10 short stories

SHORT STORY

10 RECOMMENDED SHORT STORIES

Grade 8

10 RECOMMENDED SHORT STORIES

Short Story Page

One of These Days 1
A Dead Woman’s Secret 4
The Last Night of the World 7
Lather and Nothing Else 12
The Three Questions 17
The Aged Mother 20
The Dinner Party 23
Popular Mechanics 26
The Friday Everything Changed 29

The Happy Prince 36

“One of These Days"
By Gabriel Garcia Marquez

“One of These Days"
By Gabriel Garcia Marquez

Monday dawned warm and rainless. Aurelio Escovar, a dentist without a degree,
and a very early riser, opened his office at six. He took some false teeth, still mounted
in their plaster mold, out of the glass case and put on the table a fistful of instruments
which he arranged in size order, as if they were on display. He wore a collarless striped
shirt, closed at the neck with a golden stud, and pants held up by suspenders. He was
erect and skinny, with a look that rarely corresponded to the situation, the way deaf
people have of looking. (1)

When he had things arranged on the table, he pulled the drill toward the dental
chair and sat down to polish the false teeth. He seemed not to be thinking about what
he was doing, but worked steadily, pumping the drill with his feet, even when he didn’t
need it. (2)

After eight he stopped for a while to look at the sky through the window, and he
saw two pensive buzzards who were drying themselves in the sun on the ridgepole of
the house next door. He went on working with the idea that before lunch it would rain
again. The shrill voice of his eleven-year-old son interrupted his concentration. (3)

“Papa.”
“What?”
“The Mayor wants to know if you’ll pull his tooth.”
“Tell him I’m not here.”
He was polishing a gold tooth. He held it at arm’s length, and examined it with
his eyes half closed. His son shouted again from the little waiting room. (4)
“He says you are, too, because he can hear you.”
The dentist kept examining the tooth. Only when he had put it on the table with
the finished work did he say:
“So much the better.”
He operated the drill again. He took several pieces of a bridge out of a cardboard
box where he kept the things he still had to do and began to polish the gold. (5)
“Papa.”
“What?”
He still hadn’t changed his expression.
“He says if you don’t take out his tooth, he’ll shoot you.”
Without hurrying, with an extremely tranquil movement, he stopped pedaling the
drill, pushed it away from the chair, and pulled the lower drawer of the table all the way
out. There was a revolver. “O.K.,” he said. “Tell him to come and shoot me.” (6)
He rolled the chair over opposite the door, his hand resting on the edge of the
drawer. The Mayor appeared at the door. He had shaved the left side of his face, but
the other side, swollen and in pain, had a five-day-old beard. The dentist saw many
nights of desperation in his dull eyes. He closed the drawer with his fingertips and said
softly: (7)

“Sit down.”
“Good morning,” said the Mayor.
“Morning,” said the dentist.
While the instruments were boiling, the Mayor leaned his skull on the headrest of
the chair and felt better. His breath was icy. It was a poor office: an old wooden chair,
the pedal drill, a glass case with ceramic bottles. Opposite the chair was a window with
a shoulder-high cloth curtain. When he felt the dentist approach, the Mayor braced his
heels and opened his mouth. (8)
Aurelio Escovar turned his head toward the light. After inspecting the infected
tooth, he closed the Mayor’s jaw with a cautious pressure of his fingers. (9)
“It has to be without anesthesia,” he said.
“Why?”
“Because you have an abscess.”
The Mayor looked him in the eye. “All right,” he said, and tried to smile. The
dentist did not return the smile. He brought the basin of sterilized instruments to the
worktable and took them out of the water with a pair of cold tweezers, still without
hurrying. Then he pushed the spittoon with the tip of his shoe, and went to wash his
hands in the washbasin. He did all this without looking at the Mayor. But the Mayor
didn’t take his eyes off him. (10)
It was a lower wisdom tooth. The dentist spread his feet and grasped the tooth
with the hot forceps. The Mayor seized the arms of the chair, braced his feet with all his
strength, and felt an icy void in his kidneys, but didn’t make a sound. The dentist moved
only his wrist. Without rancor, rather with a bitter tenderness, he said: (11)
“Now you’ll pay for our twenty dead men.”
The Mayor felt the crunch of bones in his jaw, and his eyes filled with tears. But
he didn’t breathe until he felt the tooth come out. Then he saw it through his tears. It
seemed so foreign to his pain that he failed to understand his torture of the five
previous nights. (12)
Bent over the spittoon, sweating, panting, he unbuttoned his tunic and reached
for the handkerchief in his pants pocket. The dentist gave him a clean cloth.
“Dry your tears,” he said.
The Mayor did. He was trembling. While the dentist washed his hands, he saw
the crumbling ceiling and a dusty spider web with spider’s eggs and dead insects. The
dentist returned, drying his hands. “Go to bed,” he said, “and gargle with salt water.”
The Mayor stood up, said goodbye with a casual military salute, and walked toward the
door, stretching his legs, without buttoning up his tunic. (13)
“Send the bill,” he said.
“To you or the town?”
The Mayor didn’t look at him. He closed the door and said through the screen:
“It’s the same damn thing.” (14)

A Dead Woman’s Secret
Guy de Maupassant

A Dead Woman’s Secret
Guy de Maupassant

She had died painlessly, tranquilly, like a woman whose life was irreproachable, and she now lay on her back in bed,
with closed eyes, calm features, her long white hair carefully arranged as if she had again made her toilet ten minutes before
her death, all her pale physiognomy so composed, now that she had passed away, so resigned that one felt sure a sweet soul
had dwelt in that body, that this serene grandmother had spent an untroubled existence, that this virtuous woman had ended
her life without any shock, without any remorse.

On his knees, beside the bed, her son, a magistrate of inflexible principles, and her daughter Marguerite, in religion,
Sister Eulalie, were weeping distractedly. She had from the time of their infancy armed them with an inflexible code of
morality, teaching them a religion without weakness and a sense of duty without any compromise. He, the son, had become
a magistrate, and, wielding the weapon of the law, he struck down without pity the feeble and the erring. She, the daughter,
quite penetrated with the virtue that had bathed her in this austere family, had become the spouse of God through disgust
with men.

They had scarcely known their father; all they knew was that he had made their mother unhappy without learning any
further details. The nun passionately kissed one hand of her dead mother, which hung down, a hand of ivory like that of
Christ in the large crucifix which lay on the bed. At the opposite side of the prostrate body, the other hand seemed still to
grasp the rumpled sheet with that wandering movement which is called the fold of the dying, and the lines had retained little
wavy creases as a memento of those last motions which precede the eternal motionlessness. A few light taps at the door
caused the two sobbing heads to rise up, and the priest who had just dined, entered the apartment. He was flushed, a little
puffed, from the effects of the process of digestion which had just commenced; for he had put a good dash of brandy into
his coffee in order to counteract the fatigue caused by the last nights he had remained up and that which he anticipated from
the night that was still in store for him. He had put on a look of sadness, that simulated sadness of the priest to whom death
is a means of livelihood. He made the sign of the cross, and coming over to them with his professional gesture said:

“Well, my poor children, I have come to help you to pass these mournful hours.”

But Sister Eulalie suddenly rose up.
“Thanks, father, but my brother and I would like to be left alone with her. These are the last moments that we now
have for seeing her; so we want to feel ourselves once more, the three of us, just as we were years ago when we — we —
we were only children, and our poor — poor mother — ”

She was unable to finish with the flood of tears that gushed from her eyes, and the sobs that were choking her.
But the priest bowed, with a more serene look on his face, for he was thinking of his bed. “Just as you please, my
children.”
Then, he knelt down, again crossed himself, prayed, rose up, and softly stole away murmuring as he went: “She was
a saint.”

They were left alone, the dead woman and her children. A hidden timepiece kept regularly ticking in its dark corner,
and through the open window the soft odors of hay and of woods penetrated with faint gleams of moonlight. No sound in
the fields outside, save the wandering notes of toads and now and then the humming of some nocturnal insect darting into
like a ball, and knocking itself against the wall.

An infinite peace, a divine melancholy, a silent serenity surrounded this dead woman, seemed to emanate from her, to
evaporate from her into the atmosphere outside and to calm Nature itself.

