Short Stories and Selections for Use in the Secondary Schools
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Emilie Kip Baker >> Short Stories and Selections for Use in the Secondary Schools
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"You graceless fellow, what have you got there devouring? Is it not
enough that you have burned down three houses with your dog's tricks,
but you must be eating fire and I know not what--what have you got
there, I say?"
"O father, the pig, the pig, do come and taste how nice the burnt pig
eats."
The ears of Ho-ti tingled with horror. He cursed his son, and he cursed
himself that ever he should have a son that should eat burnt pig.
Bo-bo, whose scent was wonderfully sharpened since morning, soon raked
out another pig, and fairly rending it asunder, thrust the lesser half
by main force into the fists of Ho-ti, still shouting out, "Eat, eat,
eat the burnt pig, father, only taste,"--with such like ejaculations,
cramming all the while as if he would choke.
Ho-ti trembled in every joint while he grasped the abominable thing,
wavering whether he should not put his son to death for an unnatural
young monster, when the crackling scorching his fingers, as it had done
his son's, and applying the same remedy to them, he in his turn tasted
some of its flavor, which, make what sour mouths he would for a
pretence, proved not altogether displeasing to him. In conclusion (for
the manuscript here is a little tedious) both father and son fairly sat
down to the mess, and never left off till they despatched all that
remained of the litter.
Bo-bo was strictly enjoined not to let the secret escape, for the
neighbors would certainly have stoned them for a couple of abominable
wretches, who could think of improving upon the good meat God had sent
them. Nevertheless, strange stories got about. It was observed that
Ho-ti's cottage was burned down now more frequently than ever.
Nothing but fires from this time forward. Some would break out in broad
day, others in the night-time. And Ho-ti himself, which was the more
remarkable, instead of chastising his son, seemed to grow more indulgent
to him than ever.
At length they were watched, the terrible mystery discovered, and father
and son summoned to take their trial at Pekin, then an inconsiderable
assize town. [Footnote: Assize town: the place where the court sits to
conduct trials.] Evidence was given, the obnoxious food itself produced
in court, and verdict about to be pronounced, when the foreman of the
jury begged that some of the burnt pig, of which the culprits stood
accused, might be handed into the box.
He handled it, and they all handled it, and burning their fingers, as
Bo-bo and his father had done before them, and nature prompting to each
of them the same remedy, against the face of all the facts, and the
clearest charge which the judge had ever given,--to the surprise of the
whole court, townsfolk, strangers, reporters, and all present--without
leaving the box, or any manner of consultation whatever, they brought in
a simultaneous verdict of Not Guilty.
The judge, who was a shrewd fellow, winked at the manifest iniquity of
the decision; and when the court was dismissed, went privily, and bought
up all the pigs that could be had for love or money. In a few days his
Lordship's town house was observed to be on fire. The thing took wing,
and now there was nothing to be seen but fires in every direction. Fuel
and pigs grew enormously dear all over the district. The insurance
offices one and all shut up shop. People built slighter and slighter
every day, until it was feared that the very science of architecture
would in no long time be lost to the world.
Thus this custom of firing houses continued, till in process of time,
says my manuscript, a sage arose, like our Locke, [Footnote: Locke: John
Locke, a celebrated English philosopher of the seventeenth century.] who
made a discovery, that flesh of swine, or indeed of any other animal,
might be cooked (burnt, as they called it) without the necessity of
consuming a whole house to dress it. Then first began the rude form of a
gridiron.
Roasting by the string, or spit, came in a century or two later, I
forget in whose dynasty. By such slow degrees, concludes the manuscript,
do the most useful, and seemingly the most obvious arts, make their way
among mankind.
--CHARLES LAMB.
[Footnote: In this essay where does the humor lie? Is it in the
absurdity of the story told? In the exaggerations? What stories, of
those you have studied, does this most resemble? Why? Notice how bare
the story is of any description except that which is essential to the
theme. What is the effect of this? Does the author describe the taste of
roast pig sympathetically? Does any article of food arouse your
enthusiasm? If so, try writing an essay on it. Why does the author
introduce such incongruous terms as "foreman of the jury," "jury box,"
"insurance offices"?]
