The Line of Least Resistance by Edith Wharton

Mister Mindon returned home for lunch. His wife Millicent was not at home. The servants did not know where she was.

Mister Mindon sat alone at the table in the garden. He ate a small piece of meat and drank some mineral water. Mister Mindon always ate simple meals, because he had problems with his stomach. Why then did he keep a cook among his servants? Because his wife Millicent liked to invite her friends to big dinners and serve them rare and expensive food and wine.

Mister Mindon did not enjoy his wife's parties. Millicent complained that he did not know how to enjoy life. She did a lot of things that he did not like.

Millicent wasted Mister Mindon's money and was unpleasant to him. But he never got angry with his wife.

After eating, Mister Mindon took a walk through his house. He did not stay long in the living room. It reminded him of all the hours he had spent there at his wife's parties. The sight of the formal dining room made him feel even more uncomfortable. He remembered the long dinners where he had to talk to his wife's friends for hours. They never seemed very interested in what he was saying.

Mister Mindon walked quickly past the ballroom where his wife danced with her friends. He would go to bed after dinner. But he could hear the orchestra playing until three in the morning.

Mister Mindon walked into the library. No one in the house ever read any of the books. But Mister Mindon was proud to be rich enough to have a perfectly useless room in his house.

He went into the sunny little room where his wife planned her busy days and evenings. Her writing table was covered with notes and cards from all her friends. Her wastepaper basket was full of empty envelopes that had carried invitations to lunches, dinners, and theater parties.

Mister Mindon saw a letter crushed into a small ball on the floor. He bent to pick it up. Just as he was about to throw it into the wastepaper basket, he noticed that the letter was signed by his business partner, Thomas Antrim. But Antrim's letter to Mister Mindon's wife was not about business.

As Mister Mindon read it, he felt as if his mind was spinning out of control. He sat down heavily in the chair near his wife's little writing table.

Now the room looked cold and unfamiliar. "Who are you?" the walls seemed to say. "Who am I?" Mister Mindon said in a loud voice. "I'll tell you who I am! I am the man who paid for every piece of furniture in this room. If it were not for me and my money, this room would be empty!" Suddenly, Mister Mindon felt taller. He marched across his wife's room. It belonged to him, didn't it? The house belonged to him, too. He felt powerful.

He sat at the table and wrote a letter to Millicent. One of the servants came into the room. "Did you call, sir?" he asked. "No," Mister Mindon replied. "But since you are here, please telephone for a taxi cab at once."

The taxi took him to a hotel near his bank. A clerk showed him to his room. It smelled of cheap soap. The window in the room was open and hot noises came up from the street. Mister Mindon looked at his watch. Four o'clock. He wondered if Millicent had come home yet and read his letter.

His head began to ache, and Mister Mindon lay down on the bed. When he woke up, it was dark. He looked at his watch. Eight o'clock. Millicent must be dressing for dinner. They were supposed to go to Missus Targe's house for dinner tonight. Well, Mister Mindon thought, Millicent would have to go alone. Maybe she would ask Thomas Antrim to take her to the party!

Mister Mindon realized he was hungry. He left his room and walked down the stairs to the hotel dining room. The air -- smelling of coffee and fried food -- wrapped itself around his head.

Mister Mindon could not eat much of the food that the hotel waiter brought him. He went back to his room, feeling sick. He also felt hot and dirty in the clothing he had worn all day. He had never realized how much he loved his home!

Someone knocked at his door. Mister Mindon jumped to his feet. "Mindon?" a voice asked. "Are you there?" Mister Mindon recognized that voice. It belonged to Laurence Meysy. Thirty years ago, Meysy had been very popular with women -- especially with other men's wives. As a young man he had interfered in many marriages. Now, in his old age, Laurence Meysy had become a kind of "marriage doctor.” He helped husbands and wives save their marriages.

Mister Mindon began to feel better as soon as Laurence Meysy walked into his hotel room. Two men followed him. One was Mister Mindon's rich uncle, Ezra Brownrigg. The other was the Reverend Doctor Bonifant, the minister of Saint Luke's church where Mister Mindon and his family prayed every Sunday.

Mister Mindon looked at the three men and felt very proud that they had come to help him. For the first time in his married life, Mister Mindon felt as important as his wife Millicent.

Laurence Meysy sat on the edge of the bed and lit a cigarette. "Misses Mindon sent for me," he said. Mister Mindon could not help feeling proud of Millicent. She had done the right thing. Meysy continued. "She showed me your letter. She asks you for mercy." Meysy paused, and then said: "The poor woman is very unhappy. And we have come here to ask you what you plan to do."

Now Mister Mindon began to feel uncomfortable. "To do?" he asked. "To do? Well…I, I plan to…to leave her."

Meysy stopped smoking his cigarette. "Do you want to divorce her?" he asked.

"Why, yes! Yes!" Mister Mindon replied.

Meysy knocked the ashes from his cigarette. "Are you absolutely sure that you want to do this?" he asked.

Mister Mindon nodded his head. "I plan to divorce her," he said loudly.

Mister Mindon began to feel very excited. It was the first time he had ever had so many people sitting and listening to him. He told his audience everything, beginning with his discovery of his wife's love affair with his business partner, and ending with his complaints about her expensive dinner parties.

His uncle looked at his watch. Doctor Bonifant began to stare out of the hotel window. Meysy stood up. "Do you plan to dishonor yourself then?" he asked. "No one knows what has happened. You are the only one who can reveal the secret. You will make yourself look foolish.”

Mister Mindon tried to rise. But he fell back weakly. The three men picked up their hats. In another moment, they would be gone. When they left, Mister Mindon would lose his audience, and his belief in himself and his decision. "I won't leave for New York until tomorrow," he whispered. Laurence Meysy smiled.

"Tomorrow will be too late," he said. "Tomorrow everyone will know you are here." Meysy opened the hotel room door. Mister Brownrigg and Doctor Bonifant walked out of the room.

Meysy turned to follow them, when he felt Mister Mindon's hand grab his arm. "I…I will come with you," Mister Mindon sighed. "It's…it's…for the children." Laurence Meysy nodded as Mister Mindon walked out of the room. He closed the door gently.

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The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County by Mark Twain

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

I found Simon Wheeler sleeping by the stove in the ruined mining camp of Angel's.

I saw that he was fat and had no hair, and had a gentle and simple look upon his peaceful face. He woke up, and gave me “good-day.” I told him a friend had asked me to find out about a friend named Leonidas W. Smiley, who he heard was at one time living in Angel's Camp. I added that if Mister Wheeler could tell me anything about this Leonidas W. Smiley, I would feel a great responsibility to him.

Simon Wheeler forced me into a corner with his chair and began telling me this long story. He never smiled, he never frowned, he never changed his voice. But all through the endless story there was a feeling of great seriousness and honesty. This showed me plainly that he thought the heroes of the story were men of great intelligence.

I let him go on in his own way, and never stopped him once. This is the story Simon Wheeler told.

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

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

Lots of the boys here have seen that Smiley and can tell you about him. Why, it did not matter to him. He would try to make money on anything. He was the most unusual man. Parson Walker's wife was very sick once, for a long time, and it seemed as if they were not going to save her.

But one morning he come in, and Smiley asked him how was his wife, and he said she was better, thank God. And Smiley, before he thought, says, “Well, I'll risk my money she will not get well.'"

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

Smiley always come out the winner on that dog, at least until he found a dog once that did not have any back legs. The dog’s legs had been cut off in a machine. Well, the fighting continued long enough, and the money was gone. Then when Smiley’s dog come to make a grab the other dog’s back legs, he saw in a minute how there was a problem.

The other dog was going to win and Smiley’s dog looked surprised and did not try to win the fight anymore. He gave Smiley a look that said he was sorry for fighting a dog that did not have any back legs for him to hold, which he needed to win a fight. Then Smiley’s dog walked away, laid down and died. He was a good dog, and would have made a name for himself if he had lived, for he had intelligence. It always makes me feel sorry when I think of that last fight of his and the way it turned out.

Well, this Smiley had rats, and chickens, and cats and all of them kind of things. You could not get anything for him to risk money on but he would match you. He caught a frog one day, and took him home, and said he was going to educate the frog. And so he never done nothing for three months but sit in his back yard and teach that frog to jump. And you bet you he did teach him, too.

He would give him a little hit from behind. And the next minute you would see that frog dancing in the air and then come down all on his feet and all right, like a cat. Smiley got him so the frog was catching flies, and he would catch one of those insects every time.

Smiley said all a frog wanted was education, and he could do almost anything. And I believe him. Why, I have seen him set Dan'l Webster down here on this floor--Dan'l Webster was the name of the frog -- and sing out, "Flies, Dan'l, flies!" And quicker than you could shut your eyes that frog would jump straight up and catch a fly off the table. Then he would fall down on the floor again like a ball of dirt and start rubbing the side of his head with his back foot as if he had no idea he had been doing any more than any frog might do.