Then the magistrate, still on his knees, his head pressed against the bed-clothes, in a far-off, heart-broken voice that
pierced through the sheets and the coverlet, exclaimed:

“Mamma, mamma, mamma!” And the sister, sinking down on the floor, striking the wood with her forehead
fanatically, twisting herself about and quivering like a person in an epileptic fit, groaned: “Jesus, Jesus — mamma — Jesus!”

And both of them shaken by a hurricane of grief panted with a rattling in their throats.

Then the fit gradually subsided, and they now wept in a less violent fashion, like the rainy calm that follows a squall
on a storm-beaten sea. Then, after some time, they rose, and fixed their glances on the beloved corpse. And memories, those

memories of the past, so sweet, so torturing today, came back to their minds with all those little forgotten details, those little
details so intimate and familiar, which make the being who is no more live over again. They recalled circumstances, words,
smiles, certain intonations of voice which belonged to one whom they should hear speaking to them again. They saw her
once more happy and calm, and phrases she used in ordinary conversation rose to their lips. They even remembered a little
movement of the hand peculiar to her, as if she were keeping time when she was saying something of importance.

And they loved her as they had never before loved her. And by the depth of their despair they realized how strongly
they had been attached to her, and how desolate they would find themselves now.

She had been their mainstay, their guide, the best part of their youth, of that happy portion of their lives which had
vanished; she had been the bond that united them to existence, the mother, the mamma, the creative flesh, the tie that bound
them to their ancestors. They would henceforth be solitary, isolated; they would have nothing on earth to look back upon.

The nun said to her brother:
“You know how mamma used always to read over her old letters. They are all there in her drawer. Suppose we read
them in our turn, and so revive all her life this night by her side? It would be like a kind of road of the cross, like making
the acquaintance of her mother, of grandparents whom we never knew, whose letters are there, and of whom she has so
often talked to us, you remember?”

And they drew forth from the drawer a dozen little packets of yellow paper, carefully tied up and placed close to one
another. They flung these relics on the bed, and selecting one of them on which the word “Father” was written, they opened
and read what was in it.

It consisted of those very old letters which are to be found in old family writing-desks, those letters which have the
flavor of another century. The first said, “My darling,” another “My beautiful little girl,” then others “My dear child,” and
then again “My dear daughter.” And suddenly the nun began reading aloud, reading for the dead her own history, all her
tender souvenirs. And the magistrate listened, while he leaned on the bed, with his eyes on his mother’s face. And the
motionless corpse seemed happy.

Sister Eulalie, interrupting herself, said: “We ought to put them into the grave with her, to make a winding-sheet of
them, and bury them with her.”

And then she took up another packet, on which the descriptive word did not appear.
And in a loud tone she began: “My adored one, I love you to distraction. Since yesterday I have been suffering like a
damned soul burned by the recollection of you. I feel your lips on mine, your eyes under my eyes, your flesh under my
flesh. I love you! I love you! You have made me mad! My arms open! I pant with an immense desire to possess you again.
My whole body calls out to you, wants you. I have kept in my mouth the taste of your kisses.”

The magistrate rose up; the nun stopped reading. He snatched the letter from her, and sought for the signature. There
was none, save under the words, “He who adores you,” the name “Henry.” Their father’s name was René. So then he was
not the man.

Then, the son, with rapid fingers, fumbled in the packet of letters took another of them, and read: “I can do without
your caresses no longer.”

And, standing up, with the severity of a judge passing sentence, he gazed at the impassive face of the dead woman.

The nun, straight as a statue, with teardrops standing at each corner of her eyes, looked at her brother, waiting to see
what he meant to do. Then he crossed the room, slowly reached the window, and looked out thoughtfully into the night.

When he turned back, Sister Eulalie, her eyes now quite dry, still remained standing near the bed, with a downcast
look.

He went over to the drawer and flung in the letters which he had picked up from the floor. Then he drew the curtains
round the bed.

And when the dawn made the candles on the table look pale, the son rose from his armchair, and without even a parting
glance at the mother whom he had separated from them and condemned, he said slowly:

“Now, my sister, let us leave the room.”

The Last Night of the World
Ray Bradbury

The Last Night of the World – Ray Bradbury

"WHAT would you do if you knew that this was the last night of the world?"

"What would I do? You mean seriously?"

"Yes, seriously."

"I don’t know. I hadn’t thought."

He poured some coffee. In the background the two girls were playing blocks on the parlor rug in the
light of the green hurricane lamps. There was an easy, clean aroma of the brewed coffee in the
evening air.

"Well, better start thinking about it," he said.

"You don’t mean it!"

He nodded.

"A war?"

He shook his head.

"Not the hydrogen or atom bomb?"

"No."

"Or germ warfare?"

"None of those at all," he said, stirring his coffee slowly. "But just, let’s say, the closing of a book."

"I don’t think I understand."

"No, nor do I, really; it’s just a feeling. Sometimes it frightens me; sometimes I’m not frightened at
all but at peace." He glanced in at the girls and their yellow hair shining in the lamplight. "I didn’t
say anything to you. It first happened about four nights ago."

"What?"

"A dream I had. I dreamed that it was all going to be over, and a voice said it was; not any kind of
voice I can remember, but a voice anyway, and it said things would stop here on Earth. I didn’t
think too much about it the next day, but then I went to the office and caught Stan Willis looking out
the window in the middle of the afternoon, and I said a penny for your thoughts, Stan, and he said, I
had a dream last night, and before he even told me the dream I knew what it was. I could have told
him, but he told me and I listened to him."

"It was the same dream?"

"The same. I told Stan I had dreamed it too. He didn’t seem surprised. He relaxed, in fact. Then we

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started walking through the office, for the hell of it. It wasn’t planned. We didn’t say, ‘Let’s walk
around.’ We just walked on our own, and everywhere we saw people looking at their desks or their
hands or out windows. I talked to a few. So did Stan."

"And they all had dreamed?"

"All of them. The same dream, with no difference."

"Do you believe in it?"

"Yes. I’ve never been more certain."

"And when will it stop? The world, I mean."

"Sometime during the night for us, and then as the night goes on around the world, that’ll go too.
It’ll take twenty-four hours for it all to go."

They sat awhile not touching their coffee. Then they lifted it slowly and drank, looking at each
other.

"Do we deserve this?" she said.

"It’s not a matter of deserving; it’s just that things didn’t work out. I notice you didn’t even argue
about this. Why not?"

"I guess I’ve a reason," she said.

"The same one everyone at the office had?"

She nodded slowly. "I didn’t want to say anything. It happened last night. And the women on the
block talked about it among themselves today. They dreamed. I thought it was only a coincidence."
She picked up the evening paper. "There’s nothing in the paper about it."

"Everyone knows, so there’s no need."

He sat back in his chair, watching her. "Are you afraid?"

"No. I always thought I would be, but I’m not."

"Where’s that spirit called self-preservation they talk so much about?"

"I don’t know. You don’t get too excited when you feel things are logical. This is logical. Nothing
else but this could have happened from the way we’ve lived."

"We haven’t been too bad, have we?"

"No, nor enormously good. I suppose that’s the trouble. We haven’t been very much of anything
except us, while a big part of the world was busy being lots of quite awful things."

The girls were laughing in the parlor.

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"I always thought people would be screaming in the streets at a time like this."

"I guess not. You don’t scream about the real thing."

"Do you know, I won’t miss anything but you and the girls. I never liked cities or my work or
anything except you three. I won’t miss a thing except perhaps the change in the weather, and a
glass of ice water when it’s hot, and I might miss sleeping. How can we sit here and talk this way?"

"Because there’s nothing else to do."

"That’s it, of course; for if there were, we’d be doing it. I suppose this is the first time in the history
of the world that everyone has known just what they were going to do during the night."

"I wonder what everyone else will do now, this evening, for the next few hours."

"Go to a show, listen to the radio, watch television, play cards, put the children to bed, go to bed
themselves, like always."

"In a way that’s something to be proud of... like always."

They sat a moment and then he poured himself another coffee. "Why do you suppose it’s tonight?"

"Because."

"Why not some other night in the last century, or five centuries ago, or ten?"

