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ANNOUNCER:

Now, the VOA Special English program, AMERICAN STORIES.

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We present the short story "Doctor Heidegger's Experiment" by Nathaniel Hawthorne. Here is Barbara Klein with the story.

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STORYTELLER:

Nathaniel Hawthorne

They were all sad old creatures who had been unfortunate in life. As a young man, Mister Medbourne had lost all his money in a badly planned business deal. Colonel Killigrew had wasted his best years and health enjoying the pleasures of women and drink. Mister Gascoigne was a ruined politician with an evil past.

As for the Widow Wycherly, tradition tells us that she was once a great beauty. But shocking stories about her past had led the people of the town to reject her. So, she lived very much alone.

It is worth stating that each of these three men were early lovers of the Widow Wycherly. And they had once been on the point of killing each other over her.

"My dear old friends," said Doctor Heidegger, "I would like your help in one of my little experiments." He motioned for them to sit down.

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Doctor Heidegger's office was a very strange place. The dark room was filled with books, cobwebs, and dust. An old mirror hanging between two bookcases was said to show the ghosts of all the doctor's dead patients.

On another wall hung a painting of the young woman Doctor Heidegger was to have married long ago. But she died the night before their wedding after drinking one of the doctor's medicines. The most mysterious object in the room was a large book covered in black leather. It was said to be a book of magic.

On the summer afternoon of our story, a black table stood in the middle of the room. On it was a beautiful cut-glass vase. Four glasses were also on the table.

Doctor Heidegger was known for his unusual experiments. But his four guests did not expect anything very interesting.

The doctor picked up his black leather book of magic. From its pages he removed a dried-up old rose.

"This rose," said the doctor, "was given to me fifty-five years ago by Sylvia Ward, whose painting hangs on this wall. I was to wear it at our wedding. Would you think it possible that this ancient rose could ever bloom again?"

"Nonsense!" said the Widow Wycherly with a toss of her head. "You might as well ask if an old woman's lined face could ever bloom again."

"See!" answered Doctor Heidegger.

He reached for the vase and threw the dried rose into the water it contained. Soon, a change began to appear. The crushed and dried petals moved and slowly turned from brown to red. And there was the rose of half a century looking as fresh as when Sylvia Ward had first given it to her lover.

"That is a very pretty trick," said the doctor's friends. "What is the secret?"

"Did you ever hear of the Fountain of Youth?" asked Doctor Heidegger. "The Spanish explorer Ponce De Leon went in search of it centuries ago. But he was not looking in the right place. If I am rightly informed, the famous Fountain of Youth is in southern Florida. A friend of mine has sent me the water you see in the vase."

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The doctor filled the four glasses with water from the Fountain of Youth. The liquid produced little bubbles that rose up to the silvery surface. The old guests agreed to drink the water, although they did not believe in its power.

"Before you drink, my friends," the doctor said, "you should draw up a few general rules as guidance before you pass a second time through the dangers of youth. You have had a lifetime of experience to direct you. Think what a shame it would be if the wisdom of your experiences did not act as a guide and teacher."

The doctor's four friends answered him with a laugh. The idea that they would ever repeat the mistakes of their youth was very funny.

"Drink, then," said the doctor. "I am happy that I have so well chosen the subjects of my experiment."

They raised the glasses to their lips. If the liquid really was magical, it could not have been given to four human beings who needed it more. They seemed as though they had never known youth or pleasure. They looked like they had always been the weak, unhappy creatures who were bent over the doctor's table.

They drank the water.

There was an almost immediate improvement among the guests. A cheerful glow like sunshine brightened their faces. They looked at one another imagining that some magic power had really started to smooth the lines on their faces.

"Quick! Give us more of this wondrous water!" they cried. "We are younger, but we are still too old!"

"Patience!" said Doctor Heidegger who watched the experiment with scientific coolness. "You have been a long time growing old. Surely you could wait half an hour to grow young!"

Again he filled their glasses. The four guests drank the liquid in one swallow. As the liquid passed down their throats it seemed to change their whole systems. Their eyes grew clear and bright. Their hair turned from silver to darker shades.

"My dear widow, you are lovely!" cried Colonel Killigrew, who watched as the signs of age disappeared from her face.

The widow ran to the mirror.

The three men started to behave in such a way that proved the magic of the Fountain of Youth's water.

Mister Gascoigne's mind turned to political topics. He talked about nationalism and the rights of the people. He also told secrets softly to himself.

All this time Colonel Killigrew had been shouting out happy drinking songs while his eyes turned towards the curvy body of the Widow Wycherly.