You never seen a frog so honest and simple as he was, for all he was so skilled. And when it come to jumping, he could get over more ground in one jump than any animal of his kind that you ever saw.

Smiley was very proud of his frog, and people who had traveled and been everywhere all said he was better than any frog they had ever seen.

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

And Smiley says, "It’s only just a frog." And the man took it, and looked at it careful, and turned it round this way and that, and says, "H'm, so it is. Well, what is he good for?"

"Well," Smiley says, easy and careless, “he can out jump any frog in Calaveras county."

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

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

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

And then Smiley says, "That's all right. If you will hold my box a minute, I will go and get you a frog." And so the man took the box, and put up his forty dollars and sat down to wait.

He sat there a long time thinking and thinking. Then he got the frog out of the box. He filled its mouth full of bullets used to kill small birds. Then he put the frog on the floor.

Now Smiley had caught another frog and gave it to the man and said, “Now sit him next to Dan’l and I will give the word.”

Then Smiley says, “One-two-three-go!” and Smiley and the other man touched the frogs.

The new frog jumped. Dan’l just lifted up his body but could not move at all. He was planted like a building. Smiley was very surprised and angry too. But he did not know what the problem was.

The other man took the money and started away. And when he was going out the door, he looked back and said "Well, I don’t see anything about that frog that is any better than any other frog."

Smiley stood looking down at Dan'l a long time, and at last says, "I wonder what in the nation happened to that frog. I wonder if there is something wrong with him.”

And he picked up Dan’l and turned him upside down and out came a whole lot of bullets. And Smiley was the angriest man. He set the frog down and took out after that man but he never caught him.

Now Simon Wheeler heard his name called and got up to see what was wanted. He told me to wait but I did not think that more stories about Jim Smiley would give me any more information about Leonidas W. Smiley, and so I started to walk away.

At the door I met Mister Wheeler returning, and he started talking again. "Well, this here Smiley had a yellow cow with one eye and no tail…”

However, lacking both time and interest, I did not wait to hear about the cow. I just left.

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The Californian's Tale by Mark Twain

When I was young, I went looking for gold in California. I never found enough to make me rich. But I did discover a beautiful part of the country. It was called “the Stanislau.” The Stanislau was like Heaven on Earth. It had bright green hills and deep forests where soft winds touched the trees.

Other men, also looking for gold, had reached the Stanislau hills of California many years before I did. They had built a town in the valley with sidewalks and stores, banks and schools. They had also built pretty little houses for their families.

At first, they found a lot of gold in the Stanislau hills. But their good luck did not last. After a few years, the gold disappeared. By the time I reached the Stanislau, all the people were gone, too.

Grass now grew in the streets. And the little houses were covered by wild rose bushes. Only the sound of insects filled the air as I walked through the empty town that summer day so long ago. Then, I realized I was not alone after all.

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

Still smiling, the man opened the door of his house and motioned to me. I went inside and could not believe my eyes. I had been living for weeks in rough mining camps with other gold miners. We slept on the hard ground, ate canned beans from cold metal plates and spent our days in the difficult search for gold.

Here in this little house, my spirit seemed to come to life again.

I saw a bright rug on the shining wooden floor. Pictures hung all around the room. And on little tables there were seashells, books and china vases full of flowers. A woman had made this house into a home.

The pleasure I felt in my heart must have shown on my face. The man read my thoughts. “Yes,” he smiled, “it is all her work. Everything in this room has felt the touch of her hand.”

One of the pictures on the wall was not hanging straight. He noticed it and went to fix it. He stepped back several times to make sure the picture was really straight. Then he gave it a gentle touch with his hand.

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

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

“That’s it!” he cried out. “You have found it! I knew you would. It is her picture. I went to a little black shelf that held a small picture of the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. There was a sweetness and softness in the woman’s expression that I had never seen before.

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

“Where is she now?” I asked.

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

“When will she be back?” I asked. “Well, this is Wednesday,” he said slowly. “She will be back on Saturday, in the evening.”

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

“Gone? No! Why should you go? Don’t go. She will be so sorry. You see, she likes to have people come and stay with us.”

“No, I really must leave,” I said firmly.

He picked up her picture and held it before my eyes. “Here,” he said. “Now you tell her to her face that you could have stayed to meet her and you would not.”

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

The man told me his name was Henry.

That night, Henry and I talked about many different things, but mainly about her. The next day passed quietly.

Thursday evening we had a visitor. He was a big, grey-haired miner named Tom. “I just came for a few minutes to ask when she is coming home,” he explained. “Is there any news?”

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

“No, you must not do that, Henry,” the grey-haired miner said. “I am getting old. And any little sorrow makes me cry. I really was hoping she would be here tonight.”

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

Saturday finally came. I found I was looking at my watch very often. Henry noticed this. “You don’t think something has happened to her, do you?” he asked me.

I smiled and said that I was sure she was just fine. But he did not seem satisfied.

I was glad to see his two friends, Tom and Joe, coming down the road as the sun began to set. The old miners were carrying guitars. They also brought flowers and a bottle of whiskey. They put the flowers in vases and began to play some fast and lively songs on their guitars.

Henry’s friends kept giving him glasses of whiskey, which they made him drink. When I reached for one of the two glasses left on the table, Tom stopped my arm. “Drop that glass and take the other one!” he whispered. He gave the remaining glass of whiskey to Henry just as the clock began to strike midnight.

Henry emptied the glass. His face grew whiter and whiter. “Boys,” he said, “I am feeling sick. I want to lie down.”

Henry was asleep almost before the words were out of his mouth.

In a moment, his two friends had picked him up and carried him into the bedroom. They closed the door and came back. They seemed to be getting ready to leave. So I said, “Please don’t go gentlemen. She will not know me. I am a stranger to her.”

They looked at each other. “His wife has been dead for nineteen years,” Tom said.

“Dead?” I whispered.

“Dead or worse,” he said.

“She went to see her parents about six months after she got married. On her way back, on a Saturday evening in June, when she was almost here, the Indians captured her. No one ever saw her again. Henry lost his mind. He thinks she is still alive. When June comes, he thinks she has gone on her trip to see her parents. Then he begins to wait for her to come back. He gets out that old letter. And we come around to visit so he can read it to us.

“On the Saturday night she is supposed to come home, we come here to be with him. We put a sleeping drug in his drink so he will sleep through the night. Then he is all right for another year.”

Joe picked up his hat and his guitar. “We have done this every June for nineteen years,” he said. “The first year there were twenty-seven of us. Now just the two of us are left.” He opened the door of the pretty little house. And the two old men disappeared into the darkness of the Stanislau.

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Luck by Mark Twain

I was at a dinner in London given in honor of one of the most celebrated English military men of his time. I do not want to tell you his real name and titles. I will just call him Lieutenant General Lord Arthur Scoresby.

I cannot describe my excitement when I saw this great and famous man. There he sat, the man himself, in person, all covered with medals. I could not take my eyes off him. He seemed to show the true mark of greatness. His fame had no effect on him. The hundreds of eyes watching him, the worship of so many people did not seem to make any difference to him.

Next to me sat a clergyman, who was an old friend of mine. He was not always a clergyman. During the first half of his life he was a teacher in the military school at Woolwich. There was a strange look in his eye as he leaned toward me and whispered – “Privately – he is a complete fool.” He meant, of course, the hero of our dinner.

This came as a shock to me. I looked hard at him. I could not have been more surprised if he has said the same thing about Nepoleon, or Socrates, or Solomon. But I was sure of two things about the clergyman. He always spoke the truth. And, his judgment of men was good. Therefore, I wanted to find out more about our hero as soon as I could.

Some days later I got a chance to talk with the clergyman, and he told me more. These are his exact words:

About forty years ago, I was an instructor in the military academy at Woolwich, when young Scoresby was given his first examination. I felt extremely sorry for him. Everybody answered the questions well, intelligently, while he – why, dear me – he did not know anything, so to speak. He was a nice, pleasant young man. It was painful to see him stand there and give answers that were miracles of stupidity.

I knew of course that when examined again he would fail and be thrown out. So, I said to myself, it would be a simple, harmless act to help him as much as I could.

I took him aside and found he knew a little about Julius Ceasar’s history. But, he did not know anything else. So, I went to work and tested him and worked him like a slave. I made him work, over and over again, on a few questions about Ceasar, which I knew he would be asked.

If you will believe me, he came through very well on the day of the examination. He got high praise too, while others who knew a thousand times more than he were sharply criticized. By some strange, lucky accident, he was asked no questions but those I made him study. Such an accident does not happen more than once in a hundred years.

Well, all through his studies, I stood by him, with the feeling a mother has for a disabled child. And he always saved himself by some miracle.

I thought that what in the end would destroy him would be the mathematics examination. I decided to make his end as painless as possible. So, I pushed facts into his stupid head for hours. Finally, I let him go to the examination to experience what I was sure would be his dismissal from school. Well, sir, try to imagine the result. I was shocked out of my mind. He took first prize! And he got the highest praise.