"Maybe it’s because it was never October 19, 1969, ever before in history, and now it is and that’s
it; because this date means more than any other date ever meant; because it’s the year when things
are as they are all over the world and that’s why it’s the end."

"There are bombers on their schedules both ways across the ocean tonight that’ll never see land."

"That’s part of the reason why."

"Well," he said, getting up, "what shall it be? Wash the dishes?"

They washed the dishes and stacked them away with special neatness. At eight-thirty the girls were
put to bed and kissed good night and the little lights by their beds turned on and the door left open
just a trifle.

"I wonder," said the husband, coming from the bedroom and glancing back, standing there with his
pipe for a moment.

"What?"

"If the door will be shut all the way, or if it’ll be left just a little ajar so some light comes in."

"I wonder if the children know."

"No, of course not."

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They sat and read the papers and talked and listened to some radio music and then sat together by
the fireplace watching the charcoal embers as the clock struck ten-thirty and eleven and eleven-
thirty. They thought of all the other people in the world who had spent their evening, each in his
own special way.
"Well," he said at last.
He kissed his wife for a long time.
"We’ve been good for each other, anyway."
"Do you want to cry?" he asked.
"I don’t think so."
They moved through the house and turned out the lights and went into the bedroom and stood in the
night cool darkness undressing and pushing back the covers. "The sheets are so clean and nice."
"I’m tired."
"We’re all tired." They got into bed and lay back.
"Just a moment," she said.
He heard her get out of bed and go into the kitchen. A moment later, she returned. "I left the water
running in the sink," she said.
Something about this was so very funny that he had to laugh. She laughed with him, knowing what
it was that she had done that was funny. They stopped laughing at last and lay in their cool night
bed, their hands clasped, their heads together.
"Good night," he said, after a moment.
"Good night," she said.

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LATHER AND NOTHING ELSE
Hernando Téllez

LATHER AND NOTHING ELSE

–––––––––––––––––––––– Hernando Téllez ––––––––––––––––––––––

He came in without a word. I was stropping my best razor. And when I
recognized him, I started to shake. But he did not notice. To cover my nervousness,
I went on honing the razor. I tried the edge with the tip of my thumb and took
another look at it against the light.

Meanwhile, he was taking off his cartridge-studded belt with the pistol holster
suspended from it. He put it on a hook in the wardrobe and hung his cap above it.
Then he turned full around toward me and, loosening his tie, remarked, “It’s hot
as the devil. I want a shave.” With that he took his seat.

I estimated he had a four-days’ growth of beard—the four days he had been
gone on the last foray after our men. His face looked burnt, tanned by the sun.

I started to work carefully on the shaving soap. I scraped some slices from the
cake, dropped them into the mug, then added a little lukewarm water, and stirred
with the brush. The lather soon began to rise.

“The fellows in the troop must have just about as much beard as I.” I went on
stirring up lather.

“But we did very well, you know. We caught the leaders. Some of them we
brought back dead; others are still alive. But they’ll all be dead soon.”

“How many did you take?” I asked.
“Fourteen. We had to go pretty far in to find them. But now they’re paying for
it. And not one will escape; not a single one.”
He leaned back in the chair when he saw the brush in my hand, full of lather. I
had not yet put the sheet on him. I was certainly flustered. Taking a sheet from the
drawer, I tied it around my customer’s neck.
He went on talking. He evidently took it for granted that I was on the side of the
existing regime.
“The people must have gotten a scare with what happened the other day,” he
said.
“Yes,” I replied, as I finished tying the knot against his nape, which smelt of
sweat.
“Good show, wasn’t it?”
“Very good,” I answered, turning my attention now to the brush. The man
closed his eyes wearily and awaited the cool caress of the lather.
I had never had him so close before. The day he ordered the people to file
through the schoolyard to look upon the four rebels hanging there, my path had
crossed his briefly. But the sight of those mutilated bodies kept me from paying

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attention to the face of the man who had been directing it all and whom I now had
in my hands.

It was not a disagreeable face, certainly. And the beard, which aged him a bit,
was not unbecoming. His name was Torres. Captain Torres.

I started to lay on the first coat of lather. He kept his eyes closed.
“I would love to catch a nap,” he said, “but there’s a lot to be done this
evening.”
I lifted the brush and asked, with pretended indifference: “A firing party?”
“Something of the sort,” he replied, “but slower.”
“All of them?”
“No, just a few.”
I went on lathering his face. My hands began to tremble again. The man could
not be aware of this, which was lucky for me. But I wished he had not come in.
Probably many of our men had seen him enter the shop. And with the enemy in my
house I felt a certain responsibility.
I would have to shave his beard just like any other, carefully, neatly, just as
though he were a good customer, taking heed that not a single pore should emit a
drop of blood. Seeing to it that the blade did not slip in the small whorls. Taking
care that the skin was left clean, soft, shining, so that when I passed the back of my
hand over it, not a single hair should be felt. Yes. I was secretly a revolutionary,
but at the same time I was a conscientious barber, proud of the way I did my job.
And that four-day beard presented a challenge.
I took up the razor, opened the handle wide, releasing the blade, and started to
work, downward from one sideburn. The blade responded to perfection. The hair
was tough and hard; not very long, but thick. Little by little the skin began to show
through. The razor gave out its usual sound as it gathered up layers of soap mixed
with bits of hair. I paused to wipe it clean, and taking up the strop once more went
about improving its edge, for I am a painstaking barber.
The man, who had kept his eyes closed, now opened them, put a hand out from
under the sheet, felt of the part of his face that was emerging from the lather, and
said to me, “Come at six o’clock this evening to the school.”
“Will it be like the other day?” I asked, stiff with horror.
“It may be even better,” he replied.
“What are you planning to do?”
“I’m not sure yet. But we’ll have a good time.”
Once more he leaned back and shut his eyes. I came closer, the razor on high.
“Are you going to punish all of them?” I timidly ventured.
“Yes, all of them.”
The lather was drying on his face. I must hurry. Through the mirror, I took a
look at the street. It appeared about as usual: there was the grocery shop with two
or three customers. Then I glanced at the clock: two-thirty.
The razor kept descending. Now from the other sideburn downward. It was a
blue beard, a thick one. He should let it grow like some poets, or some priests. It

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would suit him well. Many people would not recognize him. And that would be a
good thing for him, I thought, as I went gently over all the throat line. At this point
you really had to handle your blade skillfully, because the hair, while scantier,
tended to fall into small whorls. It was a curly beard. The pores might open,
minutely, in this area and let out a tiny drop of blood. A good barber like myself
stakes his reputation on not permitting that to happen to any of his customers.

And this was indeed a special customer. How many of ours had he sent to their
death? How many had he mutilated? It was best not to think about it. Torres did
not know I was his enemy. Neither he nor the others knew it. It was a secret shared
by very few, just because that made it possible for me to inform the revolutionaries
about Torres’ activities in the town and what he planned to do every time he went
on one of his raids to hunt down rebels. So it was going to be very difficult to
explain how it was that I had him in my hands and then let him go in peace, alive,
clean-shaven.

His beard had now almost entirely disappeared. He looked younger, several
years younger than when he had come in. I suppose that always happens to men
who enter and leave barbershops. Under the strokes of my razor Torres was
rejuvenated; yes, because I am a good barber, the best in this town, and I say this
in all modesty.

A little more lather here under the chin, on the Adam’s apple, right near the
great vein. How hot it is! Torres must be sweating just as I am. But he is not afraid.
He is a tranquil man, who is not even giving thought to what he will do to his
prisoners this evening. I, on the other hand, polishing his skin with this razor but
avoiding the drawing of blood, careful with every stroke—I cannot keep my
thoughts in order.

Confound the hour he entered my shop! I am a revolutionary but not a
murderer. And it would be so easy to kill him. He deserves it. Or does he? No,
damn it! No one deserves the sacrifice others make in becoming assassins. What is
to be gained by it? Nothing. Others and still others keep coming, and the first kill
the second, and then these kill the next, and so on until everything becomes a sea
of blood. I could cut his throat, so, swish, swish! He would not even have time to
moan, and with his eyes shut he would not even see the shine of the razor or the
gleam in my eye.

