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Now, the weekly Special English program, AMERICAN STORIES.

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Our story today is called “The Californian’s Tale." It was written by Mark Twain. Here is Shep O’Neal with the story.

STORYTELLER:

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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ANNOUNCER:

You have just heard the story "The Californian’s Tale." It was written by Mark Twain and adapted for Special English by Donna de Sanctis. Your storyteller was Shep O’Neal. For VOA Special English, this is Shirley Griffith.

Lisenning English MP3

Now, the VOA Special English program, AMERICAN STORIES.

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Our story today is called "Athenaise." It was written by Kate Chopin. Here is Barbara Klein with the story.

STORYTELLER:

Athenaise went away one morning to visit her parents, ten miles back on the Bon Dieu River in Louisiana. She did not return in the evening, and Cazeau, her husband, was worried.

Cazeau expressed his worries to his servant, Felicite, who served him dinner.

He ate alone by the light of a coal-oil lamp. Felicite stood nearby like a restless shadow.

"Only married two months and she has her head turned already to leave! It is not right!" she said.

Cazeau shrugged his shoulders. Felicite's opinion of his wife's behavior after two months of marriage did not matter to him. He was used to being alone and did not mind a night or two of it. Cazeau stood up and walked outside.

The night was beginning to deepen and gather black around the groups of trees in the yard. Far away, he could hear the sound of someone playing an accordion. Nearby, a baby was crying.

Cazeau's horse was waiting, saddled. He still had much farm work to do before bed time. He did not have time to think about Athenaise. But he felt her absence like a deep pain.

Before he slept that night Cazeau was visited by an image of Athenaise's pale, young face with its soft lips and sensual eyes. The marriage had been a mistake. He had only to look into her eyes to feel that, to sense her growing dislike of him. But, the marriage could not be undone. And he was ready to make the best of it and expected the same effort from her.

These sad thoughts kept Cazeau awake far into the night. The moon was shining and its pale light reached into the room. It was still outside, with no sound except the distant notes of the accordion.

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Athenaise did not return the next day, although her husband sent a message to do so through her brother, Monteclin. On the third day, Cazeau prepared his horse and went himself in search of her.

Athenaise's parents, the Miches, lived in a large home owned by a trader who lived in town. The house was far too big for their use. Upstairs, the rooms were so large and empty that they were used for parties. A dance at the Miche home and a plate of Madame Miche's gumbo were pleasures not to be missed.

Madame Miche was sitting on the porch outside the house. She stood up to greet Cazeau. She was short and fat with a cheery face. But she was clearly tense as Cazeau arrived.

Monteclin was there too. But he was not uneasy. He made no effort to hide his dislike of Cazeau.

"Dirty pig!" He said under his breath as Cazeau climbed the stairs to the porch. Monteclin disliked Cazeau for refusing to lend him money long ago. Now that this man was his sister's husband, he disliked him even more.

Miche and his oldest son were away. They both respected Cazeau and talked highly of him.

Cazeau shook hands with Madame Miche who offered him a chair. Athenaise had shut herself in her room.

"You know, nothing would do last night," Madame Miche said. "Athenaise just had to stay for a little dance. The boys would not let their sister leave!"

Cazeau shrugged his shoulders to show he knew nothing about last night.

"Didn't Monteclin tell you we were going to keep Athenaise?" she asked. But Monteclin had told him nothing.

"And how about the night before?" asked Cazeau. "And last night? Do you have dances every night?"

Madame Miche laughed and told her son to go tell Athenaise her husband had arrived. Monteclin did not move.

"You know as well as I do that it is no use to tell Athenaise anything," said Monteclin. "You and pa have been talking to her since Monday. When Athenaise said she was not returning to Cazeau she meant it."

Two fiery red spots rose to Cazeau's cheeks. What Monteclin said was true.

Upon arriving home, Athenaise had announced she was there to stay. It was difficult for her to understand why she had married. Girls were just expected to get married. And she did like Cazeau.

Monteclin had asked Athenaise to explain herself. He had asked her if Cazeau abused her, or if he drank too much.

"No!" Athenaise had said. "It is just being married that I hate. I do not like being Missus Cazeau. I want to be Athenaise Miche again. I do not like living with a man, all his clothing everywhere and his ugly bare feet."

At the time, Monteclin had been sorry his sister had no serious evidence to use against Cazeau.

And now, there was Cazeau himself looking like he wanted to hit Monteclin.

Cazeau stood up and went inside the house to his wife's room.

"Athenaise, get ready," he said quietly. "It is late and we do not have time to lose."

Athenaise was not prepared for his calm request. She felt a sense of hopelessness about continuing to rebel against the idea of marriage. She gathered her hat and gloves. Then, she walked downstairs past her brother and mother, got on her horse and rode away. Cazeau followed behind her.

It was late when they reached home. Cazeau once more ate dinner alone. Athenaise sat in her room crying.

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Athenaise's parents had hoped that marriage would bring a sense of responsibility so deeply lacking in her character. No one could understand why she so hated her role as wife. Cazeau had never spoken angrily to her or called her names or failed to give her everything she wanted. His main offense seemed to be that he loved her.

And Athenaise was not a woman to be loved against her will.

At breakfast, Athenaise complained to her husband.

"Why did you have to marry me when there were so many other girls to choose from?" she asked. "And, it is strange that if you hate my brother so much, why would you marry his sister!"

"I do not know what any of them have to do with it," Cazeau said. "I married you because I loved you. I guess I was a fool to think I could make you happy. I do not know what else to do but make the best of a bad deal and shake hands over it."

It now seemed to Athenaise that her brother was the only friend left to her in the world. Her parents had turned from her and her friends laughed at her. But Monteclin had an idea for securing his sister's freedom. After some thought, Athenaise agreed to his plan.

The next morning, Cazeau woke up to find his wife was gone. She had packed her belongings and left in the night.

Cazeau felt a terrible sense of loss. It was not new; he had felt it for weeks.

He realized he had missed his chance for happiness. He could not think of loving any other woman, and could not imagine Athenaise ever caring for him. He wrote her a letter stating that he did not want her back unless she returned of her own free will.

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Athenaise had escaped to the big city of New Orleans. She was staying at a private hotel that Monteclin had chosen and paid to rent for a month. A woman named Sylvie owned the hotel and took good care of Athenaise.

Athenaise soon became friends with Mister Gouvernail who was also staying at the hotel. This friendship helped her feel less lonely about missing her family. But Mister Gouvernail soon started to fall in love with Athenaise. He knew she was uninformed, unsatisfied and strong-willed. But he also suspected that she loved her husband, although she did not know it. Bitter as this belief was, he accepted it.

Athenaise's last week in the city was coming to an end. She had not found a job and was too homesick to stay any longer. Also, she had not been feeling well. She complained in detail about her sickness to Sylvie. Sylvie was very wise, and Athenaise was very stupid. Sylvie very calmly explained to Athenaise that she was feeling sick because she was pregnant.