I felt guilty day and night – what I was doing was not right. But I only wanted to make his dismissal a little less painful for him. I never dreamed it would lead to such strange, laughable results.

I thought that sooner or later one thing was sure to happen: The first real test once he was through school would ruin him.

Then, the Crimean War broke out. I felt that sad for him that there had to be a war. Peace would have given this donkey a chance to escape from ever being found out as being so stupid. Nervously, I waited for the worst to happen. It did. He was appointed an officer. A captain, of all things! Who could have dreamed that they would place such a responsibility on such weak shoulders as his.

I said to myself that I was responsible to the country for this. I must go with him and protect the nation against him as far as I could. So, I joined up with him. And anyway we went to the field.

And there – oh dear, it was terrible. Mistakes, fearful mistakes – why, he never did anything that was right – nothing but mistakes. But, you see, nobody knew the secret of how stupid he really was. Everybody misunderstood his actions. They saw his stupid mistakes as works of great intelligence. They did, honestly!

His smallest mistakes made a man in his right mind cry, and shout and scream too – to himself, of course. And what kept me in a continual fear was the fact that every mistake he made increased his glory and fame. I kept saying to myself that when at last they found out about him, it will be like the sun falling out of the sky.

He continued to climb up, over the dead bodies of his superiors. Then, in the hottest moment of one battle down went our colonel. My heart jumped into my mouth, for Scoresby was the next in line to take his place. Now, we are in for it, I said…

The battle grew hotter. The English and their allies were steadily retreating all over the field. Our regiment occupied a position that was extremely important. One mistake now would bring total disaster. And what did Scoresby do this time – he just mistook his left hand for his right hand…that was all. An order came for him to fall back and support our right. Instead, he moved forward and went over the hill to the left. We were over the hill before this insane movement could be discovered and stopped. And what did we find? A large and unsuspected Russian army waiting! And what happened – were we all killed? That is exactly what would have happened in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred. But no – those surprised Russians thought that no one regiment by itself would come around there at such a time.

It must be the whole British army, they thought. They turned tail, away they went over the hill and down into the field in wild disorder, and we after them. In no time, there was the greatest turn around you ever saw. The allies turned defeat into a sweeping and shining victory.

The allied commander looked on, his head spinning with wonder, surprise and joy. He sent right off for Scoresby, and put his arms around him and hugged him on the field in front of all the armies. Scoresby became famous that day as a great military leader – honored throughout the world. That honor will never disappear while history books last.

He is just as nice and pleasant as ever, but he still does not know enough to come in out of the rain. He is the stupidest man in the universe.

Until now, nobody knew it but Scoresby and myself. He has been followed, day by day, year by year, by a strange luck. He has been a shining soldier in all our wars for years. He has filled his whole military life with mistakes. Every one of them brought him another honorary title. Look at his chest, flooded with British and foreign medals. Well, sir, every one of them is the record of some great stupidity or other. They are proof that the best thing that can happen to a man is to be born lucky. I say again, as I did at the dinner, Scoresby’s a complete fool.

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The Tell-Tale Heart by Edgar Allan Poe

True! Nervous -- very, very nervous I had been and am! But why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses -- not destroyed them.

Above all was the sense of hearing. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in the underworld. How, then, am I mad? Observe how healthily -- how calmly I can tell you the whole story.

It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! Yes, it was this! He had the eye of a bird, a vulture -- a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell on me, my blood ran cold; and so -- very slowly -- I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and free myself of the eye forever.

Now this is the point. You think that I am mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely and carefully I went to work!

I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night, late at night, I turned the lock of his door and opened it – oh, so gently! And then, when I had made an opening big enough for my head, I put in a dark lantern, all closed that no light shone out, and then I stuck in my head. I moved it slowly, very slowly, so that I might not interfere with the old man's sleep. And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid the lantern just so much that a single thin ray of light fell upon the vulture eye.

And this I did for seven long nights -- but I found the eye always closed; and so it was impossible to do the work; for it was not the old man who was a problem for me, but his Evil Eye.

On the eighth night, I was more than usually careful in opening the door. I had my head in and was about to open the lantern, when my finger slid on a piece of metal and made a noise. The old man sat up in bed, crying out "Who's there?"

I kept still and said nothing. I did not move a muscle for a whole hour. During that time, I did not hear him lie down. He was still sitting up in the bed listening -- just as I have done, night after night.

Then I heard a noise, and I knew it was the sound of human terror. It was the low sound that arises from the bottom of the soul. I knew the sound well. Many a night, late at night, when all the world slept, it has welled up from deep within my own chest. I say I knew it well.

I knew what the old man felt, and felt sorry for him, although I laughed to myself. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first noise, when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him.

When I had waited a long time, without hearing him lie down, I decided to open a little -- a very, very little -- crack in the lantern. So I opened it. You cannot imagine how carefully, carefully. Finally, a single ray of light shot from out and fell full upon the vulture eye.

It was open -- wide, wide open -- and I grew angry as I looked at it. I saw it clearly -- all a dull blue, with a horrible veil over it that chilled my bones; but I could see nothing else of the old man's face or person. For I had directed the light exactly upon the damned spot.

And have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but a kind of over-sensitivity? Now, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when inside a piece of cotton. I knew that sound well, too. It was the beating of the old man's heart. It increased my anger.

But even yet I kept still. I hardly breathed. I held the lantern motionless. I attempted to keep the ray of light upon the eye. But the beating of the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder every second. The old man's terror must have been extreme! The beating grew louder, I say, louder every moment!

And now at the dead hour of the night, in the horrible silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst.

And now a new fear seized me -- the sound would be heard by a neighbor! The old man's hour had come! With a loud shout, I threw open the lantern and burst into the room.

He cried once -- once only. Without delay, I forced him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled, to find the action so far done.

But, for many minutes, the heart beat on with a quiet sound. This, however, did not concern me; it would not be heard through the wall. At length, it stopped. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the body. I placed my hand over his heart and held it there many minutes. There was no movement. He was stone dead. His eye would trouble me no more.

If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise steps I took for hiding the body. I worked quickly, but in silence. First of all, I took apart the body. I cut off the head and the arms and the legs.

I then took up three pieces of wood from the flooring, and placed his body parts under the room. I then replaced the wooden boards so well that no human eye -- not even his -- could have seen anything wrong.

There was nothing to wash out -- no mark of any kind -- no blood whatever. I had been too smart for that. A tub had caught all -- ha! ha!

When I had made an end of these labors, it was four o'clock in the morning. As a clock sounded the hour, there came a noise at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart -- for what had I now to fear? There entered three men, who said they were officers of the police. A cry had been heard by a neighbor during the night; suspicion of a crime had been aroused; information had been given at the police office, and the officers had been sent to search the building.

I smiled -- for what had I to fear? The cry, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I said, was not in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I told them to search -- search well. I led them, at length, to his room. I brought chairs there, and told them to rest. I placed my own seat upon the very place under which lay the body of the victim.

The officers were satisfied. I was completely at ease. They sat, and while I answered happily, they talked of common things. But, after a while, I felt myself getting weak and wished them gone. My head hurt, and I had a ringing in my ears; but still they sat and talked.

The ringing became more severe. I talked more freely to do away with the feeling. But it continued until, at length, I found that the noise was not within my ears.

I talked more and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased -- and what could I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound like a watch makes when inside a piece of cotton. I had trouble breathing -- and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly -- more loudly; but the noise increased. I stood up and argued about silly things, in a high voice and with violent hand movements. But the noise kept increasing.

Why would they not be gone? I walked across the floor with heavy steps, as if excited to anger by the observations of the men -- but the noise increased. What could I do? I swung my chair and moved it upon the floor, but the noise continually increased. It grew louder -- louder -- louder! And still the men talked pleasantly, and smiled.

Was it possible they heard not? No, no! They heard! They suspected! They knew! They were making a joke of my horror! This I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this pain! I could bear those smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! And now -- again! Louder! Louder! Louder!

"Villains!" I cried, "Pretend no more! I admit the deed! Tear up the floor boards! Here, here! It is the beating of his hideous heart!"



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The Cask of Amontillado by Edgar Allan Poe

Fortunato and I both were members of very old and important Italian families. We used to play together when we were children.

Fortunato was bigger, richer and more handsome than I was. And he enjoyed making me look like a fool. He hurt my feelings a thousand times during the years of my childhood. I never showed my anger, however. So, he thought we were good friends. But I promised myself that one day I would punish Fortunato for his insults to me.

Many years passed. Fortunato married a rich and beautiful woman who gave him sons. Deep in my heart I hated him, but I never said or did anything that showed him how I really felt. When I smiled at him, he thought it was because we were friends.

He did not know it was the thought of his death that made me smile.

Everyone in our town respected Fortunato. Some men were afraid of him because he was so rich and powerful. He had a weak spot, however. He thought he was an excellent judge of wine. I also was an expert on wine. I spent a lot of money buying rare and costly wines. I stored the wines in the dark rooms under my family's palace.