But I’m shaking like a regular murderer. From his throat a stream of blood
would flow on the sheet, over the chair, down on my hands, onto the floor. I
would have to close the door. But the blood would go flowing, along the floor,
warm, indelible, not to be stanched, until it reached the street, like a small scarlet
river.

I’m sure that with a good strong blow, a deep cut, he would feel no pain. He
would not suffer at all. And what would I do then with the body? Where would I
hide it? I would have to flee, leave all this behind, take shelter far away, very far
away. But they would follow until they caught up with me. “The murderer of

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Captain Torres. He slit his throat while he was shaving him. What a cowardly
thing to do!”

And others would say, “The avenger of our people. A name to remember”—my
name here. “He was the town barber. No one knew he was fighting for our cause.”

And so, which will it be? Murderer or hero? My fate hangs on the edge of this
razor blade. I can turn my wrist slightly, put a bit more pressure on the blade, let it
sink in. The skin will yield like silk, like rubber, like the strop. There is nothing
more tender than a man’s skin, and the blood is always there, ready to burst forth.
A razor like this cannot fail. It is the best one I have.

But I don’t want to be a murderer. No, sir. You came in to be shaved. And I do
my work honorably. I don’t want to stain my hands with blood. Just with lather,
and nothing else. You are an executioner; I am only a barber. Each one to his job.
That’s it. Each one to his job.

The chin was now clean, polished, soft. The man got up and looked at himself in
the glass. He ran his hand over the skin and felt its freshness, its newness.

“Thanks,” he said. He walked to the wardrobe for his belt, his pistol, and his
cap. I must have been very pale, and I felt my shirt soaked with sweat. Torres
finished adjusting his belt buckle, straightened his gun in its holster, and,
smoothing his hair mechanically, put on his cap. From his trousers pocket he took
some coins to pay for the shave. And he started toward the door. On the threshold
he stopped for a moment, and turning toward me he said:

“They told me you would kill me. I came to find out if it was true. But it’s not
easy to kill. I know what I’m talking about.”

Reprinted from Américas, a bimonthly magazine published in English and Spanish
by the General Secretariat of the Organization of American States.

4

THE THREE QUESTIONS

by Leo Tolstoy

THE THREE QUESTIONS
by Leo Tolstoy

It once occurred to a certain king, that if he always knew the right time to begin everything; if he knew who were the
right people to listen to, and whom to avoid, and, above all, if he always knew what was the most important thing to
do, he would never fail in anything he might undertake.
And this thought having occurred to him, he had it proclaimed throughout his kingdom that he would give a great
reward to any one who would teach him what was the right time for every action, and who were the most necessary
people, and how he might know what was the most important thing to do.
And learned men came to the King, but they all answered his questions differently.
In reply to the first question, some said that to know the right time for every action, one must draw up in advance, a
table of days, months and years, and must live strictly according to it. Only thus, said they, could everything be done
at its proper time. Others declared that it was impossible to decide beforehand the right time for every action; but
that, not letting oneself be absorbed in idle pastimes, one should always attend to all that was going on, and then do
what was most needful. Others, again, said that however attentive the King might be to what was going on, it was
impossible for one man to decide correctly the right time for every action, but that he should have a Council of Wise
Men, who would help him to fix the proper time for everything.
But then again others said there were some things which could not wait to be laid before a Council, but about which
one had at once to decide whether to undertake them or not. But in order to decide that, one must know beforehand
what was going to happen. It is only magicians who know that; and, therefore, in order to know the right time for
every action, one must consult magicians.
Equally various were the answers to the second question. Some said, the people the King most needed were his
councilors; others, the priests; others, the doctors; while some said the warriors were the most necessary.
To the third question, as to what was the most important occupation: some replied that the most important thing in
the world was science. Others said it was skill in warfare; and others, again, that it was religious worship. All the
answers being different, the King agreed with none of them, and gave the reward to none. But still wishing to find
the right answers to his questions, he decided to consult a hermit, widely renowned for his wisdom.
The hermit lived in a wood which he never quitted, and he received none but common folk. So the King put on
simple clothes, and before reaching the hermit's cell dismounted from his horse, and, leaving his bodyguard behind,
went on alone. When the King approached, the hermit was digging the ground in front of his hut. Seeing the King,
he greeted him and went on digging. The hermit was frail and weak, and each time he stuck his spade into the
ground and turned a little earth, he breathed heavily.
The King went up to him and said: "I have come to you, wise hermit, to ask you to answer three questions: How can
I learn to do the right thing at the right time? Who are the people I most need, and to whom should I, therefore, pay
more attention than to the rest? And, what affairs are the most important and need my first attention?"
The hermit listened to the King, but answered nothing. He just spat on his hand and recommenced digging.
"You are tired," said the King, "let me take the spade and work awhile for you."
"Thanks!" said the hermit, and, giving the spade to the King, he sat down on the ground.
When he had dug two beds, the King stopped and repeated his questions. The hermit again gave no answer, but rose,
stretched out his hand for the spade, and said, "Now rest awhile--and let me work a bit." But the King did not give
him the spade, and continued to dig. One hour passed, and another. The sun began to sink behind the trees, and the
King at last stuck the spade into the ground, and said, "I came to you, wise man, for an answer to my questions. If
you can give me none, tell me so, and I will return home."
"Here comes some one running," said the hermit, "let us see who it is."
The King turned round, and saw a bearded man come running out of the wood. The man held his hands pressed
against his stomach, and blood was flowing from under them. When he reached the King, he fell fainting on the
ground moaning feebly. The King and the hermit unfastened the man's clothing. There was a large wound in his
stomach. The King washed it as best he could, and bandaged it with his handkerchief and with a towel the hermit
had. Again and again the King washed and rebandaged the wound. At last the man revived and asked for something

to drink. The King brought fresh water and gave it to him. Meanwhile the sun had set, and it had become cool. So
the King, with the hermit's help, carried the wounded man into the hut and laid him on the bed. Lying on the bed the
man closed his eyes and was quiet; but the King was so tired with his walk and with the work he had done, that he
crouched down on the threshold, and also fell asleep--so soundly that he slept all through the short summer night.
When he awoke in the morning, it was long before he could remember where he was, or who was the strange
bearded man lying on the bed and gazing intently at him with shining eyes.
"Forgive me!" said the bearded man in a weak voice, when he saw that the King was awake and was looking at him.
"I do not know you, and have nothing to forgive you for," said the King.
"You do not know me, but I know you. I am that enemy of yours who swore to revenge himself on you, because you
executed his brother and seized his property. I knew you had gone alone to see the hermit, and I resolved to kill you
on your way back. But the day passed and you did not return. So I came out from my ambush to find you, and I
came upon your bodyguard, and they recognized me, and wounded me. I escaped from them, but should have bled
to death had you not dressed my wound. I wished to kill you, and you have saved my life. Now, if I live, and if you
wish it, I will serve you as your most faithful slave, and will bid my sons do the same. Forgive me!"
The King was very glad to have made peace with his enemy so easily, and to have gained him for a friend, and he
not only forgave him, but said he would send his servants and his own physician to attend him, and promised to
restore his property.
Having taken leave of the wounded man, the King went out into the porch and looked around for the hermit. Before
going away he wished once more to beg an answer to the questions he had put. The hermit was outside, on his
knees, sowing seeds in the beds that had been dug the day before.
The King approached him, and said, "For the last time, I pray you to answer my questions, wise man."
"You have already been answered!" said the hermit still crouching on his thin legs, and looking up at the King, who
stood before him.
"How answered? What do you mean?" asked the King.
"Do you not see," replied the hermit. "If you had not pitied my weakness yesterday, and had not dug these beds for
me, but had gone your way, that man would have attacked you, and you would have repented of not having stayed
with me. So the most important time was when you were digging the beds; and I was the most important man; and to
do me good was your most important business. Afterwards, when that man ran to us, the most important time was
when you were attending to him, for if you had not bound up his wounds he would have died without having made
peace with you. So he was the most important man, and what you did for him was your most important business.
Remember then: there is only one time that is important -- and that is now! It is the most important time because it is
the only time when we have any power.
The most necessary man is he with whom you are, for no man knows whether he will ever have dealings with any
one else.
And the most important thing to do is, to do good, because for that purpose alone was man sent into this life!" 