Athenaise sat very still for a long time thinking about this new information. Her whole being was overcome with a wave of happiness. Then, she stood up, ready to take action.

She had to tell her mother! And Cazeau! As she thought of him, a whole new sense of life swept over her. She could not wait to return to him.

The next day Athenaise spent travelling home. When she arrived at Cazeau's, he lifted her out of the horse carriage and they held each other tight. The country night was warm and still except for a baby crying in the distance.

"Listen, Cazeau!" said Athenaise. "How Juliette's baby is crying! Poor darling, I wonder what is the matter with it?"

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ANNOUNCER:

You have heard the story "Athenaise" by Kate Chopin. Your storyteller was Barbara Klein. This story was adapted and produced by Dana Demange. Listen again next week for another American Story in VOA Special English.

Lisenning English MP3

Now, the VOA Special English program, AMERICAN STORIES.

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We present the short story "The Ransom of Red Chief" by O. Henry. Here is Shep O'Neal with the story.

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STORYTELLER:

It looked like a good thing. But wait till I tell you. We were down south, in Alabama – Bill Driscoll and myself – when this kidnapping idea struck us. There was a town down there, as flat as a pancake, and called Summit. Bill and I had about six hundred dollars. We needed just two thousand dollars more for an illegal land deal in Illinois.

We chose for our victim -- the only child of an influential citizen named Ebenezer Dorset. He was a boy of ten, with red hair. Bill and I thought that Ebenezer would pay a ransom of two thousand dollars to get his boy back. But wait till I tell you.

About two miles from Summit was a little mountain, covered with cedar trees. There was an opening on the back of the mountain. We stored our supplies in that cave.

One night, we drove a horse and carriage past old Dorset's house. The boy was in the street, throwing rocks at a cat on the opposite fence.

"Hey little boy!" says Bill, "would you like to have a bag of candy and a nice ride?"

The boy hits Bill directly in the eye with a piece of rock.

That boy put up a fight like a wild animal. But, at last, we got him down in the bottom of the carriage and drove away.

We took him up to the cave. The boy had two large bird feathers stuck in his hair. He points a stick at me and says:

"Ha! Paleface, do you dare to enter the camp of Red Chief, the terror of the plains?"

"He's all right now," says Bill, rolling up his pants and examining wounds on his legs. "We're playing Indian. I'm Old Hank, the trapper, Red Chief's captive. I'm going to be scalped at daybreak. By Geronimo! That kid can kick hard."

"Red Chief," says I to the boy, "would you like to go home?"

"Aw, what for?" says he. "I don't have any fun at home. I hate to go to school. I like to camp out. You won't take me back home again, will you?"

"Not right away," says I. "We'll stay here in the cave a while."

"All right!" says he. "That'll be fine. I never had such fun in all my life."

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We went to bed about eleven o'clock. Just at daybreak, I was awakened by a series of terrible screams from Bill. Red Chief was sitting on Bill's chest, with one hand holding his hair. In the other, he had a sharp knife. He was attempting to cut off the top of Bill's head, based on what he had declared the night before.

I got the knife away from the boy. But, after that event, Bill's spirit was broken. He lay down, but he never closed an eye again in sleep as long as that boy was with us.

"Do you think anybody will pay out money to get a little imp like that back home?" Bill asked.

"Sure," I said. "A boy like that is just the kind that parents love. Now, you and the Chief get up and make something to eat, while I go up on the top of this mountain and look around."

I climbed to the top of the mountain. Over toward Summit, I expected to see the men of the village searching the countryside. But all was peaceful.

"Perhaps," says I to myself, "it has not yet been discovered that the wolves have taken the lamb from the fold." I went back down the mountain.

When I got to the cave, I found Bill backed up against the side of it. He was breathing hard, with the boy threatening to strike him with a rock.

"He put a red-hot potato down my back," explained Bill, "and then crushed it with his foot. I hit his ears. Have you got a gun with you, Sam?"

I took the rock away from the boy and ended the argument.

"I'll fix you," says the boy to Bill. "No man ever yet struck the Red Chief but what he got paid for it. You better be careful!"

After eating, the boy takes a leather object with strings tied around it from his clothes and goes outside the cave unwinding it. Then we heard a kind of shout. It was Red Chief holding a sling in one hand. He moved it faster and faster around his head.

Just then I heard a heavy sound and a deep breath from Bill. A rock the size of an egg had hit him just behind his left ear. Bill fell in the fire across the frying pan of hot water for washing the dishes. I pulled him out and poured cold water on his head for half an hour.

Then I went out and caught that boy and shook him.

"If your behavior doesn't improve," says I, "I'll take you straight home. Now, are you going to be good, or not?"

"I was only funning," says he. "I didn't mean to hurt Old Hank. But what did he hit me for? I'll behave if you don't send me home."

I thought it best to send a letter to old man Dorset that day, demanding the ransom and telling how it should be paid. The letter said:

"We have your boy hidden in a place far from Summit. We demand fifteen hundred dollars for his return; the money to be left at midnight tonight at the same place and in the same box as your answer.

If you agree to these terms, send the answer in writing by a messenger tonight at half past eight o'clock. After crossing Owl Creek, on the road to Poplar Cove, there are three large trees. At the bottom of the fence, opposite the third tree, will be a small box. The messenger will place the answer in this box and return immediately to Summit. If you fail to agree to our demand, you will never see your boy again. If you pay the money as demanded, he will be returned to you safe and well within three hours."

I took the letter and walked over to Poplar Cove. I then sat around the post office and store. An old man there says he hears Summit is all worried because of Ebenezer Dorset's boy having been lost or stolen. That was all I wanted to know. I mailed my letter and left. The postmaster said the mail carrier would come by in an hour to take the mail on to Summit.

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At half past eight, I was up in the third tree, waiting for the messenger to arrive. Exactly on time, a half-grown boy rides up the road on a bicycle. He finds the box at the foot of the fence. He puts a folded piece of paper into it and leaves, turning back toward Summit.

I slid down the tree, got the note and was back at the cave in a half hour. I opened the note and read it to Bill. This is what it said:

"Gentlemen: I received your letter about the ransom you ask for the return of my son. I think you are a little high in your demands. I hereby make you a counter-proposal, which I believe you will accept. You bring Johnny home and pay me two hundred and fifty dollars, and I agree to take him off your hands. You had better come at night because the neighbors believe he is lost. And, I could not be responsible for what they would do to anybody they saw bringing him back. Very respectfully, Ebenezer Dorset."

"Great pirates of Penzance!" says I, "of all the nerve…" But I looked at Bill and stopped. He had the most appealing look in his eyes I ever saw on the face of a dumb or talking animal.

"Sam," says he, "what's two hundred and fifty dollars, after all? We've got the money. One more night of this boy will drive me crazy. I think Mister Dorset is making us a good offer. You aren't going to let the chance go, are you?"