Our palace was one of the oldest buildings in the town. The Montresor family had lived in it for hundreds of years. We had buried our dead in the rooms under the palace. These tombs were quiet, dark places that no one but myself ever visited.

Late one evening during carnival season, I happened to meet Fortunato on the street. He was going home alone from a party. Fortunato was beautiful in his silk suit made of many colors: yellow, green, purple and red. On his head he wore an orange cap, covered with little silver bells. I could see he had been drinking too much wine. He threw his arms around me. He said he was glad to see me.

I said I was glad to see him, too because I had a little problem.

"What is it?" he asked, putting his large hand on my shoulder.

"My dear Fortunato," I said, "I'm afraid I have been very stupid. The man who sells me wine said he had a rare barrel of Amontillado wine. I believed him and I bought it from him. But now, I am not so sure that the wine is really Amontillado."

"What!" he said, "A cask of Amontillado at this time of year. An entire barrel? Impossible!"

"Yes, I was very stupid. I paid the wine man the full price he wanted without asking you to taste the wine first. But I couldn't find you and I was afraid he would sell the cask of Amontillado to someone else. So I bought it."

"A cask of Amontillado!" Fortunato repeated. "Where is it?"

I pretended I didn't hear his question. Instead I told him I was going to visit our friend Lucresi. "He will be able to tell me if the wine is really Amontillado," I said.

Fortunato laughed in my face. "Lucresi cannot tell Amontillado from vinegar."

I smiled to myself and said "But some people say that he is as good a judge of wine as you are."

Fortunato grabbed my arm. "Take me to it," he said. "I'll taste the Amontillado for you."

"But my friend," I protested, "it is late. The wine is in my wine cellar, underneath the palace. Those rooms are very damp and cold and the walls drip with water."

"I don't care," he said. "I am the only person who can tell you if your wine man has cheated you. Lucresi cannot!"

Fortunato turned, and still holding me by the arm, pulled me down the street to my home. The building was empty. My servants were enjoying carnival. I knew they would be gone all night.

I took two large candles, lit them and gave one to Fortunato. I started down the dark, twisting stairway with Fortunato close behind me. At the bottom of the stairs, the damp air wrapped itself around our bodies.

"Where are we?" Fortunato asked. "I thought you said the cask of Amontillado was in your wine cellar."

"It is," I said. "The wine cellar is just beyond these tombs where the dead of my family are kept. Surely, you are not afraid of walking through the tombs.

He turned and looked into my eyes. "Tombs?" he said. He began to cough. The silver bells on his cap jingled.

"My poor friend," I said, "how long have you had that cough?"

"It's nothing," he said, but he couldn't stop coughing.

"Come," I said firmly, "we will go back upstairs. Your health is important.You are rich, respected, admired, and loved. You have a wife and children. Many people would miss you if you died. We will go back before you get seriously ill. I can go to Lucresi for help with the wine."

"No!" he cried. "This cough is nothing. It will not kill me. I won't die from a cough."

"That is true," I said, "but you must be careful." He took my arm and we began to walk through the cold, dark rooms. We went deeper and deeper into the cellar.

Finally, we arrived in a small room. Bones were pushed high against one wall. A doorway in another wall opened to an even smaller room, about one meter wide and two meters high. Its walls were solid rock.

"Here we are," I said. "I hid the cask of Amontillado in there." I pointed to the smaller room. Fortunato lifted his candle and stepped into the tiny room. I immediately followed him. He stood stupidly staring at two iron handcuffs chained to a wall of the tiny room. I grabbed his arms and locked them into the metal handcuffs. It took only a moment. He was too surprised to fight me.

I stepped outside the small room.

"Where is the Amontillado?" he cried.

"Ah yes," I said, "the cask of Amontillado." I leaned over and began pushing aside the pile of bones against the wall. Under the bones was a basket of stone blocks, some cement and a small shovel. I had hidden the materials there earlier. I began to fill the doorway of the tiny room with stones and cement.

By the time I laid the first row of stones Fortunato was no longer drunk. I heard him moaning inside the tiny room for ten minutes. Then there was a long silence.

I finished the second and third rows of stone blocks. As I began the fourth row, I heard Fortunato begin to shake the chains that held him to the wall. He was trying to pull them out of the granite wall.

I smiled to myself and stopped working so that I could better enjoy listening to the noise. After a few minutes, he stopped. I finished the fifth, the sixth and the seventh rows of stones. The wall I was building in the doorway was now almost up to my shoulders.

Suddenly, loud screams burst from the throat of the chained man. For a moment I worried. What if someone heard him? Then I placed my hand on the solid rock of the walls and felt safe. I looked into the tiny room, where he was still screaming. And I began to scream, too. My screams grew louder than his and he stopped.

It was now almost midnight. I finished the eighth, the ninth and the tenth rows. All that was left was a stone for the last hole in the wall. I was about to push it in when I heard a low laugh from behind the stones.

The laugh made the hair on my head stand up. Then Fortunato spoke, in a sad voice that no longer sounded like him.

He said, "Well, you have played a good joke on me. We will laugh about it soon over a glass of that Amontillado. But isn't it getting late. My wife and my friends will be waiting for us. Let us go."

"Yes," I replied, "let us go."

I waited for him to say something else. I heard only my own breathing. "Fortunato!" I called. No answer. I called again. "Fortunato!" Still no answer.

I hurried to put the last stone into the wall and put the cement around it. Then I pushed the pile of bones in front of the new wall I had built.

That was fifty years ago. For half a century now, no one has touched those bones. "May he rest in peace!"

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The Return of a Private by Hamlin Garland

The soldiers cheered as the train crossed the border into the state of Wisconsin. It had been a long trip from the south back to their homes in the north.

One of the men had a large red scar across his forehead. Another had an injured leg that made it painful for him to walk. The third had unnaturally large and bright eyes, because he had been sick with malaria.

The three soldiers spread their blankets on the train seats and tried to sleep. It was a cold evening even though it was summertime. Private Smith, the soldier with the fever, shivered in the night air.

His joy in coming home was mixed with fear and worry. He knew he was sick and weak. How could he take care of his family? Where would he find the strength to do the heavy work all farmers have to do? He had given three years of his life to his country. And now he had very little money and strength left for his family.

Morning came slowly with a pale yellow light. The train was slowing down as it came into the town of La Crosse where the three soldiers would get off the train. The station was empty because it was Sunday. "I'll get home in time for dinner," Smith thought. "She usually has dinner about one o'clock on Sunday afternoon,” and he smiled.

Smith and the other two soldiers jumped off the train together. "Well, boys," Smith began, "here's where we say good-bye. We've marched together for many miles. Now, I suppose, we are done." The three men found it hard to look at each other.

"We ought to go home with you," one of the soldiers said to Smith. "You'll never be able to walk all those miles with that heavy pack on your back."

"Oh, I'm all right," Smith said, putting on his army cap. "Every step takes me closer to home."

They all shook hands. "Good-bye!" "Good luck!" "Same to you!" "Good-bye!"

Smith turned and walked away quickly. After a few minutes, he turned again and waved his cap. His two friends did the same. Then they marched away with their long steady soldier's step. Smith walked for a while thinking of his friends. He remembered the many days they had been together during the war.

He thought of his friend, Billy Tripp, too. Poor Billy! A bullet came out of the sky one day and tore a great hole in Billy's chest.

Smith knew he would have to tell the sad story to Billy's mother and young wife. But there was little to tell. The sound of a bullet cutting through the air. Billy crying out, then falling with his face in the dirt.

The fighting he had done since then had not made him forget the horror of that moment when Billy died.

Soon, the fields and houses became familiar. Smith knew he was close to home. The sun was burning hot as he began climbing the last hill. Finally, he reached the top and looked down at his farm in the beautiful valley. He was almost home.

Misses Smith was alone on the farm with her three children. Mary was nine years old. Tommy was six and little Teddy had just turned four.

Misses Smith had been dreaming about her husband, when the chickens awakened her that Sunday morning. She got out of bed, got dressed and went out to feed the chickens. Then she saw the broken fence near the chicken house. She had tried to fix it again and again. Misses Smith sat down and cried.

The farmer who had promised to take care of the farm while her husband was away had been lazy and dishonest. The first year he shared the wheat with Misses Smith. But the next year, he took almost all of it for himself. She had sent him away. Now, the fields were full of wheat. But there was no man on the farm to cut it down and sell it.

Six weeks before, her husband told her in a letter that he would be coming home soon. Other soldiers were returning home, but her husband had not come. Every day, she watched the road leading down the hill.

This Sunday morning she could no longer stand being alone. She jumped up, ran into the house and quickly dressed the children. She carefully locked the door and started walking down the road to the farmhouse of her neighbor, Misses Gray.

Mary Gray was a widow with a large family of strong sons and pretty daughters. She was poor. But she never said 'no' to a hungry person who came to her farm and asked for food. She worked hard, laughed often and was always in a cheerful mood.

When she saw Misses Smith and the children coming down the road, Misses Gray went out to meet them. "Please come right in, Misses Smith. We were just getting ready to have dinner."