THE LAST CLASS
I was very late for school that morning, and I was afraid of being
scolded, especially as Monsieur Hamel had told us that he should examine
us on participles, and I did not know the first thing about them. For a
moment I thought of staying away from school and wandering about the
fields. It was such a warm, lovely day. I could hear the blackbirds
whistling on the edge of the wood, and in the Rippert field, behind the
sawmill, the Prussians going through their drill. [Footnote: Prussians
going through their drill. The time of the story is laid at the end of
the Franco-Prussian War.] All that was much more tempting to me than the
rules concerning participles; but I had the strength to resist, and I
ran as fast as I could to school. As I passed the Mayor's office, I saw
that there were people gathered about the little board on which notices
were posted. For two years all our bad news had come from that
board--battles lost, conscriptions, [Footnote: Conscription: compulsory
enrollment for military service.] orders from headquarters; and I
thought without stopping:
"What can it be now?"
Then, as I ran across the square, Wachter the blacksmith, who stood
there with his apprentice, reading the placard, called out to me:
"Don't hurry so, my boy; you'll get to your school soon enough!"
I thought that he was making fun of me, and I ran into Monsieur Hamel's
little yard all out of breath.
Usually, at the beginning of school, there was a great uproar which
could be heard in the street, desks opening and closing, lessons
repeated aloud in unison, with our ears stuffed in order to learn
quicker, and the teacher's stout ruler beating on the desk:
"A little more quiet!"
I counted on all this noise to reach my bench unnoticed, but as it
happened, that day everything was quiet, like a Sunday morning. Through
the open window I saw my comrades already in their places, and Monsieur
Hamel walking back and forth with the terrible iron ruler under his arm.
I had to open the door and enter, in the midst of that perfect silence.
You can imagine whether I blushed and whether I was afraid!
But no! Monsieur Hamel looked at me with no sign of anger and said very
gently:
"Go at once to your seat, my little Frantz; we were going to begin
without you."
I stepped over the bench and sat down at once at my desk. Not until
then, when I had partly recovered from my fright, did I notice that our
teacher had on his handsome blue coat, his plaited ruff, and the black
embroidered breeches, which he wore on days of inspection or of
distribution of prizes. Moreover, there was something extraordinary,
something solemn about the whole class. But what surprised me most was
to see at the back of the room, on the benches which were usually empty,
some people from the village sitting, as silent as we were: old Hauser
with his three-cornered hat, the ex-mayor, the ex-postman, and others
besides. They all seemed depressed; and Hauser had brought an old
spelling-book with gnawed edges, which he held wide-open on his knee,
with his great spectacles askew.
While I was wondering at all this, Monsieur Hamel had mounted his
platform, and in the same gentle and serious voice with which he had
welcomed me, he said to us:
"My children, this is the last time that I shall teach you. Orders have
come from Berlin to teach nothing but German in the schools of Alsace
and Lorraine. The new teacher arrives to-morrow. This is the last class
in French, so I beg you to be very attentive."
Those few words overwhelmed me. Ah! the villains! that was what they had
posted at the mayor's office.
My last class in French!
And I barely knew how to write! So I should never learn! I must stop
short where I was! How angry I was with myself because of the time I had
wasted, the lessons I had missed, running about after nests, or sliding
on the Saar! [Footnote: Saar: a river just beyond the northeast border
line of the province of Lorraine.] My books, which only a moment before
I thought so tiresome, so heavy to carry--my grammar, my sacred
history--seemed to me now like old friends, from whom I should be
terribly grieved to part. And it was the same about Monsieur Hamel. The
thought that he was going away, that I should never see him again, made
me forget the punishments, the blows with the ruler.
Poor man! It was in honor of that last lesson that he had put on his
fine Sunday clothes; and I understood now why those old fellows from the
village were sitting at the end of the room. It seemed to mean that they
regretted not having come oftener to the school. It was also a way of
thanking our teacher for his forty years of faithful service, and of
paying their respects to the fatherland which was vanishing.
I was at that point in my reflections, when I heard my name called. It
was my turn to recite. What would I not have given to be able to say
from the beginning to the end that famous rule about participles, in a
loud, distinct voice, without a slip! But I got mixed up at the first
words, and I stood there swaying against my bench, with a full heart,
afraid to raise my head. I heard Monsieur Hamel speaking to me:
"I will not scold you, my little Frantz; you must be punished enough;
that is the way it goes; every day we say to ourselves: 'Pshaw! I have
time enough. I will learn to-morrow.' And then you see what happens. Ah!
it has been the great misfortune of our Alsace always to postpone its
lessons until to-morrow. 'What! you claim to be French, and you can
neither speak nor write your language!' In all this, my poor Frantz, you
are not the guiltiest one. We all have our fair share of reproaches to
address to ourselves.