"Tell you the truth, Bill," says I, "this little lamb has got on my nerves, too. We'll take him home, pay the ransom and make our get-away."

We took him home that night. We got him to go by telling him that his father had bought him a gun and we were going to hunt bears the next day.

It was twelve o'clock when we knocked on Ebenezer's front door. Bill counted out two hundred and fifty dollars into Dorset's hand.

When the boy learned we were planning to leave him at home, he started to cry loudly and held himself as tight as he could to Bill's leg. His father pulled him away slowly.

"How long can you hold him?" asks Bill.

"I'm not as strong as I used to be," says old Dorset, "but I think I can promise you ten minutes."

"Enough," says Bill. "In ten minutes, I shall cross the Central, Southern and Middle Western states, and be running for the Canadian border."

And, as dark as it was, and as fat as Bill was, and as good a runner as I am, he was a good mile and a half out of Summit before I could catch up with him.

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ANNOUNCER:

You have heard the American Story "The Ransom of Red Chief" by O. Henry. Your storyteller was Shep O'Neal. This story was adapted into Special English by Shelley Gollust. It was produced by Lawan Davis. Listen again next week for another American Story in VOA Special English. I'm Faith Lapidus.

Lisenning English MP3

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Our story today is called, "The Luck of Roaring Camp." It was written by Bret Harte. Here is Harry Monroe with our story.

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STORYTELLER:

Roaring Camp was the noisiest gold mining town in California. More than one-hundred men from every part of the United States had come to that little camp – stopping there for a short time on their way to getting rich.

Many of these gold miners were criminals. All of them were violent. They filled the peaceful mountain air with shouting and gun shots. The noise of their continual fighting finally gave the camp its strange name.

On a sunny morning in eighteen fifty, however, the men of Roaring Camp were quiet. A crowd was gathered in front of a small wooden house by the river. Inside that cabin was "Cherokee Sal," the only woman in camp. She was all alone and in terrible pain. Cherokee Sal was having a baby.

Deaths were not unusual in Roaring Camp. But a birth was big news.

One of the men turned to another and ordered: "Go in there, Stumpy, and see what you can do." Stumpy opened the cabin door, and disappeared inside. The rest of the men built a campfire outside and gathered around it to wait.

Suddenly, a sharp cry broke the air…the cry of a new-born baby. All the men jumped to their feet as Stumpy appeared at the cabin door. Cherokee Sal was dead. But her baby, a boy, was alive.

The men formed a long line. One by one they entered the tiny cabin. On the bed, under a blanket, they could see the body of the unlucky mother. On a pine table, near that bed, was a small wooden box. Inside lay Roaring Camp's newest citizen, wrapped in a piece of bright red cloth.

Someone had put a large hat near the baby's box. And as the men slowly marched past, they dropped gifts into the hat. A gold tobacco box. A silver gun. A diamond ring. A lace handkerchief. And about two hundred dollars in gold and silver.

Only one incident broke the flow of the men through the cabin. As a gambler named Kentucky leaned over the box, the baby reached up and held one of the man's fingers. Kentucky looked embarrassed.

"That funny little fellow," he said, as he gently pulled his hand out of the box. He held up his finger and stared at it. "He grabbed my finger," he told the men. "That funny little fellow."

The next morning, the men of Roaring Camp buried Cherokee Sal. Afterwards, they held a formal meeting to discuss what to do with the baby. Everyone in the camp voted to keep the child. But nobody could agree on the best way to take care of it.

Tom Ryder suggested bringing a woman into the camp to care for the baby. But the men believed no good woman would accept Roaring Camp as her home. And they decided that they didn't want any more of the other kind.

Stumpy didn't say a word during these long discussions. But when the others finally asked his opinion, he admitted that he wanted to continue taking care of the baby himself. He had been feeding it milk from a donkey, and he believed he could raise the baby just fine.

There was something original, independent, even heroic about Stumpy's plan that pleased the men of Roaring Camp. Stumpy was hired.

All the men gave him some gold to send for baby things from the city of Sacramento. They wanted the best that money could buy.

By the time the baby was a month old, the men decided he needed a name. All of them had noticed that since the baby's birth, they were finding more gold than ever before. One day Oakhurst declared that the baby had brought "The Luck" to Roaring Camp. So "Luck" was the name they chose for him, adding before it, the first name "Tommy."

A name day was set for him. The ceremony was held under the pine trees with Stumpy saying the simple works: "I proclaim you Thomas Luck, according to the laws of the United States and the state of California, so help me God."

Soon after the ceremony, Roaring Camp began to change. The first improvements were made in the cabin of Tommy or "The Luck" as he was usually called. The men painted it white, planted flowers around it and kept it clean.

Tuttle's store, where the men used to meet to talk and play cards, also changed. The owner imported a carpet and some mirrors. The men – seeing themselves in Tuttle's mirrors – began to take more care about their hair, beards and clothing.

Stumpy made a new law for the camp. Anyone who wanted the honor of holding The Luck would have to wash daily. Kentuck appeared at the cabin every afternoon in a clean shirt, his face still shining from the washing he'd given it.

The shouting and yelling that had given the camp its name also stopped. Tommy needed his sleep, and the men walked around speaking in whispers. Instead of angry shouts, the music of gentle songs filled the air. Strange new feelings of peace and happiness came into the hearts of the miners of Roaring Camp.

During those long summer days, The Luck was carried up the mountain to the place where the men were digging for gold. He would lie on a soft blanket decorated with wild flowers the men would bring.

Nature was his nurse and playmate. Birds flew around his blanket. And little animals would play nearby. Golden sunshine and soft breezes would stroke him to sleep.

During that golden summer The Luck was with them, the men of Roaring Camp all became rich. With the gold they found in the mountains came a desire for further improvement. The men voted to build a hotel the following spring. They hoped some good families with children would come to live in Roaring Camp.

But some of the men were against this plan. They hoped something would happen to prevent it. And something did.

The following winter, the winter of eighteen fifty-one, is still remembered for the heavy snows in the mountains. When the snow melted that spring, every stream became an angry river that raced down the mountains tearing up trees and bringing destruction.

One of those terrible streams was the North Fork River. Late one night, it leaped over its banks and raced into the valley of Roaring Camp.

The sleeping men had no chance to escape the rushing water, the crashing trees and the darkness. When morning came, Stumpy's cabin near the river was gone. Further down in the valley they found the body of its unlucky owner.

But the pride, the hope, the joy, The Luck of Roaring Camp had disappeared.

Suddenly, a boat appeared from around a bend in the river. The men in it said they had picked up a man and a baby. Did anyone know them? Did they belong here?

Lying on the bottom of the rescue boat was Kentuck. He was seriously injured, but still holding The Luck of Roaring Camp in his arms. As they bent over the two, the men saw the child was pale and cold.

"He's dead," said one of them.

Kentuck opened his eyes. "Dead?" he whispered. "Yes, Kentuck. And you are dying, too."