Misses Smith went into the noisy house. Misses Gray's children were laughing and talking all at the same time. Soon she was laughing and singing with the rest of them.

The long table in the kitchen was piled with food. There were potatoes, fresh corn, apple pies, hot bread, sweet pickles, bread and butter and honey. They all ate until they could eat no more. Then the men and children left the table. The women stayed to drink their tea.

"Mamma," said one of Misses Gray's daughters. “Please read our fortunes in the tea leaves! Tell us about our futures!"

Misses Gray picked up her daughter's cup and stirred it first to the left, then to the right. Then she looked into it with a serious expression. "I see a handsome man with a red beard in your future," she said. Her daughter screamed with laughter.

Misses Smith trembled with excitement when it was her turn. "Somebody is coming home to you," Misses Gray said slowly. "He's carrying a rifle on his back and he's almost there."

Misses Smith felt as if she could hardly breathe. "And there he is!" Misses Gray cried, pointing to the road. They all rushed to the door to look.

A man in a blue coat, with a gun on his back, was walking down the road toward the Smith farm. His face was hidden by a large pack on his back.

Laughing and crying, Misses Smith grabbed her hat and her children and ran out of the house. She hurried down the road after him, calling his name and pulling her children along with her. But the soldier was too far away for her voice to reach him.

When she got back to their farm, she saw the man standing by the fence. He was looking at the little house and the field of yellow wheat. The sun was almost touching the hills in the west. The cowbells rang softly as the animals moved toward the barn.

"How peaceful it all is," Private Smith thought. "How far away from the battles, the hospitals, the wounded and the dead. My little farm in Wisconsin. How could I have left it for those years of killing and suffering?”

Trembling and weak with emotion, Misses Smith hurried up to her husband. Her feet made no sound on the grass, but he turned suddenly to face her. For the rest of his life, he would never forget her face at that moment.

"Emma!" he cried.

The children stood back watching their mother kissing this strange man. He saw them, and kneeling down he pulled from his pack three huge, red apples. In a moment, all three children were in their father's arms. Together, the family entered the little unpainted farmhouse.

Later that evening, after supper, Smith and his wife went outside. The moon was bright, above the eastern hills. Sweet, peaceful stars filled the sky as the night birds sang softly, and tiny insects buzzed in the soft air.

His farm needed work. His children needed clothing. He was no longer young and strong. But he began to plan for next year. With the same courage he had faced the war, Private Smith faced his difficult future.

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Benito Cereno by Herman Melville

Captain Benito Cereno hurried aboard his ship. It was ready to sail. A bright sun and a soft breeze promised good weather ahead. The ship's anchor was raised. And the San Dominick -- old but still seaworthy - moved slowly out of the harbor of Valparaiso, on the west coast of Chile. It was carrying valuable products and slaves up the Pacific coast to Callao, another Spanish colonial port near Lima, Peru.

The slaves, both male and female, slept on deck. They were not chained, because their owner, Don Alexandro, said they were peaceful.

The San Dominick moved steadily forward under a clear sky. The weather showed no sign of change. Day after day, the soft breeze kept the ship on course toward Peru.

Slave traffic between Spain's colonial ports in this year of seventeen ninety-nine had been steady. But there were few outbreaks of violence. What happened, therefore, on board the San Dominick could not have been expected.

On the seventh day out, before daybreak, the slaves rose up in rebellion. They swept through the ship with handspikes and hatchets moving with the fury of desperate men. The attack was a complete surprise. Few of the crew were awake. All hands, except the two officers on the watch, lay in a deep untroubled sleep. The rebels sprang upon the two officers and left them half dead. Then, one by one, they killed eighteen of the sleeping crew. They threw some overboard, alive. A few hid and escaped death. The rebels tied up seven others, but left them alive to navigate the ship.

As the day began to break, Captain Cereno came slowly, carefully up the steps toward the chief rebel leader, Babo, and begged for mercy. He promised to follow Babo's commands if he would only put an end to the killings. But this had no effect. Babo had three men brought up on deck and tied. Then, the three Spaniards were thrown overboard. Babo did this to show his power and authority -- that he was in command. Babo, however, promised not to murder Captain Cereno. But everything he said carried a threat. He asked the captain if in these seas there were any negro countries.

"None," Cereno answered.

"Then, take us to Senegal or the neighboring islands of Saint Nicholas."

Captain Cereno was shaken. "That is impossible!" he said. "It would mean going around Cape Horn. And this ship is in no condition for such a voyage. And we do not have enough supplies, or sails or water."

"Take us there, anyway," Babo answered sharply, showing little interest in such details. "If you refuse, we will kill every white man on board."

Captain Cereno knew he had no choice. He told the rebel leader that the most serious problem in making such a long voyage was water. Babo said they should sail to the island of Santa Maria near the southern end of Chile. He knew that no one lived on the island. But water and supplies could be found there.

He forced Captain Cereno to keep away from any port. He threatened to kill him the moment he saw him start to move toward any city, town or settlement on shore.

Cereno had to agree to sail to the island of Santa Maria. He still hoped that he might meet along the way, or at the island itself, a ship that could help him. Perhaps -- who knows -- he might find a boat on the island and be able to escape to the nearby coast of Arruco. Hope was all he had left. And that was getting smaller each day.

Captain Cereno steered south for Santa Maria. The voyage would take weeks.

Eight days after the ship turned south, Babo told Captain Cereno that he was going to kill Don Alexandro, owner of the slaves on board. He said it had to be done. Otherwise, he and the other slaves could never be sure of their freedom. He refused to listen to the captain's appeals, and ordered two men to pull Don Alexandro up from below and kill him on deck. It was done as ordered. Three other Spaniards were also brought up and thrown overboard. Babo warned Cereno and the other Spaniards that each one of them would go the same way if any of them gave the smallest cause for suspicion.

Cereno decided to do everything possible to save the lives of those remaining. He agreed to carry the rebels safely to Senegal if they promised peace and no further bloodshed. And he signed a document that gave the rebels ownership of the ship and its cargo.

Later, as they sailed down the long coast of Chile, the wind suddenly dropped. The ship drifted into a deep calm. For days, it lay still in the water. The heat was fierce; the suffering intense. There was little water. That made matters worse. Some of those on board were driven mad. A few died. The pressure and tension made many violent. And they killed a Spanish officer.

After a time, a breeze came up and set the ship free again. And it continued south. The voyage seemed endless. The ship sailed for weeks with little water on board. It moved through days of good weather and periods of bad weather. There were times when it sailed under heavy skies, and times when the wind dropped and the ship lay be-calmed in lifeless air. The crew seemed half dead.

At last, one evening in the month of August, the San Dominick reached the lonely island of Santa Maria. It moved slowly toward one of the island's bays to drop anchor. Not far off lay an American ship. And, the sight of the ship caught the rebels by surprise.

The slaves became tense and fearful. They wanted to sail away, quickly. But their leader, Babo, opposed such a move. Where could they go. Their water and food were low. He succeeded in bringing them under control and in quieting their fears. He told them they had nothing to fear. And they believed him.

Then, he ordered everyone to go to work, to clean the decks and put the ship in proper and good condition, so that no visitor would suspect anything was wrong.

Later, he spoke to Captain Cereno, warning him that he would kill him if he did not do as he was told. He explained in detail what Cereno was to do and say if any stranger came on board. He held a dagger in his hand, saying it would always be ready for any emergency.

The American vessel was a large tradeship and seal hunter, commanded by Captain Amasa Delano. He had stopped at Santa Maria for water.

On the American ship, shortly after sunrise, an officer woke Captain Delano, and told him a strange sail was coming into the bay. The captain quickly got up, dressed and went up on deck. Captain Delano raised his spy glass and looked closely at the strange ship coming slowly in. He was surprised that there was no flag. A ship usually showed its flag when entering a harbor where another ship lay at anchor.

As the ship got closer, Captain Delano saw it was damaged. Many of its sails were ripped and torn. A mast was broken. And the deck was in disorder. Clearly the ship was in trouble.

The American captain decided to go to the strange vessel and offer help. He ordered his whale boat put into the water, and had his men bring up some supplies and put them in the boat. Then they set out toward the mystery ship.

As they approached, Captain Delano was shocked at the poor condition of the ship. He wondered what could have happened. . . And what he would find. That will be our story next week.

As Captain Delano came up in his whale boat, he saw that the other ship needed scraping, tarring and brushing. It looked old and decayed. He climbed up the side and came aboard. He was quickly surrounded by a crowd of black men. Captain Delano looked around for the man who commanded the ship. The Spanish captain stood a little away off against the main mast. He was young looking, richly dressed but seemed troubled and tired with the spirit gone out of him. He looked unhappily toward his American visitor. At the Spanish's captain side stood a small black man with a rough face.