Mister Medbourne was adding dollars and cents to pay for a proposed project. It would supply the East Indies with ice by linking a team of whales to the polar icebergs.

As for the Widow Wycherly, she stood in front of the mirror greeting her image as a friend she loved better than anything in the world.

"My dear old doctor," she cried, "please give me another glass!"

The doctor had already filled the glasses again. It was now near sunset and the room was darker than ever. But a moon-like light shined from within the vase. The doctor sat in his chair watching. As the four guests drank their third glass of water, they were silenced by the expression on the doctor's mysterious face.

The next moment, the exciting rush of young life shot through their blood. They were now at the happy height of youth. The endless cares, sadness, and diseases of age were remembered only as a troubled dream from which they had awoken.

"We are young!" they cried.

The guests were a group of happy youngsters almost crazy with energy. They laughed at the old-fashioned clothing they wore. They shouted happily and jumped around the room.

The Widow Wycherly - if such a young lady could be called a widow - ran to the doctor's chair and asked him to dance.

"Please excuse me," answered the doctor quietly. "My dancing days were over long ago. But these three young men would be happy to have such a lovely partner."

The men began to argue violently about who would dance with her. They gathered around the widow, each grabbing for her.

Yet, by a strange trick owing to the darkness of the room, the tall mirror is said to have reflected the forms of three old, gray men competing for a faded, old woman.

As the three fought for the woman's favor, they reached violently for each other's throats. In their struggle, they turned over the table. The vase broke into a thousand pieces. The Water of Youth flowed in a bright stream across the floor.

The guests stood still. A strange coldness was slowly stealing over them all. They looked at Doctor Heidegger who was holding his treasured rose. The flower was fading and drying up once more.

The guests looked at each other and saw their looks changing back. "Are we grown old again so soon?" they cried.

In truth they had. The Water of Youth had powers that were only temporary.

"Yes, friends, you are old again," the doctor said. "And the Water of Youth lies wasted on the ground. But even if it flowed in a river at my door, I still would not drink it. This is the lesson you have taught me!"

But the doctor's four friends had learned no such lesson. They decided at that moment to travel to Florida and drink morning, noon, and night from the Fountain of Youth.

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ANNOUNCER:

You have heard the American Story "Doctor Heidegger's Experiment" by Nathaniel Hawthorne. Your storyteller was Barbara Klein. This story was adapted into Special English and produced by Dana Demange. Listen again next week for another American Story in VOA Special English.

Lisenning English MP3

Now, the Special English program AMERICAN STORIES.

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Today we tell a traditional American story called a “tall tale.” A tall tale is a story about a person who is larger than life. The descriptions in the story are exaggerated – much greater than in real life. Long ago, the people who settled in undeveloped areas of America first told tall tales. After a hard day’s work, people gathered to tell each other stories.

Each group of workers had its own tall tale hero. An African-American man named John Henry was the hero of former slaves and the people who built the railroads. He was known for his strength.

Railroads began to link the United States together in the nineteenth century. The railroads made it possible to travel from one side of the country to the other in less than a week. Before then, the same trip might have taken up to six months.

Railroad companies employed thousands of workers to create the smooth, flat pathways required by trains. John Henry was perhaps the most famous worker. He was born a slave in the southern United States. He became a free man as a result of America’s Civil War. Then, he worked for the railroads.

Confirming details of John Henry’s life is not possible. That is because no one knows for sure if he really lived. This is one of the things that makes his story interesting. However, John Henry is based, in part, on real events. Many people say he represents the spirit of growth in America during this period.

Now, here is Shep O’Neal with our story.

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People still talk about the night John Henry was born. It was dark and cloudy. Then, lightening lit up the night sky. John Henry’s birth was a big event. His parents showed him to everyone they met. John Henry was the most powerful looking baby people had ever seen. He had thick arms, wide shoulders and strong muscles. John Henry started growing when he was one day old. He continued growing until he was the strongest man who ever lived.

John Henry grew up in a world that did not let children stay children for long. One day, he was sitting on his father’s knee. The boy picked up a small piece of steel and a workman’s tool, a hammer. He looked at the two objects, then said, “A hammer will be the death of me.”

Before John Henry was six years old, he was carrying stones for workers building a nearby railroad. By the age of ten, he worked from early in the morning until night. Often, he would stop and listen to the sound of a train far away. He told his family, “I am going to be a steel-driver some day.”

Steel-drivers helped create pathways for the railroad lines. These laborers had the job of cutting holes in rock. They did this by hitting thick steel drills, or spikes.

By the time John Henry was a young man, he was one of the best steel-drivers in the country. He could work for hours without missing a beat. People said he worked so fast that his hammer moved like lightening.