Kentuck smiled. "Dying!" he repeated. "He is taking me with him. Tell the boys I've got The Luck with me."

And the strong man, still holding the small child, drifted away on the shadowy river that flows forever to the unknown sea.

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ANNOUNCER:

You have just heard "The Luck of Roaring Camp," a story by Bret Harte. It was adapted for Special English by Dona De Sanctis. Your storyteller was Harry Monroe.

Listen again next week for another American story told in Special English. This is Shirley Griffith.

Lisenning English MP3

Now, the Special English program, AMERICAN STORIES.

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Today, we complete the story "Rappaccini’s Daughter." It was written by Nathaniel Hawthorne. Here is Kay Gallant with the second and final part of “Rappaccini’s Daughter.”

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STORYTELLER:

Many years ago, a young man named Giovanni Guasconti left his home in Naples to study in northern Italy. He took a room in an old house next to a magnificent garden filled with strange flowers and other plants.

The garden belonged to a doctor, Giacomo Rappaccini. He lived with his daughter, Beatrice, in a small brown house in the garden. From a window in his room, Giovanni had seen that Rappaccini’s daughter was very beautiful. But everyone in Padua was afraid of her father.

Pietro Baglioni, a professor at the university, warned Giovanni about the mysterious Doctor Rappaccini. “He is a great scientist,” Professor Baglioni told the young man. “But he is also dangerous. Rappaccini cares more about science than he does about people. He has created many terrible poisons from the plants in his garden.”

One day, Giovanni found a secret entrance to Rappaccini’s garden. He went in. The plants all seemed wild and unnatural. Giovanni realized that Rappaccini must have created these strange and terrible flowers through his experiments.

Suddenly, Rappaccini’s daughter came into the garden. She moved quickly among the flowers until she reached him. Giovanni apologized for coming into the garden without an invitation. But Beatrice smiled at him and made him feel welcome.

“I see you love flowers,” she said. “And so you have come to take a closer look at my father’s rare collection.”

While she spoke, Giovanni noticed a perfume in the air around her. He wasn’t sure if this wonderful smell came from the flowers or from her breath.

She asked him about his home and his family. She told him she had spent her life in this garden. Giovanni felt as if he were talking to a very small child. Her spirit sparkled like clear water.

They walked slowly through the garden as they talked. At last they reached a beautiful plant that was covered with large purple flowers. He realized that the perfume from those flowers was like the perfume of Beatrice’s breath, but much stronger.

The young man reached out to break off one of the purple flowers. But Beatrice gave a scream that went through his heart like a knife. She caught his hand and pulled it away from the plant with all her strength.

“Don’t ever touch those flowers!” she cried. “They will take your life!” Hiding her face, she ran into the house. Then, Giovanni saw Doctor Rappaccini standing in the garden.

That night, Giovanni could not stop thinking about how sweet and beautiful Beatrice was. Finally, he fell asleep. But when the morning came, he woke up in great pain. He felt as if one of his hands was on fire. It was the hand that Beatrice had grabbed in hers when he had reached for one of the purple flowers.

Giovanni looked down at his hand. There was a purple mark on it that looked like four small fingers and a little thumb. But because his heart was full of Beatrice, Giovanni forgot about the pain in his hand.

He began to meet her in the garden every day. At last, she told him that she loved him. But she would never let him kiss her or even hold her hand.

One morning, several weeks later, Professor Baglioni visited Giovanni. “I was worried about you,” the older man said. “You have not come to your classes at the university for more than a month. Is something wrong?”

Giovanni was not pleased to see his old friend. “No, nothing is wrong. I am fine, thank you.” He wanted Professor Baglioni to leave. But the old man took off his hat and sat down.

“My dear Giovanni,” he said. “You must stay away from Rappaccini and his daughter. Her father has given her poison from the time she was a baby. The poison is in her blood and on her breath. If Rappaccini did this to his own daughter, what is he planning to do to you?”

Giovanni covered his face with his hands. “Oh my God!” he cried. “Don’t worry," the old man continued. “It is not too late to save you. And we may succeed in helping Beatrice, too. Do you see this little silver bottle? It holds a medicine that will destroy even the most powerful poison. Give it to your Beatrice to drink.”

Professor Baglioni put the little bottle on the table and left Giovanni’s room. The young man wanted to believe that Beatrice was a sweet and innocent girl. And yet, Professor Baglioni’s words had put doubts in his heart.

It was nearly time for his daily meeting with Beatrice. As Giovanni combed his hair, he looked at himself in a mirror near his bed. He could not help noticing how handsome he was. His eyes looked particularly bright. And his face had a healthy warm glow.

He said to himself, “At least her poison has not gotten into my body yet.” As he spoke he happened to look at some flowers he had just bought that morning. A shock of horror went through his body.

The flowers were turning brown! Giovanni’s face became very white as he stared at himself in the mirror.

Then he noticed a spider crawling near his window. He bent over the insect and blew a breath of air at it. The spider trembled, and fell dead. “I am cursed,” Giovanni whispered to himself. “My own breath is poison.”

At that moment, a rich, sweet voice came floating up from the garden. “Giovanni! You are late. Come down.”

“You are a monster!” Giovanni shouted as soon as he reached her. “And with your poison you have made me into a monster, too. I am a prisoner of this garden.”

“Giovanni!” Beatrice cried, looking at him with her large bright eyes. “Why are you saying these terrible things? It is true that I can never leave this garden. But you are free to go wherever you wish.”

Giovanni looked at her with hate in his eyes. “Don’t pretend that you don’t know what you have done to me.”

A group of insects had flown into the garden. They came toward Giovanni and flew around his head. He blew his breath at them. The insects fell to the ground, dead.

Beatrice screamed. “I see it! I see it! My father’s science has done this to us. Believe me, Giovanni, I did not ask him to do this to you. I only wanted to love you.”

Giovanni’s anger changed to sadness. Then, he remembered the medicine that Professor Baglioni had given him. Perhaps the medicine would destroy the poison in their bodies and help them to become normal again.

“Dear Beatrice,” he said, “our fate is not so terrible.” He showed her the little silver bottle and told her what the medicine inside it might do. “I will drink first,” she said. “You must wait to see what happens to me before you drink it.”

She put Baglioni’s medicine to her lips and took a small sip. At the same moment, Rappaccini came out of his house and walked slowly toward the two young people. He spread his hands out to them as if he were giving them a blessing.

“My daughter,” he said, “you are no longer alone in the world. Give Giovanni one of the purple flowers from your favorite plant. It will not hurt him now. My science and your love have made him different from ordinary men.”

“My father,” Beatrice said weakly, “why did you do this terrible thing to your own child?”

Rappaccini looked surprised. “What do you mean, my daughter?” he asked. “You have power no other woman has. You can defeat your strongest enemy with only your breath. Would you rather be a weak woman?”