"Your parents have not been careful enough to see that you were
educated. They preferred to send you to work in the fields or in the
factories, in order to have a few more sous. And have I nothing to
reproach myself for? Have I not often made you water my garden instead
of studying? And when I wanted to go fishing for trout, have I ever
hesitated to dismiss you?"
Then passing from one thing to another, Monsieur Hamel began to talk to
us about the French language, saying that it was the most beautiful
language in the world, the most clear, the most substantial; that we
must always retain it among ourselves, and never forget it, because when
a people falls into servitude, "so long as it clings to its language, it
is as if it held the key to its prison." Then he took the grammar and
read us our lesson. I was amazed to see how readily I understood.
Everything that he said seemed so easy to me, so easy. I believed, too,
that I had never listened so closely, and that he, for his part, had
never been so patient with his explanations. One would have said that,
before going away, the poor man desired to give us all his knowledge, to
force it all into our heads at a single blow.
When the lesson was at an end, we passed to writing. For that day
Monsieur Hamel had prepared some entirely new examples, on which was
written in a fine, round hand: "France, Alsace, France, Alsace." They
were like little flags, waving all about the class, hanging from the
rods of our desks. You should have seen how hard we all worked and how
silent it was! Nothing could be heard save the grinding of the pens over
the paper. At one time some cockchafers [Footnote: Cockchafers: a
species of beetle.] flew in; but no one paid any attention to them not
even the little fellows, who were struggling with their straight lines,
with a will and conscientious application, as if even the lines were
French. On the roof of the schoolhouse, pigeons cooed in low tones, and
I said to myself as I listened to them:
"I wonder if they are going to compel them to sing German too!"
From time to time, when I raised my eyes from my paper, I saw Monsieur
Hamel sitting motionless in his chair and staring at the objects about
him as if he wished to carry away in his glance the whole of his little
schoolhouse. Think of it! For forty years he had been there in the same
place, with his yard in front of him and his class just as it was! But
the benches and desks were polished and rubbed by use; the walnuts in
the yard had grown, and the hop-vine which he himself had planted now
festooned the windows even to the roof. What a heartrending thing it
must have been for that poor man to leave all those things, and to hear
his sister walking back and forth in the room overhead, packing their
trunks! For they were to go away the next day--to leave the province
forever.
However, he had the courage to keep the class to the end. After the
writing, we had the lesson in history; then the little ones sang all
together the ba, be, bi, bo, bu. Yonder, at the back of the room, old
Hauser had put on his spectacles, and, holding his spelling-book in both
hands, he spelled out the letters with them. I could see that he too was
applying himself. His voice shook with emotion, and it was so funny to
hear him, that we all longed to laugh and to cry. Ah! I shall remember
that last class.
Suddenly the church struck twelve, then the Angelus [Footnote: Angelus:
the angelus bell, which is rung at morning, noon, and night.] rang. At
the same moment, the bugles of the Prussians returning from drill blared
under our windows. Monsieur Hamel rose, pale as death, from his chair.
Never had he seemed to me so tall.
"My friends," he said, "my friends, I--I--"
But something suffocated him. He could not finish the sentence.
Thereupon he turned to the blackboard, took a piece of chalk, and,
bearing on with all his might, he wrote in the largest letters he could:
"Vive La France!" [Footnote: Vive la France: "Long live France."]
Then he stood there with his head resting against the wall, and without
speaking, he motioned to us with his hand:
"That is all; go."
--ALPHONSE DAUDET.
[Footnote: Compare this story with "A Leaf in the Storm." What do such
stories make you think of "the glory of conquest"? Why was the decree
made that this was to be "the last class in French"? Does the author
make this story a personal tragedy or the tragedy of France? Where is
the climax of the story? Is it effective? What kind of spirit does it
show? Does that spirit live in France to-day?]
AN ARAB FISHERMAN
This morning I reached the rocks before the dawn had begun to break. It
was too dark to fish; but I crept out to the very edge of the ledge, and
sat down beside a great boulder to wait for the light. I lit my pipe and
smoked impatiently. It seemed as though the dawn came up out of the
water itself; long before I could notice any increase of light the waves
began to change color from the dark, oily olive tint of night to a
lighter green, and gradually, just as it began to dawn, to their daytime
blue. A long trailing cloud, which stretched clean across the sky like
an exaggerated Milky Way, suddenly caught fire at its eastern end.