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John Henry was almost two meters tall. He weighed more than ninety kilograms. He had a beautiful deep voice, and played an instrument called a banjo. John Henry married another steel-driver, a woman named Polly Ann. They had a son.

John Henry went to work as a steel-driver for the Chesapeake and Ohio Railroad, or C-and-O. The company asked him to lead workers on a project to extend the railroad into the Allegheny Mountains. The workers made good progress on the project until they started working near Big Bend Mountain in West Virginia.

The company’s owners said the mountain was too big to build a railroad around it. So the workers were told they had to force their drills through it. This meant creating a tunnel more than one-and-one half kilometers long.

The project required about one thousand laborers and lasted three years. Pay was low and the work was difficult. The workers had to breathe thick black smoke and dust. Hundreds of men became sick. Many died.

John Henry was the strongest and fastest man involved in the project. He used a hammer that weighed more than six kilograms. Some people say he was able to cut a path of three to six meters a day.

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That July was the hottest month ever in West Virginia. Many workers became tired and weak in the heat. John Henry was concerned his friends might lose their jobs. So, he picked up their hammers and began doing their work.

One week, he did his own work and that of several other steel-drivers. He worked day and night, rarely stopping to eat. The men thanked John Henry for his help. He just smiled and said, “A man ain’t nothing but a man. He has just got to do his best.”

The extreme heat continued for weeks. One day, a salesman came to the work area with a new drilling machine powered by steam. He said it could drill holes faster than twelve men working together. The railroad company planned to buy the machine if it worked as well as the salesman said.

The supervisor of the workers dismissed the salesman’s claims. He said, “I have the best steel-driver in the country. His name is John Henry, and he can beat more than twenty men working together.” The salesman disputed the statements. He said the company could have the machine without cost if John Henry was faster.

The supervisor called to John Henry. He said, “This man does not believe that you can drill faster. How about a race?’

John Henry looked at the machine and saw images of the future. He saw machines taking the place of America’s best laborers. He saw himself and his friends unemployed and standing by a road, asking for food. He saw men losing their families and their rights as human beings.

John Henry told the supervisor he would never let the machine take his job. His friends all cheered. However, John Henry’s wife Polly Ann was not happy.

“Competing against the machine will be the death of you,” she said. “You have a wife and a child. If anything happens to you, we will not ever smile again.”

John Henry lifted his son into the air. He told his wife, “A man ain’t nothing but a man. But, a man always has to do his best. Tomorrow, I will take my hammer and drive that steel faster than any machine.”

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On the day of the big event, many people came to Big Bend Mountain to watch. John Henry and the salesman stood side by side. Even early in the day, the sun was burning hot.

The competition began. John Henry kissed his hammer and started working. At first, the steam-powered drill worked two times faster than he did. Then, he started working with a hammer in each hand. He worked faster and faster. In the mountain, the heat and dust were so thick that most men would have had trouble breathing. The crowd shouted as clouds of dust came from inside the mountain.

The salesman was afraid when he heard what sounded like the mountain breaking. However, it was only the sound of John Henry at work.

Polly Ann and her son cheered when the machine was pulled from the tunnel. It had broken down. Polly Ann urged John Henry to come out. But he kept working, faster and faster. He dug deep into the darkness, hitting the steel so hard that his body began to fail him. He became weak, and his heart burst.

John Henry fell to the ground. There was a terrible silence. Polly Ann did not move because she knew what happened. John Henry’s blood spilled over the ground. But he still held one of the hammers.

“I beat them,” he said. His wife cried out, “Don’t go, John Henry.” “Bring me a cool drink of water,” he said. Then he took his last breath.

Friends carried his body from the mountain. They buried him near the house where he was born. Crowds went there after they heard about John Henry’s death.

Soon, the steam drill and other machines replaced the steel-drivers. Many laborers left their families, looking for work. They took the only jobs they could find. As they worked, some sang about John Henry.

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ANNOUNCER: You have just heard the story of John Henry. It was adapted for Special English by George Grow. Your storyteller was Shep O’Neal. Join us again next week for another AMERICAN STORY, in Special English on the Voice of America. This is Faith Lapidus.

Lisenning English MP3

ANNOUNCER:

Our story today is called "The Cask of Amontillado." It was written by Edgar Allan Poe. Here is Larry West with the story.

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STORYTELLER:

Edgar Allan Poe

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I stepped outside the small room.

"Where is the Amontillado?" he cried.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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ANNOUNCER:

You have just heard the story "The Cask of Amontillado. " It was written by Edgar Allan Poe and adapted for Special English by Dona de Sanctis. Your storyteller was Larry West. For VOA Special English, this is Shep O'Neal.