Captain Delano struggled forward through the crowd, went up to the Spainard and greeted him. He offered to help him in any way he could. Captain Benito Cereno returned the American's greeting politely, but without warmth. Captain Delano pushed his way back through the crowd to the gangway. He told his men to go and bring back as much water as they could, also bread, pumpkins, sugar and a dozen of his private bottles of cider. The whale boat pushed off.

Left alone, Captain Delano again observed with fresh surprise the general disorder aboard the ship. Some of the men were fighting. There were no deck officers to discipline or control the violent ones. And everyone seemed to do as he pleased. Captain Delano could not fully understand how this could have happened. What could explain such a break down of order and responsibility? He asked Don Benito to give him the full story of his ship's misfortunes. Don Benito did not answer. He just kept looking at his American visitor as if he heard nothing.

This angered Captain Delano, who suddenly turned away and walked forward to one of the Spanish seamen for his answer. But he had hardly gone five steps when Don Benito called him back. "It is now a hundred and ninety days," Don Benito began, "that the ship sailed from Buenos Aires for Lima with a general cargo. Pedigree, tea, and the like, and a number of negros, now not more than a hundred and fifty as you see, but then numbering over three hundred souls. The ship was officered and well-manned, with several cabin passengers. Some fifty Spaniards in all.

Off Cape Horn we had heavy gales." Captain Cereno coughed suddenly and almost collapsed. He fell heavily against his body servant. "His mind wanders," said Babo. "He was thinking of the disease that followed the gales. My poor, poor master. Be patient senor, these attacks do not last long. Master will soon be himself."

Don Benito recovered, and in a broken voice continued his story. "My ship was tossed about many days in storms off Cape Horn. And then there was an outbreak of scurvy. The disease carried off many whites and blacks. Most of my surviving seaman had become so sick that they could not handle the sails well. For days and nights we could not control the ship. It was blown north-westward. The wind suddenly left us in unknown waters with oppressive hot calms. Most of our water was gone.

And we suffered terribly, especially after a deadly fever broke out among us. Whole families of blacks and many Spaniards, including every officer but myself, were killed by the disease."

Don Benito paused. He looked down at the black man at his side. Babo seemed satisfied. The Spanish captain saw him take his hand from the knife hidden under his shirt.

Captain Delano saw nothing. His mind was filled with the terrible tale he had just heard. Now he could understand why the other captain seemed so shaken. He took Don Benito's hand and promised to give him all the help possible. He would give him a large permanent supply of water, and some sails and equipment for sailing the ship. And he also promised to let Don Benito have three of his best seamen for temporary deck officers. In this way, the San Dominick could without delay start for Concepcion. There the ship could be fixed and prepared for its voyage to Lima.

Don Benito's face lighted up. He seemed excited by Captain Delano's generous offer. But, Babo appeared troubled. "This excitement is bad for master," Babo whispered, taking Don Benito's arm and with soothing words gently drawing him aside. When Don Benito returned, Captain Delano observed that his excitement was gone.

Captain Delano decided to talk of other matters. But the Spanish captain showed no further interest. He answered Captain Delano's questions with sharp words and suddenly with an angry movement he walked back to Babo.

Captain Delano watched the two men whispering together in low voices. It made an ugly picture, which Captain Delano found so extremely unpleasant that he turned his face to the other side of the ship. Their actions made Delano suspicious of Captain Cereno. He began to wonder about him. His behavior. His coughing attacks. His weakness. His empty wild looks. Was he really half mad or a faker playing a part? One moment Captain Delano had the worst suspicions of Don Benito. But the next he would feel guilty and ashamed of himself for having such doubts about the man.

Presently, Don Benito moved back toward his guest, still supported by his servant. His pale face twitched. He seemed more nervous than usual. And there was a strange tone in his husky whisper as he spoke. "May I ask how many men you have on board, senor?" Captain Delano became uneasy, but answered. "About twenty-five all total." "And at present, senor, all on board?" "All on board," Captain Delano answered. "And will be tonight, senor?"

At this last question, Captain Delano looked very seriously at Don Benito, who could not return the look but dropped his eyes to the deck. Captain Delano could think of only one reason for such a question. But no, it was foolish to think that these weak and starving men could have any idea of seizing his ship. But still he remained silent. "And will they be aboard tonight?" Again the question from Don Benito. Captain Delano decided to answer truthfully. Some of his men had talked of going off on a fishing party about midnight. And he told Don Benito this.

As he answered, Captain Delano again looked straight at Don Benito. But the Spanish captain refused to meet his eyes. Then as before, he suddenly withdrew with his servant. And again the two men began whispering to each other in low voices. Captain Delano tried to push the worry from his mind. But what were those two strange men discussing?

Captain Delano went down to Captain Cereno’s cabin to cheer him up and say goodbye. “Better and better, Don Benito,” he said as he entered the cabin, “your troubles will soon be over.” The American invited the Spanish captain to come aboard his boat for a cup of coffee.

Cereno’s eyes brightened. But then the light in them died. He shook his head and said he could not accept the invitation. Captain Delano was offended. He was about to withdraw when Don Benito rose from his chair and took Delano’s hand. The Spaniard’s hand shook. And he was too excited to speak. Delano pulled his hand away and turned, climbing back to the deck. His face was troubled.

Captain Delano could not understand Don Benito's actions. One minute the Spaniard was warm and polite. Then -- just as quickly -- cold and hostile. Captain Delano asked himself: Why did he refuse to join me? Why is he so unfriendly?

Captain Delano got to the deck and was about to step down into his boat when he heard his name. To his surprise, Don Benito was calling, coming quickly toward him.

Captain Delano was pleased and turned back to meet him. Don Benito warmly took his hand, with more energy and emotion than he had ever shown. But his excitement seemed too much for him, and he could not speak. Babo then came between the two men and put his arm around Don Benito to support him. Clearly, he wanted to end the meeting between the two captains.

Walking between the two men, Babo went with them to the walkway. Don Benito would not let go of Captain Delano’s hand. He held it tightly across the servant’s body.

Soon, they were standing by the ship’s side, looking down onto the American boat. Its crew turned up their wondering eyes. Captain Delano did not know what to do as he waited for Don Benito to let go of his hand. He wanted to step down into his boat. But Don Benito still firmly held his hand.

Then, in an excited voice the Spaniard said: “I can go no further. Here I must say goodbye. Farewell, my dear, dear Don Amasa. Go! Go!” And he tore his hand loose. “Go, and God protect you better than he did me. Go, Don Amasa, my best friend.”

Captain Delano was deeply moved. He would have stayed for another minute or so, but he caught the eye of Babo. It seemed to say, ‘This is bad for Don Benito’s health.’ And so he quickly took the short step down into his boat with the continuing farewells of Don Benito, who stood rooted at the ship’s side.

Captain Delano sat down in the back of his boat, gave Don Benito a last salute, and ordered his men to push off. The boat began to move. Suddenly, Don Benito sprang over the side and came down at Delano’s feet. And he kept shouting toward the Spanish ship. His cries were so wild that no one could understand him.

An American officer asked what does this mean. Captain Delano turned a cold smile upon Captain Cereno and said he neither knew nor cared. It seems, he added, that the Spaniard has taken it into his head to give his people the idea that we want to kidnap him. Or else…and suddenly Captain Delano shouted: “Watch out for your lives!” He saw Babo, the servant, on the rail above, with a dagger in his hand. He was ready to jump.

What followed happened so quickly that Captain Delano could not tell one incident from another. They all came together in one great blur of violent action and excitement.

As Babo came down, Captain Delano flung Don Benito aside and caught the rebel leader, pulling the dagger from his hand. He pushed Babo firmly down in the bottom of the boat, which now began to pick up speed. Then, Babo, with his one free hand, pulled a second dagger from his clothes and struck at Captain Cereno. Captain Delano knocked it from his hand.

Now, he saw everything clearly: Babo had leaped into the whale boat – not to kill him – but to kill Captain Cereno.

For the first time, he understood the mysterious behavior of Don Benito – a prisoner under sentence of death. He looked back at the Spanish ship and got a clear picture of what its captain had escaped.

On board the San Dominick, the shouting rebels were raising their axes and knives in a wild revolt. They stopped some of the Spanish sailors from jumping into the sea. A few, however, jumped, while two or three, who were not quick enough, went hurrying up the top-most wood arms.

Captain Delano signaled to his ship, ordering it to get its guns ready. When the whale boat reached his ship Captain Delano asked for ropes. He tied Babo, and had him pulled up on deck. A small boat was quickly sent out to pick up three Spanish sailors who had jumped from Captain Cereno’s ship.

Captain Delano asked Don Benito what guns the rebels had. He answered that they had none that could be used. In the first days of the rebellion, a cabin passenger now dead had destroyed the few guns there were.

The Americans fired six shots at the San Dominick. But the rebel ship moved out of reach. Small boats were armed and lowered. Captain Delano ordered his men into them. And they moved out to capture the rebel ship.

The boats caught up with the San Dominick when it was nearly night. But the moon was rising, and the gunners were able to see where they were shooting. The rebels had no bullets. And they could do nothing but yell. Many of the rebels were killed and the San Dominick was captured.