The Aged Mother
by Matsuo Basho

The Aged Mother
by Matsuo Basho

Long, long ago there lived at the foot of the mountain a poor farmer and
his aged, widowed mother. They owned a bit of land which supplied them with
food, and they were humble, peaceful, and happy.

Shining was governed by a despotic leader who though a warrior, had a
great and cowardly shrinking from anything suggestive of failing health and
strength. This caused him to send out a cruel proclamation. The entire province
was given strict orders to immediately put to death all aged people. Those were
barbarous days, and the custom of abandoning old people to die was not
uncommon. The poor farmer loved his aged mother with tender reverence, and
the order filled his heart with sorrow. But no one ever thought twice about
obeying the mandate of the governor, so with many deep and hopeless sighs,
the youth prepared for what at that time was considered the kindest mode of
death.

Just at sundown, when his day’s work was ended, he took a quantity of
unwhitened rice which was the principal food for the poor, and he cooked, dried
it, and tied it in a square cloth, which he swung in a bundle around his neck along
with a gourd filled with cool, sweet water. Then he lifted his helpless old mother
to his back and started on his painful journey up the mountain. The road was
long and steep; the narrow road was crossed and re-crossed by many paths
made by the hunters and woodcutters. In some places, he was lost and
confused, but he gave no heed. One path or another, it mattered not. On he
went, climbing blindly upward — ever upward towards the high bare summit of
what is known as Obatsuyama, the mountain of the “abandoning of the aged.”

The eyes of the old mother were not so dim, and they noted the reckless
hastening from one path to another, and her loving heart grew anxious. Her son
did not know the mountain’s many paths and his return might be one of danger,
so she stretched forth her hand and snapping the twigs from brushes as they
passed, she quietly dropped a handful every few steps of the way so that as they
climbed, the narrow path behind them was dotted at frequent intervals with tiny
piles of twigs. At last the summit was reached. Weary and heart sick, the youth
gently released his burden and silently prepared a place of comfort as his last
duty to the loved one. Gathering fallen pine needles, he made a soft cushion and
tenderly lifted his old mother onto it. He wrapped her padded coat more closely
about the stooping shoulders and with tearful eyes and an aching heart he said
farewell.

The trembling mother’s voice was full of unselfish love as she gave her
last injunction. “Let not thine eyes be blinded, my son.” She said. “The mountain
road is full of dangers. LOOK carefully and follow the path which holds the piles
of twigs. They will guide you to the familiar path farther down”. The son’s
surprised eyes looked back over the path, then at the poor old, shriveled hands
all scratched and soiled by their work of love. His heart broke within and bowing

to the ground, he cried aloud: “Oh, Honorable mother, your kindness breaks my

heart! I will not leave you. Together we will follow the path of twigs, and together
we will die!”

Once more he shouldered his burden (how light it seemed now) and

hastened down the path, through the shadows and the moonlight, to the little hut

in the valley. Beneath the kitchen floor was a walled closet for food, which was

covered and hidden from view. There the son hid his mother, supplying her with

everything she needed, continually watching and fearing she would be

discovered. Time passed, and he was beginning to feel safe when again the

governor sent forth heralds bearing an unreasonable order, seemingly as a boast

of his power. His demand was that his subjects should present him with a rope of

ashes.

The entire province trembled with dread. The order must be obeyed yet

who in all Shining could make a rope of ashes? One night, in great distress, the
son whispered the news to his hidden mother. “Wait!” she said. “I will think. I will
think” On the second day she told him what to do. “Make rope of twisted straw,”
she said. “Then stretch it upon a row of flat stones and burn it on a windless
night.” He called the people together and did as she said and when the blaze

died down, there upon the stones, with every twist and fiber showing perfectly,

lay a rope of ashes.

The governor was pleased at the wit of the youth and praised greatly, but
he demanded to know where he had obtained his wisdom. “Alas! Alas!” cried the
farmer, “the truth must be told!” and with deep bows he related his story. The

governor listened and then meditated in silence. Finally he lifted his head.
“Shining needs more than strength of youth,” he said gravely. “Ah, that I should
have forgotten the well-known saying, “with the crown of snow, there cometh
wisdom!” That very hour the cruel law was abolished.

The Dinner Party
by Mona Gardne

Copyright © by Holt, Rinehart and Winston. All rights reserved. The Dinner Party
by Mona Gardner

The country is India. A colonial official and his wife are giving a large dinner party. They are
seated with their guests—army officers and government attachés and their wives, and a visiting
American naturalist—in their spacious dining room, which has a bare marble floor, open rafters
and wide glass doors opening onto a veranda.*

A spirited discussion springs up between a young girl who insists that women have outgrown
the jumping-on-a-chair-at-the-sight-of-a-mouse era and a colonel who says that they haven’t.

“A woman’s unfailing reaction in any crisis,” the colonel says, “is to scream. And while a
man may feel like it, he has that ounce more of nerve control than a woman has. And that last
ounce is what counts.”

The American does not join in the argument but watches the other guests. As he looks, he
sees a strange expression come over the face of the hostess. She is staring straight ahead, her
muscles contracting slightly. With a slight gesture she summons the native boy standing behind
her chair and whispers to him. The boy’s eyes widen: he quickly leaves the room.

Of the guests, none except the American notices this or sees the boy place a bowl of milk on
the veranda just outside the open doors.

The American comes to with a start. In India, milk in a bowl means only one thing—bait for
a snake. He realizes there must be a cobra in the room. He looks up at the rafters—the likeliest
place—but they are bare. Three corners of the room are empty, and in the fourth the servants are
waiting to serve the next course. There is only one place left—under the table.

His first impulse is to jump back and warn the others, but he knows the commotion would
frighten the cobra into striking. He speaks quickly, the tone of his voice so arresting that it sobers
everyone.

* During the time this story takes place, India was a British colony. The colonial official works for the
British government in India. The government attachés work for another country’s embassy in India.
Finally, a naturalist is someone who studies animals and plants.

“The Dinner Party” by Mona Gardner from The Saturday Review of Literature, vol. 25, no. 5, January 31,
1941. Copyright © 1941 by General Media Communications, Inc. Reprinted by permission of The
Saturday Review.

Copyright © by Holt, Rinehart and Winston. All rights reserved. “I want to know just what control everyone at this table has. I will count to three
hundred—that’s five minutes—and not one of you is to move a muscle. Those who move will
forfeit fifty rupees. Ready!”

The twenty people sit like stone images while he counts. He is saying “. . . two hundred and
eighty. . .” when, out of the corner of his eye, he sees the cobra emerge and make for the bowl of
milk. Screams ring out as he jumps to slam the veranda doors safely shut.

“You were right, Colonel!” the host exclaims. “A man has just shown us an example of
perfect control.”

“Just a minute,” the American says, turning to his hostess. “Mrs. Wynnes, how did you know
that cobra was in the room?”

A faint smile lights up the woman’s face as she replies: “Because it was crawling across my
foot.”

Popular Mechanics
by Raymond Carver

Popular Mechanics

by Raymond Carver

Early that day the weather turned and the snow was melting into dirty water. Streaks of it ran
down from the little shoulder-high window that faced the backyard. Cars slushed by on the street
outside, where it was getting dark. But it was getting dark on the inside too.

He was in the bedroom pushing clothes into a suitcase when she came to the door.
I’m glad you’re leaving! I’m glad you’re leaving! she said. Do you hear?

He kept on putting his things into the suitcase.
Son of a bitch! I’m so glad you’re leaving! She began to cry. You can’t even look me in the face,
can you?
Then she noticed the baby’s picture on the bed and picked it up.

He looked at her and she wiped her eyes and stared at him before turning and going back to the
living room.

Bring that back, he said.

Just get your things and get out, she said.

He did not answer. He fastened the suitcase, put on his coat, looked around the bedroom before
turning off the light. Then he went out to the living room.

She stood in the doorway of the little kitchen, holding the baby.

I want the baby, he said.

Are you crazy?
No, but I want the baby. I’ll get someone to come for his things.
You’re not touching this baby, she said. The baby had begun to cry and she uncovered the
blanket from around his head.

Oh, oh, she said, looking at the baby.

He moved toward her.
For God’s sake! she said. She took a step back into the kitchen.