Lisenning English MP3

ANNOUNCER: Now, the weekly Special English program, AMERICAN STORIES.

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Our story today is called "The Line of Least Resistance.” It was written by Edith Wharton. Here is Larry West with the story.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Announcer: You have just heard the story "The Line of Least Resistance.” It was written by Edith Wharton and adapted for Special English by Dona de Sanctis. Your storyteller was Larry West. For VOA Special English, this is Shep O’Neal.

Lisenning English MP3

ANNOUNCER: Now, the Special English program, AMERICAN STORIES.

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ANNOUNCER: Today we tell a traditional American story called a “tall tale.” A tall tale is a story about a person who is larger than life. The descriptions in the story are exaggerated – much greater than in real life. This makes the story funny. Long ago, the people who settled in undeveloped areas in America first told tall tales. After a hard day’s work, people gathered to tell each other funny stories.

Each group of workers had its own tall tale hero. Paul Bunyan was a hero of North America’s lumberjacks, the workers who cut down trees. He was known for his strength, speed and skill. Tradition says he cleared forests from the northeastern United States to the Pacific Ocean.

Some people say Paul Bunyan was the creation of storytellers from the middle western Great Lakes area of the United States. Other people say the stories about him came from French Canada.

Early in the twentieth century, a writer prepared a collection of Paul Bunyan stories. They were included in a publication from the Red River Lumber Company in Minnesota. It is not known if the stories helped the company’s sales, but they became extremely popular.

Here is Shep O’Neal with our story about Paul Bunyan.

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STORYTELLER: Many years ago, Paul Bunyan was born in the northeastern American state of Maine. His mother and father were shocked when they first saw the boy. Paul was so large at birth that five large birds had to carry him to his parents. When the boy was only a few weeks old, he weighed more than forty-five kilograms.

As a child, Paul was always hungry. His parents needed tens cows to supply milk for his meals. Before long, he ate fifty eggs and ten containers of potatoes every day.

Young Paul grew so big that his parents did not know what to do with him. Once, Paul rolled over so much in his sleep that he caused an earthquake. This angered people in the town where his parents lived. So, the government told his mother and father they would have to move him somewhere else.

Paul’s father built a wooden cradle -- a traditional bed for a baby. His parents put the cradle in waters along the coast of Maine. However, every time Paul rolled over, huge waves covered all the coastal towns. So his parents brought their son back on land. They took him into the woods. This is where he grew up.

As a boy, Paul helped his father cut down trees. Paul had the strength of many men. He also was extremely fast. He could turn off a light and then jump into his bed before the room got dark.

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Maine is very cold for much of the year. One day, it started to snow. The snow covered Paul’s home and a nearby forest. However, this snow was very unusual. It was blue. The blue snow kept falling until the forest was covered.

Paul put on his snowshoes and went out to see the unusual sight. As he walked, Paul discovered an animal stuck in the snow. It was a baby ox. Paul decided to take the ox home with him. He put the animal near the fireplace. After the ox got warmer, his hair remained blue.

Paul decided to keep the blue ox and named him Babe. Babe grew very quickly. One night, Paul left him in a small building with the other animals. The next morning, the barn was gone and so was Babe. Paul searched everywhere for the animal. He found Babe calmly eating grass in a valley, with the barn still on top of his back. Babe followed Paul and grew larger every day. Every time Paul looked, Babe seemed to grow taller.

In those days, much of North America was filled with thick, green forests. Paul Bunyan could clear large wooded areas with a single stroke of his large, sharp axe.

Paul taught Babe to help with his work. Babe was very useful. For example, Paul had trouble removing trees along a road that was not straight. He decided to tie one end of the road to what remained of a tree in the ground. Paul tied the other end to Babe. Babe dug his feet in the ground and pulled with all his strength until the road became straight.

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In time, Paul and Babe the Blue Ox left Maine, and moved west to look for work in other forests. Along the way, Paul dug out the Great Lakes to provide drinking water for Babe. They settled in a camp near the Onion River in the state of Minnesota.

Paul’s camp was the largest in the country. The camp was so large that a man had to have one week’s supply of food when walking from one side of the camp to the other.

Paul decided to get other lumberjacks to help with the work. His work crew became known as the Seven Axemen. Each man was more than two meters tall and weighed more than one-hundred-sixty kilograms. All of the Axemen were named Elmer. That way, they all came running whenever Paul called them.

The man who cooked for the group was named Sourdough Sam. He made everything -- except coffee -- from sourdough, a substance used in making sourdough bread.