“I want to be loved, not feared,” Beatrice replied. “But now, it does not matter. I am leaving you, father. I am going where the poison you have given me will do no harm. Good bye to you, Giovanni.”

Beatrice dropped to the ground. She died at the feet of her father and Giovanni. The poison had been too much a part of the young woman. The medicine that destroyed the poison, destroyed her, as well.

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ANNOUNCER:

You have just heard the story "Rappaccini’s Daughter." It was written by Nathaniel Hawthorne and adapted for Special English by Dona de Sanctis. Your storyteller was Kay Gallant. This is Shep O’Neal.

Lisenning English MP3

Now, the Special English program AMERICAN STORIES.

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Our story today is called "Rappaccini’s Daughter." It was written by Nathaniel Hawthorne. We will tell the story in two parts. Here is Kay Gallant with the first part of our story.

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STORYTELLER:

Many years ago, a young man named Giovanni Guasconti left his home in Naples to study in northern Italy. He rented a small room on the top floor of a dark and ancient palace. Long ago, the building had belonged to a noble family. Now, an old woman, Signora Lisabetta, rented its rooms to students at the University of Padua.

Giovanni’s room had a small window. From it he could see a large garden that had many plants and flowers. “Does the garden belong to you?” he asked Signora Lisabetta one day.

“Oh no!” she said quickly. “That garden belongs to the famous doctor, Giacomo Rappaccini. People say he uses those plants to make strange kinds of medicine. He lives in that small brown house in the garden with his daughter, Beatrice.”

Giovanni often sat by his window to look at the garden. He had never seen so many different kinds of plants. They all had enormous green leaves and magnificent flowers in every color of the rainbow.

Giovanni’s favorite plant was in a white marble vase near the house. It was covered with big purple flowers.

One day, while Giovanni was looking out his window, he saw an old man in a black cape walking in the garden. The old man was tall and thin. His face was an unhealthy yellow color. His black eyes were very cold.

The old man wore thick gloves on his hands and a mask over his mouth and nose. He walked carefully among the plants, as if he were walking among wild animals or poisonous snakes. Although he looked at the flowers very closely, he did not touch or smell any of them.

When the old man arrived at the plant with the big purple flowers, he stopped. He took off his mask and called loudly, “Beatrice! Come help me!”

“I am coming, Father. What do you want?” answered a warm young voice from inside the house. A young woman came into the garden. Her thick, dark hair fell around her shoulders in curls. Her cheeks were pink and her eyes were large and black.

She seemed full of life, health and energy as she walked among the plants. Giovanni thought she was as beautiful as the purple flowers in the marble vase. The old man said something to her. She nodded her head as she touched and smelled the flowers that her father had been so careful to avoid.

Several weeks later, Giovanni went to visit Pietro Baglioni, a friend of his father’s. Professor Baglioni taught medicine at the university. During the visit, Giovanni asked about Doctor Rappaccini. “He is a great scientist,” Professor Baglioni replied. “But he is also a dangerous man.”

“Why?” asked Giovanni.

The older man shook his head slowly. “Because Rappaccini cares more about science than he does about people. He has created many terrible poisons from the plants in his garden. He thinks he can cure sickness with these poisons.

It is true that several times he has cured a very sick person that everyone thought would die. But Rappaccini’s medicine has also killed many people. I think he would sacrifice any life, even his own, for one of his experiments.”

“But what about his daughter?” Giovanni said. “I’m sure he loves her.”

The old professor smiled at the young man. “So,” he said, “You have heard about Beatrice Rappaccini. People say she is very beautiful. But few men in Padua have ever seen her. She never leaves her father’s garden.”

Giovanni left professor Baglione’s house as the sun was setting. On his way home, he stopped at a flower shop where he bought some fresh flowers. He returned to his room and sat by the window.

Very little sunlight was left. The garden was quiet. The purple flowers on Giovanni’s favorite plant seemed to glow in the evening’s fading light.

Then someone came out of the doorway of the little brown house. It was Beatrice. She entered the garden and walked among the plants. She bent to touch the leaves of a plant or to smell a flower. Rappaccini’s daughter seemed to grow more beautiful with each step.

When she reached the purple plant, she buried her face in its flowers. Giovanni heard her say “Give me your breath, my sister. The ordinary air makes me weak. And give me one of your beautiful flowers.” Beatrice gently broke off one of the largest flowers. As she lifted it to put it in her dark hair, a few drops of liquid from the flower fell to the ground.

One of the drops landed on the head of a tiny lizard crawling near the feet of Beatrice. For a moment the small animal twisted violently. Then it moved no more. Beatrice did not seem surprised. She sighed and placed the flower in her hair.

Giovanni leaned out of the window so he could see her better. At this moment, a beautiful butterfly flew over the garden wall. It seemed to be attracted by Beatrice and flew once around her head. Then, the insect’s bright wings stopped and it fell to the ground dead. Beatrice shook her head sadly.

Suddenly, she looked up at Giovanni’s window. She saw the young man looking at her. Giovanni picked up the flowers he had bought and threw them down to her. “Young lady,” he said, “Wear these flowers as a gift from Giovanni Guasconti.”

“Thank you,” Beatrice answered. She picked up the flowers from the ground and quickly ran to the house. She stopped at the door for a moment to wave shyly to Giovanni. It seemed to him that his flowers were beginning to turn brown in her hands.

For many days, the young man stayed away from the window that looked out on Rappaccini’s garden. He wished he had not talked to Beatrice because now he felt under the power of her beauty.

He was a little afraid of her, too. He could not forget how the little lizard and the butterfly had died.

One day, while he was returning home from his classes, he met Professor Baglioni on the street.

“Well, Giovanni,” the old man said, “have you forgotten me?” Then he looked closely at the young man. “What is wrong, my friend? Your appearance has changed since the last time we met.” It was true. Giovanni had become very thin. His face was white, and his eyes seemed to burn with fever.

As they stood talking, a man dressed in a long black cape came down the street. He moved slowly, like a person in poor health. His face was yellow, but his eyes were sharp and black. It was the man Giovanni had seen in the garden. As he passed them, the old man nodded coldly to Professor Baglioni. But he looked at Giovanni with a great deal of interest.

“It’s Doctor Rappaccini!” Professor Baglioni whispered after the old man had passed them. “Has he ever seen your face before?”

Giovanni shook his head. “No,” he answered, “I don’t think so.”

Professor Baglioni looked worried. “I think he has seen you before. I know that cold look of his! He looks the same way when he examines an animal he has killed in one of his experiments. Giovanni, I will bet my life on it. You are the subject of one of Rappaccini’s experiments!”

Giovanni stepped away from the old man. “You are joking,” he said. “No, I am serious.” The professor took Giovanni’s arm. “Be careful, my young friend. You are in great danger.”

Giovanni pulled his arm away. “I must be going,” he said “Good night.”

As Giovanni hurried to his room, he felt confused and a little frightened.