I want the baby.

Get out of here!

She turned and tried to hold the baby over in a corner behind the stove.

But he came up. He reached across the stove and tightened his hands on the baby.

Let go of him, he said.

Get away, get away! she cried.

The baby was red-faced and screaming. In the scuffle they knocked down a flowerpot that hung
behind the stove. He crowded her into the wall then, trying to break her grip. He held onto the
baby and pushed with all his weight.

Let go of him, he said.
Don’t, she said. You’re hurting the baby, she said.
I’m not hurting the baby, he said.

The kitchen window gave no light. In the near dark he worked on her fisted fingers with one
hand and with the other hand he gripped the screaming baby up under an arm near the shoulder.

She felt her fingers being forced open. She felt the baby going from her.

No! she screamed just as her hands came loose.
She would have it, this baby. She grabbed for the baby’s other arm. She caught the baby around
the wrist and leaned back.

But he would not let go. He felt the baby slipping out of his hands and he pulled back very hard.

In this manner, the issue was decided.

The Friday Everything Changed
Anne Har

The Friday Everything Changed
Anne Hart

The last hour of school on Friday afternoons was for Junior Red Cross. The little kids would get
out their Junior Red Cross pins and put them on and us big kids would start elbowing down the
aisles to the book cupboard at the back to see who would get the interesting magazines. There
was a big pile of them and they were of two kinds: the National Geographic and the Junior Red
Cross News. Because the boys were stronger and sat near the back they usually got the National
Geographics first, which meant they could spend the rest of Red Cross looking at African ladies
wearing nothing on top, while us girls had to be satisfied with the Junior Red Cross News, which
showed little African kids wearing lots of clothes and learning how to read. Apart from the
magazines for the big kids and maybe the teacher reading a story to the little kids, about the only
other thing that happened regularly during Red Cross was picking the two boys who would carry
water the next week.

In our school the water bucket always stood on a shelf at the front of the room just behind the
teacher's desk. First you'd make a paper cup out of a piece of scribbler paper, then you'd grab the
teacher's attention from wherever it happened to be and then up you'd go to the front of the room
for a drink from the water bucket.

It was kind of interesting to stand at the front of the room behind the teacher's desk and
drink water. The classroom looked different from up there and sometimes you could get just a
glimpse of an idea of what the teacher thought she was all about. I mean, from the front, looking
down on those rows of kids with their heads bent over their desks and the sun coming in the win-
dows and the blackboards and all that stuff on the walls, you might almost think, at first glance,
that you were looking at one of those real city schools -like in the health books-where the kids
were all so neat and all the same size. But after that first strange moment it just became our
school again, because you had to start adding in things like the coal stove and the scarred old
double desks and the kids themselves. I mean, we just didn't look like the kids in those pictures.
Maybe it was because we were so many different sizes-from the kids snuffling in the front rows
over their Nan and Dan readers to the big boys hunched over their desks at the back-maybe it
was because we wore so many heavy clothes all the time, or maybe it was because of something
that wasn't even there at all but seemed to be on the faces of the kids in those city pictures: a look
as if they liked being where they were.

But all that's a long way from Junior Red Cross and who would carry the water .

The water for our school came from a pump at the railway station, which was about a
quarter of a kilometer [mile] away. One day long ago a health inspector had come around and
had announced that water must be made available to the school. For a while there had been some
talk of digging a well but in the end we got a big, shiny, galvanized water bucket and permission

to use the railway station pump. And from that day on―for all the boys―the most important
thing that happened at school, even more important than
softball, was who would get to carry the water.

If you were a boy it was something you started dreaming about in Grade I, even though
there was not the remotest chance it could ever happen to you before at least Grade 5, and only
then if the teacher thought you were big and strong enough. You dreamed about it partly because
carrying the water meant you were one of the big guys, and carrying the water meant you could
get away from school for maybe half an hour at a time. But mostly you dreamed about it because
carrying the water was something real, and had absolutely nothing whatever to do with Nan and
Dan and all that stuff.

So every Friday afternoon toward the end of Red Cross, when it got to be time for the
teacher to pick the two boys who would go for water the next week, all the National Geo-
graphic’s came to rest like huge butterflies folding up their yellow wings and a big hush fell all
over the back rows. And that's the way it had always been until one extraordinary afternoon
when, right out of the blue, just after the teacher had picked Ernie Chapman and Garnet Dixon to
carry the water, my seatmate, Alma Niles, put up her hand and said: "Why can't girls go for the
water, too?"

If one of those German planes, like in the war movies, had suddenly appeared over the
school and dropped a bomb, we all couldn't have been more surprised. A silence fell over the
room and in that silence everyone looked at the teacher .

Now our teacher that year was named Miss Ralston and even though she came from
River Hibbert we all liked her quite a lot. She was strict but she was never mean like some of the
teachers we'd had. Because she was young (she'd just finished Grade 11 the year before herself-
River Hibbert had fancy things like Grade 11) she'd had quite a rough time the first week of
school with the bigger boys. But she was pretty big herself and after she'd strapped most of them
up at the front of the room before our very eyes (and even the little kids could see that it really
hurt) things had settled down.
The boys kind of admired Miss Ralston for strapping so hard, and us girls admired her because
she was so pretty and wore nylon stockings and loafers all the time. But the really unusual thing
about Miss Ralston was the way she sometimes stopped in the middle of a lesson and looked at
us as if we were real people, instead of just a lot of kids who had to be pushed through to their
next grades. And that was why, on that Friday afternoon when Alma Niles put up her hand and
said: "Why can't girls go for
the water, too?" we all turned and looked at Miss Ralston first instead of just bursting out laugh-
ing at Alma right away.

And Miss Ralston, instead of saying, "Whoever heard of girls going for the water?" or, "
Are you trying to be saucy, Alma?" like any other teacher would, said nothing at all for a mo-
ment but just looked very hard at Alma, who had gone quite white with the shock of dropping
such a bombshell. After a long moment, when she finally spoke, Miss Ralston, instead of saying,
"Why that's out of the question, Alma," threw a bombshell of her own: "I'll think about that," she
said―as if, you know, she would―"and I'll let you know next Friday."

The trouble started right away as soon as we got into the school yard, because all the boys
knew, from the moment Miss Ralston had spoken, that something of theirs was being threatened
and that, as long as there was the remotest chance that any girl might get to carry the water, they
had to do everything in their power to stop it. Like driving a tractor or playing hockey for the
Toronto Maple Leafs, carrying water was real, and because it was real it belonged to them.

So they went right for Alma as soon as she came out of school and that was when another
funny thing happened. Instead of just standing back and watching Alma get beaten up, as we
usually did when the boys were after someone, the girls rushed right in to try and help her. In the
first place we all liked Alma, and in the second place we all had seen, as clearly as the boys,
what our carrying the water might mean; that, incredibly, we, too, might get to skip school for
half an hour at a time, that we, too, might get to sneak into Rowsell's store on the way back and,
most dizzying thought of all, that we too
might get to do something real.

And, because we were so intoxicated by the whole idea, and took the boys so much by
surprise by standing up to them, we somehow managed to get Alma and ourselves out of the
schoolyard with only a few bruises and torn stockings, leaving the boys in possession of the
schoolyard where, as we could glimpse over our shoulders as we ran down the hill, they had be-
gun to gather together in a single ominous knot.

And for the rest of that weekend, though of course we never talked about it in front of our
parents, all we could think of, both boys and girls, was what was going to happen at school that
coming week.

The first thing, clearly evident by recess on Monday morning, was that the boys had decided not
to let us girls field at softball any more.

Softball at our school used to go like this: every Monday morning at recess two of the
bigger boys-that year it was usually Ernie Chapman and Junior LeBlanc-used to pick their teams
for the week. Whoever came out on top in laddering hands up the softball bat got to pick first and
the loser second and so it went-back and forth-until all the boys who were considered good
enough to be on a team had been picked. Then Ernie and Junior laddered the bat again to see
which side would get up first and the losing side took to the field to be joined by the little boys
who hadn't been picked and us older girls who were allowed to act as sort of permanent supple-
mentary fielders. And for the rest of the week the teams remained locked, at every recess and
lunchtime, in one long softball game which had, as we discovered to our surprise several years
later when the television came through, some strange rules.