Rapidly the red flame along ran its entire length to the other horizon.
Then countless unexpected shadows woke up on the rocks about me, weird,
undefined shapes, which became clear-cut only when the rim of the sun
came up over Cap Rouge.
But a swish in the water beside me, as the first fish rose, recalled me
to the business in hand. I opened my little tin tackle-box, put the rod
together, and just as I was tying on the flies I was disturbed by human
voices. I said several things I shouldn't have, and looked up over my
rock to motion back the intruders. For a moment I thought I was back in
Old Greece, the Old Greece where early morning fishers were often
interrupted by the sea-nymphs. But a second glance reassured me--it was
only an Arab and his wife hunting crabs.
Their method was typical. He was a sombre old chap, with long, scanty
white beard, a soiled burnous, [Footnote: Burnous: a cloak-like garment
with a hood, worn by the Arabs.] and thin, scrawny brown legs. He sat
stolidly on a dry rock, a basket under his feet, and--this was the
typical part--watched his wife work. I did not blame him for watching.
It was a pretty sight. She was a supple young Mauresque, [Footnote:
Mauresque: Moorish (girl).] slim and graceful as the water-nymph for
whom I had first mistaken her. She had laid aside her outer cloak-like
garment, and was clad only in a light cotton tunic. It was very simple
affair--two small holes for her arms, a bigger one for her head, and a
still bigger one at the bottom to get in by. I could make one myself. It
was bound about her waist with a heavy dark red woollen sash, the ends
of which, hanging down at her side, were adorned with a most amazing
collection of colored strings, bright yellow, startling orange, pale
blue, and flaming crimson. It sounds discordant, and I must admit that,
as it hangs now in my room, it almost makes my head ache. But out there
on the red, wet rocks it was toned down by the faint morning light, and
mingled charmingly with the greens on the bank and the far-reaching blue
of the sea. In her hand was a spear--a stick sharpened in a fire.
If the old gentleman took it sedately and placidly, it was just the
reverse with her. She was fairly running over with the joy of life. She
would crawl about deftly until she saw a crab, then she would make a
long detour to get it between her and the sun, so that her shadow should
not frighten it. When she got within striking distance, she would wave
her hand at her husband, as though she thought he could increase the
intensity of his silence. With a graceful, dextrous thrust she would
stab her game, and, gathering up her scant skirts, she would dash into
the water after it. The moment she got her hand on it she would let out
a delighted little scream of glee, and go bounding over the rocks to
exhibit it to her lord and master. I wanted to wring his scrawny old
neck for not being more enthusiastic about it. But he never once lost
his blase manner. He would look at the crab a moment critically, then
lift up his foot and let her put it in the basket. Not a word would he
say. But off she would go again with undimmed ardor. It was a sight for
the gods. And for half an hour I forgot all about my fishing-rod.
At last their basket was full, and the old man got up and began to come
my way. She picked up her mantle and the basket and followed him. They
saw me at the same moment. She gave a startled little squeal and started
to retreat; but the old man grunted "Roumi," so she stopped.
"Roumi," being translated, means "Infidel." It was as though he had
said, "Don't get excited; it is only a dog." If I had been a Mussulman,
she would have run screaming to the woods, and would have had to do--I
don't know what penance--because I had seen her face unveiled. But I was
only an infidel dog and didn't count. The old man made the "Sign of
Peace," and the two sat down beside me.
I didn't return his salute. I had never felt so entirely, so shamefully
insulted in my life. I have always read a deep contempt for me in the
eyes of the Mussulmans I have met. The Arab boy who cleans my boots and
cares for "Citron," my mare, looks down on me from a perfectly
unspeakable height of superiority. The men do not matter, but to be
insulted so by a woman, a very pretty woman, made my hair crinkle! I had
heard that the Mohammedan women do not veil before the infidels. But I
had never realized the overpowering weight of the insult before. She
would have been utterly confused if an Arab had seen her face. She sat
there before me, almost within reach of my hand, in a thin, short, very
short, tunic, which was wet, and she never turned a hair. I was a
"Roumi," not a man, a dog. That was all there was to it. I felt that
unless I could shake her composure I would explode. I tried to convince
her I was a man by staring at her. I might just as well have tried to
embarrass the statue of Venus de Milo!