Every Sunday, Paul and his crew ate hot cakes. Each hot cake was so large that it took five men to eat one. Paul usually had ten or more hot cakes, depending on how hungry he was. The table where the men ate was so long that a server usually drove to one end of the table and stayed the night. The server drove back in the morning, with a fresh load of food.

Paul needed someone to help with the camp’s finances. He gave the job to a man named Johnny Inkslinger. Johnny kept records of everything, including wages and the cost of feeding Babe. He sometimes used nine containers of writing fluid a day to keep such detailed records.

The camp also was home to Sport, the Reversible Dog. One of the workers accidentally cut Sport in two. The man hurried to put the dog back together, but made a mistake. He bent the animal’s back the wrong way. However, that was not a problem for Sport. He learned to run on his front legs until he was tired. Then, he turned the other way and ran on his back legs.

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Big mosquitoes were a problem at the camp. The men attacked the insects with their axes and long sticks. Before long, the men put barriers around their living space. Then, Paul ordered them to get big bees to destroy the mosquitoes. But the bees married the mosquitoes, and the problem got worse. They began to produce young insects. One day, the insects’ love of sweets caused them to attack a ship that was bringing sugar to the camp. At last, the mosquitoes and bees were defeated. They ate so much sugar they could not move.

Paul always gave Babe the Blue Ox a thirty-five kilogram piece of sugar when he was good. But sometimes Babe liked to play tricks. At night, Babe would make noises and hit the ground with his feet. The men at the camp would run out of the buildings where they slept, thinking it was an earthquake.

When winter came, Babe had trouble finding enough food to eat. Snow covered everything. Ole the Blacksmith solved the problem. He made huge green sunglasses for Babe. When Babe wore the sunglasses, he thought the snow was grass. Before long, Babe was strong and healthy again.

One year, Paul’s camp was especially cold. It was so cold that the men let their facial hair grow very long. When the men spoke, their words froze in the air. Everything they said remained frozen all winter long, and did not melt until spring.

Paul Bunyan and Babe left their mark on many areas. Some people say they were responsible for creating Puget Sound in the western state of Washington. Others say Paul Bunyan and Babe cleared the trees from the states of North Dakota and South Dakota. They prepared this area for farming.

Babe the Blue Ox died in South Dakota. One story says he ate too many hot cakes. Paul buried his old friend there. Today, the burial place is known as the Black Hills.

Whatever happened to Paul Bunyan? There are lots of stories. Some people say he was last seen in Alaska, or even the Arctic Circle. Another tradition says he still returns to Minnesota every summer. It says Paul moves in and out of the woods, so few people ever know that he is there.

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ANNOUNCER: You have just heard the story of Paul Bunyan. It was adapted for Special English by George Grow. Your narrator was Shep O’Neal. Join us again next week for another American story, in Special English, on the Voice of America. This is Faith Lapidus.

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ANNOUNCER:

Now, the weekly Special English program, AMERICAN STORIES.

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Our story today is called "To Build a Fire." It was written by Jack London. Here is Harry Monroe with the story.

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STORYTELLER:

The man walked down the trail on a cold, gray day. Pure white snow and ice covered the Earth for as far as he could see. This was his first winter in Alaska. He was wearing heavy clothes and fur boots. But he still felt cold and uncomfortable.

The man was on his way to a camp near Henderson Creek. His friends were already there. He expected to reach Henderson Creek by six o'clock that evening. It would be dark by then. His friends would have a fire and hot food ready for him.

A dog walked behind the man. It was a big gray animal, half dog and half wolf. The dog did not like the extreme cold. It knew the weather was too cold to travel.

The man continued to walk down the trail. He came to a frozen stream called Indian Creek. He began to walk on the snow-covered ice. It was a trail that would lead him straight to Henderson Creek and his friends.

As he walked, he looked carefully at the ice in front of him. Once, he stopped suddenly, and then walked around a part of the frozen stream. He saw that an underground spring flowed under the ice at that spot. It made the ice thin. If he stepped there, he might break through the ice into a pool of water. To get his boots wet in such cold weather might kill him. His feet would turn to ice quickly. He could freeze to death.

At about twelve o'clock, the man decided to stop to eat his lunch. He took off the glove on his right hand. He opened his jacket and shirt, and pulled out his bread and meat. This took less than twenty seconds. Yet, his fingers began to freeze.

He hit his hand against his leg several times until he felt a sharp pain. Then he quickly put his glove on his hand. He made a fire, beginning with small pieces of wood and adding larger ones. He sat on a snow-covered log and ate his lunch. He enjoyed the warm fire for a few minutes. Then he stood up and started walking on the frozen stream again.

