obscurity. On our
right a line of light marked the door of the room
which had sent its ray across the night; and
behind the door I heard a woman’s voice
droning querulously.
Frome stamped on the worn oil-cloth to shake
the snow from his boots, and set down his
lantern on a kitchen chair which was the only
piece of furniture in the hall. Then he opened
the door.
“Come in,” he said; and as he spoke the droning
voice grew still . . .
It was that night that I found the clue to Ethan
Frome, and began to put together this vision of
his story.
4. How does the author set the tone in the very first two paragraphs of the story?
5. What is significantly noticeable about Ethan Frome’s appearance? What is the reason for this
unusual appearance?
© 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate. 92
6. How does Ethan Frome’s mail offer a hint as to what his life is like?
7. What is implied by Harmon’s comment, “Guess he’s been in Starkfield too many winters.
Most of the smart ones get away”?
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8. Interpret the narrator’s description of life in Starkfield during the winter months. How does
the idea of “contrast” come into play?
9. Who is Mrs. Ned Hale? What function does the narrator hope that she fulfill for him?
© 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate. 94
10. Ethan Frome is clearly disabled and a bit odd. How did he become this way?
11. Discuss the way Edith Wharton relates Ethan Frome’s disposition to the cold and melancholy
landscape.
95 © 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate.
12. How does Ethan Frome come into contact with the narrator’s book? What does this show you
about him?
13. The L-shaped portion of a New England–style house was significant in this story for a
number of reasons. What were they? In addition, how is the absence of this part of Frome’s
house important?
© 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate. 96
14. What truth about Ethan Frome is revealed to the narrator when he ends up at his house
during the snowstorm? How does this explain some of Ethan’s behavior?
97 © 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate.
THE BRIDE COMES
TO YELLOW SKY
by Stephen Crane
I.
THE great Pullman was whirling onward with
such dignity of motion that a glance from the
window seemed simply to prove that the plains
of Texas were pouring eastward. Vast flats of
green grass, dull-hued spaces of mesquite and
cactus, little groups of frame houses, woods of
light and tender trees, all were sweeping into
the east, sweeping over the horizon, a precipice.
A newly married pair had boarded this coach at
San Antonio. The man’s face was reddened from
many days in the wind and sun, and a direct
result of his new black clothes was that his
brick-colored hands were constantly performing
in a most conscious fashion. From time to time
he looked down respectfully at his attire. He sat
with a hand on each knee, like a man waiting in
a barber’s shop. The glances he devoted to other
passengers were furtive and shy.
The bride was not pretty, nor was she very
young. She wore a dress of blue cashmere, with
small reservations of velvet here and there and
with steel buttons abounding. She continually
twisted her head to regard her puff sleeves,
very stiff, straight, and high. They embarrassed
her. It was quite apparent that she had cooked,
and that she expected to cook, dutifully. The
blushes caused by the careless scrutiny of some
passengers as she had entered the car were
strange to see upon this plain, under-class
countenance, which was drawn in placid,
almost emotionless lines.
They were evidently very happy. “Ever been in
a parlor-car before?” he asked, smiling with
delight.
“No,” she answered, “I never was. It’s fine, ain’t
it?”
“Great! And then after a while we’ll go forward
to the diner and get a big layout. Finest meal in
the world. Charge a dollar.”
“Oh, do they?” cried the bride. “Charge a dollar?
Why, that’s too much—for us—ain’t it, Jack?”
“Not this trip, anyhow,” he answered bravely.
“We’re going to go the whole thing.”
Later, he explained to her about the trains. “You
see, it’s a thousand miles from one end of Texas
to the other, and this train runs right across it
and never stops but four times.” He had the
pride of an owner. He pointed out to her the
dazzling fittings of the coach, and in truth her
eyes opened wider as she contemplated the seagreen
figured velvet, the shining brass, silver,
and glass, the wood that gleamed as darkly
brilliant as the surface of a pool of oil. At one
end a bronze figure sturdily held a support for a
separated chamber, and at convenient places on
the ceiling were frescoes in olive and silver.
To the minds of the pair, their surroundings
reflected the glory of their marriage that
morning in San Antonio. This was the
environment of their new estate, and the man’s
face in particular beamed with an elation that
made him appear ridiculous to the negro porter.
This individual at times surveyed them from
afar with an amused and superior grin. On
other occasions he bullied them with skill in
ways that did not make it exactly plain to them
that they were being bullied. He subtly used all
the manners of the most unconquerable kind of
snobbery. He oppressed them, but of this
oppression they had small knowledge, and they
speedily forgot that infrequently a number of
travelers covered them with stares of derisive
enjoyment. Historically there was supposed to
be something infinitely humorous in their
situation.
“We are due in Yellow Sky at 3:42,” he said,
looking tenderly into her eyes.
“Oh, are we?” she said, as if she had not been
aware of it. To evince surprise at her husband’s
statement was part of her wifely amiability. She
took from a pocket a little silver watch, and as
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she held it before her and stared at it with a
frown of attention, the new husband’s face
shone.
“I bought it in San Anton’ from a friend of
mine,” he told her gleefully.
“It’s seventeen minutes past twelve,” she said,
looking up at him with a kind of shy and clumsy
coquetry. A passenger, noting this play, grew
excessively sardonic, and winked at himself in
one of the numerous mirrors.
At last they went to the dining-car. Two rows of
negro waiters, in glowing white suits, surveyed
their entrance with the interest and also the
equanimity of men who had been forewarned.
The pair fell to the lot of a waiter who happened
to feel pleasure in steering them through their
meal. He viewed them with the manner of a
fatherly pilot, his countenance radiant with
benevolence. The patronage, entwined with the
ordinary deference, was not plain to them. And
yet, as they returned to their coach, they
showed in their faces a sense of escape.
To the left, miles down a long purple slope, was
a little ribbon of mist where moved the keening
Rio Grande. The train was approaching it at an
angle, and the apex was Yellow Sky. Presently it
was apparent that, as the distance from Yellow
Sky grew shorter, the husband became
commensurately restless. His brick-red hands
were more insistent in their prominence.
Occasionally he was even rather absent-minded
and far-away when the bride leaned forward
and addressed him.
As a matter of truth, Jack Potter was beginning
to find the shadow of a deed weigh upon him
like a leaden slab. He, the town marshal of
Yellow Sky, a man known, liked, and feared in
his corner, a prominent person, had gone to San
Antonio to meet a girl he believed he loved, and
there, after the usual prayers, had actually
induced her to marry him, without consulting
Yellow Sky for any part of the transaction. He
was now bringing his bride before an innocent
and unsuspecting community.
Of course, people in Yellow Sky married as it
pleased them, in accordance with a general
custom; but such was Potter’s thought of his
duty to his friends, or of their idea of his duty,
or of an unspoken form which does not control
men in these matters, that he felt he was
heinous. He had committed an extraordinary
crime. Face to face with this girl in San Antonio,
and spurred by his sharp impulse, he had gone
headlong over all the social hedges. At San
Antonio he was like a man hidden in the dark.
A knife to sever any friendly duty, any form,
was easy to his hand in that remote city. But
the hour of Yellow Sky, the hour of daylight, was
approaching.
He knew full well that his marriage was an
important thing to his town. It could only be
exceeded by the burning of the new hotel. His
friends could not forgive him. Frequently he
had reflected on the advisability of telling them
by telegraph, but a new cowardice had been
upon him.
He feared to do it. And now the train was
hurrying him toward a scene of amazement,
glee, and reproach. He glanced out of the
window at the line of haze swinging slowly in
towards the train.
Yellow Sky had a kind of brass band, which
played painfully, to the delight of the populace.
He laughed without heart as he thought of it. If
the citizens could dream of his prospective
arrival with his bride, they would parade the
band at the station and escort them, amid
cheers and laughing congratulations, to his
adobe home.
He resolved that he would use all the devices of
speed and plains-craft in making the journey
from the station to his house. Once within that
safe citadel he could issue some sort of a vocal
bulletin, and then not go among the citizens
until they had time to wear off a little of their
enthusiasm.
The bride looked anxiously at him. “What’s
worrying you, Jack?”
He laughed again. “I’m not worrying, girl. I’m
only thinking of Yellow Sky.”
She flushed in comprehension.
© 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate. 100
A sense of mutual guilt invaded their minds and
developed a finer tenderness. They looked at
each other with eyes softly aglow. But Potter
often laughed the same nervous laugh. The
flush upon the bride’s face seemed quite
permanent.
The traitor to the feelings of Yellow Sky
narrowly watched the speeding landscape.
“We’re nearly there,” he said.
Presently the porter came and announced the
proximity of Potter’s home. He held a brush in
his hand and, with all his airy superiority gone,
he brushed Potter’s new clothes as the latter
slowly turned this way and that way. Potter
fumbled out a coin and gave it to the porter, as
he had seen others do. It was a heavy and
muscle-bound business, as that of a man
shoeing his first horse.
The porter took their bag, and as the train
began to slow they moved forward to the hooded
platform of the car. Presently the two engines
and their long string of coaches rushed into the
station of Yellow Sky.
“They have to take water here,” said Potter,
from a constricted throat and in mournful
cadence, as one announcing death. Before the
train stopped, his eye had swept the length of
the platform, and he was glad and astonished to
see there was none upon it but the stationagent,
who, with a slightly hurried and anxious
air, was walking toward the water-tanks. When
the train had halted, the porter alighted first
and placed in position a little temporary step.
“Come on, girl,” said Potter hoarsely. As he
helped her down they each laughed on a false
note. He took the bag from the negro, and bade
his wife cling to his arm. As they slunk rapidly
away, his hang-dog glance perceived that they
were unloading the two trunks, and also that
the station-agent far ahead near the baggagecar
had turned and was running toward him,
making gestures. He laughed, and groaned as
he laughed, when he noted the first effect of his
marital bliss upon Yellow Sky. He gripped his
wife’s arm firmly to his side, and they fled.
Behind them the porter stood chuckling
fatuously.
II.
THE California Express on the Southern
Railway was due at Yellow Sky in twenty-one
minutes. There were six men at the bar of the
“Weary Gentleman” saloon. One was a
drummer who talked a great deal and rapidly;
three were Texans who did not care to talk at
that time; and two were Mexican sheep-herders
who did not talk as a general practice in the
“Weary Gentleman” saloon. The barkeeper’s
dog lay on the board walk that crossed in front
of the door. His head was on his paws, and he
glanced drowsily here and there with the
constant vigilance of a dog that is kicked on
occasion. Across the sandy street were some
vivid green grass plots, so wonderful in
appearance amid the sands that burned near
them in a blazing sun that they caused a doubt
in the mind. They exactly resembled the grass
mats used to represent lawns on the stage. At
the cooler end of the railway station a man
without a coat sat in a tilted chair and smoked
his pipe. The fresh-cut bank of the Rio Grande
circled near the town, and there could be seen
beyond it a great, plum-colored plain of
mesquite.
Save for the busy drummer and his companions
in the saloon, Yellow Sky was dozing. The newcomer
leaned gracefully upon the bar, and
recited many tales with the confidence of a bard
who has come upon a new field.
“—and at the moment that the old man fell
down stairs with the bureau in his arms, the old
woman was coming up with two scuttles of coal,
and, of course—”
The drummer’s tale was interrupted by a young
man who suddenly appeared in the open door.
He cried: “Scratchy Wilson’s drunk, and has
turned loose with both hands.” The two
Mexicans at once set down their glasses and
faded out of the rear entrance of the saloon.
The drummer, innocent and jocular, answered:
“All right, old man. S’pose he has. Come in and
have a drink, anyhow.”
But the information had made such an obvious
cleft in every skull in the room that the
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drummer was obliged to see its importance. All
had become instantly solemn. “Say,” said he,
mystified, “what is this?” His three companions
made the introductory gesture of eloquent
speech, but the young man at the door
forestalled them.
“It means, my friend,” he answered, as he came
into the saloon, “that for the next two hours this
town won’t be a health resort.”
The barkeeper went to the door and locked and
barred it. Reaching out of the window, he pulled
in heavy wooden shutters and barred them.
Immediately a solemn, chapel-like gloom was
upon the place. The drummer was looking from
one to another.
“But, say,” he cried, “what is this, anyhow? You
don’t mean there is going to be a gun-fight?”
“Don’t know whether there’ll be a fight or not,”
answered one man grimly. “But there’ll be some
shootin’—some good shootin’.”
The young man who had warned them waved
his hand. “Oh, there’ll be a fight fast enough if
anyone wants it. Anybody get a fight out there
in the street. There’s a fight just waiting.”
The drummer seemed to be swayed between the
interest of a foreigner and a perception of
personal danger.
“What did you say his name was?” he asked.
“Scratchy Wilson,” they answered in chorus.
“And will he kill anybody? What are you going
to do? Does this happen often? Does he rampage
around like this once a week or so? Can he
break in that door?”
“No, he can’t break down that door,” replied the
barkeeper. “He’s tried it three times. But when
he comes you’d better lay down on the floor,
stranger. He’s dead sure to shoot at it, and a
bullet may come through.”
Thereafter the drummer kept a strict eye upon
the door. The time had not yet been called for
him to hug the floor, but, as a minor precaution,
he sidled near to the wall. “Will he kill
anybody?” he said again.
The men laughed low and scornfully at the
question.
“He’s out to shoot, and he’s out for trouble. Don’t
see any good in experimentin’ with him.”
“But what do you do in a case like this? What do
you do?”
A man responded: “Why, he and Jack Potter—”
“But,” in chorus, the other men interrupted,
“Jack Potter’s in San Anton’.”
“Well, who is he? What’s he got to do with it?”
“Oh, he’s the town marshal. He goes out and
fights Scratchy when he gets on one of these
tears.”
“Wow,” said the drummer, mopping his brow.
“Nice job he’s got.”
The voices had toned away to mere
whisperings. The drummer wished to ask
further questions which were born of an
increasing anxiety and bewilderment; but when
he attempted them, the men merely looked at
him in irritation and motioned him to remain
silent. A tense waiting hush was upon them. In
the deep shadows of the room their eyes shone
as they listened for sounds from the street. One
man made three gestures at the barkeeper, and
the latter, moving like a ghost, handed him a
glass and a bottle. The man poured a full glass
of whisky, and set down the bottle noiselessly.
He gulped the whisky in a swallow, and turned
again toward the door in immovable silence.
The drummer saw that the barkeeper, without
a sound, had taken a Winchester from beneath
the bar. Later he saw this individual beckoning
to him, so he tiptoed across the room.
“You better come with me back of the bar.”
“No, thanks,” said the drummer, perspiring. “I’d
rather be where I can make a break for the back
door.”
Whereupon the man of bottles made a kindly
but peremptory gesture. The drummer obeyed
it, and finding himself seated on a box with his
head below the level of the bar, balm was laid
upon his soul at sight of various zinc and copper
fittings that bore a resemblance to armor-plate.
The barkeeper took a seat comfortably upon an
adjacent box.
“You see,” he whispered, “this here Scratchy
Wilson is a wonder with a gun—a perfect
wonder—and when he goes on the war trail, we
hunt our holes—naturally. He’s about the last
one of the old gang that used to hang out along
the river here. He’s a terror when he’s drunk.
When he’s sober he’s all right—kind of simple—
wouldn’t hurt a fly—nicest fellow in town. But
when he’s drunk—whoo!”
There were periods of stillness. “I wish Jack
Potter was back from San Anton’,” said the
barkeeper. “He shot Wilson up once—in the
leg—and he would sail in and pull out the kinks
in this thing.”
Presently they heard from a distance the sound
of a shot, followed by three wild yowls. It
instantly removed a bond from the men in the
darkened saloon. There was a shuffling of feet.
They looked at each other. “Here he comes,”
they said.
III.
A MAN in a maroon-colored flannel shirt, which
had been purchased for purposes of decoration
and made, principally, by some Jewish women
on the east side of New York, rounded a corner
and walked into the middle of the main street of
Yellow Sky. In either hand the man held a long,
heavy, blue-black revolver. Often he yelled, and
these cries rang through a semblance of a
deserted village, shrilly flying over the roofs in
a volume that seemed to have no relation to the
ordinary vocal strength of a man. It was as if
the surrounding stillness formed the arch of a
tomb over him. These cries of ferocious
challenge rang against walls of silence. And his
boots had red tops with gilded imprints, of the
kind beloved in winter by little sledding boys on
the hillsides of New England.
The man’s face flamed in a rage begot of whisky.
His eyes, rolling and yet keen for ambush,
hunted the still doorways and windows. He
walked with the creeping movement of the
midnight cat. As it occurred to him, he roared
menacing information. The long revolvers in his
hands were as easy as straws; they were moved
with an electric swiftness. The little fingers of
each hand played sometimes in a musician’s
way. Plain from the low collar of the shirt, the
cords of his neck straightened and sank,
straightened and sank, as passion moved him.
The only sounds were his terrible invitations.
The calm adobes preserved their demeanor at
the passing of this small thing in the middle of
the street.
There was no offer of fight; no offer of fight. The
man called to the sky. There were no
attractions. He bellowed and fumed and swayed
his revolvers here and everywhere.
The dog of the barkeeper of the “Weary
Gentleman” saloon had not appreciated the
advance of events. He yet lay dozing in front of
his master’s door. At sight of the dog, the man
paused and raised his revolver humorously. At
sight of the man, the dog sprang up and walked
diagonally away, with a sullen head, and
growling. The man yelled, and the dog broke
into a gallop. As it was about to enter an alley,
there was a loud noise, a whistling, and
something spat the ground directly before it.
The dog screamed, and, wheeling in terror,
galloped headlong in a new direction. Again
there was a noise, a whistling, and sand was
kicked viciously before it. Fear-stricken, the dog
turned and flurried like an animal in a pen. The
man stood laughing, his weapons at his hips.
Ultimately the man was attracted by the closed
door of the “Weary Gentleman” saloon. He went
to it, and hammering with a revolver,
demanded drink.
The door remaining imperturbable, he picked a
bit of paper from the walk and nailed it to the
framework with a knife. He then turned his
back contemptuously upon this popular resort,
and walking to the opposite side of the street,
and spinning there on his heel quickly and
© 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate. 102
lithely, fired at the bit of paper. He missed it by
a half inch. He swore at himself, and went
away. Later, he comfortably fusilladed the
windows of his most intimate friend. The man
was playing with this town. It was a toy for him.
But still there was no offer of fight. The name of
Jack Potter, his ancient antagonist, entered his
mind, and he concluded that it would be a glad
thing if he should go to Potter’s house and by
bombardment induce him to come out and fight.
He moved in the direction of his desire,
chanting Apache scalp-music.
When he arrived at it, Potter’s house presented
the same still front as had the other adobes.
Taking up a strategic position, the man howled
a challenge. But this house regarded him as
might a great stone god. It gave no sign. After a
decent wait, the man howled further
challenges, mingling with them wonderful
epithets.
Presently there came the spectacle of a man
churning himself into deepest rage over the
immobility of a house. He fumed at it as the
winter wind attacks a prairie cabin in the
North. To the distance there should have gone
the sound of a tumult like the fighting of 200
Mexicans. As necessity bade him, he paused for
breath or to reload his revolvers.
IV.
POTTER and his bride walked sheepishly and
with speed. Sometimes they laughed together
shamefacedly and low.
“Next corner, dear,” he said finally.
They put forth the efforts of a pair walking
bowed against a strong wind. Potter was about
to raise a finger to point the first appearance of
the new home when, as they circled the corner,
they came face to face with a man in a marooncolored
shirt who was feverishly pushing
cartridges into a large revolver. Upon the
instant the man dropped his revolver to the
ground, and, like lightning, whipped another
from its holster. The second weapon was aimed
at the bridegroom’s chest.
There was silence. Potter’s mouth seemed to be
merely a grave for his tongue. He exhibited an
instinct to at once loosen his arm from the
woman’s grip, and he dropped the bag to the
sand. As for the bride, her face had gone as
yellow as old cloth. She was a slave to hideous
rites gazing at the apparitional snake.
The two men faced each other at a distance of
three paces. He of the revolver smiled with a
new and quiet ferocity.
“Tried to sneak up on me,” he said. “Tried to
sneak up on me!” His eyes grew more baleful.
As Potter made a slight movement, the man
thrust his revolver venomously forward. “No,
don’t you do it, Jack Potter. Don’t you move a
finger toward a gun just yet. Don’t you move an
eyelash. The time has come for me to settle with
you, and I’m goin’ to do it my own way and loaf
along with no interferin’. So if you don’t want a
gun bent on you, just mind what I tell you.”
Potter looked at his enemy. “I ain’t got a gun on
me, Scratchy,” he said. “Honest, I ain’t.” He was
stiffening and steadying, but yet somewhere at
the back of his mind a vision of the Pullman
floated, the sea-green figured velvet, the
shining brass, silver, and glass, the wood that
gleamed as darkly brilliant as the surface of a
pool of oil—all the glory of the marriage, the
environment of the new estate. “You know I
fight when it comes to fighting, Scratchy
Wilson, but I ain’t got a gun on me. You’ll have
to do all the shootin’ yourself.”