"Bonjour," [Footnote: Bonjour: "good day."] the old man said. He had
probably learned French working for a colonist; or perhaps he had served
in the Spahis [Footnote: Spahis: Algerian cavalrymen serving in the
French army.] when he was younger. I was too mad to return his greeting.
"Fishing?" he asked.
Such insane questions, when the answer is so evident, generally
infuriate me; and I probably would have told him I was skating if I had
not been afraid he would get mad and walk off with his wife, and I had
not yet given up hope of embarrassing her.
"Yes," I replied. "And you?"
"I've been crab-fishing," he said solemnly, and he showed me his basket.
"I'm a good fisher," he added.
I looked at his wife, but she did not seem to see anything funny in his
choice of pronouns. I tied another fly on my leader.
"No good," he said. "Use crab meat. Fish don't like feathers."
I made a couple of casts without making a strike. "No good!" he kept
repeating. He began to get on my nerves. At last I had better luck and
landed a beautiful three-pounder. I dangled it triumphantly before his
eyes.
"No good," he said stolidly. "Use crab meat. Fish don't like feathers."
Then I had a run of luck. Almost every cast I got a rise, and soon I had
a nice string of eight, all from two to five pounds. I noticed that all
the strikes had been on the same fly, so I stopped for a minute to
change the other two flies to this variety. I thought that if I should
have the luck to raise two at once--as sometimes happens--I might
convince him. When I opened the box to get the new flies, both of them
came close to look in. In one compartment were some bare hooks on which
I had not yet built flies. The old man pounced on them at once.
"There!" he cried. "These are good. Use these with crab meat and you
will catch fish!"
I sat back in dumb amazement. Once upon a time, way back in the dimness
before history, this chap's ancestors had begun to fish off these rocks
with a bent wire and a piece of crab meat. Century after century they
had sat there unchanging. Sat there all day long, and had been lucky to
catch half as many fish as I had done in fifteen minutes. And glaring
ocular demonstration did not shake his faith in the methods of his
ancestors. I began to understand the hopeless discouragement with which
my host talks of the "Native Question." The Arabs are starving off
because the French have stolen their land. But the fact remains that
most of the natives have more land than the colonists. An Arab will
starve to death on a piece of land which will support two French
families, simply because the Arabs do not know--and will not learn--how
to intensify their culture. Somehow--nobody knows just how--the Romans,
during the long centuries of their occupation, succeeded in teaching
them to put an iron point on the end of the crooked stick with which
they scratch the earth. It is the last thing they have learned.
The Arabs employed by my host are good workmen. They seem perfectly
intelligent; six days a week they yoke his stout oxen before a great
American plow, turn his soil, scatter his fertilizer, after the harvest
help him sort out the best grain for the next sowing, and so forth; but
the seventh day of the week they hitch their wives beside an ass, and
tickle the soil with their iron-pointed stick. "Why should we put on
fertilizer?" they ask. "Allah, the Just, will give us the harvest our
piety deserves."
My speculations about the fate of the race were interrupted by the voice
of the young woman. Her eye had been caught by a gaudy red-feathered
trolling-spoon and its polished brass disk. She pointed to it, and said
something in Arabic. The old man shook his head.
"No good" he repeated his deadly refrain.
"Use these. Crab meat. You will catch fish. Fish don't like feathers."
But I'd lost interest in fishing. I realized that if I pulled up Jonah's
whale it would not convince the old man. So I started to put up my
things.
--ALBERT EDWARDS.
[Footnote: Note the use of color. What things in the scene should you
like to see for yourself? Is the humor of the story one of situation or
character? Was the old Arab vain or only stupid? Is his attitude toward
the author a typically Eastern one? Do you know Kipling's ballad, "The
East and the West"?]
THE ARCHERY CONTEST
At the beginning of the contest a stranger appears to take part in the
shooting. He tells Prince John that his name is Locksley.
A target was placed at the upper end of the southern avenue which led to
the lists. [Footnote: Lists: fields of combat.] The contending archers
took their station in turn, at the bottom of the southern access, the
distance between that station and the mark allowing full distance for
what was called a shot at rovers. The archers, having previously
determined by lot their order of precedence, were to shoot each three
shafts in succession. The sports were regulated by an officer of
inferior rank, termed the Provost of the Games; for the high rank of the
marshals of the lists would have been held degraded, had they
condescended to superintend the sports of the yeomanry. [Footnote:
Yeomanry: the yeomen in England were the freeholders, the class next in
order to the gentry.]
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