A half hour later, it happened. At a place where the snow seemed very solid, the ice broke. The man's feet sank into the water. It was not deep, but his legs got wet to the knees. The man was angry. The accident would delay his arrival at the camp. He would have to build a fire now to dry his clothes and boots.

He walked over to some small trees. They were covered with snow. In their branches were pieces of dry grass and wood left by flood waters earlier in the year. He put several large pieces of wood on the snow, under one of the trees. On top of the wood, he put some grass and dry branches. He pulled off his gloves, took out his matches, and lighted the fire. He fed the young flame with more wood. As the fire grew stronger, he gave it larger pieces of wood.

He worked slowly and carefully. At sixty degrees below zero, a man with wet feet must not fail in his first attempt to build a fire. While he was walking, his blood had kept all parts of his body warm. Now that he had stopped, cold was forcing his blood to withdraw deeper into his body. His wet feet had frozen. He could not feel his fingers. His nose was frozen, too. The skin all over his body felt cold.

Now, however, his fire was beginning to burn more strongly. He was safe. He sat under the tree and thought of the old men in Fairbanks. The old men had told him that no man should travel alone in the Yukon when the temperature is sixty degrees below zero. Yet here he was. He had had an accident. He was alone. And he had saved himself. He had built a fire.

Those old men were weak, he thought. A real man could travel alone. If a man stayed calm, he would be all right. The man's boots were covered with ice. The strings on his boots were as hard as steel. He would have to cut them with his knife.

He leaned back against the tree to take out his knife. Suddenly, without warning, a heavy mass of snow dropped down. His movement had shaken the young tree only a tiny bit. But it was enough to cause the branches of the tree to drop their heavy load. The man was shocked. He sat and looked at the place where the fire had been.

The old men had been right, he thought. If he had another man with him, he would not be in any danger now. The other man could build the fire. Well, it was up to him to build the fire again. This time, he must not fail.

The man collected more wood. He reached into his pocket for the matches. But his fingers were frozen. He could not hold them. He began to hit his hands with all his force against his legs.

After a while, feeling came back to his fingers. The man reached again into his pocket for the matches. But the tremendous cold quickly drove the life out of his fingers. All the matches fell onto the snow. He tried to pick one up, but failed.

The man pulled on his glove and again beat his hand against his leg. Then he took the gloves off both hands and picked up all the matches. He gathered them together. Holding them with both hands, he scratched the matches along his leg. They immediately caught fire.

He held the blazing matches to a piece of wood. After a while, he became aware that he could smell his hands burning. Then he began to feel the pain. He opened his hands, and the blazing matches fell on to the snow. The flame went out in a puff of gray smoke.

The man looked up. The dog was still watching him. The man got an idea. He would kill the dog and bury his hands inside its warm body. When the feeling came back to his fingers, he could build another fire. He called to the dog. The dog heard danger in the man's voice. It backed away.

The man called again. This time the dog came closer. The man reached for his knife. But he had forgotten that he could not bend his fingers. He could not kill the dog, because he could not hold his knife.

The fear of death came over the man. He jumped up and began to run. The running began to make him feel better. Maybe running would make his feet warm. If he ran far enough, he would reach his friends at Henderson Creek. They would take care of him.

It felt strange to run and not feel his feet when they hit the ground. He fell several times. He decided to rest a while. As he lay in the snow, he noticed that he was not shaking. He could not feel his nose or fingers or feet. Yet, he was feeling quite warm and comfortable. He realized he was going to die.

Well, he decided, he might as well take it like a man. There were worse ways to die.

The man closed his eyes and floated into the most comfortable sleep he had ever known.

The dog sat facing him, waiting. Finally, the dog moved closer to the man and caught the smell of death. The animal threw back its head. It let out a long, soft cry to the cold stars in the black sky.

And then it tuned and ran toward Henderson Creek…where it knew there was food and a fire.

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ANNOUNCER:

You have just heard the AMERICAN STORY called "To Build a Fire." It was written by Jack London and adapted for Special English by Dona de Sanctis. Your storyteller was Harry Monroe. For VOA Special English, this is Shep O'Neal.

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Now, the Special English program, AMERICAN STORIES.

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Our story today is called, "Luck." It was written by Mark Twain. Here is Shep O'Neal with the story.

NARRATOR:

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

I can not describe my excitement when I saw this great and famous man. There he sat. The man himself, in person, all covered with medals. I could not take my eyes off him. He seemed to show the true mark of greatness. His fame had no effect on him.

The hundreds of eyes watching him, the worship of so many people did not seem to make any difference to him.