The way we played, for example, every single boy had to get out before the other team
could come in. And any boy hitting a home run not only had the right to bat straight away again
but also to bring back into the game any boy who had got out. Which led to kids who couldn't
remember their six-times table properly being able to announce―say, by noon on Thurs-
day―"The score's now 46 to 39 because, in the last inning startingTuesday lunchtime, Junior's
team was all out except for Irving Snell, who hit three homers in a row off of Lorne Ripley, and
brought in Ira and Jim and Elton who brought in the rest except for Austin who got out for the
second time on Wednesday with a foul ball one of the girls caught behind third base. .."

Some days it got so exciting that at noon we couldn't wait to eat our lunches but would
rush straight into the schoolyard, gobbling our sandwiches as we ran, toward that aching moment
when the ball, snaking across the yellow grass or arching toward us from the marsh sky, might
meet our open, eager hands.

So it was a hard blow, Monday morning recess, when Ernie Chapman whirled the bat
around his head, slammed it down as hard as he could on home base and announced. "The first
girl that goes out to field, we break her neck." We clustered forlornly around the girls' entry door
knowing there was nothing we could really do.

"Oh Alma," mourned Minnie Halliday, biting the ends of her long, brown braids, "why
couldn't you just have kept your mouth shut?" It was a bad moment. If we'd tried to go out to
field they'd have picked us off one by one. We couldn't even play softball on our own. None of
us owned a bat and ball.

If it hadn't been for Doris Pomeroy, we might have broken rank right there and then.
Doris, who was in Grade 9 and had had a home permanent and sometimes wore nail polish and
had even, it was rumored, gone swimming in the quarry all alone with Elton Lawrence, flicked a
rock against the schoolhouse wall in the silence following Minnie's remark and steadied us all by
saying: "Don't be foolish, Minnie. All we have to do is wait. They need us to field and, besides,
they kind of like to have us out there looking at them when they get up to bat."

But it was a long, hard week. Besides not letting us field, the boys picked on us whenever
they got the chance. I guess they figured that if they made things bad enough for us, sooner or
later we'd go to Miss Ralston and ask her to forget the whole thing. But all their picking on and
bullying did was to keep us together. Whenever one of us was tripped going down the aisle or
got an ink ball in her hair or got trapped in the outhouse by a bunch of boys it was as if it was
happening to all of us. And looking back on that week-when there were so many bad feelings
and so many new feelings in the air-it was kind of nice, too, because for the first time us girls
found ourselves telling each other our troubles and even our thoughts without worrying about
being laughed at. And that was something new at our school.

As for Alma, who kept getting notes thrown on her desk promising her everything from a
bloody nose to having her pants pulled down, we stuck to her like burrs. But maybe Alma's hard-
est moment had nothing to do with bullying at all. It was when her cousin Arnold came over to
see her Wednesday after school and asked her to drop the whole idea of girls going for the water.

"If they find out about it, Alma," said Arnold. "They’ll probably take away the water
bucket."

"Who's they?" asked Alma. She and Arnold had played a lot together when they were lit-
tle kids and she was used to listening to his opinions on most things.

"Well, the health inspector," said Arnold, "and guys like that."
"They'll never take away that water bucket," said Alma, though she wasn't all that sure.
"They don't care who carries the water as long as it gets carried."
" Alma," said Arnold earnestly, "the other guys would kill me if they ever found out I
told you this but sometimes carrying the water isn't that much fun. On cold days it's real hard
work. You're better off in the warm school."
Alma knew what it cost Arnold to tell her this but she stood firm. "I'm sorry, Arnold," she
said, "but I'm used to cold weather. In winter I walk to school the same as you." So Arnold went
away.
If Miss Ralston, as the week wore on, noticed anything unusual going on in her school, she gave
little sign of it. She passed out the usual punishments for ink balls, she intercepted threatening
notes and tore them up unread, she looked at Alma's white face, and all she asked about were the
principal rivers of Europe. Nor were we surprised. Nothing in our experience had led us to be-
lieve the grown-ups had the slightest inkling―or interest―in what really went on with kids.
Only Doris Pomeroy thought differently. "Miss Ralston looks real mad," said Doris as we
trailed in thankfully from Friday morning recess.
" Mad?" a couple of us asked.
"Yeah. Like when she comes out to ring the bell and we're all hanging around the entry
door like a lot of scared chickens. She rings that old hand bell as if she wished all those yelling

boy's heads were under it. Of course they do things differently in River Hibbert. I know for a fact
that girls there get to play on softball teams just like the boys."

"On teams? Just like the boys?" But it was all too much for us to take in at that moment,
so preoccupied were we with that afternoon's decision on the water. All that long, hard week it
was as if Friday afternoon and Junior Red Cross would never come again. Now that it was al-
most upon us most of us forgot, in our excitement, at least for the time being, Doris' heady re-
mark about softball.

So at lunchtime, just as the boys were winding up their week's game ("And real great, eh?
Without the girls?" Ernie Chapman was gloating loudly from the pitcher's mound), when Miss
Ralston, without her bell, leaped through our clustered huddles at the entry door and headed
straight toward the softball field, she took us all completely by surprise. Crunch, crunch, crunch
went Miss Ralston's bright red loafers against the cinders and the next thing we knew she'd
grabbed the bat from Irving Snell and, squinting against the sun, was twirling and lining it before
our astonished eyes.

"Come on! Come on!" cried Miss Ralston impatiently to Ernie who stood transfixed be-
fore her on the pitcher's mound. "Come on! Come on!" she cried again and she banged the bat
against the ground.

"Come on! Come on!" cried Doris Pomeroy and we rushed after her across the cinders.
The first ball Ernie threw was pretty wobbly and Miss Ralston hit it at an angle so that it
fell sideways, a foul ball, toward George Fowler's outstretched hands. " Ah-h-h-h," we moaned
from the sidelines and some of us closed our eyes so we wouldn't have to look. But George
jumped too eagerly for such an easy ball and it fell right through his fingers and rolled harm-
lessly along the ground.
Ernie took a lot more time over his second pitch. He was getting over the first shock of
finding Miss Ralston opposite him at bat and by this time he was receiving shouts of encourage-
ment from all over the field.
"Get her! Get her!" the boys yelled recklessly at Ernie and they all fanned out behind the
bases.
Ernie took aim slowly. None of us had ever seen the pirouettings of professional pitchers
but there was a certain awesome ceremony, nevertheless, as Ernie spat savagely on the ball,
glared hard at Miss Ralston, slowly swung back his big right arm and, poised for one long mo-
ment, his whole body outstretched, threw the ball as hard as he could toward home base where
Miss Ralston waited, her body rocking with the bat.
For a fleeting moment we had a glimpse of what life might be like in River Hibbert and
then Miss Ralston hit the ball.
"Ah-h-h-h-h-h," we cried as it rose high in the air, borne by the marsh wind, and flew like
a bird against the sun, across the road and out of sight, into the ox pasture on the other side.
" Ah-h-h-h-h-h ..."
We all stared at Miss Ralston. "School's in," she announced over her shoulder, walking
away.

Hitting the ball into the ox pasture happened maybe once a year.

That afternoon, toward the end of Red Cross, there was a big hush all over the room.
"Next week," said Miss Ralston, closing the school register, tidying her books, "next
week Alma Niles and Joyce Shipley will go for the water ."

She swept her hand over the top of her desk and tiny dust motes danced in the slanting
sun.