After an investigation, Babo was found guilty of stealing a ship and of murder, and was hanged. Captain Benito Cereno never was well again and he soon died. So, ended the terrible story of the slave revolt aboard the slave ship, the San Dominick.

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Bartleby by Herman Melville

I am an old lawyer, and I have three men working for me. My business continued to grow and so I decided to get one more man to help write legal papers.

I have met a great many people in my days, but the man who answered my advertisement was the strangest person I have ever heard of or met.

He stood outside my office and waited for me to speak. He was a small man, quiet and dressed in a clean but old suit of clothes. I asked him his name. It was Bartleby.

At first Bartleby almost worked himself too hard writing the legal papers I gave him. He worked through the day by sunlight, and into the night by candlelight. I was happy with his work, but not happy with the way he worked. He was too quiet. But, he worked well…like a machine, never looking or speaking.

One day, I asked Bartleby to come to my office to study a legal paper with me. Without moving from his chair, Bartleby said: “I do not want to.”

I sat for a short time, too surprised to move. Then I became excited.

“You do not want to. What do you mean, are you sick? I want you to help me with this paper.”

“I do not want to.”

His face was calm. His eyes showed no emotion. He was not angry. This is strange, I thought. What should I do? But, the telephone rang, and I forgot the problem for the time being.

A few days later, four long documents came into the office. They needed careful study, and I decided to give one document to each of my men. I called and all came to my office. But not Bartleby.

“Bartleby, quick, I am waiting.”

He came, and stood in front of me for a moment. “I don’t want to,” he said then turned and went back to his desk.

I was so surprised, I could not move. There was something about Bartleby that froze me, yet, at the same time, made me feel sorry for him.

As time passed, I saw that Bartleby never went out to eat dinner. Indeed, he never went anywhere. At eleven o’clock each morning, one of the men would bring Bartleby some ginger cakes.

“Umm. He lives on them,” I thought. “Poor fellow!” He is a little foolish at times, but he is useful to me.

“Bartleby,” I said one afternoon. “Please go to the post office and bring my mail.”

“I do not want to.”

I walked back to my office too shocked to think. Let’s see, the problem here is…one of my workers named Bartleby will not do some of the things I ask him to do. One important thing about him though, he is always in his office.

One Sunday I walked to my office to do some work. When I placed the key in the door, I couldn’t open it. I stood a little surprised, then called, thinking someone might be inside. There was. Bartleby. He came from his office and told me he did not want to let me in.

The idea of Bartleby living in my law office had a strange effect on me. I slunk away much like a dog does when it has been shouted at…with its tail between its legs.

Was anything wrong? I did not for a moment believe Bartleby would keep a woman in my office. But for some time he must have eaten, dressed and slept there. How lonely and friendless Bartleby must be.

I decided to help him. The next morning I called him to my office.

“Bartleby, will you tell me anything about yourself?”

“I do not want to.”

I sat down with him and said, “You do not have to tell me about your personal history, but when you finish writing that document…

“I have decided not to write anymore,” he said. And left my office.

What was I to do? Bartleby would not work at all. Then why should he stay on his job? I decided to tell him to go. I gave him six days to leave the office and told him I would give him some extra money. If he would not work, he must leave.

On the sixth day, somewhat hopefully, I looked into the office Bartleby used. He was still there.

The next morning, I went to the office early. All was still. I tried to open the door, but it was locked. Bartleby’s voice came from inside. I stood as if hit by lightening. I walked the streets thinking. “Well, Bartleby, if you will not leave me, I shall leave you.”

I paid some men to move all the office furniture to another place. Bartleby just stood there as the men took his chair away.

“Goodbye Bartleby, I am going. Goodbye and God be with you. Here take this money.” I placed it in his hands. It dropped to the floor; and then, strange to say, I had difficulty leaving the person I wanted to leave me.

A few days later, a stranger visited me in my new office. “You are responsible for the man you left in your last office,” he said. The owner of the building has given me a court order which says you must take him away. We tried to make him leave, but he returned and troubles the others there.

I went back to my old office and found Bartleby sitting on the empty floor.

“Bartleby, one of two things must happen. I will get you a different job, or you can go to work for some other lawyer.”

He said he did not like either choice.

“Bartleby, will you come home with me and stay there until we decide what you will do?”

He answered softly, “No, I do not want to make any changes.”

I answered nothing more. I fled. I rode around the city and visited places of historic interest, anything to get Bartleby off my mind.

When I entered my office later, I found a message for me. Bartleby had been taken to prison.

I found him there, and when he saw me he said: “I know you, and I have nothing to say to you.”

“But I didn’t put you here, Bartleby.” I was deeply hurt. I told him I gave the prison guard money to buy him a good dinner.

“I do not want to eat today, he said. I never eat dinner.”

Days passed, and I went to see Bartleby again. I was told he was sleeping in the prison yard outside.

Sleeping? The thin Bartleby was lying on the cold stones. I stooped to look at the small man lying on his side with his knees against his chest. I walked closer and looked down at him. His eyes were open. He seemed to be in a deep sleep.

“Won’t he eat today, either, or does he live without eating?” the guard asked.

“Lives without eating,” I answered…and closed his eyes.

“Uh…he is asleep isn’t he?” the guard said.

“With kings and lawyers,” I answered.

One little story came to me some days after Bartleby died. I learned he had worked for many years in the post office. He was in a special office that opened all the nation’s letters that never reach the person they were written to. It is called the dead letter office. The letters are not written clearly, so the mailmen cannot read the addresses.

Well, poor Bartleby had to read the letters, to see if anyone’s name was written clearly so they could be sent. Think of it. From one letter a wedding ring fell, the finger it was bought for perhaps lies rotting in the grave. Another letter has money to help someone long since dead. Letters filled with hope for those who died without hope.

Poor Bartleby! He himself had lost all hope. His job had killed something inside him.

Ah, Bartleby! Ah, humanity!

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The Law of Life by Jack London

The old Indian was sitting on the snow. It was Koskoosh, former chief of his tribe. Now, all he could do was sit and listen to the others. His eyes were old. He could not see, but his ears were wide open to every sound.

“Aha.” That was the sound of his daughter, Sit-cum-to-ha. She was beating the dogs, trying to make them stand in front of the snow sleds. He was forgotten by her, and by the others, too. They had to look for new hunting grounds. The long, snowy ride waited. The days of the northlands were growing short. The tribe could not wait for death. Koskoosh was dying.

The stiff, crackling noises of frozen animal skins told him that the chief’s tent was being torn down. The chief was a mighty hunter. He was his son, the son of Koskoosh. Koskoosh was being left to die.

As the women worked, old Koskoosh could hear his son’s voice drive them to work faster. He listened harder. It was the last time he would hear that voice. A child cried, and a woman sang softly to quiet it. The child was Koo-tee, the old man thought, a sickly child. It would die soon, and they would burn a hole in the frozen ground to bury it. They would cover its small body with stones to keep the wolves away.

“Well, what of it? A few years, and in the end, death. Death waited ever hungry. Death had the hungriest stomach of all.”

Koskoosh listened to other sounds he would hear no more: the men tying strong leather rope around the sleds to hold their belongings; the sharp sounds of leather whips, ordering the dogs to move and pull the sleds.

“Listen to the dogs cry. How they hated the work.”

They were off. Sled after sled moved slowly away into the silence. They had passed out of his life. He must meet his last hour alone.

“But what was that?” The snow packed down hard under someone’s shoes. A man stood beside him, and placed a hand gently on his old head. His son was good to do this. He remembered other old men whose sons had not done this, who had left without a goodbye.

His mind traveled into the past until his son’s voice brought him back. “It is well with you?” his son asked. And the old man answered, “It is well.”

“There is wood next to you and the fire burns bright,” the son said. “The morning is gray and the cold is here. It will snow soon. Even now it is snowing. Ahh, even now it is snowing.

“The tribesmen hurry. Their loads are heavy and their stomachs flat from little food. The way is long and they travel fast. I go now. All is well?”

“It is well. I am as last year’s leaf that sticks to the tree. The first breath that blows will knock me to the ground. My voice is like an old woman’s. My eyes no longer show me the way my feet go. I am tired and all is well.”

He lowered his head to his chest and listened to the snow as his son rode away. He felt the sticks of wood next to him again. One by one, the fire would eat them. And step by step, death would cover him. When the last stick was gone, the cold would come. First, his feet would freeze. Then, his hands. The cold would travel slowly from the outside to the inside of him, and he would rest. It was easy…all men must die.

He felt sorrow, but he did not think of his sorrow. It was the way of life. He had lived close to the earth, and the law was not new to him. It was the law of the body. Nature was not kind to the body. She was not thoughtful of the person alone. She was interested only in the group, the race, the species.

This was a deep thought for old Koskoosh. He had seen examples of it in all his life. The tree sap in early spring; the new-born green leaf, soft and fresh as skin; the fall of the yellowed, dry leaf. In this alone was all history.