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

This came as a shock to me. I looked hard at my friend. I could not have been more surprised if he had said the same thing about Napoleon, or Socrates, or Solomon.

But I was sure of two things about the clergyman. He always spoke the truth. And his judgement of men was good. Therefore, I wanted to find out more about our hero as soon as I could.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And there – oh, dear, it was terrible. Mistakes, fearful mistakes – why, he never did anything that was right – nothing but mistakes. But, you see, nobody knew the secret of how stupid he really was. Everybody misunderstood his actions. They saw his stupid mistakes as works of great intelligence. They did, honestly! His smallest mistakes made a man in his right mind cry – and shout and scream, too – to himself, of course. And what kept me in a continual fear was the fact that every mistake he made increased his glory and fame.

"I kept saying to myself that when at last they find out about him, it will be like the sun falling out of the sky.

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

"The battle grew hotter. The English and their allies were steadily retreating all over the field. Our regiment occupied a position that was extremely important. One mistake now would bring total disaster. And what did Scoresby do this time? He just mistook his left hand for his right hand…that was all. An order came for him to fall back and support our right. Instead, he moved forward and went over the hill to the left.

We were over the hill before this insane movement could be discovered and stopped. And what did we find? A large and unsuspecting Russian army waiting! And what happened? Were we all killed? That is exactly what would have happened in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred. But no – those surprised Russians thought that no one regiment by itself would come around there at such a time.

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

"The allied commander looked on, his head spinning with wonder, surprise and joy. He sent right off for Scoresby, and put his arms around him and hugged him on the field in front of all the armies.

"Scoresby became famous that day as a great military leader, honored throughout the world. That honor will never disappear while history books last.

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

"Until now, nobody knew it but Scoresby and myself. He has been followed, day by day, year by year, by a strange luck. He has been a shining soldier in all our wars for years. He has filled his whole military life with mistakes. Every one of them brought him another honorary title.

"Look at his chest, flooded with British and foreign medals. Well, sir, every one of them is the record of some great stupidity or other. They are proof that the best thing that can happen to a man is to be born lucky. I say again, as I did at the dinner, Scoresby's a complete fool."

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ANNOUNCER:

You have just heard the story "Luck." It was written by Mark Twain and adapted for Special English by Harold Berman. Your narrator was Shep O'Neal.

Listen again next week at this same time for another AMERICAN STORY told in Special English, on the Voice of America. This is Susan Clark.

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Announcer: Now, the Special English program, American stories.

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Today's story is called "The White Heron." It was written by Sarah Orne Jewett. Here is Kay Gallant with the story.

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Storyteller: The forest was full of shadows as a little girl hurried through it one summer evening in June. It was already eight o'clock and Sylvie wondered if her grandmother would be angry with her for being so late.

Every evening Sylvie left her grandmother's house at five-thirty to bring their cow home. The old animal spent her days out in the open country eating sweet grass. It was Sylvie's job to bring her home to be milked. When the cow heard Sylvie's voice calling her, she would hide among the bushes.

This evening it had taken Sylvie longer than usual to find her cow. The child hurried the cow through the dark forest, following a narrow path that led to her grandmother's home. The cow stopped at a small stream to drink. As Sylvie waited, she put her bare feet in the cold, fresh water of the stream.

She had never before been alone in the forest as late as this. The air was soft and sweet. Sylvie felt as if she were a part of the gray shadows and the silver leaves that moved in the evening breeze.

She began thinking how it was only a year ago that she came to her grandmother's farm. Before that, she had lived with her mother and father in a dirty, crowded factory town. One day, Sylvie's grandmother had visited them and had chosen Sylvie from all her brothers and sisters to be the one to help her on her farm in Vermont.

The cow finished drinking, and as the nine-year-old child hurried through the forest to the home she loved, she thought again about the noisy town where her parents still lived.

Suddenly the air was cut by a sharp whistle not far away. Sylvie knew it wasn't a friendly bird's whistle. It was the determined whistle of a person. She forgot the cow and hid in some bushes. But she was too late.

"Hello, little girl," a young man called out cheerfully. "How far is it to the main road?" Sylvie was trembling as she whispered "two miles." She came out of the bushes and looked up into the face of a tall young man carrying a gun.

The stranger began walking with Sylvie as she followed her cow through the forest. "I've been hunting for birds," he explained, "but I've lost my way. Do you think I can spend the night at your house?" Sylvie didn't answer. She was glad they were almost home. She could see her grandmother standing near the door of the farm house.

When they reached her, the stranger put down his gun and explained his problem to Sylvie's smiling grandmother.