His enemy’s face went livid. He stepped forward
and lashed his weapon to and fro before Potter’s
chest. “Don’t you tell me you ain’t got no gun on
you, you whelp. Don’t tell me no lie like that.
There ain’t a man in Texas ever seen you
without no gun. Don’t take me for no kid.” His
eyes blazed with light, and his throat worked
like a pump.
“I ain’t takin’ you for no kid,” answered Potter.
His heels had not moved an inch backward. “I’m
takin’ you for a———fool. I tell you I ain’t got a
gun, and I ain’t. If you’re goin’ to shoot me up,
you better begin now. You’ll never get a chance
like this again.”
103 © 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate.
1. What does the following sentence tell the reader about the way Jack feels about his new
marital situation?
As a matter of truth, Jack Potter was beginning to find the shadow of a deed weigh upon him
like a leaden slab.
a. Jack is elated about his new situation.
b. Jack is moderately concerned about his new situation.
c. Jack’s situation has caused him tremendous sadness and regret.
d. Jack’s situation has made him giddy with delight.
2. Describe the opening scene. Who are the people? Where are they? What is their relationship?
What can you tell about their social class?
© 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate. 104
So much enforced reasoning had told on
Wilson’s rage. He was calmer. “If you ain’t got a
gun, why ain’t you got a gun?” he sneered.
“Been to Sunday-school?”
“I ain’t got a gun because I’ve just come from
San Anton’ with my wife. I’m married,” said
Potter. “And if I’d thought there was going to be
any galoots like you prowling around when I
brought my wife home, I’d had a gun, and don’t
you forget it.”
“Married!” said Scratchy, not at all
comprehending.
“Yes, married. I’m married,” said Potter
distinctly.
“Married?” said Scratchy. Seemingly for the
first time he saw the drooping, drowning
woman at the other man’s side. “No!” he said.
He was like a creature allowed a glimpse of
another world. He moved a pace backward, and
his arm with the revolver dropped to his side.
“Is this the lady?” he asked.
“Yes, this is the lady,” answered Potter.
There was another period of silence.
“Well,” said Wilson at last, slowly, “I s’pose it’s
all off now.”
“It’s all off if you say so, Scratchy. You know I
didn’t make the trouble.” Potter lifted his valise.
“Well, I ‘low it’s off, Jack,” said Wilson. He was
looking at the ground. “Married!” He was not a
student of chivalry; it was merely that in the
presence of this foreign condition he was a
simple child of the earlier plains. He picked up
his starboard revolver, and placing both
weapons in their holsters, he went away. His
feet made funnel-shaped tracks in the heavy
sand.
3. How are they treated by the staff on the train? Why is this included in the story?
105 © 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate.
4. What was the effect on the townsfolk when the statement, “Scratchy Wilson’s drunk, and has
turned loose with both hands,” was made? Why?
5. Describe the initial appearance of the man known as Scratchy Wilson. What was he doing?
What was he wearing?
© 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate. 106
6. Explain what happens when Scratchy literally bumps into Jack Potter and his new wife.
What was the result? Why did it end this way?
107 © 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate.
MARTIN EDEN
by Jack London
CHAPTER I
The one opened the door with a latch-key and
went in, followed by a young fellow who
awkwardly removed his cap. He wore rough
clothes that smacked of the sea, and he was
manifestly out of place in the spacious hall in
which he found himself. He did not know what
to do with his cap, and was stuffing it into his
coat pocket when the other took it from him.
The act was done quietly and naturally, and the
awkward young fellow appreciated it. “He
understands,” was his thought. “He’ll see me
through all right.”
He walked at the other’s heels with a swing to
his shoulders, and his legs spread unwittingly,
as if the level floors were tilting up and sinking
down to the heave and lunge of the sea. The
wide rooms seemed too narrow for his rolling
gait, and to himself he was in terror lest his
broad shoulders should collide with the
doorways or sweep the bric-a-brac from the low
mantel. He recoiled from side to side between
the various objects and multiplied the hazards
that in reality lodged only in his mind. Between
a grand piano and a centre-table piled high with
books was space for a half a dozen to walk
abreast, yet he essayed it with trepidation. His
heavy arms hung loosely at his sides. He did
not know what to do with those arms and
hands, and when, to his excited vision, one arm
seemed liable to brush against the books on the
table, he lurched away like a frightened horse,
barely missing the piano stool. He watched the
easy walk of the other in front of him, and for
the first time realized that his walk was
different from that of other men. He
experienced a momentary pang of shame that
he should walk so uncouthly. The sweat burst
through the skin of his forehead in tiny beads,
and he paused and mopped his bronzed face
with his handkerchief.
“Hold on, Arthur, my boy,” he said, attempting
to mask his anxiety with facetious utterance.
“This is too much all at once for yours truly.
Give me a chance to get my nerve. You know I
didn’t want to come, an’ I guess your fam’ly ain’t
hankerin’ to see me neither.”
“That’s all right,” was the reassuring answer.
“You mustn’t be frightened at us. We’re just
homely people—Hello, there’s a letter for me.”
He stepped back to the table, tore open the
envelope, and began to read, giving the
stranger an opportunity to recover himself.
And the stranger understood and appreciated.
His was the gift of sympathy, understanding;
and beneath his alarmed exterior that
sympathetic process went on. He mopped his
forehead dry and glanced about him with a
controlled face, though in the eyes there was an
expression such as wild animals betray when
they fear the trap. He was surrounded by the
unknown, apprehensive of what might happen,
ignorant of what he should do, aware that he
walked and bore himself awkwardly, fearful
that every attribute and power of him was
similarly afflicted. He was keenly sensitive,
hopelessly self-conscious, and the amused
glance that the other stole privily at him over
the top of the letter burned into him like a
dagger-thrust. He saw the glance, but he gave
no sign, for among the things he had learned
was discipline. Also, that dagger-thrust went to
his pride. He cursed himself for having come,
and at the same time resolved that, happen
what would, having come, he would carry it
through. The lines of his face hardened, and
into his eyes came a fighting light. He looked
about more unconcernedly, sharply observant,
every detail of the pretty interior registering
itself on his brain. His eyes were wide apart;
nothing in their field of vision escaped; and as
they drank in the beauty before them the
fighting light died out and a warm glow took its
place. He was responsive to beauty, and here
was cause to respond.
An oil painting caught and held him. A heavy
surf thundered and burst over an outjutting
rock; lowering storm-clouds covered the sky;
and, outside the line of surf, a pilot-schooner,
close-hauled, heeled over till every detail of her
deck was visible, was surging along against a
stormy sunset sky. There was beauty, and it
© 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate. 108
drew him irresistibly. He forgot his awkward
walk and came closer to the painting, very
close. The beauty faded out of the canvas. His
face expressed his bepuzzlement. He stared at
what seemed a careless daub of paint, then
stepped away. Immediately all the beauty
flashed back into the canvas. “A trick picture,”
was his thought, as he dismissed it, though in
the midst of the multitudinous impressions he
was receiving he found time to feel a prod of
indignation that so much beauty should be
sacrificed to make a trick. He did not know
painting. He had been brought up on chromos
and lithographs that were always definite and
sharp, near or far. He had seen oil paintings, it
was true, in the show windows of shops, but the
glass of the windows had prevented his eager
eyes from approaching too near.
He glanced around at his friend reading the
letter and saw the books on the table. Into his
eyes leaped a wistfulness and a yearning as
promptly as the yearning leaps into the eyes of a
starving man at sight of food. An impulsive
stride, with one lurch to right and left of the
shoulders, brought him to the table, where he
began affectionately handling the books. He
glanced at the titles and the authors’ names,
read fragments of text, caressing the volumes
with his eyes and hands, and, once, recognized a
book he had read. For the rest, they were
strange books and strange authors. He chanced
upon a volume of Swinburne and began reading
steadily, forgetful of where he was, his face
glowing. Twice he closed the book on his
forefinger to look at the name of the author.
Swinburne! he would remember that name.
That fellow had eyes, and he had certainly seen
color and flashing light. But who was
Swinburne? Was he dead a hundred years or so,
like most of the poets? Or was he alive still, and
writing? He turned to the title-page . . . yes, he
had written other books; well, he would go to the
free library the first thing in the morning and try
to get hold of some of Swinburne’s stuff. He went
back to the text and lost himself. He did not
notice that a young woman had entered the
room. The first he knew was when he heard
Arthur’s voice saying:—
“Ruth, this is Mr. Eden.”
The book was closed on his forefinger, and
before he turned he was thrilling to the first
new impression, which was not of the girl, but
of her brother’s words. Under that muscled
body of his he was a mass of quivering
sensibilities. At the slightest impact of the
outside world upon his consciousness, his
thoughts, sympathies, and emotions leapt and
played like lambent flame. He was
extraordinarily receptive and responsive, while
his imagination, pitched high, was ever at work
establishing relations of likeness and
difference. “Mr. Eden,” was what he had
thrilled to—he who had been called “Eden,” or
“Martin Eden,” or just “Martin,” all his life.
And “Mister!” It was certainly going some, was
his internal comment. His mind seemed to
turn, on the instant, into a vast camera obscura,
and he saw arrayed around his consciousness
endless pictures from his life, of stoke-holes and
forecastles, camps and beaches, jails and
boozing-kens, fever-hospitals and slum streets,
wherein the thread of association was the
fashion in which he had been addressed in
those various situations.
And then he turned and saw the girl. The
phantasmagoria of his brain vanished at sight of
her. She was a pale, ethereal creature, with
wide, spiritual blue eyes and a wealth of golden
hair. He did not know how she was dressed,
except that the dress was as wonderful as she.
He likened her to a pale gold flower upon a
slender stem. No, she was a spirit, a divinity, a
goddess; such sublimated beauty was not of the
earth. Or perhaps the books were right, and
there were many such as she in the upper walks
of life. She might well be sung by that chap,
Swinburne. Perhaps he had had somebody like
her in mind when he painted that girl, Iseult, in
the book there on the table. All this plethora of
sight, and feeling, and thought occurred on the
instant. There was no pause of the realities
wherein he moved. He saw her hand coming out
to his, and she looked him straight in the eyes as
she shook hands, frankly, like a man. The
women he had known did not shake hands that
way. For that matter, most of them did not
shake hands at all. A flood of associations,
visions of various ways he had made the
acquaintance of women, rushed into his mind
109 © 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate.
and threatened to swamp it. But he shook them
aside and looked at her. Never had he seen such
a woman. The women he had known!
Immediately, beside her, on either hand, ranged
the women he had known. For an eternal second
he stood in the midst of a portrait gallery,
wherein she occupied the central place, while
about her were limned many women, all to be
weighed and measured by a fleeting glance,
herself the unit of weight and measure. He saw
the weak and sickly faces of the girls of the
factories, and the simpering, boisterous girls
from the south of Market. There were women of
the cattle camps, and swarthy cigarettesmoking
women of Old Mexico. These, in turn,
were crowded out by Japanese women, doll-like,
stepping mincingly on wooden clogs; by
Eurasians, delicate featured, stamped with
degeneracy; by full-bodied South-Sea-Island
women, flower-crowned and brown-skinned. All
these were blotted out by a grotesque and
terrible nightmare brood—frowsy, shuffling
creatures from the pavements of Whitechapel,
gin-bloated hags of the stews, and all the vast
hell’s following of harpies, vile-mouthed and
filthy, that under the guise of monstrous female
form prey upon sailors, the scrapings of the
ports, the scum and slime of the human pit.
“Won’t you sit down, Mr. Eden?” the girl was
saying. “I have been looking forward to meeting
you ever since Arthur told us. It was brave of
you—”
He waved his hand deprecatingly and muttered
that it was nothing at all, what he had done,
and that any fellow would have done it. She
noticed that the hand he waved was covered
with fresh abrasions, in the process of healing,
and a glance at the other loose-hanging hand
showed it to be in the same condition. Also,
with quick, critical eye, she noted a scar on his
cheek, another that peeped out from under the
hair of the forehead, and a third that ran down
and disappeared under the starched collar. She
repressed a smile at sight of the red line that
marked the chafe of the collar against the
bronzed neck. He was evidently unused to stiff
collars. Likewise her feminine eye took in the
clothes he wore, the cheap and unaesthetic cut,
the wrinkling of the coat across the shoulders,
and the series of wrinkles in the sleeves that
advertised bulging biceps muscles.
While he waved his hand and muttered that he
had done nothing at all, he was obeying her
behest by trying to get into a chair. He found
time to admire the ease with which she sat
down, then lurched toward a chair facing her,
overwhelmed with consciousness of the
awkward figure he was cutting. This was a new
experience for him. All his life, up to then, he
had been unaware of being either graceful or
awkward. Such thoughts of self had never
entered his mind. He sat down gingerly on the
edge of the chair, greatly worried by his hands.
They were in the way wherever he put them.
Arthur was leaving the room, and Martin Eden
followed his exit with longing eyes. He felt lost,
alone there in the room with that pale spirit of
a woman. There was no bar-keeper upon whom
to call for drinks, no small boy to send around
the corner for a can of beer and by means of that
social fluid start the amenities of friendship
flowing.
“You have such a scar on your neck, Mr. Eden,”
the girl was saying. “How did it happen? I am
sure it must have been some adventure.”
“A Mexican with a knife, miss,” he answered,
moistening his parched lips and clearing hip
throat. “It was just a fight. After I got the knife
away, he tried to bite off my nose.”
Baldly as he had stated it, in his eyes was a rich
vision of that hot, starry night at Salina Cruz,
the white strip of beach, the lights of the sugar
steamers in the harbor, the voices of the
drunken sailors in the distance, the jostling
stevedores, the flaming passion in the
Mexican’s face, the glint of the beast-eyes in the
starlight, the sting of the steel in his neck, and
the rush of blood, the crowd and the cries, the
two bodies, his and the Mexican’s, locked
together, rolling over and over and tearing up
the sand, and from away off somewhere the
mellow tinkling of a guitar. Such was the
picture, and he thrilled to the memory of it,
wondering if the man could paint it who had
painted the pilot-schooner on the wall. The
white beach, the stars, and the lights of the
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111 © 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate.
sugar steamers would look great, he thought,
and midway on the sand the dark group of
figures that surrounded the fighters. The knife
occupied a place in the picture, he decided, and
would show well, with a sort of gleam, in the
light of the stars. But of all this no hint had
crept into his speech. “He tried to bite off my
nose,” he concluded.
“Oh,” the girl said, in a faint, far voice, and he
noticed the shock in her sensitive face.
He felt a shock himself, and a blush of
embarrassment shone faintly on his sunburned
cheeks, though to him it burned as hotly as
when his cheeks had been exposed to the open
furnace-door in the fire-room. Such sordid
things as stabbing affrays were evidently not fit
subjects for conversation with a lady. People in
the books, in her walk of life, did not talk about
such things—perhaps they did not know about
them, either.
There was a brief pause in the conversation
they were trying to get started. Then she asked
tentatively about the scar on his cheek. Even as
she asked, he realized that she was making an
effort to talk his talk, and he resolved to get
away from it and talk hers.
“It was just an accident,” he said, putting his
hand to his cheek. “One night, in a calm, with
a heavy sea running, the main-boom-lift carried
away, an’ next the tackle. The lift was wire, an’
it was threshin’ around like a snake. The whole
watch was tryin’ to grab it, an’ I rushed in an’
got swatted.”
“Oh,” she said, this time with an accent of
comprehension, though secretly his speech had
been so much Greek to her and she was
wondering what a lift was and what swatted
meant.
“This man Swineburne,” he began, attempting
to put his plan into execution and pronouncing
the i long.
“Who?”
“Swineburne,” he repeated, with the same
mispronunciation. “The poet.”
“Swinburne,” she corrected.
“Yes, that’s the chap,” he stammered, his cheeks
hot again. “How long since he died?”
“Why, I haven’t heard that he was dead.” She
looked at him curiously. “Where did you make
his acquaintance?”
“I never clapped eyes on him,” was the reply.
“But I read some of his poetry out of that book
there on the table just before you come in. How
do you like his poetry?”
And thereat she began to talk quickly and
easily upon the subject he had suggested. He
felt better, and settled back slightly from the
edge of the chair, holding tightly to its arms
with his hands, as if it might get away from him
and buck him to the floor. He had succeeded in
making her talk her talk, and while she rattled
on, he strove to follow her, marvelling at all the
knowledge that was stowed away in that pretty
head of hers, and drinking in the pale beauty of
her face. Follow her he did, though bothered by
unfamiliar words that fell glibly from her lips
and by critical phrases and thought-processes
that were foreign to his mind, but that
nevertheless stimulated his mind and set it
tingling. Here was intellectual life, he thought,
and here was beauty, warm and wonderful as he
had never dreamed it could be. He forgot
himself and stared at her with hungry eyes.
Here was something to live for, to win to, to
fight for—ay, and die for. The books were true.
There were such women in the world. She was
one of them. She lent wings to his imagination,
and great, luminous canvases spread
themselves before him whereon loomed vague,
gigantic figures of love and romance, and of
heroic deeds for woman’s sake—for a pale
woman, a flower of gold. And through the
swaying, palpitant vision, as through a fairy
mirage, he stared at the real woman, sitting
there and talking of literature and art. He
listened as well, but he stared, unconscious of
the fixity of his gaze or of the fact that all that
was essentially masculine in his nature was
shining in his eyes. But she, who knew little of
the world of men, being a woman, was keenly
aware of his burning eyes. She had never had
men look at her in such fashion, and it
© 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate. 112
embarrassed her. She stumbled and halted in
her utterance. The thread of argument slipped
from her. He frightened her, and at the same
time it was strangely pleasant to be so looked
upon. Her training warned her of peril and of
wrong, subtle, mysterious, luring; while her
instincts rang clarion-voiced through her being,
impelling her to hurdle caste and place and gain
to this traveller from another world, to this
uncouth young fellow with lacerated hands and
a line of raw red caused by the unaccustomed
linen at his throat, who, all too evidently, was
soiled and tainted by ungracious existence. She
was clean, and her cleanness revolted; but she
was woman, and she was just beginning to
learn the paradox of woman.
“As I was saying—what was I saying?” She
broke off abruptly and laughed merrily at her
predicament.
“You was saying that this man Swinburne failed
bein’ a great poet because—an’ that was as far
as you got, miss,” he prompted, while to himself
he seemed suddenly hungry, and delicious little
thrills crawled up and down his spine at the
sound of her laughter. Like silver, he thought to
himself, like tinkling silver bells; and on the
instant, and for an instant, he was transported
to a far land, where under pink cherry
blossoms, he smoked a cigarette and listened to
the bells of the peaked pagoda calling strawsandalled
devotees to worship.
“Yes, thank you,” she said. “Swinburne fails,
when all is said, because he is, well, indelicate.
There are many of his poems that should never
be read. Every line of the really great poets is
filled with beautiful truth, and calls to all that
is high and noble in the human. Not a line of
the great poets can be spared without
impoverishing the world by that much.”
“I thought it was great,” he said hesitatingly,
“the little I read. I had no idea he was such a—
a scoundrel. I guess that crops out in his other
books.”
“There are many lines that could be spared
from the book you were reading,” she said, her
voice primly firm and dogmatic.
“I must ‘a’ missed ‘em,” he announced. “What I
read was the real goods. It was all lighted up an’
shining, an’ it shun right into me an’ lighted me
up inside, like the sun or a searchlight. That’s
the way it landed on me, but I guess I ain’t up
much on poetry, miss.”
He broke off lamely. He was confused, painfully
conscious of his inarticulateness. He had felt
the bigness and glow of life in what he had read,
but his speech was inadequate. He could not
express what he felt, and to himself he likened
himself to a sailor, in a strange ship, on a dark
night, groping about in the unfamiliar running
rigging. Well, he decided, it was up to him to get
acquainted in this new world. He had never
seen anything that he couldn’t get the hang of
when he wanted to and it was about time for
him to want to learn to talk the things that were
inside of him so that she could understand. She
was bulking large on his horizon.
“Now Longfellow—” she was saying.
“Yes, I’ve read ‘m,” he broke in impulsively,
spurred on to exhibit and make the most of his
little store of book knowledge, desirous of
showing her that he was not wholly a stupid
clod. “ ‘The Psalm of Life,’ ‘Excelsior,’ an’ . . . I
guess that’s all.”
She nodded her head and smiled, and he felt,
somehow, that her smile was tolerant, pitifully
tolerant. He was a fool to attempt to make a
pretence that way. That Longfellow chap most
likely had written countless books of poetry.
“Excuse me, miss, for buttin’ in that way. I
guess the real facts is that I don’t know nothin’
much about such things. It ain’t in my class.
But I’m goin’ to make it in my class.”
It sounded like a threat. His voice was
determined, his eyes were flashing, the lines of
his face had grown harsh. And to her it seemed
that the angle of his jaw had changed; its pitch
had become unpleasantly aggressive. At the
same time a wave of intense virility seemed to
surge out from him and impinge upon her.
“I think you could make it in—in your class,”
she finished with a laugh. “You are very strong.”