Signora Lisabetta was waiting for him outside his door. She knew he was interested in Beatrice. “I have good news for you,” she said. “I know where there is a secret entrance into Rappaccini’s garden.”

Giovanni could not believe his ears. “Where is it?” he asked. “Show me the way.”

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ANNOUNCER:

You have just heard part one of the story called "Rappaccini’s Daughter." It was written by Nathaniel Hawthorne and adapted for Special English by Dona de Sanctis. Your storyteller was Kay Gallant. Listen next week for the final part of our story. This is Shep O’Neal.

Lisenning English MP3

Now, the VOA Special English program AMERICAN STORIES.

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Today we present the short story "The Tell-Tale Heart" by Edgar Allan Poe. Here is Shep O'Neal with the story.

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STORYTELLER:

Edgar Allan Poe

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!

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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.

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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.

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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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ANNOUNCER:

You have heard the story "The Tell-Tale Heart" by Edgar Allan Poe. Your storyteller was Shep O'Neal. This story was adapted by Shelley Gollust. It was produced by Lawan Davis. Listen again next week for another American story in VOA Special English. I'm Faith Lapidus.

Lisenning English MP3

ANNOUNCER:

Now, the VOA Special English program, AMERICAN STORIES.

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We present the short story "The Lady, or the Tiger?" by Frank R. Stockton. Here is Barbara Klein with the story.

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STORYTELLER:

Long ago, in the very olden time, there lived a powerful king. Some of his ideas were progressive. But others caused people to suffer.

One of the king's ideas was a public arena as an agent of poetic justice. Crime was punished, or innocence was decided, by the result of chance. When a person was accused of a crime, his future would be judged in the public arena.

All the people would gather in this building. The king sat high up on his ceremonial chair. He gave a sign. A door under him opened. The accused person stepped out into the arena. Directly opposite the king were two doors. They were side by side, exactly alike. The person on trial had to walk directly to these doors and open one of them. He could open whichever door he pleased.

If the accused man opened one door, out came a hungry tiger, the fiercest in the land. The tiger immediately jumped on him and tore him to pieces as punishment for his guilt. The case of the suspect was thus decided.

Iron bells rang sadly. Great cries went up from the paid mourners. And the people, with heads hanging low and sad hearts, slowly made their way home. They mourned greatly that one so young and fair, or so old and respected, should have died this way.

But, if the accused opened the other door, there came forth from it a woman, chosen especially for the person. To this lady he was immediately married, in honor of his innocence. It was not a problem that he might already have a wife and family, or that he might have chosen to marry another woman. The king permitted nothing to interfere with his great method of punishment and reward.

Another door opened under the king, and a clergyman, singers, dancers and musicians joined the man and the lady. The marriage ceremony was quickly completed. Then the bells made cheerful noises. The people shouted happily. And the innocent man led the new wife to his home, following children who threw flowers on their path.

This was the king's method of carrying out justice. Its fairness appeared perfect. The accused person could not know which door was hiding the lady. He opened either as he pleased, without knowing whether, in the next minute, he was to be killed or married.

Sometimes the fierce animal came out of one door. Sometimes it came out of the other.

This method was a popular one. When the people gathered together on one of the great trial days, they never knew whether they would see a bloody killing or a happy ending. So everyone was always interested. And the thinking part of the community would bring no charge of unfairness against this plan. Did not the accused person have the whole matter in his own hands?

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The king had a beautiful daughter who was like him in many ways. He loved her above all humanity. The princess secretly loved a young man who was the best-looking and bravest in the land. But he was a commoner, not part of an important family.

One day, the king discovered the relationship between his daughter and the young man. The man was immediately put in prison. A day was set for his trial in the king's public arena. This, of course, was an especially important event. Never before had a common subject been brave enough to love the daughter of the king.

The king knew that the young man would be punished, even if he opened the right door. And the king would take pleasure in watching the series of events, which would judge whether or not the man had done wrong in loving the princess.

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The day of the trial arrived. From far and near the people gathered in the arena and outside its walls. The king and his advisers were in their places, opposite the two doors. All was ready. The sign was given. The door under the king opened and the lover of the princess entered the arena.

Tall, beautiful and fair, his appearance was met with a sound of approval and tension. Half the people had not known so perfect a young man lived among them. No wonder the princess loved him! What a terrible thing for him to be there!

As the young man entered the public arena, he turned to bend to the king. But he did not at all think of the great ruler. The young man's eyes instead were fixed on the princess, who sat to the right of her father.

From the day it was decided that the sentence of her lover should be decided in the arena, she had thought of nothing but this event.

The princess had more power, influence and force of character than anyone who had ever before been interested in such a case. She had done what no other person had done. She had possessed herself of the secret of the doors. She knew behind which door stood the tiger, and behind which waited the lady. Gold, and the power of a woman's will, had brought the secret to the princess.

She also knew who the lady was. The lady was one of the loveliest in the kingdom. Now and then the princess had seen her looking at and talking to the young man.

The princess hated the woman behind that silent door. She hated her with all the intensity of the blood passed to her through long lines of cruel ancestors.

Her lover turned to look at the princess. His eye met hers as she sat there, paler and whiter than anyone in the large ocean of tense faces around her. He saw that she knew behind which door waited the tiger, and behind which stood the lady. He had expected her to know it.

The only hope for the young man was based on the success of the princess in discovering this mystery. When he looked at her, he saw that she had been successful, as he knew she would succeed.

Then his quick and tense look asked the question: "Which?" It was as clear to her as if he shouted it from where he stood. There was not time to be lost.

The princess raised her hand, and made a short, quick movement toward the right. No one but her lover saw it. Every eye but his was fixed on the man in the arena.

He turned, and with a firm and quick step he walked across the empty space. Every heart stopped beating. Every breath was held. Every eye was fixed upon that man. He went to the door on the right and opened it.

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Now, the point of the story is this: Did the tiger come out of that door, or did the lady?

The more we think about this question, the harder it is to answer. It involves a study of the human heart. Think of it not as if the decision of the question depended upon yourself. But as if it depended upon that hot-blooded princess, her soul at a white heat under the fires of sadness and jealousy. She had lost him, but who should have him?

How often, in her waking hours and in her dreams, had she started in wild terror, and covered her face with her hands? She thought of her lover opening the door on the other side of which waited the sharp teeth of the tiger!

But how much oftener had she seen him open the other door? How had she ground her teeth, and torn her hair, when she had seen his happy face as he opened the door of the lady! How her soul had burned in pain when she had seen him run to meet that woman, with her look of victory. When she had seen the two of them get married. And when she had seen them walk away together upon their path of flowers, followed by the happy shouts of the crowd, in which her one sad cry was lost!

Would it not be better for him to die quickly, and go to wait for her in that blessed place of the future? And yet, that tiger, those cries, that blood!

Her decision had been shown quickly. But it had been made after days and nights of thought. She had known she would be asked. And she had decided what she would answer. And she had moved her hand to the right.