"Of course you can stay with us," she said. "We don't have much, but you're welcome to share what we have. Now Sylvie, get a plate for the gentleman!"

After eating, they all sat outside. The young man explained he was a scientist, who collected birds. "Do you put them in a cage?" Sylvie asked. "No," he answered slowly, "I shoot them and stuff them with special chemicals to preserve them. I have over one hundred different kinds of birds from all over the United States in my study at home."

"Sylvie knows a lot about birds, too," her grandmother said proudly. "She knows the forest so well, the wild animals come and eat bread right out of her hands."

"So Sylvie knows all about birds. Maybe she can help me then," the young man said. "I saw a white heron not far from here two days ago. I've been looking for it ever since. It's a very rare bird, the little white heron. Have you seen it, too?" He asked Sylvie. But Sylvie was silent. "You would know it if you saw it," he added. "It's a tall, strange bird with soft white feathers and long thin legs. It probably has its nest at the top of a tall tree."

Sylvie's heart began to beat fast. She knew that strange white bird! She had seen it on the other side of the forest. The young man was staring at Sylvie. "I would give ten dollars to the person who showed me where the white heron is."

That night Sylvie's dreams were full of all the wonderful things she and her grandmother could buy for ten dollars.

Sylvie spent the next day in the forest with the young man. He told her a lot about the birds they saw. Sylvie would have had a much better time if the young man had left his gun at home. She could not understand why he killed the birds he seemed to like so much. She felt her heart tremble every time he shot an unsuspecting bird as it was singing in the trees.

But Sylvie watched the young man with eyes full of admiration. She had never seen anyone so handsome and charming. A strange excitement filled her heart, a new feeling the little girl did not recognize…love.

At last evening came. They drove the cow home together. Long after the moon came out and the young man had fallen asleep Sylvie was still awake. She had a plan that would get the ten dollars for her grandmother and make the young man happy. When it was almost time for the sun to rise, she quietly left her house and hurried through the forest. She finally reached a huge pine tree, so tall it could be seen for many miles around. Her plan was to climb to the top of the pine tree. She could see the whole forest from there. She was sure she would be able to see where the white heron had hidden its nest.

Sylvie's bare feet and tiny fingers grabbed the tree's rough trunk. Sharp dry branches scratched at her like cat's claws. The pine tree's sticky sap made her fingers feel stiff and clumsy as she climbed higher and higher.

The pine tree seemed to grow taller, the higher that Sylvie climbed. The sky began to brighten in the east. Sylvie's face was like a pale star when, at last, she reached the tree's highest branch. The golden sun's rays hit the green forest. Two hawks flew together in slow-moving circles far below Sylvie. Sylvie felt as if she could go flying among the clouds, too. To the west she could see other farms and forests.

Suddenly Sylvie's dark gray eyes caught a flash of white that grew larger and larger. A bird with broad white wings and a long slender neck flew past Sylvie and landed on a pine branch below her. The white heron smoothed its feathers and called to its mate, sitting on their nest in a nearby tree. Then it lifted its wings and flew away.

Sylvie gave a long sigh. She knew the wild bird's secret now. Slowly she began her dangerous trip down the ancient pine tree. She did not dare to look down and tried to forget that her fingers hurt and her feet were bleeding. All she wanted to think about was what the stranger would say to her when she told him where to find the heron's nest.

As Sylvie climbed slowly down the pine tree, the stranger was waking up back at the farm. He was smiling because he was sure from the way the shy little girl had looked at him that she had seen the white heron.

About an hour later Sylvie appeared. Both her grandmother and the young man stood up as she came into the kitchen. The splendid moment to speak about her secret had come. But Sylvie was silent. Her grandmother was angry with her. Where had she been. The young man's kind eyes looked deeply into Sylvie's own dark gray ones. He could give Sylvie and her grandmother ten dollars. He had promised to do this, and they needed the money. Besides, Sylvie wanted to make him happy.

But Sylvie was silent. She remembered how the white heron came flying through the golden air and how they watched the sun rise together from the top of the world. Sylvie could not speak. She could not tell the heron's secret and give its life away.

The young man went away disappointed later that day. Sylvie was sad. She wanted to be his friend. He never returned. But many nights Sylvie heard the sound of his whistle as she came home with her grandmother's cow.

Were the birds better friends than their hunter might have been? Who can know?

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ANNOUNCER: You have been listening to the story called "The White Heron" written by Sarah Orne Jewett. It was adapted for Special English by Dona de Sanctis. Your narrator was Kay Gallant. Listen again next week at the same time for this Special English program of American stories. This is Shep O'Neal.

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