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Her gaze rested for a moment on the muscular
neck, heavy corded, almost bull-like, bronzed by
the sun, spilling over with rugged health and
strength. And though he sat there, blushing
and humble, again she felt drawn to him. She
was surprised by a wanton thought that rushed
into her mind. It seemed to her that if she could
lay her two hands upon that neck that all its
strength and vigor would flow out to her. She
was shocked by this thought. It seemed to
reveal to her an undreamed depravity in her
nature. Besides, strength to her was a gross
and brutish thing. Her ideal of masculine
beauty had always been slender gracefulness.
Yet the thought still persisted. It bewildered
her that she should desire to place her hands on
that sunburned neck. In truth, she was far
from robust, and the need of her body and mind
was for strength. But she did not know it. She
knew only that no man had ever affected her
before as this one had, who shocked her from
moment to moment with his awful grammar.
“Yes, I ain’t no invalid,” he said. “When it comes
down to hard-pan, I can digest scrap-iron. But
just now I’ve got dyspepsia. Most of what you
was sayin’ I can’t digest. Never trained that
way, you see. I like books and poetry, and what
time I’ve had I’ve read ‘em, but I’ve never
thought about ‘em the way you have. That’s
why I can’t talk about ‘em. I’m like a navigator
adrift on a strange sea without chart or
compass. Now I want to get my bearin’s. Mebbe
you can put me right. How did you learn all
this you’ve ben talkin’?”
“By going to school, I fancy, and by studying,”
she answered.
“I went to school when I was a kid,” he began to
object.
“Yes; but I mean high school, and lectures, and
the university.”
“You’ve gone to the university?” he demanded in
frank amazement. He felt that she had become
remoter from him by at least a million miles.
“I’m going there now. I’m taking special courses
in English.”
He did not know what “English” meant, but he
made a mental note of that item of ignorance
and passed on.
“How long would I have to study before I could
go to the university?” he asked.
She beamed encouragement upon his desire for
knowledge, and said: “That depends upon how
much studying you have already done. You
have never attended high school? Of course not.
But did you finish grammar school?”
“I had two years to run, when I left,” he
answered. “But I was always honorably
promoted at school.”
The next moment, angry with himself for the
boast, he had gripped the arms of the chair so
savagely that every finger-end was stinging. At
the same moment he became aware that a
woman was entering the room. He saw the girl
leave her chair and trip swiftly across the floor
to the newcomer. They kissed each other, and,
with arms around each other’s waists, they
advanced toward him. That must be her
mother, he thought. She was a tall, blond
woman, slender, and stately, and beautiful. Her
gown was what he might expect in such a
house. His eyes delighted in the graceful lines
of it. She and her dress together reminded him
of women on the stage. Then he remembered
seeing similar grand ladies and gowns entering
the London theatres while he stood and
watched and the policemen shoved him back
into the drizzle beyond the awning. Next his
mind leaped to the Grand Hotel at Yokohama,
where, too, from the sidewalk, he had seen
grand ladies. Then the city and the harbor of
Yokohama, in a thousand pictures, began
flashing before his eyes. But he swiftly
dismissed the kaleidoscope of memory,
oppressed by the urgent need of the present.
He knew that he must stand up to be
introduced, and he struggled painfully to his
feet, where he stood with trousers bagging at
the knees, his arms loose-hanging and
ludicrous, his face set hard for the impending
ordeal.
1. Read the following sentences and then select, from the choices below, the word(s) closest in
meaning to the word in bold-faced type.
And then he turned and saw the girl. The phantasmagoria of his brain vanished at sight of
her.
a. concrete facts2. In the opening two paragraphs of the story, it is obvious that the young fellow is uneasy. Find
b. dreamy imagery
c. random thoughts
d. intense and menacing emotion
two examples that are evidence of this feeling and write them here.
3. Explain the young man’s experience while looking at the oil painting. What happened? Can
you explain it? Why was the nature of this medium so contrary to the one with which he was
most familiar?
4. What does the following line regarding his reaction to a table full of books tell you about the
young man?
“Into his eyes leaped a wistfulness and a yearning as promptly as the yearning leaps into the
eyes of a starving man at sight of food . . . ”
What is a bit surprising about his reaction?
5. Discuss the young man’s thoughts as they pertain to a comparison of this woman standing in
front of him and those whom he had known before. What were the others like? How was this
one different?
6. Identify three observations that Ruth makes immediately upon seeing Mr. Eden.
7. Describe the beginnings of the conversation between Ruth and Mr. Eden. How does each
attempt to engage the other in conversation? About what do they talk?
8. What is Ruth’s inner reaction to the presence of Mr. Eden. How does she feel? Why?
117 © 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate.
9. Explain Mr. Eden’s own frustration. What is he finding difficult? Why? What is the analogy
he uses to try and explain his predicament to Ruth?
© 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate. 118
10. Is there hope for this roguish young man to learn the social niceties required of life in the
presences of a woman like Ruth? Why or why not?
119 © 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate.
© 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate. 120
O PIONEERS!
by Willa Cather
PART I
The Wild Land
I
One January day, thirty years ago, the little
town of Hanover, anchored on a windy
Nebraska tableland, was trying not to be blown
away. A mist of fine snowflakes was curling and
eddying about the cluster of low drab buildings
huddled on the gray prairie, under a gray sky.
The dwelling-houses were set about haphazard
on the tough prairie sod; some of them looked as
if they had been moved in overnight, and others
as if they were straying off by themselves,
headed straight for the open plain. None of
them had any appearance of permanence, and
the howling wind blew under them as well as
over them. The main street was a deeply rutted
road, now frozen hard, which ran from the
squat red railway station and the grain
“elevator” at the north end of the town to the
lumber yard and the horse pond at the south
end. On either side of this road straggled two
uneven rows of wooden buildings; the general
merchandise stores, the two banks, the drug
store, the feed store, the saloon, the post-office.
The board sidewalks were gray with trampled
snow, but at two o’clock in the afternoon the
shopkeepers, having come back from dinner,
were keeping well behind their frosty windows.
The children were all in school, and there was
nobody abroad in the streets but a few roughlooking
countrymen in coarse overcoats, with
their long caps pulled down to their noses.
Some of them had brought their wives to town,
and now and then a red or a plaid shawl flashed
out of one store into the shelter of another. At
the hitch-bars along the street a few heavy
work-horses, harnessed to farm wagons,
shivered under their blankets. About the
station everything was quiet, for there would
not be another train in until night.
On the sidewalk in front of one of the stores sat
a little Swede boy, crying bitterly. He was about
five years old. His black cloth coat was much
too big for him and made him look like a little
old man. His shrunken brown flannel dress had
been washed many times and left a long stretch
of stocking between the hem of his skirt and the
tops of his clumsy, copper-toed shoes. His cap
was pulled down over his ears; his nose and his
chubby cheeks were chapped and red with cold.
He cried quietly, and the few people who
hurried by did not notice him. He was afraid to
stop any one, afraid to go into the store and ask
for help, so he sat wringing his long sleeves and
looking up a telegraph pole beside him,
whimpering, “My kitten, oh, my kitten! Her
will fweeze!” At the top of the pole crouched a
shivering gray kitten, mewing faintly and
clinging desperately to the wood with her claws.
The boy had been left at the store while his
sister went to the doctor’s office, and in her
absence a dog had chased his kitten up the pole.
The little creature had never been so high
before, and she was too frightened to move. Her
master was sunk in despair. He was a little
country boy, and this village was to him a very
strange and perplexing place, where people
wore fine clothes and had hard hearts. He
always felt shy and awkward here, and wanted
to hide behind things for fear some one might
laugh at him. Just now, he was too unhappy to
care who laughed. At last he seemed to see a
ray of hope: his sister was coming, and he got up
and ran toward her in his heavy shoes.
His sister was a tall, strong girl, and she walked
rapidly and resolutely, as if she knew exactly
where she was going and what she was going to
do next. She wore a man’s long ulster (not as if
it were an affliction, but as if it were very
comfortable and belonged to her; carried it like
a young soldier), and a round plush cap, tied
down with a thick veil. She had a serious,
thoughtful face, and her clear, deep blue eyes
were fixed intently on the distance, without
seeming to see anything, as if she were in
trouble. She did not notice the little boy until
he pulled her by the coat. Then she stopped
short and stooped down to wipe his wet face.
“Why, Emil! I told you to stay in the store and
not to come out. What is the matter with you?”
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“My kitten, sister, my kitten! A man put her
out, and a dog chased her up there.” His
forefinger, projecting from the sleeve of his coat,
pointed up to the wretched little creature on the
pole.
“Oh, Emil! Didn’t I tell you she’d get us into
trouble of some kind, if you brought her? What
made you tease me so? But there, I ought to
have known better myself.” She went to the
foot of the pole and held out her arms, crying,
“Kitty, kitty, kitty,” but the kitten only mewed
and faintly waved its tail. Alexandra turned
away decidedly. “No, she won’t come down.
Somebody will have to go up after her. I saw
the Linstrums’ wagon in town. I’ll go and see if
I can find Carl. Maybe he can do something.
Only you must stop crying, or I won’t go a step.
Where’s your comforter? Did you leave it in the
store? Never mind. Hold still, till I put this on
you.”
She unwound the brown veil from her head and
tied it about his throat. A shabby little
traveling man, who was just then coming out of
the store on his way to the saloon, stopped and
gazed stupidly at the shining mass of hair she
bared when she took off her veil; two thick
braids, pinned about her head in the German
way, with a fringe of reddish-yellow curls
blowing out from under her cap. He took his
cigar out of his mouth and held the wet end
between the fingers of his woolen glove. “My
God, girl, what a head of hair!” he exclaimed,
quite innocently and foolishly. She stabbed him
with a glance of Amazonian fierceness and drew
in her lower lip—most unnecessary severity. It
gave the little clothing drummer such a start
that he actually let his cigar fall to the sidewalk
and went off weakly in the teeth of the wind to
the saloon. His hand was still unsteady when
he took his glass from the bartender. His feeble
flirtatious instincts had been crushed before,
but never so mercilessly. He felt cheap and illused,
as if some one had taken advantage of
him. When a drummer had been knocking
about in little drab towns and crawling across
the wintry country in dirty smoking-cars, was
he to be blamed if, when he chanced upon a fine
human creature, he suddenly wished himself
more of a man?
While the little drummer was drinking to
recover his nerve, Alexandra hurried to the
drug store as the most likely place to find Carl
Linstrum. There he was, turning over a
portfolio of chromo “studies” which the druggist
sold to the Hanover women who did chinapainting.
Alexandra explained her predicament,
and the boy followed her to the corner, where
Emil still sat by the pole.
“I’ll have to go up after her, Alexandra. I think
at the depot they have some spikes I can strap
on my feet. Wait a minute.” Carl thrust his
hands into his pockets, lowered his head, and
darted up the street against the north wind. He
was a tall boy of fifteen, slight and narrowchested.
When he came back with the spikes,
Alexandra asked him what he had done with
his overcoat.
“I left it in the drug store. I couldn’t climb in it,
anyhow. Catch me if I fall, Emil,” he called back
as he began his ascent. Alexandra watched him
anxiously; the cold was bitter enough on the
ground. The kitten would not budge an inch.
Carl had to go to the very top of the pole, and
then had some difficulty in tearing her from her
hold. When he reached the ground, he handed
the cat to her tearful little master. “Now go into
the store with her, Emil, and get warm.” He
opened the door for the child. “Wait a minute,
Alexandra. Why can’t I drive for you as far as
our place? It’s getting colder every minute.
Have you seen the doctor?”
“Yes. He is coming over to-morrow. But he says
father can’t get better; can’t get well.” The girl’s
lip trembled. She looked fixedly up the bleak
street as if she were gathering her strength to
face something, as if she were trying with all
her might to grasp a situation which, no matter
how painful, must be met and dealt with
somehow. The wind flapped the skirts of her
heavy coat about her.
Carl did not say anything, but she felt his
sympathy. He, too, was lonely. He was a thin,
frail boy, with brooding dark eyes, very quiet in
all his movements. There was a delicate pallor
in his thin face, and his mouth was too sensitive
for a boy’s. The lips had already a little curl of
bitterness and skepticism. The two friends
stood for a few moments on the windy street
corner, not speaking a word, as two travelers,
who have lost their way, sometimes stand and
admit their perplexity in silence. When Carl
turned away he said, “I’ll see to your team.”
Alexandra went into the store to have her
purchases packed in the egg-boxes, and to get
warm before she set out on her long cold drive.
When she looked for Emil, she found him sitting
on a step of the staircase that led up to the
clothing and carpet department. He was
playing with a little Bohemian girl, Marie
Tovesky, who was tying her handkerchief over
the kitten’s head for a bonnet. Marie was a
stranger in the country, having come from
Omaha with her mother to visit her uncle, Joe
Tovesky. She was a dark child, with brown
curly hair, like a brunette doll’s, a coaxing little
red mouth, and round, yellow-brown eyes.
Every one noticed her eyes; the brown iris had
golden glints that made them look like goldstone,
or, in softer lights, like that Colorado
mineral called tiger-eye.
The country children thereabouts wore their
dresses to their shoe-tops, but this city child
was dressed in what was then called the “Kate
Greenaway” manner, and her red cashmere
frock, gathered full from the yoke, came almost
to the floor. This, with her poke bonnet, gave
her the look of a quaint little woman. She had
a white fur tippet about her neck and made no
fussy objections when Emil fingered it
admiringly. Alexandra had not the heart to
take him away from so pretty a playfellow, and
she let them tease the kitten together until Joe
Tovesky came in noisily and picked up his little
niece, setting her on his shoulder for every one
to see. His children were all boys, and he adored
this little creature. His cronies formed a circle
about him, admiring and teasing the little girl,
who took their jokes with great good nature.
They were all delighted with her, for they
seldom saw so pretty and carefully nurtured a
child. They told her that she must choose one of
them for a sweetheart, and each began pressing
his suit and offering her bribes; candy, and little
pigs, and spotted calves. She looked archly into
the big, brown, mustached faces, smelling of
spirits and tobacco, then she ran her tiny
forefinger delicately over Joe’s bristly chin and
said, “Here is my sweetheart.”
The Bohemians roared with laughter, and
Marie’s uncle hugged her until she cried,
“Please don’t, Uncle Joe! You hurt me.” Each of
Joe’s friends gave her a bag of candy, and she
kissed them all around, though she did not like
country candy very well. Perhaps that was why
she bethought herself of Emil. “Let me down,
Uncle Joe,” she said, “I want to give some of my
candy to that nice little boy I found.” She
walked graciously over to Emil, followed by her
lusty admirers, who formed a new circle and
teased the little boy until he hid his face in his
sister’s skirts, and she had to scold him for
being such a baby.
The farm people were making preparations to
start for home. The women were checking over
their groceries and pinning their big red shawls
about their heads. The men were buying
tobacco and candy with what money they had
left, were showing each other new boots and
gloves and blue flannel shirts. Three big
Bohemians were drinking raw alcohol,
tinctured with oil of cinnamon. This was said to
fortify one effectually against the cold, and they
smacked their lips after each pull at the flask.
Their volubility drowned every other noise in
the place, and the overheated store sounded of
their spirited language as it reeked of pipe
smoke, damp woolens, and kerosene.
Carl came in, wearing his overcoat and carrying
a wooden box with a brass handle. “Come,” he
said, “I’ve fed and watered your team, and the
wagon is ready.” He carried Emil out and
tucked him down in the straw in the wagonbox.
The heat had made the little boy sleepy, but he
still clung to his kitten.
“You were awful good to climb so high and get
my kitten, Carl. When I get big I’ll climb and
get little boys’ kittens for them,” he murmured
drowsily. Before the horses were over the first
hill, Emil and his cat were both fast asleep.
Although it was only four o’clock, the winter
day was fading. The road led southwest,
toward the streak of pale, watery light that
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glimmered in the leaden sky. The light fell
upon the two sad young faces that were turned
mutely toward it: upon the eyes of the girl, who
seemed to be looking with such anguished
perplexity into the future; upon the sombre eyes
of the boy, who seemed already to be looking
into the past. The little town behind them had
vanished as if it had never been, had fallen
behind the swell of the prairie, and the stern
frozen country received them into its bosom.
The homesteads were few and far apart; here
and there a windmill gaunt against the sky, a
sod house crouching in a hollow. But the great
fact was the land itself, which seemed to
overwhelm the little beginnings of human
society that struggled in its sombre wastes. It
was from facing this vast hardness that the
boy’s mouth had become so bitter; because he
felt that men were too weak to make any mark
here, that the land wanted to be let alone, to
preserve its own fierce strength, its peculiar,
savage kind of beauty, its uninterrupted
mournfulness.
The wagon jolted along over the frozen road.
The two friends had less to say to each other
than usual, as if the cold had somehow
penetrated to their hearts.
“Did Lou and Oscar go to the Blue to cut wood
to-day?” Carl asked.
“Yes. I’m almost sorry I let them go, it’s turned
so cold. But mother frets if the wood gets low.”
She stopped and put her hand to her forehead,
brushing back her hair. “I don’t know what is to
become of us, Carl, if father has to die. I don’t
dare to think about it. I wish we could all go
with him and let the grass grow back over
everything.”
Carl made no reply. Just ahead of them was the
Norwegian graveyard, where the grass had,
indeed, grown back over everything, shaggy
and red, hiding even the wire fence. Carl
realized that he was not a very helpful
companion, but there was nothing he could say.
“Of course,” Alexandra went on, steadying her
voice a little, “the boys are strong and work
hard, but we’ve always depended so on father
that I don’t see how we can go ahead. I almost
feel as if there were nothing to go ahead for.”
“Does your father know?”
“Yes, I think he does. He lies and counts on his
fingers all day. I think he is trying to count up
what he is leaving for us. It’s a comfort to him
that my chickens are laying right on through
the cold weather and bringing in a little money.
I wish we could keep his mind off such things,
but I don’t have much time to be with him now.”
“I wonder if he’d like to have me bring my magic
lantern over some evening?”
Alexandra turned her face toward him. “Oh,
Carl! Have you got it?”
“Yes. It’s back there in the straw. Didn’t you
notice the box I was carrying? I tried it all
morning in the drug-store cellar, and it worked
ever so well, makes fine big pictures.”
“What are they about?”
“Oh, hunting pictures in Germany, and
Robinson Crusoe and funny pictures about
cannibals. I’m going to paint some slides for it
on glass, out of the Hans Andersen book.”
Alexandra seemed actually cheered. There is
often a good deal of the child left in people who
have had to grow up too soon. “Do bring it over,
Carl. I can hardly wait to see it, and I’m sure it
will please father. Are the pictures colored?
Then I know he’ll like them. He likes the
calendars I get him in town. I wish I could get
more. You must leave me here, mustn’t you?
It’s been nice to have company.”
Carl stopped the horses and looked dubiously
up at the black sky. “It’s pretty dark. Of course
the horses will take you home, but I think I’d
better light your lantern, in case you should
need it.”
He gave her the reins and climbed back into the
wagon-box, where he crouched down and made
a tent of his overcoat. After a dozen trials he
succeeded in lighting the lantern, which he
placed in front of Alexandra, half covering it
with a blanket so that the light would not shine
in her eyes. “Now, wait until I find my box. Yes,
here it is. Good-night, Alexandra. Try not to
worry.” Carl sprang to the ground and ran off
across the fields toward the Linstrum
homestead. “Hoo, hoo-o-o-o!” he called back as
he disappeared over a ridge and dropped into a
sand gully. The wind answered him like an
echo, “Hoo, hoo-o-o-o-o-o!” Alexandra drove off
alone. The rattle of her wagon was lost in the
howling of the wind, but her lantern, held
firmly between her feet, made a moving point of
light along the highway, going deeper and
deeper into the dark country.
123 © 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate.
1. The tone set by Willa Cather within the first paragraph of the story is
a. humorous.2. Why was the little boy sitting outside the store and crying?
b. angry.
c. somber.
d. terrifying.
a. He was lost.3. Read the following sentence and then select, from the choices below, the word that is closest
b. His kitten had climbed up a pole and couldn’t get down.
c. His parents had accidentally left him behind while they were out shopping.
d. He was afraid of the approaching storm.
in meaning to the word in bold-faced type.
His sister was a tall, strong girl, and she walked rapidly and resolutely, as if she knew
exactly where she was going and what she was going to do next.
a. angrily4. What had Alexandra learned from her visit to the doctor?
b. nervously
c. purposefully
d. agitatedly
a. She learned that she was ill.5. Carl’s magic lantern is actually a
b. She learned that she was pregnant.
c. She learned that her father had no chance for recovery.
d. She learned that her little brother would need expensive medical treatment.
a. camera.
b. light.
c. slide projector.
d. flashlight.
6. What kind of person is the little boy’s sister? How do you know? Give an example from the
story to support what you say.
7. Describe the atmosphere inside the store. How does it compare to the atmosphere outside?
Has the author arranged this contrast purposefully? Why?
8. How do you interpret the last line, “The rattle of her wagon was lost in the howling of the
wind, but her lantern, held firmly between her feet, made a moving point of light along the
highway, going deeper and deeper into the dark country”? What do you think Alexandra’s
future will hold?
© 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate.