The Happy Prince

The Happy Prince

The statue of the Happy Prince stood high above the city. It was covered with gold, its eyes were
bright blue jewels, and a red jewel hung from its waist. Everyone thought that it was very beautiful.
‘Why aren’t you like the Happy Prince?’ mothers said to their little boys when they cried.
Sad men looked at the statue and said, ‘I am glad that someone in the world is happy.’
One night a little bird flew alone over the city. The other birds were all in Egypt now. ‘Where can I
stay tonight?’ he thought. Then he saw the statue. ‘I will stay there,’ he thought. ‘It is high up, so there
is plenty of fresh air.’
He landed between the feet of the Happy Prince. ‘I have a golden bedroom!’ he thought. But as he put
his head under his wing, a large drop of water fell on him.
He looked up.’ That is very strange!’ he thought.’ There is not a cloud in the sky, but it is raining!’
Then another drop fell. ‘I cannot stay on a statue that does not keep me dry,’ he thought. ‘I must find
another place.’ And he decided to fly away. But as he opened his wings, a third drop fell. He looked
up and saw — Ah! What did he see?
The eyes of the Happy Prince were full of tears. Tears ran down his golden face. The face was very
beautiful in the moonlight, and the bird felt sorry for him.
‘Who are you?’ asked the bird.
‘I am the Happy Prince.’
‘Then why are you crying? I am wet with your tears.’
‘When I was alive,’ said the prince,’ I had a heart like every other man. But I did not know what tears

were. I lived in a palace where there was no sadness. In the daytime I played with my friends in a
beautiful garden, and in the evening I danced. There was a high wall round the garden. But I did not
know what lay on the other side. So I was called the Happy Prince. I was pleased with my little world.
Now I am dead, and they have put me up here. I can see all the unhappiness of my city. My heart now
is made of a cheap metal. But even that poor heart can feel, and so I cry.’

‘Oh,’ said the bird to himself, ‘he is not all gold — he is only gold on the outside.’

‘Far away from here,’ said the Happy Prince in a low voice, ‘there is a poor house in a little street.
Through an open window, I can see a woman at a table. Her face is very thin and she has rough, red
hands. She is making a dress for one of the queen’s ladies, for a dance in the palace. Her little boy is
lying on a bed in the corner of the room. He is very ill. He is crying because she can only give him
water from the river. Little bird, will you take my red jewel to her? I cannot move from here.’

‘My friends are waiting for me in Egypt,’ said the bird.

‘Little bird, little bird,’ said the prince, ‘please stay with me for one night and do this for me. The boy
is crying and his mother is so unhappy.’

The Happy Prince looked very sad, and the little bird was sorry for him. ‘It is very cold here,’ he said,
‘but I will stay with you for one night. Tomorrow I will take the jewel.’

‘Thank you, little bird,’ said the prince.

*

So the bird took the great red jewel from the prince’s waist and flew away with it over the roofs of the
town. He passed the palace and heard the sound of dancing. A beautiful girl -was at a window with her
lover. ‘I hope my dress will be ready for the dance next week,’ she said.’ Those women are so lazy.’

The bird passed over the river and flew and flew. At last he came to the poor little house and looked
inside. The boy was lying on the bed. The mother was asleep; she was so tired. He flew in and put the
great red jewel on the table. Then he flew round the bed, moving the air around the boy’s face with his
wings.

‘Oh,’ said the boy, ‘my face does not feel so hot. I think I am getting better.’ And he fell asleep.

Then the bird flew back to the Happy Prince. ‘It is strange,’ the bird said. ‘It is very cold, but I feel
quite warm.’

‘That is because you have done a good thing,’ said the prince. The little bird fell asleep.

*

When day came, the bird flew down to the river for a bath. A clever man saw him. ‘That is very
unusual!’ he said. ‘That kind of bird, here in winter! I must write that down!’

‘I will go to Egypt tonight,’ thought the bird.

When the moon came up, he flew back to the Happy Prince. ‘Can I do anything for you in Egypt?’ he

said.

‘Little bird, little bird,’ said the prince, ‘please will you stay with me for one more night?’

‘My friends are waiting for me,’ answered the bird.

‘Far away across the city,’ said the prince, ‘I can see a young writer in a little room at the top of a
house. He is sitting at a table that is covered with papers. At his side there are some dead flowers. He
is trying to finish a story. But he is very cold and he cannot write. There is no fire in the room, and he
is weak and hungry.’

‘I will wait with you for one more night,’ said the bird kindly. ‘What shall I take to him?’

‘Take him one of my eyes,’ said the prince. ‘They are made of beautiful blue stones from India. The
young man can sell it and buy wood and food. He can finish his story.’

‘Take out your eye, dear prince?’ said the bird. ‘I cannot do that!’ And he began to cry.

‘Do it!’ said the prince.

So the bird took out the prince’s eye and flew away to the young man’s room. It was easy to get in
because there was a hole in the roof. The young man was sitting with his head in his hands, so he did
not hear the bird’s wings. When he looked up, a beautiful blue jewel was lying on the dead flowers.

‘Someone likes my stories!’ he cried happily. ‘This is a gift from someone who has read my books.
Now I can finish writing this story!’

*

On the next day the bird flew down to the river. He watched the seamen working on the ships. ‘I am
going to Egypt!’ he cried, but no one listened to him.

When the moon came up, he flew back to the Happy Prince. ‘I have come to say goodbye to you,’ he
said.

‘Little bird, little bird,’ said the prince, ‘please will you stay with me for one more night?’

‘It is winter,’ answered the bird.’ The snow will soon come. In Egypt the sun is warm and the trees are
green. Dear prince, I must leave you; but I will never forget you.’

‘A little girl is standing there in the square below. She is selling eggs. Her eggs have fallen on the
ground and they are broken. She has no money to take home. Her father will hit her. Take out my
other eye and give it to her.’

‘I will stay with you for one more night,’ said the bird,’ but I cannot take out your other eye. You will
not be able to see!’

‘Do it!’ said the prince.

So the bird took out the prince’s other eye and flew down with it. He flew to the girl and put the jewel
in her hand.

‘This is a beautiful piece of glass!’ cried the little girl. She ran home, laughing.

Then the bird flew back to the prince. ‘You cannot see now,’ he said,’ so I will stay with you.’

‘No,’ said the poor prince,’ ‘you must go to Egypt.’

‘I will stay with you,’ repeated the bird, and he slept at the prince’s feet.

The next day he stayed with the prince. He told the prince stories about the strange lands that he knew.

‘Dear little bird,’ said the prince, ‘you are telling me about strange and wonderful things, but the
suffering of men and women is stranger than anything. Fly over my city, little bird. Tell me what you
see there.’

So the swallow flew over the great city. He saw the rich eating and drinking in their beautiful houses.
He saw the poor people sitting at the gate. He flew into the dark streets and saw the white faces of
hungry children with sad eyes. Under a bridge, two little boys were lying close together to keep warm.
‘We are so hungry!’ they said. ‘You cannot lie there!’ shouted a guard.

Then the bird flew back and told the prince.

‘I am covered with fine gold,’ said the prince. ‘Take it off, piece by piece, and give it to my poor
people.’

The bird pulled off the gold, until the Happy Prince looked grey and ugly. The bird took the gold to
the poor, and the children’s faces became brighter. ‘We have bread now!’ they cried.

*

Then the snow came. Ice followed the snow, and hung down from the roofs of the houses. Everyone
wore thick coats.

The little bird became colder. He did not leave the prince, because he loved him too much. But he was
dying.

‘Goodbye, dear prince!’ he said.’ Can I kiss you?’

‘I am glad that you are going to Egypt,’ said the prince. ‘You have stayed too long. Kiss me, because I
love you.’

‘I am not going to Egypt,’ said the bird. ‘I am going to the House of Death.’ He kissed the prince, and
fell down dead at his feet. Then there was a strange sound inside the statue. CRACK — the metal heart
broke into two pieces.

Early next morning, an important man in the city was walking below with two of his friends. He
looked up at the statue.’ The Happy Prince does not look very bright!’ he said. ‘The red stone has
disappeared, his eyes are not there, and he is not golden. He looks like a beggar.’

‘Yes he does!’ said the man’s friends.

‘Here is a dead bird at his feet!’ said the officer. ‘We must make an order that birds cannot die here.’

They pulled down the statue of the Happy Prince and put it in the fire. A stream of bright metal ran
out.
‘This is strange!’ said the workmen. ‘This broken piece in the middle of the statue has stayed hard. We
must throw it away.’ So they threw it away with the dead bird.

*
God said to his servants, Bring me the two best things in the city.’ They brought Him the broken heart
and the dead bird.
‘Yes, you have brought the right things,’ God said. ‘This little bird will sing for ever in my garden,
and the Happy Prince will stand in my city of gold.’

Oscar Wilde
“The young King and other stories”

Essex, Penguin Books, 2000

Re ad, Lead, Succeed!