The question of her decision is one not to be lightly considered. And it is not for me to set myself up as the one person able to answer it. And so I leave it with all of you:

Which came out of the open door – the lady, or the tiger?

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ANNOUNCER:

You have heard the American Story "The Lady, or the Tiger?" by Frank R. Stockton. Your storyteller was Barbara Klein. This story was adapted into Special English by Shelley Gollust. It was produced by Lawan Davis. Listen again next week for another American story in VOA Special English. I'm Bob Doughty.

Lisenning English MP3

ANNOUNCER:

Now, the VOA Special English program, American Stories.

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Today we complete the story "Paul's Case." It was written by Willa Cather. Here is Kay Gallant with the story.

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STORYTELLER:

Paul was a student with a lot of problems. He hated school. He didn't like living with his family on Cordelia Street in the industrial city of Pittsburgh.

Paul wanted to be surrounded by beautiful things. He loved his part-time job as an usher at the concert hall. He helped people find their seats before the concert. Then he could listen to the music and dream of exciting places.

Paul also spent a lot of time at the local theater. He knew many of the actors who worked there. He used to do little jobs for them. And they would let him see plays for free.

Paul had little time left for his studies. So he was always in trouble with his teachers. Finally, Paul's teachers complained again to his father. His father took him out of school and made him take a job in a large company. He would not let Paul go near the concert hall or the theater.

Paul did not like his job as a messenger boy. He began to plan his escape.

A few weeks later, Paul's boss, Mister Denny, gave Paul a large amount of money to take to the bank. He told Paul to hurry because it was Friday afternoon. He said the bank would close soon and would not open again until Monday. At the bank, Paul took the money out of his pocket. It was five thousand dollars. Paul put the money back in his coat pocket. And he walked out of the bank.

He went to the train station and bought a one way ticket for New York City. That afternoon Paul left Pittsburgh forever.

The train traveled slowly through a January snowstorm. The slow movement made Paul fall asleep. The train whistle blew just as the sun was coming up. Paul awoke, feeling dirty and uncomfortable. He quickly touched his coat pocket. The money was still there. It was not a dream. He really was on his way to New York City with five thousand dollars in his pocket.

Finally the train pulled into Central Station. Paul walked quickly out of the station and went immediately to an expensive clothing store for men.

The salesman was very polite when he saw Paul's money. Paul bought two suits, several white silk shirts, some silk ties of different colors. Then he bought a black tuxedo suit for the theater, a warm winter coat, a red bathrobe, and the finest silk underclothes. He told the salesman he wanted to wear one of the new suits and the coat immediately. The salesman bowed and smiled.

Paul then took a taxi to another shop where he bought several pairs of leather shoes and boots. Next, he went to the famous jewelry store, Tiffany's, and bought a tie pin and some brushes with silver handles. His last stop was a luggage store where he had all his new clothes put into several expensive suitcases.

It was a little before one o'clock in the afternoon when Paul arrived at the Waldorf-Astoria hotel. The doorman opened the hotel's glass doors for Paul and the boy entered. The thick carpet under his feet had the colors of a thousand jewels. The lights sparkled from crystal chandeliers.

Paul told the hotel clerk he was from Washington, D.C. He said his mother and father were arriving in a few days from Europe. He explained he was going to wait for them at the hotel.

In his dreams Paul had planned this trip to New York a hundred times. He knew all about the Waldorf-Astoria, one of New York's most expensive hotels. As soon as he entered his rooms, he saw that everything was perfect--except for one thing. He rang the bell and asked for fresh flowers to be sent quickly to his rooms.

When the flowers came, Paul put them in water and then he took a long, hot bath. He came out the bathroom, wearing the red silk bathrobe. Outside his windows, the snow was falling so fast that he could not see across the street. But inside, the air was warm and sweet. He lay down on the sofa in his sitting room.

It had all been so very simple, he thought. When they had shut him out of the theater and the concert hall, Paul knew he had to leave. But he was surprised that he had not been afraid to go. He could not remember a time when he had not been afraid of something. Even when he was a little boy. But now he felt free. He wasn't afraid anymore. He watched the snow until he fell asleep.

It was four o'clock in the afternoon when Paul woke up. He spent nearly an hour getting dressed. He looked at himself often in the mirror. His dark blue suit fit him so well that he did not seem too thin. The white silk shirt and the blue and lilac tie felt cool and smooth under his fingers. He was exactly the kind of boy he had always wanted to be.

Paul put on his new winter coat and went downstairs. He got into a taxi and told the driver to take him for a ride along Fifth Avenue. Paul stared at the expensive stores.

As the taxi stopped for a red light Paul noticed a flower shop. Through the window, he could see all kinds of flowers. Paul thought the violets, roses, and lilies of the valley looked even more lovely because they were blooming in the middle of winter.

Paul began to feel hungry so he asked the taxi driver to take him back to the hotel. As he entered the dining room, the music of the hotel orchestra floated up to greet him. He sat at a table near a window. The fresh flowers, the white tablecloth, and the colored wine glasses pleased Paul's eyes. The soft music, the low voices of the people around him and the soft popping of champagne corks whispered into Paul's ears.

This is what everyone wants, he thought. He could not believed he had ever lived in Pittsburgh on Cordelia Street! That belonged to another time and place. Paul lifted the crystal glass of champagne and drank the cold, precious, bubbling wine. He belonged here.

Later that evening, Paul put on his black tuxedo and went to the opera. He felt perfectly at ease. He had only to look at his tuxedo to know he belonged with all the other beautiful people in the opera house. He didn't talk to anyone. But his eyes recorded everything.

Paul's golden days went by without a shadow. He made each one as perfect as he could. On the eighth day after his arrival in New York, he found a report in the newspaper about his crime. It said that his father had paid the company the five thousand dollars that Paul had stolen. It said Paul had been seen in a New York hotel. And it said Paul's father was in New York. He was looking for Paul to bring him back to Pittsburgh.

Paul's knees became weak. He sat down in a chair and put his head in his hands. The dream was ended. He had to go back to Cordelia Street. Back to the yellow-papered bedroom, the smell of cooked cabbage, the daily ride to work on the crowded street cars.

Paul poured himself a glass of champagne and drank it quickly. He poured another glass and drank that one, too.

Paul had a taxi take him out of the city and into the country. The taxi left him near some railroad tracks. Paul suddenly remembered all the flowers he had seen in a shop window his first night in New York. He realized that by now every one of those flowers was dead. They had had only one splendid moment to challenge winter.

A train whistle broke into Paul's thoughts. He watched as the train grew bigger and bigger. As it came closer, Paul's body shook. His lips wore a frightened smile. Paul looked nervously around as if someone might be watching him.

When the right moment came, Paul jumped. And as he jumped, he realized his great mistake. The blue of the ocean and the yellow of the desert flashed through his brain. He had not seen them yet! There was so much he had not seen!