He placed another stick on the fire and began to remember his past. He had been a great chief, too. He had seen days of much food and laughter; fat stomachs when food was left to rot and spoil; times when they left animals alone, unkilled; days when women had many children. And he had seen days of no food and empty stomachs, days when the fish did not come, and the animals were hard to find.

For seven years the animals did not come. Then, he remembered when as a small boy how he watched the wolves kill a moose. He was with his friend Zing-ha, who was killed later in the Yukon River.

Ah, but the moose. Zing-ha and he had gone out to play that day. Down by the river they saw fresh steps of a big, heavy moose. “He’s an old one,” Zing-ha had said. “He cannot run like the others. He has fallen behind. The wolves have separated him from the others. They will never leave him.”

And so it was. By day and night, never stopping, biting at his nose, biting at his feet, the wolves stayed with him until the end.

Zing-ha and he had felt the blood quicken in their bodies. The end would be a sight to see.

They had followed the steps of the moose and the wolves. Each step told a different story. They could see the tragedy as it happened: here was the place the moose stopped to fight. The snow was packed down for many feet. One wolf had been caught by the heavy feet of the moose and kicked to death. Further on, they saw how the moose had struggled to escape up a hill. But the wolves had attacked from behind. The moose had fallen down and crushed two wolves. Yet, it was clear the end was near.

The snow was red ahead of them. Then they heard the sounds of battle. He and Zing-ha moved closer, on their stomachs, so the wolves would not see them. They saw the end. The picture was so strong it had stayed with him all his life. His dull, blind eyes saw the end again as they had in the far off past.

For long, his mind saw his past. The fire began to die out, and the cold entered his body. He placed two more sticks on it, just two more left. This would be how long he would live.

It was very lonely. He placed one of the last pieces of wood on the fire. Listen, what a strange noise for wood to make in the fire. No, it wasn’t wood. His body shook as he recognized the sound…wolves.

The cry of a wolf brought the picture of the old moose back to him again. He saw the body torn to pieces, with fresh blood running on the snow. He saw the clean bones lying gray against the frozen blood. He saw the rushing forms of the gray wolves, their shinning eyes, their long wet tongues and sharp teeth. And he saw them form a circle and move ever slowly closer and closer.

A cold, wet nose touched his face. At the touch, his soul jumped forward to awaken him. His hand went to the fire and he pulled a burning stick from it. The wolf saw the fire, but was not afraid. It turned and howled into the air to his brother wolves. They answered with hunger in their throats, and came running.

The old Indian listened to the hungry wolves. He heard them form a circle around him and his small fire. He waved his burning stick at them, but they did not move away. Now, one of them moved closer, slowly, as if to test the old man’s strength. Another and another followed. The circle grew smaller and smaller. Not one wolf stayed behind.

Why should he fight? Why cling to life? And he dropped his stick with the fire on the end of it. It fell in the snow and the light went out.

The circle of wolves moved closer. Once again the old Indian saw the picture of the moose as it struggled before the end came. He dropped his head to his knees. What did it matter after all? Isn’t this the law of life?

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The God of His Fathers by Jack London

Silently the wolves circled the herd of caribou deer. Gray bellies close to the ground, the wolves in the pack surrounded a pregnant deer. They pulled her down and tore out her throat. The rest of the caribou herd raced off in a hundred directions. The wolves began to feed.

Once again the Alaska territory was the scene of silent death. Here, in its ancient forests, the strong had killed the weak for thousands and thousands of years.

Small groups of Indians also lived in this land at the rainbow's end. But their Stone Age life was ending. Strange men with blond hair and blue eyes had discovered the lands of the North. The Indian chiefs ordered their warriors to fight them. Stone arrow met steel bullet. The Indians could not stop the strangers. The White men conquered the icy rivers in light canoes. They broke through the dark forests and climbed the rocky mountains.

One of these men sat in front of a tent, near a river. His name was Hay Stockard. Over the smoke and flames of his fire, he watched an Indian village not far from his own camp.

From inside his tent came the cry of a sick child, and the gentle answering song of its mother. But the man was not concerned now with them. He was thinking of Baptiste the Red, the chief of the Indian village, who had just left him.

"We do not want you here," Baptiste had told him. "If we permit you to sit by our fires, after you will come your church, your priests and your God." Baptiste the Red hated the White man's God. His father had been an Englishman; his mother, the daughter of an Indian chief. Baptiste had been raised among White men.

When Baptiste was a young man he fell in love with a Frenchman's daughter, but her father opposed the marriage. A Christian priest refused to marry them. So Baptiste took the girl into the forests. They went to live among his mother's people. A year later, the girl died while giving birth to her first child.

Baptiste took the baby back to live among the White people. For many years he lived in peace with them, as his daughter grew up -- tall and beautiful. One night, while Baptiste was away, a White man broke into their home and killed the girl. When Baptiste asked for justice, he was told the White man's God forgives all sins. So Baptiste killed his daughter's murderer with his own hands, and returned forever to his mother's people.

"I have sworn to make any White man who comes to my village deny his God if he wants to live," he told Hay Stockard. "But since you are the first, I will not do this if you go and go quickly."

"And if I stay?" Hay Stockard had asked quietly as he filled his pipe. "Then soon you will meet your God, your bad God, the God of the White man!" The Indian chief rose to his feet and left Hay Stockard's camp to return to his village.

The next morning Hay Stockard watched with angry eyes as three men in a long canoe came to the river bank. Two of the men were Indian. The third, a White man, wore a bright red cloth around his head. Hay Stockard reached for his gun, and then changed his mind. As soon as the canoe landed, the White man jumped out and ran up to Stockard.

"So we meet again, Hay Stockard! Peace be with you. I know you are a sinner, but I, Sturges Owen, am God's own servant. I will bring you back to our church.

"Listen to me," Stockard warned, "if you stay here you'll bring trouble to yourself and your men. You'll all be killed and so will my wife, my child, and myself!"

Owen looked up to the sky. "The man who carries God in his heart and the Bible in his hand is protected."

Later that morning, the Indian chief Baptiste came back to Stockard's camp. "Give me the priest," Baptiste demanded, "and I will let you go in peace. If you do not, you die."

Sturges Owen grabbed his Bible. "I am not afraid," he said. "God will protect me and hold me in his right hand. I am ready to go with Baptiste to his village. I will save his soul for God."

Hay Stockard shook his head. "Listen to me, Baptiste. I did not bring this priest here, but now that he is here, I can't let you kill him. Many of your people will die if we fight each other."

Baptiste looked into Stockard's eyes. "But those who live," he said, "will not have the words of a strange God in their ears."

After a moment of silence, Baptiste the Red turned and went back to his own camp. Sturges Owen called his two men to him and the three of them kneeled to pray. Stockard and his wife began to prepare the camp for battle.

As they worked they heard the sound of war-drums in the village.

As Sturges Owen waited and prayed, he began to feel his religious fever cooling. Fear replaced hope in his heart. The love of life took the place of the love of God in his mind. The love of life! He could not stop himself from feeling it. Owen knew that Stockard also loved his life. But Stockard would choose death rather than shame.

The war-drums boomed loudly. Suddenly they stopped.

A flood of dark feet raced toward Stockard's camp. Arrows whistled through the air. A spear went through the body of Stockard's wife. Stockard's bullets answered back. Wave after wave of Indians warriors broke over the barrier. Sturges Owen ran into his tent. His two men died quickly. Hay Stockard alone remained on his feet, knocking the attacking Indians aside.

Stockard held an ax in one hand and his gun in the other. Behind him, a hand grabbed Stockard's baby by its tiny leg and pulled it from under his mother's body. The Indian whipped the child through the air, smashing its head against a log. Stockard turned, and cut off the Indian's head with his ax.

The circle of angry faces closed on Stockard. Two times they pushed up to him, but each time he beat them back. They fell under his feet as the ground became wet with blood. Finally, Baptiste called his men to him.

"Stockard," he shouted. "You are a brave man. Deny your God and I will let you live!"

Two Indians dragged Sturges Owen out of the tent. He was not hurt, but his eyes were wild with fear.

He felt anger at God for making him so weak. Why had God given him faith without strength?

Owen stood shaking before Baptiste the Red. "Where is your God now? " demanded the Indian chief.

"I do not know," Owen whispered.

"Do you have a God?"

"I had."

"And now?"

"No."

"Very good," Baptiste said. "See that this man goes free. Let nothing happen to him. And send him back to his own people so he can tell his priests about Baptiste the Red's land where there is no God."

Baptiste turned to Hay Stockard. "There is no God," Baptiste said. Stockard laughed. One of the young Indian warriors lifted the war spear.

"Do you have a God?" Baptiste shouted.

Stockard took a deep breath. "Yes, he said, "the God of my fathers."

The spear flew through the air and went deep into Stockard's chest. Sturges Owen saw Stockard fall slowly to the ground. Then the Indians put Owen in a canoe. Sturges Owen went down the river to carry the message of Baptiste the Red, in whose country there was no God.

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