THE QUEST OF THE
SILVER FLEECE
by W.E.B. DuBois
One
DREAMS
Night fell. The red waters of the swamp grew
sinister and sullen. The tall pines lost their
slimness and stood in wide blurred blotches all
across the way, and a great shadowy bird arose,
wheeled and melted, murmuring, into the
black-green sky.
The boy wearily dropped his heavy bundle and
stood still, listening as the voice of crickets split
the shadows and made the silence audible. A
tear wandered down his brown cheek. They
were at supper now, he whispered—the father
and old mother, away back yonder beyond the
night. They were far away; they would never be
as near as once they had been, for he had
stepped into the world. And the cat and Old
Billy—ah, but the world was a lonely thing, so
wide and tall and empty! And so bare, so bitter
bare! Somehow he had never dreamed of the
world as lonely before; he had fared forth to
beckoning hands and luring, and to the eager
hum of human voices, as of some great, swelling
music.
Yet now he was alone; the empty night was
closing all about him here in a strange land,
and he was afraid. The bundle with his earthly
treasure had hung heavy and heavier on his
shoulder; his little horde of money was tightly
wadded in his sock, and the school lay hidden
somewhere far away in the shadows. He
wondered how far it was; he looked and
harkened, starting at his own heartbeats, and
fearing more and more the long dark fingers of
the night.
Then of a sudden up from the darkness came
music. It was human music, but of a wildness
and a weirdness that startled the boy as it
fluttered and danced across the dull red waters
of the swamp. He hesitated, then impelled by
some strange power, left the highway and
slipped into the forest of the swamp, shrinking,
yet following the song hungrily and half
forgetting his fear. A harsher, shriller note
struck in as of many and ruder voices; but above
it flew the first sweet music, birdlike,
abandoned, and the boy crept closer.
The cabin crouched ragged and black at the
edge of black waters. An old chimney leaned
drunkenly against it, raging with fire and
smoke, while through the chinks winked red
gleams of warmth and wild cheer. With a revel
of shouting and noise, the music suddenly
ceased. Hoarse staccato cries and peals of
laughter shook the old hut, and as the boy stood
there peering through the black trees, abruptly
the door flew open and a flood of light illumined
the wood.
Amid this mighty halo, as on clouds of flame, a
girl was dancing. She was black, and lithe, and
tall, and willowy. Her garments twined and flew
around the delicate moulding of her dark,
young, half-naked limbs. A heavy mass of hair
clung motionless to her wide forehead. Her
arms twirled and flickered, and body and soul
seemed quivering and whirring in the poetry of
her motion.
As she danced she sang. He heard her voice as
before, fluttering like a bird’s in the full
sweetness of her utter music. It was no tune nor
melody, it was just formless, boundless music.
The boy forgot himself and all the world
besides. All his darkness was sudden light;
dazzled he crept forward, bewildered,
fascinated, until with one last wild whirl the elfgirl
paused. The crimson light fell full upon the
warm and velvet bronze of her face—her
midnight eyes were aglow, her full purple lips
apart, her half hid bosom panting, and all the
music dead. Involuntarily the boy gave a
gasping cry and awoke to swamp and night and
fire, while a white face, drawn, red-eyed, peered
outward from some hidden throng within the
cabin.
“Who’s that?” a harsh voice cried.
“Where?” “Who is it?” and pale crowding faces
blurred the light.
The boy wheeled blindly and fled in terror
stumbling through the swamp, hearing strange
sounds and feeling stealthy creeping hands and
arms and whispering voices. On he toiled in
mad haste, struggling toward the road and
losing it until finally beneath the shadows of a
mighty oak he sank exhausted. There he lay a
while trembling and at last drifted into
dreamless sleep.
It was morning when he awoke and threw a
startled glance upward to the twisted branches
of the oak that bent above, sifting down
sunshine on his brown face and close curled
hair. Slowly he remembered the loneliness, the
fear and wild running through the dark. He
laughed in the bold courage of day and
stretched himself.
Then suddenly he bethought him again of that
vision of the night—the waving arms and flying
limbs of the girl, and her great black eyes
looking into the night and calling him. He could
hear her now, and hear that wondrous savage
music. Had it been real? Had he dreamed? Or
had it been some witch-vision of the night, come
to tempt and lure him to his undoing? Where
was that black and flaming cabin? Where was
the girl—the soul that had called him? She
must have been real; she had to live and dance
and sing; he must again look into the mystery of
her great eyes. And he sat up in sudden
determination, and, lo! gazed straight into the
very eyes of his dreaming.
She sat not four feet from him, leaning against
the great tree, her eyes now languorously
abstracted, now alert and quizzical with
mischief. She seemed but half-clothed, and her
warm, dark flesh peeped furtively through the
rent gown; her thick, crisp hair was frowsy and
rumpled, and the long curves of her bare young
arms gleamed in the morning sunshine,
glowing with vigor and life. A little mocking
smile came and sat upon her lips.
“What you run for?” she asked, with dancing
mischief in her eyes.
“Because—” he hesitated, and his cheeks grew
hot.
“I knows,” she said, with impish glee, laughing
low music.
“Why?” he challenged, sturdily.
“You was a-feared.”
He bridled. “Well, I reckon you’d be a-feared if
you was caught out in the black dark all alone.”
“Pooh!” she scoffed and hugged her knees.
“Pooh! I’ve stayed out all alone heaps o’ nights.”
He looked at her with a curious awe.
“I don’t believe you,” he asserted; but she tossed
her head and her eyes grew scornful.
“Who’s a-feared of the dark? I love night.” Her
eyes grew soft.
He watched her silently, till, waking from her
daydream, she abruptly asked:
“Where you from?”
“Georgia.”
“Where’s that?”
He looked at her in surprise, but she seemed
matter-of-fact.
“It’s away over yonder,” he answered.
“Behind where the sun comes up?”
“Oh, no!”
“Then it ain’t so far,” she declared. “I knows
where the sun rises, and I knows where it sets.”
She looked up at its gleaming splendor glinting
through the leaves, and, noting its height,
announced abruptly:
“I’se hungry.”
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“So’m I,” answered the boy, fumbling at his
bundle; and then, timidly: “Will you eat with
me?”
“Yes,” she said, and watched him with eager
eyes.
Untying the strips of cloth, he opened his box,
and disclosed chicken and biscuits, ham and
corn-bread. She clapped her hands in glee.
“Is there any water near?” he asked.
Without a word, she bounded up and flitted off
like a brown bird, gleaming dull-golden in the
sun, glancing in and out among the trees, till
she paused above a tiny black pool, and then
came tripping and swaying back with hands
held cupwise and dripping with cool water.
“Drink,” she cried. Obediently he bent over the
little hands that seemed so soft and thin. He
took a deep draught; and then to drain the last
drop, his hands touched hers and the shock of
flesh first meeting flesh startled them both,
while the water rained through. A moment their
eyes looked deep into each other’s—a timid,
startled gleam in hers; a wonder in his. Then
she said dreamily:
“We’se known us all our lives, and—before, ain’t
we?”
He hesitated.
“Ye—es—I reckon,” he slowly returned. And
then, brightening, he asked gayly: “And we’ll be
friends always, won’t we?”
“Yes,” she said at last, slowly and solemnly, and
another brief moment they stood still.
Then the mischief danced in her eyes, and a
song bubbled on her lips. She hopped to the
tree.
“Come—eat!” she cried. And they nestled
together amid the big black roots of the oak,
laughing and talking while they ate.
“What’s over there?” he asked pointing
northward.
“Cresswell’s big house.”
“And yonder to the west?”
“The school.”
He started joyfully.
“The school! What school?”
“Old Miss’ School.”
“Miss Smith’s school?”
“Yes.” The tone was disdainful.
“Why, that’s where I’m going. I was a-feared it
was a long way off; I must have passed it in the
night.”
“I hate it!” cried the girl, her lips tense.
“But I’ll be so near,” he explained. “And why do
you hate it?”
“Yes—you’ll be near,” she admitted; “that’ll be
nice; but—” she glanced westward, and the
fierce look faded. Soft joy crept to her face
again, and she sat once more dreaming.
“Yon way’s nicest,” she said.
“Why, what’s there?”
“The swamp,” she said mysteriously.
“And what’s beyond the swamp?”
She crouched beside him and whispered in
eager, tense tones: “Dreams!”
He looked at her, puzzled.
“Dreams?” vaguely—“dreams? Why, dreams
ain’t—nothing.”
“Oh, yes they is!” she insisted, her eyes flaming
in misty radiance as she sat staring beyond the
shadows of the swamp. “Yes they is! There ain’t
nothing but dreams—that is, nothing much.
“And over yonder behind the swamps is great
fields full of dreams, piled high and burning;
and right amongst them the sun, when he’s
tired o’ night, whispers and drops red things,
‘cept when devils make ‘em black.”
The boy stared at her; he knew not whether to
jeer or wonder.
“How you know?” he asked at last, skeptically.
“Promise you won’t tell?”
“Yes,” he answered.
She cuddled into a little heap, nursing her
knees, and answered slowly.
“I goes there sometimes. I creeps in ‘mongst the
dreams; they hangs there like big flowers,
dripping dew and sugar and blood—red, red
blood. And there’s little fairies there that hop
about and sing, and devils—great, ugly devils
that grabs at you and roasts and eats you if they
gits you; but they don’t git me. Some devils is
big and white, like ha’nts; some is long and
shiny, like creepy, slippery snakes; and some is
little and broad and black, and they yells—”
The boy was listening in incredulous curiosity,
half minded to laugh, half minded to edge away
from the black-red radiance of yonder dusky
swamp. He glanced furtively backward, and his
heart gave a great bound.
“Some is little and broad and black, and they
yells—” chanted the girl. And as she chanted,
deep, harsh tones came booming through the
forest:
“Zo-ra! Zo-ra! O—o—oh, Zora!”
He saw far behind him, toward the shadows of
the swamp, an old woman—short, broad, black
and wrinkled, with fangs and pendulous lips
and red, wicked eyes. His heart bounded in
sudden fear; he wheeled toward the girl, and
caught only the uncertain flash of her
garments—the wood was silent, and he was
alone.
He arose, startled, quickly gathered his bundle,
and looked around him. The sun was strong and
high, the morning fresh and vigorous. Stamping
one foot angrily, he strode jauntily out of the
wood toward the big road.
But ever and anon he glanced curiously back.
Had he seen a haunt? Or was the elf-girl real?
And then he thought of her words:
“We’se known us all our lives.”
1. Which element has the most profound impact on the mood of the story?
a. setting2. Which literary element is employed in the following sentences?
b. plot
c. character development
d. point of view
The cabin crouched ragged and black at the edge of black waters. An old chimney leaned
drunkenly against it, raging with fire and smoke, while through the chinks winked red gleams
of warmth and wild cheer.
a. metaphor3. Read the sentence and then select, from the choices below, the word closest in meaning to the
b. oxymoron
c. personification
d. allusion
word in bold-faced type.
Hoarse staccato cries and peals of laughter shook the old hut, and as the boy stood there
peering through the black trees, abruptly the door flew open and a flood of light illumined the
wood.
a. easily fluent4. Read the sentence and select, from the choices below, the word closest in meaning to the
b. evenly smooth
c. soon hushed
d. cut short crisply
word in bold-faced type.
She sat not four feet from him, leaning against the great tree, her eyes now languorously
abstracted, now alert and quizzical with mischief.
a. lazily5. Describe the boy’s situation. What is he doing? Where is he going? How does he feel?
b. confidently
c. powerfully
d. dangerously
6. Describe the scene that the boy witnesses after he follows the sound of the music. Who is
there? What is the person doing?
7. How do you interpret the girl’s comment, “We’se known us all our lives, and—before, ain’t
we?” What is she implying?
8. Why do you think the strange girl hates the school?
9. Explain the description the girl supplies of the field of dreams.
10. Was the boy’s experience real or did he dream it? On what evidence or thoughts do you base
your response?
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THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
OF AN
EX-COLORED MAN
by James Weldon Johnson
I
I know that in writing the following pages I am
divulging the great secret of my life, the secret
which for some years I have guarded far more
carefully than any of my earthly possessions;
and it is a curious study to me to analyze the
motives which prompt me to do it. I feel that I
am led by the same impulse which forces the
un-found-out criminal to take somebody into his
confidence, although he knows that the act is
likely, even almost certain, to lead to his
undoing. I know that I am playing with fire, and
I feel the thrill which accompanies that most
fascinating pastime; and, back of it all, I think I
find a sort of savage and diabolical desire to
gather up all the little tragedies of my life, and
turn them into a practical joke on society.
And, too, I suffer a vague feeling of
unsatisfaction, of regret, of almost remorse,
from which I am seeking relief, and of which I
shall speak in the last paragraph of this
account.
I was born in a little town of Georgia a few
years after the close of the Civil War. I shall not
mention the name of the town, because there
are people still living there who could be
connected with this narrative. I have only a
faint recollection of the place of my birth. At
times I can close my eyes and call up in a
dreamlike way things that seem to have
happened ages ago in some other world. I can
see in this half vision a little house—I am quite
sure it was not a large one—I can remember
that flowers grew in the front yard, and that
around each bed of flowers was a hedge of varicolored
glass bottles stuck in the ground neck
down. I remember that once, while playing
around in the sand, I became curious to know
whether or not the bottles grew as the flowers
did, and I proceeded to dig them up to find out;
the investigation brought me a terrific
spanking, which indelibly fixed the incident in
my mind. I can remember, too, that behind the
house was a shed under which stood two or
three wooden wash-tubs. These tubs were the
earliest aversion of my life, for regularly on
certain evenings I was plunged into one of them
and scrubbed until my skin ached. I can
remember to this day the pain caused by the
strong, rank soap’s getting into my eyes.
Back from the house a vegetable garden ran,
perhaps seventy-five or one hundred feet; but to
my childish fancy it was an endless territory. I
can still recall the thrill of joy, excitement, and
wonder it gave me to go on an exploring
expedition through it, to find the blackberries,
both ripe and green, that grew along the edge of
the fence.
I remember with what pleasure I used to arrive
at, and stand before, a little enclosure in which
stood a patient cow chewing her cud, how I
would occasionally offer her through the bars a
piece of my bread and molasses, and how I
would jerk back my hand in half fright if she
made any motion to accept my offer.
I have a dim recollection of several people who
moved in and about this little house, but I have
a distinct mental image of only two: one, my
mother; and the other, a tall man with a small,
dark mustache. I remember that his shoes or
boots were always shiny, and that he wore a
gold chain and a great gold watch with which he
was always willing to let me play. My
admiration was almost equally divided between
the watch and chain and the shoes. He used to
come to the house evenings, perhaps two or
three times a week; and it became my
appointed duty whenever he came to bring him
a pair of slippers and to put the shiny shoes in
a particular corner; he often gave me in return
for this service a bright coin, which my mother
taught me to promptly drop in a little tin bank.
I remember distinctly the last time this tall
man came to the little house in Georgia; that
evening before I went to bed he took me up in
his arms and squeezed me very tightly; my
mother stood behind his chair wiping tears from
her eyes. I remember how I sat upon his knee
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and watched him laboriously drill a hole
through a ten-dollar gold piece, and then tie the
coin around my neck with a string. I have worn
that gold piece around my neck the greater part
of my life, and still possess it, but more than
once I have wished that some other way had
been found of attaching it to me besides putting
a hole through it.
On the day after the coin was put around my
neck my mother and I started on what seemed
to me an endless journey. I knelt on the seat and
watched through the train window the corn and
cotton fields pass swiftly by until I fell asleep.
When I fully awoke, we were being driven
through the streets of a large city—Savannah. I
sat up and blinked at the bright lights. At
Savannah we boarded a steamer which finally
landed us in New York. From New York we went
to a town in Connecticut, which became the
home of my boyhood.
My mother and I lived together in a little
cottage which seemed to me to be fitted up
almost luxuriously; there were horse-haircovered
chairs in the parlor, and a little square
piano; there was a stairway with red carpet on
it leading to a half second story; there were
pictures on the walls, and a few books in a
glass-doored case. My mother dressed me very
neatly, and I developed that pride which welldressed
boys generally have. She was careful
about my associates, and I myself was quite
particular. As I look back now I can see that I
was a perfect little aristocrat. My mother rarely
went to anyone’s house, but she did sewing, and
there were a great many ladies coming to our
cottage. If I was around they would generally
call me, and ask me my name and age and tell
my mother what a pretty boy I was. Some of
them would pat me on the head and kiss me.
My mother was kept very busy with her sewing;
sometimes she would have another woman
helping her. I think she must have derived a
fair income from her work. I know, too, that at
least once each month she received a letter; I
used to watch for the postman, get the letter,
and run to her with it; whether she was busy or
not, she would take it and instantly thrust it
into her bosom. I never saw her read one of
these letters. I knew later that they contained
money and what was to her more than money.
As busy as she generally was, she found time,
however, to teach me my letters and figures and
how to spell a number of easy words. Always on
Sunday evenings she opened the little square
piano and picked out hymns. I can recall now
that whenever she played hymns from the book
her tempo was always decidedly largo.
Sometimes on other evenings, when she was
not sewing, she would play simple
accompaniments to some old Southern songs
which she sang. In these songs she was freer,
because she played them by ear. Those evenings
on which she opened the little piano were the
happiest hours of my childhood. Whenever she
started toward the instrument, I used to follow
her with all the interest and irrepressible joy
that a pampered pet dog shows when a package
is opened in which he knows there is a sweet bit
for him. I used to stand by her side and often
interrupt and annoy her by chiming in with
strange harmonies which I found on either the
high keys of the treble or the low keys of the
bass. I remember that I had a particular
fondness for the black keys. Always on such
evenings, when the music was over, my mother
would sit with me in her arms, often for a very
long time. She would hold me close, softly
crooning some old melody without words, all the
while gently stroking her face against my head;
many and many a night I thus fell asleep. I can
see her now, her great dark eyes looking into
the fire, to where? No one knew but her. The
memory of that picture has more than once kept
me from straying too far from the place of
purity and safety in which her arms held me.
At a very early age I began to thump on the piano
alone, and it was not long before I was able to
pick out a few tunes. When I was seven years old,
I could play by ear all of the hymns and songs
that my mother knew. I had also learned the
names of the notes in both clefs, but I preferred
not to be hampered by notes. About this time
several ladies for whom my mother sewed heard
me play and they persuaded her that I should at
once be put under a teacher; so arrangements
were made for me to study the piano with a lady
who was a fairly good musician; at the same time
arrangements were made for me to study my
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books with this lady’s daughter. My music
teacher had no small difficulty at first in pinning
me down to the notes. If she played my lesson
over for me, I invariably attempted to reproduce
the required sounds without the slightest
recourse to the written characters. Her daughter,
my other teacher, also had her worries. She
found that, in reading, whenever I came to words
that were difficult or unfamiliar, I was prone to
bring my imagination to the rescue and read
from the picture. She has laughingly told me,
since then, that I would sometimes substitute
whole sentences and even paragraphs from what
meaning I thought the illustrations conveyed.
She said she not only was sometimes amused at
the fresh treatment I would give an author’s
subject, but, when I gave some new and sudden
turn to the plot of the story, often grew interested
and even excited in listening to hear what kind
of a denouement I would bring about. But I am
sure this was not due to dullness, for I made
rapid progress in both my music and my books.
And so for a couple of years my life was divided
between my music and my school books. Music
took up the greater part of my time. I had no
playmates, but amused myself with games—
some of them my own invention—which could
be played alone. I knew a few boys whom I had
met at the church which I attended with my
mother, but I had formed no close friendships
with any of them. Then, when I was nine years
old, my mother decided to enter me in the public
school, so all at once I found myself thrown
among a crowd of boys of all sizes and kinds;
some of them seemed to me like savages. I shall
never forget the bewilderment, the pain, the
heart-sickness, of that first day at school. I
seemed to be the only stranger in the place;
every other boy seemed to know every other boy.
I was fortunate enough, however, to be assigned
to a teacher who knew me; my mother made her
dresses. She was one of the ladies who used to
pat me on the head and kiss me. She had the
tact to address a few words directly to me; this
gave me a certain sort of standing in the class
and put me somewhat at ease.
Within a few days I had made one staunch
friend and was on fairly good terms with most
of the boys. I was shy of the girls, and remained
so; even now a word or look from a pretty
woman sets me all a-tremble. This friend I
bound to me with hooks of steel in a very simple
way. He was a big awkward boy with a face full
of freckles and a head full of very red hair. He
was perhaps fourteen years of age; that is, four
or five years older than any other boy in the
class. This seniority was due to the fact that he
had spent twice the required amount of time in
several of the preceding classes. I had not been
at school many hours before I felt that “Red
Head”—as I involuntarily called him—and I
were to be friends. I do not doubt that this
feeling was strengthened by the fact that I had
been quick enough to see that a big, strong boy
was a friend to be desired at a public school;
and, perhaps, in spite of his dullness, “Red
Head” had been able to discern that I could be
of service to him. At any rate there was a
simultaneous mutual attraction.