Paul felt something hit his chest. He felt his body fly through the air far and fast. Then everything turned black and Paul dropped back into the great design of things.

(MUSIC)

ANNOUNCER:

You have just heard the American story "Paul's Case." It was written by Willa Cather. Your storyteller was Kay Gallant. Listen again next week at this time for another American story told in Special English on the Voice of America. I'm Steve Ember.

Lisenning English MP3

ANNOUNCER:

Now, the VOA Special English program AMERICAN STORIES.

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Our story today is called "Paul's Case." It was written by Willa Cather. "Paul's Case" will be told in two parts. Here is Kay Gallant with part one of the story.

STORYTELLER:

Paul hated school. He did not do his homework. He did not like his teachers. Paul's father did not know what to do with him. His teachers did not know either. One afternoon, all his teachers at Pittsburgh High School met together with him to discuss his case. Paul was late. When he entered the room his teachers sat waiting for him.

He was tall for his age and very thin. His clothes were too small for him, but they were clean. He had a bright red flower in the button hole of his black jacket. One of the teachers asked Paul why he had come to the meeting. Paul said politely that he wanted to do better in school. This was a lie. Paul often lied.

His teachers began to speak. They had many complaints. One said Paul talked to the other students instead of paying attention to the lessons. Another said Paul always sat in class with his hands covering his eyes. A third teacher said Paul looked out the window instead of looking at her. His teachers attacked him without mercy.

Paul's eyesbrows moved up and down as his teachers spoke. His smile never left his face, but his fingers shook as he touched the flower on his coat. At last the meeting was over. Paul's smile got even wider. He bowed gracefully and left the room.

His teachers were angry and confused. The art teacher spoke for all of them when he said there was something about Paul that he didn't understand. "I don't think he really means to be bad," he said. "There's just something wrong with that boy." Then the art teacher remembered one warm afternoon when Paul had fallen asleep in his class. Paul's face was white with thin blue veins under the skin. The boy's face looked tired and lined, like an old man's. His eyebrows moved up and down, even in his sleep.

After he left the meeting, Paul ran down the hill from the school whistling. He was late for his job at the concert hall. Paul was an usher there. He showed people to their seats. He carried messages for them. He brought them their programs with a polite bow. Everyone thought he was a charming boy and the best usher at the hall.

When Paul reached the concert hall that evening, he went immediately to the dressing room. About six boys were already there. Paul began changing his clothes with excited hands. He loved his green uniform with the gold pockets and design.

Paul rushed into the concert hall as soon as he had changed clothes. He ran up and down the hall, helping people. He became more and more excited. His face became pink and his eyes seemed larger and very bright. He looked almost handsome. At last everyone was seated. The orchestra began to play and Paul sat down with a sigh of relief.

The music seemed to free something in Paul's spirit. Then a woman came out and began to sing. She had a rich, strong soprano voice. Paul felt truly happy for the first time that day.

At the end of the concert Paul went back to the dressing room. After he had changed his clothes again he went outside the concert hall. He decided to wait for the singer to come out. While he waited he looked across the street to the large hotel called "The Schenley." All the important people stayed at The Schenley when they visited Pittsburgh. Paul had never been inside it, but he used to stand near the hotel's wide glass doors. He liked to watch the people enter and leave. He believed if he could only enter this kind of a hotel, he would be able to leave school, his teachers, and his ordinary, gray life behind him. . . forever.

At last the singer came out of the concert hall. Paul followed her as she walked to the hotel. He was part of a large crowd of admirers who had waited to see her. When they all reached the hotel, she turned and waved. Then the doors opened and she disappeared inside. Paul stared into the hotel as the doors slowly closed. He could feel the warm, sweet air inside. And for a moment, he felt part of a golden world of sparkling lights and marble floors. He thought about the mysterious dishes of food being served in the hotel's dining room. He thought about green bottles of wine growing cold in silver buckets of ice.

He turned away from the hotel and walked home. He thought of his room with its horrible yellow wallpaper, the old bed with its ugly red cover. He shook his head.

Soon he was walking down the street where he lived. All the houses on Cordelia Street were exactly alike. Middle class businessmen had bought them for their families. All their children went to school and to church. They loved arithmetic. As Paul walked toward his house he felt as if he were drowning in ugliness. He longed for cool colors and soft lights and fresh flowers. He didn't want to see his ugly bedroom or the cold bathroom with its cracked mirror and gray floor.

Paul went around to the back of his father's house. He found an open window and climbed into the kitchen. Then he went downstairs to the basement. He was afraid of rats. But he did not want to face his own bedroom. Paul couldn't sleep. He sat on the floor and stared into the darkness until morning came.

The following Sunday Paul had to go to church with his family. Afterwards, everyone came home and ate a big dinner. Then all the people who lived on Cordelia Street came outside to visit each other.

After supper Paul asked his father if he could visit a friend to get some help with his arithmetic. Paul left the house with his school books under his arm. But he didn't go to his friend's house. Instead he went to see Charley Edwards. Charley was a young actor. Paul liked to spend as much time as he could at the theater where Charley Edwards and his group acted in their plays.

It was only at the theater and the concert hall that Paul felt really alive. The moment he smelled the air of these places he felt like a prisoner suddenly set free. As soon as he heard the concert hall orchestra play he forgot all the ugly, unpleasant events in his own life.

Paul had discovered that any kind of music awakened his imagination.

Paul didn't want to become a musician, however. He didn't want to become an actor, either. He only wanted to be near people who were actors and musicians. He wanted to see the kind of life these artists led.

Paul found a schoolroom even worse after a night at the theater or the concert hall. He hated the school's bare floors and cracked walls. He turned away from his dull teachers in their plain clothes. He tried to show them how little he thought of them and the studies they taught.

He would bring photographs of all the actors he knew to school. He would tell the other students that he spent his evenings with these people at elegant restaurants. Then he would announce that he was going away to Europe or to California, or to Egypt for a while. The next day he would come to school smiling nervously. His sister was ill, he would say. But he was still planning to make his trip next spring.

Paul's problems at school became worse. Even after the meeting with his teachers, things did not get better. He told them he had no time to study grammar and arithmetic. He told them he had to help the actors in the theater. They were old friends of his.

Finally, his teachers went to Paul's father. He took Paul out of school and made him get a job. He told the manager at the concert hall that Paul could not work there anymore. His father warned the doorman at the theater not to let Paul into the place. And Charley Edwards promised Paul's father not to see Paul again.

All the actors at the theater laughed when they heard about the stories Paul had been telling. The women thought it was funny that Paul had told people he took them out to nice restaurants and sent them flowers. They agreed with the teachers and with his father that Paul's was a bad case.

(MUSIC)

ANNOUNCER:

You have just heard part one of the American story "Paul's Case." It was written by Willa Cather. Your storyteller was Kay Gallant. Listen again next week at this time for the final part of "Paul's Case" told in Special English on the Voice of America. I'm Steve Ember.

Lisenning English MP3