The teacher had strung the class promiscuously
around the walls of the room for a sort of trial
heat for places of rank; when the line was
straightened out, I found that by skillful
maneuvering I had placed myself third and had
piloted “Red Head” to the place next to me. The
teacher began by giving us to spell the words
corresponding to our order in the line. “Spell
first.” “Spell second.” “Spell third.”
I rattled off: “T-h-i-r-d, third,” in a way which
said: “Why don’t you give us something hard?”
As the words went down the line, I could see
how lucky I had been to get a good place
together with an easy word. As young as I was,
I felt impressed with the unfairness of the
whole proceeding when I saw the tailenders
going down before twelfth and twentieth, and I
felt sorry for those who had to spell such words
in order to hold a low position.
“Spell fourth.” “Red Head,” with his hands
clutched tightly behind his back, began bravely:
“F-o-r-t-h.”
Like a flash a score of hands went up, and the
teacher began saying: “No snapping of fingers,
no snapping of fingers.”
This was the first word missed, and it seemed to
me that some of the scholars were about to lose
their senses; some were dancing up and down
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on one foot with a hand above their heads, the
fingers working furiously, and joy beaming all
over their faces; others stood still, their hands
raised not so high, their fingers working less
rapidly, and their faces expressing not quite so
much happiness; there were still others who did
not move or raise their hands, but stood with
great wrinkles on their foreheads, looking very
thoughtful.
The whole thing was new to me, and I did not
raise my hand, but slyly whispered the letter “u”
to “Red Head” several times.
“Second chance,” said the teacher. The hands
went down and the class became quiet.
“Red Head,” his face now red, after looking
beseechingly at the ceiling, then pitiably at the
floor, began very haltingly: “F-u—” Immediately
an impulse to raise hands went through the
class, but the teacher checked it, and poor “Red
Head,” though he knew that each letter he
added only took him farther out of the way, went
doggedly on and finished: “—r-t-h.”
The hand-raising was now repeated with more
hubbub and excitement than at first. Those who
before had not moved a finger were now waving
their hands above their heads. “Red Head” felt
that he was lost. He looked very big and foolish,
and some of the scholars began to snicker. His
helpless condition went straight to my heart,
and gripped my sympathies. I felt that if he
failed, it would in some way be my failure. I
raised my hand, and, under cover of the
excitement and the teacher’s attempts to regain
order, I hurriedly shot up into his ear twice,
quite distinctly: “F-o-u-r-t-h, f-o-u-r-t-h.”
The teacher tapped on her desk and said: “Third
and last chance.”
The hands came down, the silence became
oppressive. “Red Head” began: “F—” Since that
day I have waited anxiously for many a turn of
the wheel of fortune, but never under greater
tension than when I watched for the order in
which those letters would fall from “Red’s” lips—
“o-u-r-t-h.” A sigh of relief and disappointment
went up from the class.
Afterwards, through all our school days, “Red
Head” shared my wit and quickness and I
benefited by his strength and dogged
faithfulness.
There were some black and brown boys and
girls in the school, and several of them were in
my class. One of the boys strongly attracted my
attention from the first day I saw him. His face
was as black as night, but shone as though it
were polished; he had sparkling eyes, and when
he opened his mouth, he displayed glistening
white teeth. It struck me at once as appropriate
to call him “Shiny Face,” or “Shiny Eyes,” or
“Shiny Teeth,” and I spoke of him often by one
of these names to the other boys. These terms
were finally merged into “Shiny,” and to that
name he answered good-naturedly during the
balance of his public school days.
“Shiny” was considered without question to be
the best speller, the best reader, the best
penman—in a word, the best scholar, in the
class. He was very quick to catch anything, but,
nevertheless, studied hard; thus he possessed
two powers very rarely combined in one boy. I
saw him year after year, on up into the high
school, win the majority of the prizes for
punctuality, deportment, essay writing, and
declamation. Yet it did not take me long to
discover that, in spite of his standing as a
scholar, he was in some way looked down upon.
The other black boys and girls were still more
looked down upon. Some of the boys often spoke
of them as “niggers.” Sometimes on the way
home from school a crowd would walk behind
them repeating:
“Nigger, nigger, never die, Black face and shiny
eye.”
On one such afternoon one of the black boys
turned suddenly on his tormentors and hurled a
slate; it struck one of the white boys in the
mouth, cutting a slight gash in his lip. At sight
of the blood the boy who had thrown the slate
ran, and his companions quickly followed. We
ran after them pelting them with stones until
they separated in several directions. I was very
much wrought up over the affair, and went
139 © 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate.
home and told my mother how one of the
“niggers” had struck a boy with a slate. I shall
never forget how she turned on me. “Don’t you
ever use that word again,” she said, “and don’t
you ever bother the colored children at school.
You ought to be ashamed of yourself.” I did hang
my head in shame, not because she had
convinced me that I had done wrong, but
because I was hurt by the first sharp word she
had ever given me.
My school days ran along very pleasantly. I
stood well in my studies, not always so well
with regard to my behavior. I was never guilty
of any serious misconduct, but my love of fun
sometimes got me into trouble. I remember,
however, that my sense of humor was so sly
that most of the trouble usually fell on the head
of the other fellow. My ability to play on the
piano at school exercises was looked upon as
little short of marvelous in a boy of my age. I
was not chummy with many of my mates, but,
on the whole, was about as popular as it is good
for a boy to be.
One day near the end of my second term at
school the principal came into our room and,
after talking to the teacher, for some reason
said: “I wish all of the white scholars to stand
for a moment.”
I rose with the others. The teacher looked at me
and, calling my name, said: “You sit down for
the present, and rise with the others.”
I did not quite understand her, and questioned:
“Ma’m?”
She repeated, with a softer tone in her voice:
“You sit down now, and rise with the others.”
I sat down dazed. I saw and heard nothing.
When the others were asked to rise, I did not
know it. When school was dismissed, I went out
in a kind of stupor.
A few of the white boys jeered me, saying: “Oh,
you’re a nigger too.”
I heard some black children say: “We knew he
was colored.”
“Shiny” said to them: “Come along, don’t tease
him,” and thereby won my undying gratitude.
I hurried on as fast as I could, and had gone
some distance before I perceived that “Red
Head” was walking by my side. After a while he
said to me: “Le’ me carry your books.”
I gave him my strap without being able to
answer. When we got to my gate, he said as he
handed me my books: “Say, you know my big
red agate? I can’t shoot with it any more. I’m
going to bring it to school for you tomorrow.”
I took my books and ran into the house. As I
passed through the hallway, I saw that my
mother was busy with one of her customers; I
rushed up into my own little room, shut the
door, and went quickly to where my lookingglass
hung on the wall. For an instant I was
afraid to look, but when I did, I looked long and
earnestly. I had often heard people say to my
mother: “What a pretty boy you have!” I was
accustomed to hear remarks about my beauty;
but now, for the first time, I became conscious of
it and recognized it. I noticed the ivory
whiteness of my skin, the beauty of my mouth,
the size and liquid darkness of my eyes, and
how the long, black lashes that fringed and
shaded them produced an effect that was
strangely fascinating even to me. I noticed the
softness and glossiness of my dark hair that fell
in waves over my temples, making my forehead
appear whiter than it really was. How long I
stood there gazing at my image I do not know.
When I came out and reached the head of the
stairs, I heard the lady who had been with my
mother going out. I ran downstairs and rushed
to where my mother was sitting, with a piece of
work in her hands. I buried my head in her lap
and blurted out: “Mother, mother, tell me, am I
a nigger?”
I could not see her face, but I knew the piece of
work dropped to the floor and I felt her hands
on my head. I looked up into her face and
repeated: “Tell me, mother, am I a nigger?”
There were tears in her eyes and I could see
that she was suffering for me. And then it was
that I looked at her critically for the first time.
I had thought of her in a childish way only as
the most beautiful woman in the world; now I
1. The item given to the narrator when he was a little boy was a
a. bicycle.
b. Bible.
c. gold coin.
d. silver whistle.
2. Read the sentence and select, from the choices below, the word closest in meaning to the
word in bold-faced type.
She said she not only was sometimes amused at the fresh treatment I would give an author’s
subject, but, when I gave some new and sudden turn to the plot of the story, often grew
interested and even excited in listening to hear what kind of a denouement I would bring
about.
a. conflict
b. resolution
c. climax
d. calamity
3. Early in his school career, the narrator learns, unknowingly, about the ugly concept of
a. gluttony.
b. dishonesty.
c. selfishness
d. intolerance.
© 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate. 140
looked at her searching for defects. I could see
that her skin was almost brown, that her hair
was not so soft as mine, and that she did differ
in some way from the other ladies who came to
the house; yet, even so, I could see that she was
very beautiful, more beautiful than any of
them.
She must have felt that I was examining her,
for she hid her face in my hair and said with
difficulty: “No, my darling, you are not a
nigger.” She went on: “You are as good as
anybody; if anyone calls you a nigger, don’t
notice them.”
But the more she talked, the less was I
reassured, and I stopped her by asking: “Well,
mother, am I white? Are you white?”
She answered tremblingly: “No, I am not white,
but you—your father is one of the greatest men
in the country—the best blood of the South is in
you—”
This suddenly opened up in my heart a fresh
chasm of misgiving and fear, and I almost
fiercely demanded: “Who is my father? Where is
he?”
She stroked my hair and said: “I’ll tell you
about him some day.”
I sobbed: “I want to know now.”
She answered: “No, not now.”
Perhaps it had to be done, but I have never
forgiven the woman who did it so cruelly. It may
be that she never knew that she gave me a
sword-thrust that day in school which was
years in healing.
4. Describe the house the narrator remembers from his time in Georgia.
5. What can you deduce about the narrator’s childhood? Was it a happy one? Give examples
from the story to support your response.
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6. What helped to spur the relationship between the narrator and “Red Head” at school? In
other words, how was it a mutually beneficial one?
7. Discuss the narrator’s statement:
Since that day I have waited anxiously for many a turn of the wheel of fortune, but never
under greater tension than when I watched for the order in which those letters would fall from
“Red’s” lips—“o-u-r-t-h.”
What sentiment or emotion was he feeling? What does this tell you about him?
© 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate. 142
8. What small message is the author trying to send when he has the narrator describe himself
as being “about as popular as it is good for a boy to be . . . ”?
9. At the end of the passage, the boy realizes that his mother is black and that he is the product
of a racially-mixed union. Suddenly, he is faced with issues and concerns he has never
entertained before. Why is this revelation so painful to him? Will it change the person he is?
Will it change the way others treat him? Is this fair?
143 © 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate.
© 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate.
THE WIFE OF
HIS YOUTH
by Charles Waddell Chesnutt
I
Mr. Ryder was going to give a ball. There were
several reasons why this was an opportune time
for such an event.
Mr. Ryder might aptly be called the dean of the
Blue Veins. The original Blue Veins were a little
society of colored persons organized in a certain
Northern city shortly after the war. Its purpose
was to establish and maintain correct social
standards among a people whose social
condition presented almost unlimited room for
improvement. By accident, combined perhaps
with some natural affinity, the society consisted
of individuals who were, generally speaking,
more white than black. Some envious outsider
made the suggestion that no one was eligible for
membership who was not white enough to show
blue veins. The suggestion was readily adopted
by those who were not of the favored few, and
since that time the society, though possessing a
longer and more pretentious name, had been
known far and wide as the “Blue Vein Society,”
and its members as the “Blue Veins.”
The Blue Veins did not allow that any such
requirement existed for admission to their
circle, but, on the contrary, declared that
character and culture were the only things
considered; and that if most of their members
were light-colored, it was because such persons,
as a rule, had had better opportunities to
qualify themselves for membership. Opinions
differed, too, as to the usefulness of the society.
There were those who had been known to assail
it violently as a glaring example of the very
prejudice from which the colored race had
suffered most; and later, when such critics had
succeeded in getting on the inside, they had
been heard to maintain with zeal and
earnestness that the society was a lifeboat, an
anchor, a bulwark and a shield,—a pillar of
cloud by day and of fire by night, to guide their
people through the social wilderness. Another
alleged prerequisite for Blue Vein membership
was that of free birth; and while there was
really no such requirement, it is doubtless true
that very few of the members would have been
unable to meet it if there had been. If there
were one or two of the older members who had
come up from the South and from slavery, their
history presented enough romantic
circumstances to rob their servile origin of its
grosser aspects.
While there were no such tests of eligibility, it is
true that the Blue Veins had their notions on
these subjects, and that not all of them were
equally liberal in regard to the things they
collectively disclaimed. Mr. Ryder was one of
the most conservative. Though he had not been
among the founders of the society, but had come
in some years later, his genius for social
leadership was such that he had speedily
become its recognized adviser and head, the
custodian of its standards, and the preserver of
its traditions. He shaped its social policy, was
active in providing for its entertainment, and
when the interest fell off, as it sometimes did,
he fanned the embers until they burst again
into a cheerful flame.
There were still other reasons for his
popularity. While he was not as white as some
of the Blue Veins, his appearance was such as to
confer distinction upon them. His features were
of a refined type, his hair was almost straight;
he was always neatly dressed; his manners
were irreproachable, and his morals above
suspicion. He had come to Groveland a young
man, and obtaining employment in the office of
a railroad company as messenger had in time
worked himself up to the position of stationery
clerk, having charge of the distribution of the
office supplies for the whole company. Although
the lack of early training had hindered the
orderly development of a naturally fine mind, it
had not prevented him from doing a great deal
of reading or from forming decidedly literary
tastes. Poetry was his passion. He could repeat
whole pages of the great English poets; and if
his pronunciation was sometimes faulty, his
eye, his voice, his gestures, would respond to
the changing sentiment with a precision that
revealed a poetic soul and disarmed criticism.
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© 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate. 146
He was economical, and had saved money; he
owned and occupied a very comfortable house
on a respectable street. His residence was
handsomely furnished, containing among other
things a good library, especially rich in poetry, a
piano, and some choice engravings. He
generally shared his house with some young
couple, who looked after his wants and were
company for him; for Mr. Ryder was a single
man. In the early days of his connection with
the Blue Veins he had been regarded as quite a
catch, and young ladies and their mothers had
manoeuvred with much ingenuity to capture
him. Not, however, until Mrs. Molly Dixon
visited Groveland had any woman ever made
him wish to change his condition to that of a
married man.
Mrs. Dixon had come to Groveland from
Washington in the spring, and before the
summer was over she had won Mr. Ryder’s
heart. She possessed many attractive qualities.
She was much younger than he; in fact, he was
old enough to have been her father, though no
one knew exactly how old he was. She was
whiter than he, and better educated. She had
moved in the best colored society of the country,
at Washington, and had taught in the schools of
that city. Such a superior person had been
eagerly welcomed to the Blue Vein Society, and
had taken a leading part in its activities. Mr.
Ryder had at first been attracted by her charms
of person, for she was very good looking and not
over twenty-five; then by her refined manners
and the vivacity of her wit. Her husband had
been a government clerk, and at his death had
left a considerable life insurance. She was
visiting friends in Groveland, and, finding the
town and the people to her liking, had
prolonged her stay indefinitely. She had not
seemed displeased at Mr. Ryder’s attentions,
but on the contrary had given him every proper
encouragement; indeed, a younger and less
cautious man would long since have spoken.
But he had made up his mind, and had only to
determine the time when he would ask her to be
his wife. He decided to give a ball in her honor,
and at some time during the evening of the ball
to offer her his heart and hand. He had no
special fears about the outcome, but, with a
little touch of romance, he wanted the
surroundings to be in harmony with his own
feelings when he should have received the
answer he expected.
Mr. Ryder resolved that this ball should mark
an epoch in the social history of Groveland. He
knew, of course,—no one could know better,—
the entertainments that had taken place in past
years, and what must be done to surpass them.
His ball must be worthy of the lady in whose
honor it was to be given, and must, by the
quality of its guests, set an example for the
future. He had observed of late a growing
liberality, almost a laxity, in social matters,
even among members of his own set, and had
several times been forced to meet in a social
way persons whose complexions and callings in
life were hardly up to the standard which he
considered proper for the society to maintain.
He had a theory of his own.
“I have no race prejudice,” he would say, “but we
people of mixed blood are ground between the
upper and the nether millstone. Our fate lies
between absorption by the white race and
extinction in the black. The one doesn’t want us
yet, but may take us in time. The other would
welcome us, but it would be for us a backward
step. ‘With malice towards none, with charity
for all,’ we must do the best we can for ourselves
and those who are to follow us. Selfpreservation
is the first law of nature.”
His ball would serve by its exclusiveness to
counteract leveling tendencies, and his
marriage with Mrs. Dixon would help to further
the upward process of absorption he had been
wishing and waiting for.
II
The ball was to take place on Friday night. The
house had been put in order, the carpets covered
with canvas, the halls and stairs decorated with
palms and potted plants; and in the afternoon
Mr. Ryder sat on his front porch, which the shade
of a vine running up over a wire netting made a
cool and pleasant lounging place. He expected to
respond to the toast “The Ladies” at the supper,
and from a volume of Tennyson—his favorite
poet—was fortifying himself with apt quotations.
The volume was open at “A Dream of Fair
Women.” His eyes fell on these lines, and he read
them aloud to judge better of their effect:——
“At length I saw a lady within call
Stiller than chisell’d marble, standing
there;
A daughter of the gods, divinely tall,
And most divinely fair.”
He marked the verse, and turning the page read
the stanza beginning,——
“O sweet pale Margaret,
O rare pale Margaret.”
He weighed the passage a moment, and decided
that it would not do. Mrs. Dixon was the palest
lady he expected at the ball, and she was of a
rather ruddy complexion, and of lively
disposition and buxom build. So he ran over the
leaves until his eye rested on the description of
Queen Guinevere:——
“She seem’d a part of joyous Spring;
A gown of grass-green silk she wore,
Buckled with golden clasps before;
A light-green tuft of plumes she bore
Closed in a golden ring.
* * * * *
“She look’d so lovely, as she sway’d The rein
with dainty finger-tips, A man had given all
other bliss, And all his worldly worth for this,
To waste his whole heart in one kiss Upon her
perfect lips.”
As Mr. Ryder murmured these words audibly,
with an appreciative thrill, he heard the latch of
his gate click, and a light footfall sounding on
the steps. He turned his head, and saw a
woman standing before his door.
She was a little woman, not five feet tall, and
proportioned to her height. Although she stood
erect, and looked around her with very bright
and restless eyes, she seemed quite old; for her
face was crossed and recrossed with a hundred
wrinkles, and around the edges of her bonnet
could be seen protruding here and there a tuft
of short gray wool. She wore a blue calico gown
of ancient cut, a little red shawl fastened
around her shoulders with an old-fashioned
brass brooch, and a large bonnet profusely
ornamented with faded red and yellow artificial
flowers. And she was very black,—so black that
her toothless gums, revealed when she opened
her mouth to speak, were not red, but blue. She
looked like a bit of the old plantation life,
summoned up from the past by the wave of a
magician’s wand, as the poet’s fancy had called
into being the gracious shapes of which Mr.
Ryder had just been reading.
He rose from his chair and came over to where
she stood.
“Good-afternoon, madam,” he said.
“Good-evenin’, suh,” she answered, ducking
suddenly with a quaint curtsy. Her voice was
shrill and piping, but softened somewhat by
age. “Is dis yere whar Mistuh Ryduh lib, suh?”
she asked, looking around her doubtfully, and
glancing into the open windows, through which
some of the preparations for the evening were
visible.
“Yes,” he replied, with an air of kindly
patronage, unconsciously flattered by her
manner, “I am Mr. Ryder. Did you want to see
me?”
“Yas, suh, ef I ain’t ‘sturbin’ of you too much.”
“Not at all. Have a seat over here behind the
vine, where it is cool. What can I do for you?”
“ ‘Scuse me, suh,” she continued, when she had
sat down on the edge of a chair, “ ‘scuse me, suh,
I ‘s lookin’ for my husban’. I heerd you wuz a big
man an’ had libbed heah a long time, an’ I
‘lowed you would n’t min’ ef I ‘d come roun’ an’
ax you ef you ‘d ever heerd of a merlatter man
by de name er Sam Taylor ‘quirin’ roun’ in de
chu’ches ermongs’ de people fer his wife ‘Liza
Jane?”
Mr. Ryder seemed to think for a moment.
“There used to be many such cases right after
the war,” he said, “but it has been so long that I
147 © 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate.
have forgotten them. There are very few now.
But tell me your story, and it may refresh my
memory.”
She sat back farther in her chair so as to be
more comfortable, and folded her withered
hands in her lap.
“My name ‘s ‘Liza,” she began, “ ‘Liza Jane.
W’en I wuz young I us’ter b’long ter Marse Bob
Smif, down in ole Missoura. I wuz bawn down
dere. Wen I wuz a gal I wuz married ter a man
named Jim. But Jim died, an’ after dat I
married a merlatter man named Sam Taylor.
Sam wuz free-bawn, but his mammy and daddy
died, an’ de w’ite folks ‘prenticed him ter my
marster fer ter work fer ‘im ‘tel he wuz growed
up. Sam worked in de fiel’, an’ I wuz de cook.
One day Ma’y Ann, ole miss’s maid, came
rushin’ out ter de kitchen, an’ says she, ‘’Liza
Jane, ole marse gwine sell yo’ Sam down de
ribber.’
“ ‘Go way f’m yere,’ says I; ‘my husban’ ‘s free!’
“ ‘Don’ make no diff’ence. I heerd ole marse tell
ole miss he wuz gwine take yo’ Sam ‘way wid ‘im
ter-morrow, fer he needed money, an’ he knowed
whar he could git a t’ousan’ dollars fer Sam an’
no questions axed.’
“W’en Sam come home f’m de fiel’ dat night, I
tole him ‘bout ole marse gwine steal ‘im, an’
Sam run erway. His time wuz mos’ up, an’ he
swo’ dat w’en he wuz twenty-one he would come
back an’ he’p me run erway, er else save up de
money ter buy my freedom. An’ I know he ‘d ‘a’
done it, fer he thought a heap er me, Sam did.
But w’en he come back he didn’ fin’ me, fer I
wuzn’ dere. Ole marse had heerd dat I warned
Sam, so he had me whip’ an’ sol’ down de ribber.
“Den de wah broke out, an’ w’en it wuz ober de
cullud folks wuz scattered. I went back ter de
ole home; but Sam wuzn’ dere, an’ I could n’
l’arn nuffin’ ‘bout ‘im. But I knowed he ‘d be’n
dere to look fer me an’ had n’ foun’ me, an’ had
gone erway ter hunt fer me.
“I ‘s be’n lookin’ fer ‘im eber sence,” she added
simply, as though twenty-five years were but a
couple of weeks, “an’ I knows he ‘s be’n lookin’
fer me. Fer he sot a heap er sto’ by me, Sam did,
an’ I know he ‘s be’n huntin’ fer me all dese
years,—’less’n he ‘s be’n sick er sump’n, so he
could n’ work, er out’n his head, so he could n’
‘member his promise. I went back down de
ribber, fer I ‘lowed he ‘d gone down dere lookin’
fer me. I ‘s be’n ter Noo Orleens, an’ Atlanty, an’
Charleston, an’ Richmon’; an’ w’en I ‘d be’n all
ober de Souf I come ter de Norf. Fer I knows I ‘ll
fin’ ‘im some er dese days,” she added softly, “er
he ‘ll fin’ me, an’ den we ‘ll bofe be as happy in
freedom as we wuz in de ole days befo’ de wah.”
A smile stole over her withered countenance as
she paused a moment, and her bright eyes
softened into a far-away look.
This was the substance of the old woman’s
story. She had wandered a little here and there.
Mr. Ryder was looking at her curiously when
she finished.
“How have you lived all these years?” he asked.
“Cookin’, suh. I ‘s a good cook. Does you know
anybody w’at needs a good cook, suh? I ‘s
stoppin’ wid a cullud fam’ly roun’ de corner
yonder ‘tel I kin git a place.”
“Do you really expect to find your husband? He
may be dead long ago.”
She shook her head emphatically. “Oh no, he
ain’ dead. De signs an’ de tokens tells me. I
dremp three nights runnin’ on’y dis las’ week
dat I foun’ him.”
“He may have married another woman. Your
slave marriage would not have prevented him,
for you never lived with him after the war, and
without that your marriage does n’t count.”
“Would n’ make no diff’ence wid Sam. He would
n’ marry no yuther ‘ooman ‘tel he foun’ out ‘bout
me. I knows it,” she added. “Sump’n ‘s be’n
tellin’ me all dese years dat I ‘s gwine fin’ Sam
‘fo’ I dies.”
“Perhaps he ’s outgrown you, and climbed up in
the world where he would n’t care to have you
find him.”
© 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate. 148
1. The purpose of the group known as the Blue Veins was to
a. promote the segregation of blacks and whites in public education.
b. establish and maintain correct social standards among a group whose social condition
could only improve.
c. ensure gender and racial equality nationwide.
d. establish and maintain legal rights among the black population.
2. According to the members of the society, what were the only two requirements for
membership?
a. character and culture
b. character and intelligence
c. culture and civic involvement
d. royal heritage and ambition
149 © 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate.
“No, indeed, suh,” she replied, “Sam ain’ dat kin’
er man. He wuz good ter me, Sam wuz, but he
wuz n’ much good ter nobody e’se, fer he wuz
one er de triflin’es’ han’s on de plantation. I
‘spec’s ter haf ter suppo’t ‘im w’en I fin’ ‘im, fer
he nebber would work ‘less’n he had ter. But
den he wuz free, an’ he did n’ git no pay fer his
work, an’ I don’ blame ‘im much. Mebbe he ‘s
done better sence he run erway, but I ain’
‘spectin’ much.”
“You may have passed him on the street a
hundred times during the twenty-five years,
and not have known him; time works great
changes.”
She smiled incredulously. “I ‘d know ‘im ‘mongs’
a hund’ed men. Fer dey wuz n’ no yuther
merlatter man like my man Sam, an’ I could n’
be mistook. I ‘s toted his picture roun’ wid me
twenty-five years.”
“May I see it?” asked Mr. Ryder. “It might help
me to remember whether I have seen the
original.”
As she drew a small parcel from her bosom he
saw that it was fastened to a string that went
around her neck. Removing several wrappers,
she brought to light an old-fashioned
daguerreotype in a black case. He looked long
and intently at the portrait. It was faded with
time, but the features were still distinct, and it
was easy to see what manner of man it had
represented.
He closed the case, and with a slow movement
handed it back to her.
“I don’t know of any man in town who goes by
that name,” he said, “nor have I heard of any
one making such inquiries. But if you will leave
me your address, I will give the matter some
attention, and if I find out anything I will let
you know.”
She gave him the number of a house in the
neighborhood, and went away, after thanking
him warmly.
He wrote the address on the fly-leaf of the
volume of Tennyson, and, when she had gone,
rose to his feet and stood looking after her
curiously. As she walked down the street with
mincing step, he saw several persons whom she
passed turn and look back at her with a smile of
kindly amusement. When she had turned the
corner, he went upstairs to his bedroom, and
stood for a long time before the mirror of his
dressing-case, gazing thoughtfully at the
reflection of his own face.
3. Explain why Mr. Ryder was such a popular adviser of the Blue Veins. Make certain to
mention at least three definite attributes.
4. Who is Molly Dixon? How does she become a part of Mr. Ryder’s life?
© 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate. 150
5. Discuss Mr. Ryder’s own personal theory of society.
151 © 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate.
6. Describe the woman who comes to visit Mr. Ryder. What is the purpose of her visit?
Summarize her story.
7. Mr. Ryder says to Liza, “Perhaps he ’s outgrown you, and climbed up in the world where he
would n’t care to have you find him.” Why does he say this? What might you infer from his
comment? Consider the title of the story when responding to this question.
© 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate. 152
153 © 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate.
© 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate. 154
THIS SIDE OF PARADISE
by F. Scott Fitzgerald
SNAPSHOTS OF THE
YOUNG EGOTIST
Amory spent nearly two years in Minneapolis.
The first winter he wore moccasins that were
born yellow, but after many applications of oil
and dirt assumed their mature color, a dirty,
greenish brown; he wore a gray plaid mackinaw
coat, and a red toboggan cap. His dog, Count
Del Monte, ate the red cap, so his uncle gave
him a gray one that pulled down over his face.
The trouble with this one was that you breathed
into it and your breath froze; one day the darn
thing froze his cheek. He rubbed snow on his
cheek, but it turned bluish-black just the same.
* * * *
The Count Del Monte ate a box of bluing once,
but it didn’t hurt him. Later, however, he lost
his mind and ran madly up the street, bumping
into fences, rolling in gutters, and pursuing his
eccentric course out of Amory’s life. Amory cried
on his bed.
“Poor little Count,” he cried. “Oh, poor little
Count!”
After several months he suspected Count of a
fine piece of emotional acting.
* * * *
Amory and Frog Parker considered that the
greatest line in literature occurred in Act III of
“Arsene Lupin.”
They sat in the first row at the Wednesday and
Saturday matinees. The line was:
“If one can’t be a great artist or a great soldier,
the next best thing is to be a great criminal.”
* * * *
Amory fell in love again, and wrote a poem.
This was it:
“Marylyn and Sallee,
Those are the girls for me.
Marylyn stands above
Sallee in that sweet, deep love.”
He was interested in whether McGovern of
Minnesota would make the first or second All-
American, how to do the card-pass, how to do
the coin-pass, chameleon ties, how babies were
born, and whether Three-fingered Brown was
really a better pitcher than Christie
Mathewson.
Among other things he read: “For the Honor of
the School,” “Little Women” (twice), “The
Common Law,” “Sapho,” “Dangerous Dan
McGrew,” “The Broad Highway” (three times),
“The Fall of the House of Usher,” “Three
Weeks,” “Mary Ware, the Little Colonel’s
Chum,” “Gunga Din,” The Police Gazette, and
Jim-Jam Jems.
He had all the Henty biasses in history, and was
particularly fond of the cheerful murder stories
of Mary Roberts Rinehart.
* * * *
School ruined his French and gave him a
distaste for standard authors. His masters
considered him idle, unreliable and
superficially clever.
* * * *
He collected locks of hair from many girls. He
wore the rings of several. Finally he could
borrow no more rings, owing to his nervous
habit of chewing them out of shape. This, it
seemed, usually aroused the jealous suspicions
of the next borrower.
* * * *
All through the summer months Amory and
Frog Parker went each week to the Stock
Company. Afterward they would stroll home in
the balmy air of August night, dreaming along
Hennepin and Nicollet Avenues, through the
gay crowd. Amory wondered how people could
fail to notice that he was a boy marked for glory,
and when faces of the throng turned toward
155 © 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate.
him and ambiguous eyes stared into his, he
assumed the most romantic of expressions and
walked on the air cushions that lie on the
asphalts of fourteen.
Always, after he was in bed, there were voices—
indefinite, fading, enchanting—just outside his
window, and before he fell asleep he would
dream one of his favorite waking dreams, the
one about becoming a great half-back, or the
one about the Japanese invasion, when he was
rewarded by being made the youngest general
in the world. It was always the becoming he
dreamed of, never the being. This, too, was
quite characteristic of Amory.
* * * *
CODE OF THE YOUNG EGOTIST
Before he was summoned back to Lake Geneva,
he had appeared, shy but inwardly glowing, in
his first long trousers, set off by a purple
accordion tie and a “Belmont” collar with the
edges unassailably meeting, purple socks, and
handkerchief with a purple border peeping from
his breast pocket. But more than that, he had
formulated his first philosophy, a code to live by,
which, as near as it can be named, was a sort of
aristocratic egotism.
He had realized that his best interests were
bound up with those of a certain variant,
changing person, whose label, in order that his
past might always be identified with him, was
Amory Blaine. Amory marked himself a
fortunate youth, capable of infinite expansion
for good or evil. He did not consider himself a
“strong char’c’ter,” but relied on his facility
(learn things sorta quick) and his superior
mentality (read a lotta deep books). He was
proud of the fact that he could never become a
mechanical or scientific genius. From no other
heights was he debarred.
Physically.—Amory thought that he was
exceedingly handsome. He was. He fancied
himself an athlete of possibilities and a supple
dancer.
Socially.—Here his condition was, perhaps,
most dangerous. He granted himself
personality, charm, magnetism, poise, the
power of dominating all contemporary males,
the gift of fascinating all women.
Mentally.—Complete, unquestioned superiority.
Now a confession will have to be made. Amory
had rather a Puritan conscience. Not that he
yielded to it—later in life he almost completely
slew it—but at fifteen it made him consider
himself a great deal worse than other boys . . .
unscrupulousness . . . the desire to influence
people in almost every way, even for evil . . . a
certain coldness and lack of affection,
amounting sometimes to cruelty . . . a shifting
sense of honor . . . an unholy selfishness . . . a
puzzled, furtive interest in everything
concerning sex.
There was, also, a curious strain of weakness
running crosswise through his make-up . . . a
harsh phrase from the lips of an older boy (older
boys usually detested him) was liable to sweep
him off his poise into surly sensitiveness, or
timid stupidity . . . he was a slave to his own
moods and he felt that though he was capable of
recklessness and audacity, he possessed neither
courage, perseverance, nor self-respect.
Vanity, tempered with self-suspicion if not selfknowledge,
a sense of people as automatons to
his will, a desire to “pass” as many boys as
possible and get to a vague top of the world . . .
with this background did Amory drift into
adolescence.
PREPARATORY TO THE
GREAT ADVENTURE
The train slowed up with midsummer languor
at Lake Geneva, and Amory caught sight of his
mother waiting in her electric on the gravelled
station drive. It was an ancient electric, one of
the early types, and painted gray. The sight of
her sitting there, slenderly erect, and of her
face, where beauty and dignity combined,
melting to a dreamy recollected smile, filled
him with a sudden great pride of her. As they
kissed coolly and he stepped into the electric, he
felt a quick fear lest he had lost the requisite
charm to measure up to her.
© 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate. 156
“Dear boy—you’re so tall . . . look behind and
see if there’s anything coming . . . ”
She looked left and right, she slipped cautiously
into a speed of two miles an hour, beseeching
Amory to act as sentinel; and at one busy
crossing she made him get out and run ahead to
signal her forward like a traffic policeman.
Beatrice was what might be termed a careful
driver.
“You are tall—but you’re still very handsome—
you’ve skipped the awkward age, or is that
sixteen; perhaps it’s fourteen or fifteen; I can
never remember; but you’ve skipped it.”
“Don’t embarrass me,” murmured Amory.
“But, my dear boy, what odd clothes! They look
as if they were a set— don’t they? Is your
underwear purple, too?”
Amory grunted impolitely.
“You must go to Brooks’ and get some really nice
suits. Oh, we’ll have a talk to-night or perhaps
to-morrow night. I want to tell you about your
heart—you’ve probably been neglecting your
heart—and you don’t know.”
Amory thought how superficial was the recent
overlay of his own generation. Aside from a
minute shyness, he felt that the old cynical
kinship with his mother had not been one bit
broken. Yet for the first few days he wandered
about the gardens and along the shore in a state
of superloneliness, finding a lethargic content
in smoking “Bull” at the garage with one of the
chauffeurs.
The sixty acres of the estate were dotted with
old and new summer houses and many
fountains and white benches that came
suddenly into sight from foliage-hung hidingplaces;
there was a great and constantly
increasing family of white cats that prowled the
many flower-beds and were silhouetted
suddenly at night against the darkening trees.
It was on one of the shadowy paths that
Beatrice at last captured Amory, after Mr.
Blaine had, as usual, retired for the evening to
his private library. After reproving him for
avoiding her, she took him for a long tete-a-tete
in the moonlight. He could not reconcile
himself to her beauty, that was mother to his
own, the exquisite neck and shoulders, the
grace of a fortunate woman of thirty.
“Amory, dear,” she crooned softly, “I had such a
strange, weird time after I left you.”
“Did you, Beatrice?”
“When I had my last breakdown”—she spoke of
it as a sturdy, gallant feat.
“The doctors told me”—her voice sang on a
confidential note—“that if any man alive had
done the consistent drinking that I have, he
would have been physically shattered, my dear,
and in his grave—long in his grave.”
Amory winced, and wondered how this would
have sounded to Froggy Parker.
“Yes,” continued Beatrice tragically, “I had
dreams—wonderful visions.” She pressed the
palms of her hands into her eyes. “I saw bronze
rivers lapping marble shores, and great birds
that soared through the air, parti-colored birds
with iridescent plumage. I heard strange music
and the flare of barbaric trumpets—what?”
Amory had snickered.
“What, Amory?”
“I said go on, Beatrice.”
“That was all—it merely recurred and
recurred—gardens that flaunted coloring
against which this would be quite dull, moons
that whirled and swayed, paler than winter
moons, more golden than harvest moons—”
“Are you quite well now, Beatrice?”
“Quite well—as well as I will ever be. I am not
understood, Amory. I know that can’t express it
to you, Amory, but—I am not understood.”
Amory was quite moved. He put his arm
around his mother, rubbing his head gently
against her shoulder.
“Poor Beatrice—poor Beatrice.”
“Tell me about you, Amory. Did you have two
horrible years?”
Amory considered lying, and then decided
against it.
“No, Beatrice. I enjoyed them. I adapted
myself to the bourgeoisie. I became
conventional.” He surprised himself by saying
that, and he pictured how Froggy would have
gaped.
“Beatrice,” he said suddenly, “I want to go away
to school. Everybody in Minneapolis is going to
go away to school.”
Beatrice showed some alarm.
“But you’re only fifteen.”
“Yes, but everybody goes away to school at
fifteen, and I want to, Beatrice.”
On Beatrice’s suggestion the subject was
dropped for the rest of the walk, but a week
later she delighted him by saying:
“Amory, I have decided to let you have your way.
If you still want to, you can go to school.”
“Yes?”
“To St. Regis’s in Connecticut.”
Amory felt a quick excitement.
“It’s being arranged,” continued Beatrice. “It’s
better that you should go away. I’d have
preferred you to have gone to Eton, and then to
Christ Church, Oxford, but it seems
impracticable now—and for the present we’ll let
the university question take care of itself.”
“What are you going to do, Beatrice?”
“Heaven knows. It seems my fate to fret away
my years in this country. Not for a second do I
regret being American—indeed, I think that a
regret typical of very vulgar people, and I feel
sure we are the great coming nation—yet”—and
she sighed—“I feel my life should have drowsed
away close to an older, mellower civilization, a
land of greens and autumnal browns—”
Amory did not answer, so his mother continued:
“My regret is that you haven’t been abroad, but
still, as you are a man, it’s better that you
should grow up here under the snarling eagle—
is that the right term?”
Amory agreed that it was. She would not have
appreciated the Japanese invasion.
“When do I go to school?”
“Next month. You’ll have to start East a little
early to take your examinations. After that
you’ll have a free week, so I want you to go up
the Hudson and pay a visit.”
“To who?”
“To Monsignor Darcy, Amory. He wants to see
you. He went to Harrow and then to Yale—
became a Catholic. I want him to talk to you—
I feel he can be such a help—” She stroked his
auburn hair gently. “Dear Amory, dear
Amory—”
“Dear Beatrice—”
* * * *
So early in September Amory, provided with
“six suits summer underwear, six suits winter
underwear, one sweater or T shirt, one jersey,
one overcoat, winter, etc.,” set out for New
England, the land of schools.
There were Andover and Exeter with their
memories of New England dead— large,
college-like democracies; St. Mark’s, Groton, St.
Regis’— recruited from Boston and the
Knickerbocker families of New York; St. Paul’s,
with its great rinks; Pomfret and St. George’s,
prosperous and well-dressed; Taft and
Hotchkiss, which prepared the wealth of the
Middle West for social success at Yale; Pawling,
Westminster, Choate, Kent, and a hundred
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© 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate. 158
others; all milling out their well-set-up,
conventional, impressive type, year after year;
their mental stimulus the college entrance
exams; their vague purpose set forth in a
hundred circulars as “To impart a Thorough
Mental, Moral, and Physical Training as a
Christian Gentleman, to fit the boy for meeting
the problems of his day and generation, and to
give a solid foundation in the Arts and
Sciences.”
At St. Regis’ Amory stayed three days and took
his exams with a scoffing confidence, then
doubling back to New York to pay his tutelary
visit. The metropolis, barely glimpsed, made
little impression on him, except for the sense of
cleanliness he drew from the tall white
buildings seen from a Hudson River steamboat
in the early morning. Indeed, his mind was so
crowded with dreams of athletic prowess at
school that he considered this visit only as a
rather tiresome prelude to the great adventure.
This, however, it did not prove to be.
Monsignor Darcy’s house was an ancient,
rambling structure set on a hill overlooking the
river, and there lived its owner, between his
trips to all parts of the Roman-Catholic world,
rather like an exiled Stuart king waiting to be
called to the rule of his land. Monsignor was
forty-four then, and bustling—a trifle too stout
for symmetry, with hair the color of spun gold,
and a brilliant, enveloping personality. When
he came into a room clad in his full purple
regalia from thatch to toe, he resembled a
Turner sunset, and attracted both admiration
and attention. He had written two novels: one
of them violently anti-Catholic, just before his
conversion, and five years later another, in
which he had attempted to turn all his clever
jibes against Catholics into even cleverer
innuendoes against Episcopalians. He was
intensely ritualistic, startlingly dramatic, loved
the idea of God enough to be a celibate, and
rather liked his neighbor.
Children adored him because he was like a
child; youth revelled in his company because he
was still a youth, and couldn’t be shocked. In
the proper land and century he might have been
a Richelieu—at present he was a very moral,
very religious (if not particularly pious)
clergyman, making a great mystery about
pulling rusty wires, and appreciating life to the
fullest, if not entirely enjoying it.
He and Amory took to each other at first sight—
the jovial, impressive prelate who could dazzle
an embassy ball, and the green-eyed, intent
youth, in his first long trousers, accepted in
their own minds a relation of father and son
within a half-hour’s conversation.
“My dear boy, I’ve been waiting to see you for
years. Take a big chair and we’ll have a chat.”
“I’ve just come from school—St. Regis’s, you
know.”
“So your mother says—a remarkable woman;
have a cigarette—I’m sure you smoke. Well, if
you’re like me, you loathe all science and
mathematics—”
Amory nodded vehemently.
“Hate ‘em all. Like English and history.”
“Of course. You’ll hate school for a while, too,
but I’m glad you’re going to St. Regis’s.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s a gentleman’s school, and
democracy won’t hit you so early. You’ll find
plenty of that in college.”
“I want to go to Princeton,” said Amory. “I don’t
know why, but I think of all Harvard men as
sissies, like I used to be, and all Yale men as
wearing big blue sweaters and smoking pipes.”
Monsignor chuckled.
“I’m one, you know.”
“Oh, you’re different—I think of Princeton as
being lazy and good- looking and aristocratic—
you know, like a spring day. Harvard seems
sort of indoors—”
“And Yale is November, crisp and energetic,”
finished Monsignor.
“That’s it.”
They slipped briskly into an intimacy from
which they never recovered.
“I was for Bonnie Prince Charlie,” announced
Amory.
“Of course you were—and for Hannibal—”
“Yes, and for the Southern Confederacy.” He
was rather sceptical about being an Irish
patriot—he suspected that being Irish was
being somewhat common—but Monsignor
assured him that Ireland was a romantic lost
cause and Irish people quite charming, and that
it should, by all means, be one of his principal
biasses.
After a crowded hour which included several
more cigarettes, and during which Monsignor
learned, to his surprise but not to his horror,
that Amory had not been brought up a Catholic,
he announced that he had another guest. This
turned out to be the Honorable Thornton
Hancock, of Boston, ex-minister to The Hague,
author of an erudite history of the Middle Ages
and the last of a distinguished, patriotic, and
brilliant family.
“He comes here for a rest,” said Monsignor
confidentially, treating Amory as a
contemporary. “I act as an escape from the
weariness of agnosticism, and I think I’m the
only man who knows how his staid old mind is
really at sea and longs for a sturdy spar like the
Church to cling to.”
Their first luncheon was one of the memorable
events of Amory’s early life. He was quite
radiant and gave off a peculiar brightness and
charm. Monsignor called out the best that he
had thought by question and suggestion, and
Amory talked with an ingenious brilliance of a
thousand impulses and desires and repulsions
and faiths and fears. He and Monsignor held
the floor, and the older man, with his less
receptive, less accepting, yet certainly not
colder mentality, seemed content to listen and
bask in the mellow sunshine that played
between these two. Monsignor gave the effect of
sunlight to many people; Amory gave it in his
youth and, to some extent, when he was very
much older, but never again was it quite so
mutually spontaneous.
“He’s a radiant boy,” thought Thornton
Hancock, who had seen the splendor of two
continents and talked with Parnell and
Gladstone and Bismarck— and afterward he
added to Monsignor: “But his education ought
not to be intrusted to a school or college.”
But for the next four years the best of Amory’s
intellect was concentrated on matters of
popularity, the intricacies of a university social
system and American Society as represented by
Biltmore Teas and Hot Springs golf-links.
. . . In all, a wonderful week, that saw Amory’s
mind turned inside out, a hundred of his
theories confirmed, and his joy of life
crystallized to a thousand ambitions. Not that
the conversation was scholastic—heaven forbid!
Amory had only the vaguest idea as to what
Bernard Shaw was— but Monsignor made
quite as much out of “The Beloved Vagabond”
and “Sir Nigel,” taking good care that Amory
never once felt out of his depth.
But the trumpets were sounding for Amory’s
preliminary skirmish with his own generation.
“You’re not sorry to go, of course. With people
like us our home is where we are not,” said
Monsignor.
“I am sorry—”
“No, you’re not. No one person in the world is
necessary to you or to me.”
“Well—”
“Good-by.”
* * * *
THE EGOTIST DOWN
Amory’s two years at St. Regis’, though in turn
painful and triumphant, had as little real
significance in his own life as the American
“prep” school, crushed as it is under the heel of
the universities, has to American life in general.
We have no Eton to create the selfconsciousness
of a governing class; we have,
instead, clean, flaccid and innocuous
preparatory schools.
He went all wrong at the start, was generally
considered both conceited and arrogant, and
universally detested. He played football
intensely, alternating a reckless brilliancy with
a tendency to keep himself as safe from hazard
as decency would permit. In a wild panic he
backed out of a fight with a boy his own size, to
a chorus of scorn, and a week later, in
desperation, picked a battle with another boy
very much bigger, from which he emerged badly
beaten, but rather proud of himself.
He was resentful against all those in authority
over him, and this, combined with a lazy
indifference toward his work, exasperated every
master in school. He grew discouraged and
imagined himself a pariah; took to sulking in
corners and reading after lights. With a dread
of being alone he attached a few friends, but
since they were not among the elite of the
school, he used them simply as mirrors of
himself, audiences before which he might do
that posing absolutely essential to him. He was
unbearably lonely, desperately unhappy.
There were some few grains of comfort.
Whenever Amory was submerged, his vanity
was the last part to go below the surface, so he
could still enjoy a comfortable glow when
“Wookey-wookey,” the deaf old housekeeper,
told him that he was the best-looking boy she
had ever seen. It had pleased him to be the
lightest and youngest man on the first football
squad; it pleased him when Doctor Dougall told
him at the end of a heated conference that he
could, if he wished, get the best marks in school.
But Doctor Dougall was wrong. It was
temperamentally impossible for Amory to get
the best marks in school.
Miserable, confined to bounds, unpopular with
both faculty and students— that was Amory’s
first term. But at Christmas he had returned to
Minneapolis, tight-lipped and strangely
jubilant.
“Oh, I was sort of fresh at first,” he told Frog
Parker patronizingly, “but I got along fine—
lightest man on the squad. You ought to go
away to school, Froggy. It’s great stuff.”
1. Count Del Monte is Amory’s
a. father.2. Monsignor Darcy is horrified that Amory
b. brother.
c. cousin.
d. dog.
a. wishes to go to Princeton.
b. smokes cigarettes.
c. doesn’t have a girlfriend.
d. wasn’t brought up as a Catholic.
3. Read the sentence and then select, from the choices below, the word(s) closest in meaning to the
word in bold-faced type.
He grew discouraged and imagined himself a pariah; took to sulking in corners and reading
after lights.
a. a social outcast4. From the information given in the opening paragraphs of the passage, what can you say
b. royalty
c. a famous figure
d. a criminal
about Amory and his tastes and preferences?
5. Interpret this quote:
. . . and when faces of the throng turned toward him and ambiguous eyes stared into his, he
assumed the most romantic of expressions and walked on the air cushions that lie on the
asphalts of fourteen.
161 © 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate.
6. Read the following quote:
It was always the becoming he dreamed of, never the being.
What does it mean to you? Do you think a lot of people are as Amory was? Why?
© 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate. 162
7. Explain the way that Amory sees himself in terms of his appearance, intelligence, and social
skills.
8. Describe Amory’s mother. Explain the nature of his relationship with her. Give an example
from the story that supports your response.
163 © 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate.
9. Who is Monsignor Darcy? Discuss his affect and appearance. What role does he play in
Amory’s life?
10. Tell about Amory’s experience at St. Regis. How did it go for him? Did he enjoy it? Was he
well-liked?
© 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate. 164
11. What do the closing lines in which he advises his friend, Froggy, tell you about him?
165 © 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate.
MAIN STREET
by Sinclair Lewis
CHAPTER I
I
ON a hill by the Mississippi where Chippewas
camped two generations ago, a girl stood in
relief against the cornflower blue of Northern
sky. She saw no Indians now; she saw flourmills
and the blinking windows of skyscrapers
in Minneapolis and St. Paul. Nor was she
thinking of squaws and portages, and the
Yankee fur-traders whose shadows were all
about her. She was meditating upon walnut
fudge, the plays of Brieux, the reasons why
heels run over, and the fact that the chemistry
instructor had stared at the new coiffure which
concealed her ears.
A breeze which had crossed a thousand miles of
wheat-lands bellied her taffeta skirt in a line so
graceful, so full of animation and moving
beauty, that the heart of a chance watcher on
the lower road tightened to wistfulness over her
quality of suspended freedom. She lifted her
arms, she leaned back against the wind, her
skirt dipped and flared, a lock blew wild. A girl
on a hilltop; credulous, plastic, young; drinking
the air as she longed to drink life. The eternal
aching comedy of expectant youth.
It is Carol Milford, fleeing for an hour from
Blodgett College.
The days of pioneering, of lassies in
sunbonnets, and bears killed with axes in piney
clearings, are deader now than Camelot; and a
rebellious girl is the spirit of that bewildered
empire called the American Middlewest.
II
Blodgett College is on the edge of Minneapolis.
It is a bulwark of sound religion. It is still
combating the recent heresies of Voltaire,
Darwin, and Robert Ingersoll. Pious families in
Minnesota, Iowa, Wisconsin, the Dakotas send
their children thither, and Blodgett protects
them from the wickedness of the universities.
But it secretes friendly girls, young men who
sing, and one lady instructress who really likes
Milton and Carlyle. So the four years which
Carol spent at Blodgett were not altogether
wasted. The smallness of the school, the
fewness of rivals, permitted her to experiment
with her perilous versatility. She played tennis,
gave chafing-dish parties, took a graduate
seminar in the drama, went “twosing,” and
joined half a dozen societies for the practise of
the arts or the tense stalking of a thing called
General Culture.
In her class there were two or three prettier
girls, but none more eager. She was noticeable
equally in the classroom grind and at dances,
though out of the three hundred students of
Blodgett, scores recited more accurately and
dozens Bostoned more smoothly. Every cell of
her body was alive—thin wrists, quinceblossom
skin, ingenue eyes, black hair.
The other girls in her dormitory marveled at
the slightness of her body when they saw her in
sheer negligee, or darting out wet from a
shower-bath. She seemed then but half as large
as they had supposed; a fragile child who must
be cloaked with understanding kindness.
“Psychic,” the girls whispered, and “spiritual.”
Yet so radioactive were her nerves, so
adventurous her trust in rather vaguely
conceived sweetness and light, that she was
more energetic than any of the hulking young
women who, with calves bulging in heavyribbed
woolen stockings beneath decorous blue
serge bloomers, thuddingly galloped across the
floor of the “gym” in practise for the Blodgett
Ladies’ Basket-Ball Team.
Even when she was tired her dark eyes were
observant. She did not yet know the immense
ability of the world to be casually cruel and
proudly dull, but if she should ever learn those
dismaying powers, her eyes would never
become sullen or heavy or rheumily amorous.
For all her enthusiasms, for all the fondness
and the “crushes” which she inspired, Carol’s
acquaintances were shy of her. When she was
most ardently singing hymns or planning
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deviltry she yet seemed gently aloof and
critical. She was credulous, perhaps; a born
hero-worshipper; yet she did question and
examine unceasingly. Whatever she might
become she would never be static.
Her versatility ensnared her. By turns she
hoped to discover that she had an unusual
voice, a talent for the piano, the ability to act, to
write, to manage organizations. Always she was
disappointed, but always she effervesced
anew—over the Student Volunteers, who
intended to become missionaries, over painting
scenery for the dramatic club, over soliciting
advertisements for the college magazine.
She was on the peak that Sunday afternoon
when she played in chapel. Out of the dusk her
violin took up the organ theme, and the candlelight
revealed her in a straight golden frock, her
arm arched to the bow, her lips serious. Every
man fell in love then with religion and Carol.
Throughout Senior year she anxiously related
all her experiments and partial successes to a
career. Daily, on the library steps or in the hall
of the Main Building, the co-eds talked of “What
shall we do when we finish college?” Even the
girls who knew that they were going to be
married pretended to be considering important
business positions; even they who knew that
they would have to work hinted about fabulous
suitors. As for Carol, she was an orphan; her
only near relative was a vanilla-flavored sister
married to an optician in St. Paul. She had used
most of the money from her father’s estate. She
was not in love—that is, not often, nor ever long
at a time. She would earn her living.
But how she was to earn it, how she was to
conquer the world—almost entirely for the
world’s own good—she did not see. Most of the
girls who were not betrothed meant to be
teachers. Of these there were two sorts: careless
young women who admitted that they intended
to leave the “beastly classroom and grubby
children” the minute they had a chance to
marry; and studious, sometimes bulbousbrowed
and pop-eyed maidens who at class
prayer-meetings requested God to “guide their
feet along the paths of greatest usefulness.”
Neither sort tempted Carol. The former seemed
insincere (a favorite word of hers at this era).
The earnest virgins were, she fancied, as likely
to do harm as to do good by their faith in the
value of parsing Caesar.
At various times during Senior year Carol
finally decided upon studying law, writing
motion-picture scenarios, professional nursing,
and marrying an unidentified hero.
Then she found a hobby in sociology.
The sociology instructor was new. He was
married, and therefore taboo, but he had come
from Boston, he had lived among poets and
socialists and Jews and millionaire uplifters at
the University Settlement in New York, and he
had a beautiful white strong neck. He led a
giggling class through the prisons, the charity
bureaus, the employment agencies of
Minneapolis and St. Paul. Trailing at the end of
the line Carol was indignant at the prodding
curiosity of the others, their manner of staring
at the poor as at a Zoo. She felt herself a great
liberator. She put her hand to her mouth, her
forefinger and thumb quite painfully pinching
her lower lip, and frowned, and enjoyed being
aloof.
A classmate named Stewart Snyder, a
competent bulky young man in a gray flannel
shirt, a rusty black bow tie, and the green-andpurple
class cap, grumbled to her as they
walked behind the others in the muck of the
South St. Paul stockyards, “These college
chumps make me tired. They’re so top-lofty.
They ought to of worked on the farm, the way I
have. These workmen put it all over them.”
“I just love common workmen,” glowed Carol.
“Only you don’t want to forget that common
workmen don’t think they’re common!”
“You’re right! I apologize!” Carol’s brows lifted
in the astonishment of emotion, in a glory of
abasement. Her eyes mothered the world.
Stewart Snyder peered at her. He rammed his
large red fists into his pockets, he jerked them
out, he resolutely got rid of them by clenching
his hands behind him, and he stammered:
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“I know. You get people. Most of these darn coeds——
Say, Carol, you could do a lot for people.”
“Oh—oh well—you know—sympathy and
everything—if you were—say you were a
lawyer’s wife. You’d understand his clients. I’m
going to be a lawyer. I admit I fall down in
sympathy sometimes. I get so dog-gone
impatient with people that can’t stand the gaff.
You’d be good for a fellow that was too serious.
Make him more—more—you know—
sympathetic!”
His slightly pouting lips, his mastiff eyes, were
begging her to beg him to go on. She fled from
the steam-roller of his sentiment. She cried,
“Oh, see those poor sheep—millions and
millions of them.” She darted on.
Stewart was not interesting. He hadn’t a
shapely white neck, and he had never lived
among celebrated reformers. She wanted, just
now, to have a cell in a settlement-house, like a
nun without the bother of a black robe, and be
kind, and read Bernard Shaw, and enormously
improve a horde of grateful poor.
The supplementary reading in sociology led her
to a book on village-improvement—treeplanting,
town pageants, girls’ clubs. It had
pictures of greens and garden-walls in France,
New England, Pennsylvania. She had picked it
up carelessly, with a slight yawn which she
patted down with her finger-tips as delicately
as a cat.
She dipped into the book, lounging on her
window-seat, with her slim, lisle-stockinged
legs crossed, and her knees up under her chin.
She stroked a satin pillow while she read. About
her was the clothy exuberance of a Blodgett
College room: cretonne-covered window-seat,
photographs of girls, a carbon print of the
Coliseum, a chafing-dish, and a dozen pillows
embroidered or beaded or pyrographed.
Shockingly out of place was a miniature of the
Dancing Bacchante. It was the only trace of
Carol in the room. She had inherited the rest
from generations of girl students.
It was as a part of all this commonplaceness
that she regarded the treatise on villageimprovement.
But she suddenly stopped
fidgeting. She strode into the book. She had fled
half-way through it before the three o’clock bell
called her to the class in English history.
She sighed, “That’s what I’ll do after college! I’ll
get my hands on one of these prairie towns and
make it beautiful. Be an inspiration. I suppose
I’d better become a teacher then, but—I won’t
be that kind of a teacher. I won’t drone. Why
should they have all the garden suburbs on
Long Island? Nobody has done anything with
the ugly towns here in the Northwest except
hold revivals and build libraries to contain the
Elsie books. I’ll make ‘em put in a village green,
and darling cottages, and a quaint Main
Street!”
Thus she triumphed through the class, which
was a typical Blodgett contest between a dreary
teacher and unwilling children of twenty, won
by the teacher because his opponents had to
answer his questions, while their treacherous
queries he could counter by demanding, “Have
you looked that up in the library? Well then,
suppose you do!”
The history instructor was a retired minister.
He was sarcastic today. He begged of sporting
young Mr. Charley Holmberg, “Now Charles,
would it interrupt your undoubtedly fascinating
pursuit of that malevolent fly if I were to ask
you to tell us that you do not know anything
about King John?” He spent three delightful
minutes in assuring himself of the fact that no
one exactly remembered the date of Magna
Charta.
Carol did not hear him. She was completing the
roof of a half-timbered town hall. She had found
one man in the prairie village who did not
appreciate her picture of winding streets and
arcades, but she had assembled the town
council and dramatically defeated him.
III
Though she was Minnesota-born Carol was not
an intimate of the prairie villages. Her father,
the smiling and shabby, the learned and
teasingly kind, had come from Massachusetts,
and through all her childhood he had been a
judge in Mankato, which is not a prairie town,
but in its garden-sheltered streets and aisles of
elms is white and green New England reborn.
Mankato lies between cliffs and the Minnesota
River, hard by Traverse des Sioux, where the
first settlers made treaties with the Indians,
and the cattle-rustlers once came galloping
before hell-for-leather posses.
As she climbed along the banks of the dark
river Carol listened to its fables about the wide
land of yellow waters and bleached buffalo
bones to the West; the Southern levees and
singing darkies and palm trees toward which it
was forever mysteriously gliding; and she heard
again the startled bells and thick puffing of
high-stacked river steamers wrecked on sandreefs
sixty years ago. Along the decks she saw
missionaries, gamblers in tall pot hats, and
Dakota chiefs with scarlet blankets. . . . Far off
whistles at night, round the river bend,
plunking paddles reechoed by the pines, and a
glow on black sliding waters.
Carol’s family were self-sufficient in their
inventive life, with Christmas a rite full of
surprises and tenderness, and “dressing-up
parties” spontaneous and joyously absurd. The
beasts in the Milford hearth-mythology were
not the obscene Night Animals who jump out of
closets and eat little girls, but beneficent and
bright-eyed creatures—the tam htab, who is
woolly and blue and lives in the bathroom, and
runs rapidly to warm small feet; the
ferruginous oil stove, who purrs and knows
stories; and the skitamarigg, who will play with
children before breakfast if they spring out of
bed and close the window at the very first line
of the song about puellas which father sings
while shaving.
Judge Milford’s pedagogical scheme was to let
the children read whatever they pleased, and in
his brown library Carol absorbed Balzac and
Rabelais and Thoreau and Max Muller. He
gravely taught them the letters on the backs of
the encyclopedias, and when polite visitors
asked about the mental progress of the “little
ones,” they were horrified to hear the children
earnestly repeating A-And, And-Aus, Aus-Bis,
Bis-Cal, Cal-Cha.
Carol’s mother died when she was nine. Her
father retired from the judiciary when she was
eleven, and took the family to Minneapolis.
There he died, two years after. Her sister, a
busy proper advisory soul, older than herself,
had become a stranger to her even when they
lived in the same house.
From those early brown and silver days and
from her independence of relatives Carol
retained a willingness to be different from brisk
efficient book-ignoring people; an instinct to
observe and wonder at their bustle even when
she was taking part in it. But, she felt
approvingly, as she discovered her career of
town-planning, she was now roused to being
brisk and efficient herself.
IV
In a month Carol’s ambition had clouded. Her
hesitancy about becoming a teacher had
returned. She was not, she worried, strong
enough to endure the routine, and she could not
picture herself standing before grinning
children and pretending to be wise and decisive.
But the desire for the creation of a beautiful
town remained. When she encountered an item
about small-town women’s clubs or a
photograph of a straggling Main Street, she was
homesick for it, she felt robbed of her work.
It was the advice of the professor of English
which led her to study professional library-work
in a Chicago school. Her imagination carved
and colored the new plan. She saw herself
persuading children to read charming fairy
tales, helping young men to find books on
mechanics, being ever so courteous to old men
who were hunting for newspapers—the light of
the library, an authority on books, invited to
dinners with poets and explorers, reading a
paper to an association of distinguished
scholars.
The last faculty reception before
commencement. In five days they would be in
the cyclone of final examinations.
The house of the president had been massed
with palms suggestive of polite undertaking
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parlors, and in the library, a ten-foot room with
a globe and the portraits of Whittier and
Martha Washington, the student orchestra was
playing “Carmen” and “Madame Butterfly.”
Carol was dizzy with music and the emotions of
parting. She saw the palms as a jungle, the
pink-shaded electric globes as an opaline haze,
and the eye-glassed faculty as Olympians. She
was melancholy at sight of the mousey girls
with whom she had “always intended to get
acquainted,” and the half dozen young men who
were ready to fall in love with her.
But it was Stewart Snyder whom she
encouraged. He was so much manlier than the
others; he was an even warm brown, like his
new ready-made suit with its padded shoulders.
She sat with him, and with two cups of coffee
and a chicken patty, upon a pile of presidential
overshoes in the coat-closet under the stairs,
and as the thin music seeped in, Stewart
whispered:
“I can’t stand it, this breaking up after four
years! The happiest years of life.”
She believed it. “Oh, I know! To think that in
just a few days we’ll be parting, and we’ll never
see some of the bunch again!”
“Carol, you got to listen to me! You always duck
when I try to talk seriously to you, but you got
to listen to me. I’m going to be a big lawyer,
maybe a judge, and I need you, and I’d protect
you——”
His arm slid behind her shoulders. The
insinuating music drained her independence.
She said mournfully, “Would you take care of
me?” She touched his hand. It was warm, solid.
“You bet I would! We’d have, Lord, we’d have
bully times in Yankton, where I’m going to
settle——”
“But I want to do something with life.”
“What’s better than making a comfy home and
bringing up some cute kids and knowing nice
homey people?”
It was the immemorial male reply to the
restless woman. Thus to the young Sappho
spake the melon-venders; thus the captains to
Zenobia; and in the damp cave over gnawed
bones the hairy suitor thus protested to the
woman advocate of matriarchy. In the dialect of
Blodgett College but with the voice of Sappho
was Carol’s answer:
“Of course. I know. I suppose that’s so. Honestly,
I do love children. But there’s lots of women
that can do housework, but I—well, if you have
got a college education, you ought to use it for
the world.”
“I know, but you can use it just as well in the
home. And gee, Carol, just think of a bunch of
us going out on an auto picnic, some nice spring
evening.”
“Yes.”
“And sleigh-riding in winter, and going
fishing——”
Blarrrrrrr! The orchestra had crashed into the
“Soldiers’ Chorus”; and she was protesting, “No!
No! You’re a dear, but I want to do things. I don’t
understand myself but I want—everything in
the world! Maybe I can’t sing or write, but I
know I can be an influence in library work. Just
suppose I encouraged some boy and he became
a great artist! I will! I will do it! Stewart dear, I
can’t settle down to nothing but dish-washing!”
Two minutes later—two hectic minutes—they
were disturbed by an embarrassed couple also
seeking the idyllic seclusion of the overshoecloset.
After graduation she never saw Stewart Snyder
again. She wrote to him once a week—for one
month.
1. Read the sentences and select, from the choices below, the word(s) closest in meaning to the
word in bold-faced type.
Blodgett College is on the edge of Minneapolis. It is a bulwark of sound religion.
a. hideout
b. wall of defense
c. cult
d. deep cavern
2. Which literary element is used in the following line from the story?
She fled from the steam-roller of his sentiment.
a. irony
b. metaphor
c. resolution
d. alliteration
3. In Carol’s family stories, a “tam htab” is a
a. monster who lives in the closet.
b. wild beats from the African jungle.
c. wooly creature who lives in the bathroom and warms up cold feet.
d. pet dragon whose job it is to frighten away nightmares.
4. The opening paragraphs of the passage grab the reader’s attention. Explain how this
happens. What approach does the author use to generate interest?
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5. What was physically striking about Carol Milford? To what was she compared? What could
be said about Carol’s personality and spirit?
6. How does Carol feel about teaching as a career? How do you know? Give at least one example
form the story that supports your response.
© 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate. 172
7. Throughout her college career, Carol struggled over the idea of what she should do with her
future. What did she finally decide to do and why?
173 © 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate.
8. Read and discuss the following group of lines from the story. Who is speaking? What can you
surmise from their conversation? Do they want the same things out of life? Do they have the
same ideals? Explain.
She said mournfully, “Would you take care of me?” She touched his hand. It was warm, solid.
“You bet I would! We’d have, Lord, we’d have bully times in Yankton, where I’m going to
settle——”
“But I want to do something with life.”
“What’s better than making a comfy home and bringing up some cute kids and knowing nice
homey people?”
It was the immemorial male reply to the restless woman.
© 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate. 174
THREE SOLDIERS
by John Dos Passos
I
The company stood at attention, each man
looking straight before him at the empty parade
ground, where the cinder piles showed purple
with evening. On the wind that smelt of
barracks and disinfectant there was a faint
greasiness of food cooking. At the other side of
the wide field long lines of men shuffled slowly
into the narrow wooden shanty that was the
mess hall. Chins down, chests out, legs
twitching and tired from the afternoon’s
drilling, the company stood at attention. Each
man stared straight in front of him, some
vacantly with resignation, some trying to
amuse themselves by noting minutely every
object in their field of vision,—the cinder piles,
the long shadows of the barracks and mess halls
where they could see men standing about,
spitting, smoking, leaning against clapboard
walls. Some of the men in line could hear their
watches ticking in their pockets.
Someone moved, his feet making a crunching
noise in the cinders.
The sergeant’s voice snarled out: “You men are
at attention. Quit yer wrigglin’ there, you!”
The men nearest the offender looked at him out
of the corners of their eyes.
Two officers, far out on the parade ground, were
coming towards them. By their gestures and the
way they walked, the men at attention could see
that they were chatting about something that
amused them. One of the officers laughed
boyishly, turned away and walked slowly back
across the parade ground. The other, who was
the lieutenant, came towards them smiling. As
he approached his company, the smile left his
lips and he advanced his chin, walking with
heavy precise steps.
“Sergeant, you may dismiss the company.” The
lieutenant’s voice was pitched in a hard staccato.
The sergeant’s hand snapped up to salute like a
block signal. “Companee dis . . . missed,” he
rang out.
The row of men in khaki became a crowd of
various individuals with dusty boots and dusty
faces. Ten minutes later they lined up and
marched in a column of fours to mess. A few red
filaments of electric lights gave a dusty glow in
the brownish obscurity where the long tables
and benches and the board floors had a faint
smell of garbage mingled with the smell of the
disinfectant the tables had been washed off
with after the last meal. The men, holding their
oval mess kits in front of them, filed by the
great tin buckets at the door, out of which meat
and potatoes were splashed into each plate by a
sweating K.P. in blue denims.
“Don’t look so bad tonight,” said Fuselli to the
man opposite him as he hitched his sleeves up
at the wrists and leaned over his steaming food.
He was sturdy, with curly hair and full vigorous
lips that he smacked hungrily as he ate.
“It ain’t,” said the pink flaxen-haired youth
opposite him, who wore his broad-brimmed hat
on the side of his head with a certain
jauntiness:
“I got a pass tonight,” said Fuselli, tilting his
head vainly.
“Goin’ to tear things up?”
“Man . . . I got a girl at home back in Frisco.
She’s a good kid.”
“Yer right not to go with any of the girls in this
goddam town. . . . They ain’t clean, none of ‘em.
. . . That is if ye want to go overseas.”
The flaxen-haired youth leaned across the table
earnestly.
“I’m goin’ to git some more chow: Wait for me,
will yer?” said Fuselli.
“What yer going to do down town?” asked the
flaxen-haired youth when Fuselli came back.
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“Dunno,—run round a bit an’ go to the movies,”
he answered, filling his mouth with potato.
“Gawd, it’s time fer retreat.” They overheard a
voice behind them.
Fuselli stuffed his mouth as full as he could and
emptied the rest of his meal reluctantly into the
garbage pail.
A few moments later he stood stiffly at
attention in a khaki row that was one of
hundreds of other khaki rows, identical, that
filled all sides of the parade ground, while the
bugle blew somewhere at the other end where
the flag-pole was. Somehow it made him think
of the man behind the desk in the office of the
draft board who had said, handing him the
papers sending him to camp, “I wish I was going
with you,” and had held out a white bony hand
that Fuselli, after a moment’s hesitation, had
taken in his own stubby brown hand. The man
had added fervently, “It must be grand, just
grand, to feel the danger, the chance of being
potted any minute. Good luck, young feller. . . .
Good luck.” Fuselli remembered unpleasantly
his paper-white face and the greenish look of
his bald head; but the words had made him
stride out of the office sticking out his chest,
brushing truculently past a group of men in the
door. Even now the memory of it, mixing with
the strains of the national anthem made him
feel important, truculent.
“Squads right!” same an order. Crunch, crunch,
crunch in the gravel. The companies were going
back to their barracks. He wanted to smile but
he didn’t dare. He wanted to smile because he
had a pass till midnight, because in ten minutes
he’d be outside the gates, outside the green
fence and the sentries and the strands of barbed
wire. Crunch, crunch, crunch; oh, they were so
slow in getting back to the barracks and he was
losing time, precious free minutes. “Hep, hep,
hep,” cried the sergeant, glaring down the
ranks, with his aggressive bulldog expression,
to where someone had fallen out of step.
The company stood at attention in the dusk.
Fuselli was biting the inside of his lips with
impatience. Minutes at last, as if reluctantly,
the sergeant sang out:
“Dis . . . missed.”
Fuselli hurried towards the gate, brandishing
his pass with an important swagger.
Once out on the asphalt of the street, he looked
down the long row of lawns and porches where
violet arc lamps already contested the faint
afterglow, drooping from their iron stalks far
above the recently planted saplings of the
avenue. He stood at the corner slouched against
a telegraph pole, with the camp fence,
surmounted by three strands of barbed wire,
behind him, wondering which way he would go.
This was a hell of a town anyway. And he used
to think he wanted to travel round and see
places.—“Home’ll be good enough for me after
this,” he muttered. Walking down the long
street towards the centre of town, where was
the moving-picture show, he thought of his
home, of the dark apartment on the ground
floor of a seven-storey house where his aunt
lived. “Gee, she used to cook swell,” he
murmured regretfully.
On a warm evening like this he would have
stood round at the corner where the drugstore
was, talking to fellows he knew, giggling when
the girls who lived in the street, walking arm
and arm, twined in couples or trios, passed by
affecting ignorance of the glances that followed
them. Or perhaps he would have gone walking
with Al, who worked in the same optical-goods
store, down through the glaring streets of the
theatre and restaurant quarter, or along the
wharves and ferry slips, where they would have
sat smoking and looking out over the dark
purple harbor, with its winking lights and its
moving ferries spilling swaying reflections in
the water out of their square reddish-glowing
windows. If they had been lucky, they would
have seen a liner come in through the Golden
Gate, growing from a blur of light to a huge
moving brilliance, like the front of a high-class
theatre, that towered above the ferry boats. You
could often hear the thump of the screw and the
swish of the bow cutting the calm baywater, and
the sound of a band playing, that came
alternately faint and loud. “When I git rich,”
Fuselli had liked to say to Al, “I’m going to take
a trip on one of them liners.”
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“Yer dad come over from the old country in one,
didn’t he?” Al would ask.
“Oh, he came steerage. I’d stay at home if I had
to do that. Man, first class for me, a cabin de
lux, when I git rich.”
But here he was in this town in the East, where
he didn’t know anybody and where there was no
place to go but the movies.
“ ‘Lo, buddy,” came a voice beside him. The tall
youth who had sat opposite at mess was just
catching up to him. “Goin’ to the movies?”
“Yare, nauthin’ else to do.”
“Here’s a rookie. Just got to camp this mornin’,”
said the tall youth, jerking his head in the
direction of the man beside him.
“You’ll like it. Ain’t so bad as it seems at first,”
said Fuselli encouragingly.
“I was just telling him,” said the other, “to be
careful as hell not to get in wrong. If ye once get
in wrong in this damn army . . . it’s hell.”
“You bet yer life . . . so they sent ye over to our
company, did they, rookie? Ain’t so bad. The
sergeant’s sort o’ decent if yo’re in right with
him, but the lieutenant’s a stinker. . . . Where
you from?”
“New York,” said the rookie, a little man of
thirty with an ash-colored face and a shiny
Jewish nose. “I’m in the clothing business there.
I oughtn’t to be drafted at all. It’s an outrage.
I’m consumptive.” He spluttered in a feeble
squeaky voice.
“They’ll fix ye up, don’t you fear,” said the tall
youth. “They’ll make you so goddam well ye
won’t know yerself. Yer mother won’t know ye,
when you get home, rookie. . . . But you’re in
luck.”
“Why?”
“Bein’ from New York. The corporal, Tim Sidis,
is from New York, an’ all the New York fellers in
the company got a graft with him.”
“What kind of cigarettes d’ye smoke?” asked the
tall youth.
“I don’t smoke.”
“Ye’d better learn. The corporal likes fancy
ciggies and so does the sergeant; you jus’ slip
‘em each a butt now and then. May help ye to
get in right with ‘em.”
“Don’t do no good,” said Fuselli. . . . “It’s juss
luck. But keep neat-like and smilin’ and you’ll
get on all right. And if they start to ride ye,
show fight. Ye’ve got to be hard boiled to git on
in this army.”
“Ye’re goddam right,” said the tall youth. “Don’t
let ‘em ride yer. . . . What’s yer name, rookie?”
“Eisenstein.”
“This feller’s name’s Powers. . . . Bill Powers.
Mine’s Fuselli. . . . Goin’ to the movies, Mr.
Eisenstein?”
“No, I’m trying to find a skirt.” The little man
leered wanly. “Glad to have got ackwainted.”
“Goddam kike!” said Powers as Eisenstein
walked off up a side street, planted, like the
avenue, with saplings on which the sickly
leaves rustled in the faint breeze that smelt of
factories and coal dust.
“Kikes ain’t so bad,” said Fuselli, “I got a good
friend who’s a kike.”
They were coming out of the movies in a stream
of people in which the blackish clothes of
factory-hands predominated.
“I came near bawlin’ at the picture of the feller
leavin’ his girl to go off to the war,” said Fuselli.
“Did yer?”
“It was just like it was with me. Ever been in
Frisco, Powers?”
The tall youth shook his head. Then he took off
his broad-brimmed hat and ran his fingers over
his stubby tow-head.
“Gee, it was some hot in there,” he muttered.
“Well, it’s like this,” said Fuselli. “You have to
cross the ferry to Oakland. My aunt . . . ye know
I ain’t got any mother, so I always live at my
aunt’s. . . . My aunt an’ her sister-in-law an’
Mabe . . . Mabe’s my girl . . . they all came over
on the ferry-boat, ‘spite of my tellin’ ‘em I didn’t
want ‘em. An’ Mabe said she was mad at me,
‘cause she’d seen the letter I wrote Georgine
Slater. She was a toughie, lived in our street, I
used to write mash notes to. An’ I kep’ tellin’
Mabe I’d done it juss for the hell of it, an’ that I
didn’t mean nawthin’ by it. An’ Mabe said she
wouldn’t never forgive me, an’ then I said
maybe I’d be killed an’ she’d never see me again,
an’ then we all began to bawl. Gawd! it was a
mess. . . . ”
“It’s hell sayin’ good-by to girls,” said Powers,
understandingly. “Cuts a feller all up. I guess
it’s better to go with coosies. Ye don’t have to say
good-by to them.”
“Ever gone with a coosie?”
“Not exactly,” admitted the tall youth, blushing
all over his pink face, so that it was noticeable
even under the ashen glare of the arc lights on
the avenue that led towards camp.
“I have,” said Fuselli, with a certain pride. “I
used to go with a Portugee girl. My but she was
a toughie. I’ve given all that up now I’m
engaged, though. . . . But I was tellin’ ye. . . .
Well, we finally made up an’ I kissed her an’
Mabe said she’d never marry any one but me.
So when we was walkin” up the street I spied a
silk service flag in a winder, that was all fancy
with a star all trimmed up to beat the band, an’
I said to myself, I’m goin’ to give that to Mabe,
an’ I ran in an’ bought it. I didn’t give a hoot in
hell what it cost. So when we was all kissin’ and
bawlin’ when I was goin’ to leave them to report
to the overseas detachment, I shoved it into her
hand, an’ said, ‘Keep that, girl, an’ don’t you
forgit me.’ An’ what did she do but pull out a
five-pound box o’ candy from behind her back
an’ say, ‘Don’t make yerself sick, Dan.’ An’ she’d
had it all the time without my knowin’ it. Ain’t
girls clever?”
“Yare,” said the tall youth vaguely.
Along the rows of cots, when Fuselli got back to
the barracks, men were talking excitedly.
“There’s hell to pay, somebody’s broke out of the
jug.”
“How?”
“Damned if I know.”
“Sergeant Timmons said he made a rope of his
blankets.”
“No, the feller on guard helped him to get
away.”
“Like hell he did. It was like this. I was walking
by the guardhouse when they found out about
it.”
“What company did he belong ter?”
“Dunno.”
“What’s his name?”
“Some guy on trial for insubordination.
Punched an officer in the jaw.”
“I’d a liked to have seen that.”
“Anyhow he’s fixed himself this time.”
“You’re goddam right.”
“Will you fellers quit talkin’? It’s after taps,”
thundered the sergeant, who sat reading the
paper at a little board desk at the door of the
barracks under the feeble light of one small
bulb, carefully screened. “You’ll have the O. D.
down on us.”
Fuselli wrapped the blanket round his head and
prepared to sleep. Snuggled down into the
© 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate. 178
179 © 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate.
blankets on the narrow cot, he felt sheltered
from the sergeant’s thundering voice and from
the cold glare of officers’ eyes. He felt cosy and
happy like he had felt in bed at home, when he
had been a little kid. For a moment he pictured
to himself the other man, the man who had
punched an officer’s jaw, dressed like he was,
maybe only nineteen, the same age like he was,
with a girl like Mabe waiting for him
somewhere. How cold and frightful it must feel
to be out of the camp with the guard looking for
you! He pictured himself running breathless
down a long street pursued by a company with
guns, by officers whose eyes glinted cruelly like
the pointed tips of bullets. He pulled the
blanket closer round his head, enjoying the
warmth and softness of the wool against his
cheek. He must remember to smile at the
sergeant when he passed him off duty.
Somebody had said there’d be promotions soon.
Oh, he wanted so hard to be promoted. It’d be so
swell if he could write back to Mabe and tell her
to address her letters Corporal Dan Fuselli. He
must be more careful not to do anything that
would get him in wrong with anybody. He must
never miss an opportunity to show them what a
clever kid he was. “Oh, when we’re ordered
overseas, I’ll show them,” he thought ardently,
and picturing to himself long movie reels of
heroism he went off to sleep.
A sharp voice beside his cot woke him with a
jerk.
“Get up, you.”
The white beam of a pocket searchlight was
glaring in the face of the man next to him.
“The O. D.” said Fuselli to himself.
“Get up, you,” came the sharp voice again.
The man in the next cot stirred and opened his
eyes.
“Get up.”
“Here, sir,” muttered the man in the next cot,
his eyes blinking sleepily in the glare of the
flashlight. He got out of bed and stood
unsteadily at attention.
“Don’t you know better than to sleep in your
O.D. shirt? Take it off.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What’s your name?”
The man looked up, blinking, too dazed to
speak. “Don’t know your own name, eh?” said
the officer, glaring at the man savagely, using
his curt voice like a whip.—“Quick, take off yer
shirt and pants and get back to bed.”
The Officer of the Day moved on, flashing his
light to one side and the other in his midnight
inspection of the barracks. Intense blackness
again, and the sound of men breathing deeply
in sleep, of men snoring. As he went to sleep
Fuselli could hear the man beside him
swearing, monotonously, in an even whisper,
pausing now and then to think of new filth, of
new combinations of words, swearing away his
helpless anger, soothing himself to sleep by the
monotonous reiteration of his swearing.
A little later Fuselli woke with a choked
nightmare cry. He had dreamed that he had
smashed the O.D. in the jaw and had broken
out of the jug and was running, breathless,
stumbling, falling, while the company on guard
chased him down an avenue lined with little
dried-up saplings, gaining on him, while with
voices metallic as the clicking of rifle triggers
officers shouted orders, so that he was certain
to be caught, certain to be shot. He shook
himself all over, shaking off the nightmare as a
dog shakes off water, and went back to sleep
again, snuggling into his blankets.
1. Read the sentence and select, from the choices below, the word closest in meaning to the
word in bold-faced type.
Fuselli remembered unpleasantly his paper-white face and the greenish look of his bald head,
but the words had made him stride out of the office sticking out his chest, brushing
truculently past a group of men in the door.
a. peacefully2. Read the following sentences:
b. aggressively
c. calmly
d. fearfully
“ . . . I guess it’s better to go with coosies. Ye don’t have to say good-by to them.”
“Ever gone with a coosie?”
What does the term coosie mean?
a. an older woman3. Describe the setting in which the story takes place.
b. a serious girlfriend
c. a prostitute
d. a foreigner
4. While out on his pass, Dan Fuselli thinks, “Home’ll be good enough for me after this,” and in
regard to his aunt’s cooking, “Gee she used to cook swell.” What universal truth, recognized
by those away from home, is Fuselli realizing? Explain.
5. What kind of person is Fuselli? Explain your thoughts.
© 2006 Queue, Inc. All rights reserved. Do not duplicate.
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