VOA Special English -  听写作业：AMERICAN STORIES - 7/5/2008

吗呀！
你是学习英文的，还是学习中文的？

今天听写完毕，请版主和各位学友不吝指正！

American Story (Jul 5, 2008)

Now the special English program: American Stories. Our Story today is called “Chares”. It is written by Shirley Jackson. Here is Kay Glant with the story.

Today my son Lorry started going to school. He began wearing the blue jeans with belt. I watched him leave the older girl who lives the next door. I clearly thought this is the end of the period in my life. My sweet voice baby had suddenly changed. He was now a little man who was too full of himself to say goodbye to his mother.

My son came home the same way. He shut the front door hard threw his hat on the floor and shouted: “Isn’t anybody here?” At lunch, he spoke roughly to his father. “How is school today?” I asked. “Oh, all right,” he said. His farther asked if he had learnt anything. Lorry looked at his father coldly. He said he had learnt nothing. “The teacher punished a boy though”, Lorry said with his mouth full of bread butter. “What did he do?” I asked, “Who was it?” Lorry had thought for a minute. “He was Charles,” he said, “Charles was bad. The teacher hit him and let him stand in the corner. He was very bad.” “What did he do?” I asked again, but Lorry slid of his chair, took cookie left, while his father was still saying, “See here, young man.”

The next day, Lorry said at lunch, “Well, Charles was bad again today. Today, Charles hit the teacher.” “Good heavens, “ I said, “I suppose he got punished again.” “He sure did,” Lorry said. “Why did Charles hit teacher?” I asked. “Because she tried to make him use the red panes, Charles wanted to use green panes. So he hit her. The she hit him on the bottom and said nobody should play with him. But everybody did.”

The third day, Wednesday, Charles hit little girl on the head with a piece of wood. The teacher made him remain inside all during the playing time. Thursday, Charles has stayed in the corner during story time because he kept beating his feet on the floor. Friday, Charles was punished again because he threw a piece of chalk from blackboard. I said to my husband that perhaps the school was not so good for Lorry at all. He could be a rough boy. And this Charles sounded like such a bad influence. “It will be all right,” my husband said, “there are sure to be people like Charles in the world. Lorry might as well meet them now as later.”

The second week, Lorry came home full of news. “Charles,” he shouted as he came up of the hills. I was waiting under front steps. “Charles, “ Lorry said all the way up the hill, “Charles was bad again!” “Come right in”, I said as soon as he cam close enough. “Lunch is waiting.” “Hello, (…Mum),” he said to his father. As he came to the door, “you know what Charles did? Charles shouted so loudly at school. They sent a boy from another class to tell the teacher to make Charles keep quiet. Also , Charles had stayed after school, all children stayed to watch him.” “What did they do them?” I asked. “He just sat there.” Lorry said, climbing into his chair at the table. “What did Charles look like?” My husband looked Lorry. “What is his other name?” “He is bigger than me,” Lorry said, “And he does not have any robber shoes to wear when it rains, and he does not wear a jacket.”

Monday might was the first parent-teacher’s meeting. I wanted to go. I wanted very much to meet Charles’ mother. But I had to stay home because the baby was sick. On Tuesday, Lorry said suddenly, “Our teacher had friend come to see our school today.” “Charles’ mother?” My husband had asked the same time. “No,” he said, “he was the man who made us do exercises. We had touched the toes like this.” Lorry showed its how. “Charles did not do the exercises.” “Didn’t Charles want to do the exercises?” I said. “No, “ Lorry said, “Charles is so bad to the teacher’s friend, and he was not let Charles do the exercises.” “Bad again”, I said. “He kicked teacher’s friend.” Lorry said, “The teacher’s friend told Charles to touch his toes like I just did and Charles kicked him.” “What are they going to do about Charles, do you suppose?” Lorry’s father asked him. Lorry could not say. “Threw out of the school, I guess.” He answered.

Nothing special have been done on Wednesday and Thursday. Charles shouted during story hour and hit the boy in the stomach and made him cry. On Friday, Charles stayed after school again, so did all the other children.

After the third week of school, the word of Charles had become the part of our family. The boy was being a “Charles” when he filled the wagon full of the mud and pulled through the house. Even my husband when he accidentally pushed the ashtray off the table said, “Looks like Charles.”

During the 4th and 5th weeks, it looks as if Charles had reformed. Lorry reported it unhappily, “Charles was so good today that the teacher gave him an apple.” “What?” I said and my husband added carefully, “you mean Charles?” “Charles,” Lorry said, “he passed our pages to the other child and he collected the books. The teacher said he was a helper.” “What happened?” I said, “I could not believe it.” “He was a helper, that’s all.” Lorry said. “Can they speak true about child?” I asked my husband that night. “Can something like this happen?” “Wait and see, “ my husband said, “When you have a child to deal with (this may mean this is only planting).” He seamed to be wrong. For all over week, Charles was the teacher’s helper. Each day he passed things out and picks things out. No one had to stay after school.

The parent-teacher’s meeting is being held again next week. I told my husband one evening,” I am going to find Charles mother there.” “Ask what happen to Charles, I would like to know.” “I would like to know myself”. On Friday of that week, things were back to normal. “You know what Charles do today?” Lorry said in the voice full of excitement. “I wander.” “He told the little girl to say a bad word and she said it, and the teacher washed out of his mouth with soap. Charles left.” “What word?” His father asked unwisely. Lorry said, “I have to whisper to you, it’s very bad.” He got down office chair and went around to his father. His father bent his head down, and Lorry whispered joyfully. His father’s eyes widened. “Did Charles tell the little girl to say that?” “She said two times.” Lorry said, “Charles told him to say it two times.”

Monday morning, Charles said the bad word three or four times. He got his mouth washed out with soap each time. That evening, my husband came to the door with me as I started out for the parent-teacher’s meeting. “Invite Charles’ mother over for a cup of tea after the meeting!” he said. “I want to look at her if only she is there.” I said with despair. “She will be there.” my husband said. “I did not see how they hold the parent-teacher’s meeting without her. At the meeting, I said looking at all the women’s faces. I tried to discover which one hid the secret of Charles. None of them seemed tired enough to be Charles’ mother. No one stood up, made excuses for the way her son had been acting. No one talked about Charles. After the meeting, I found Lorry’s teacher. “I have wanted to meet you.” I said, “I ‘m Lorry’s mother.” “Oh, we are, we are so interested in Lorry.” She said, “We have a little trouble with him in the first week or so. But now he’s a fine little helper most of time anyway.” “Lorry usually learns to obey and cooperate very quickly.” I said, “I suppose this time it was Charles influence.” “Charles?” the teacher asked. “Yes!” I said laughing, “You must have your hands full in that class with Charles.” “Charles?” she said, “We do not have any Charles in the class!”

我也听写了，好累啊这么长的文章，而且都是些很简单的对话。
没有耐心打上电脑了，这位发出来的仁兄听写的挺好的 ，就是有一些粗心的小错误，比如through打成了though.

汗哦,这么多,好累~

Now, the Special English program American Stories. Our story today is called "Charles". It was written by Shirley Jackson. Here is Kay Gallant with the story.

The day my son Laurie started going to school, he began wearing blue jeans with a belt. I watched him leave with the older girl who lived next door. I clearly saw that this was the end of a period in my life. My sweet-voice baby had suddenly changed. He was now a little man who was too full of himself to say goodbye to his mother.
My son came home the same way. He shut the front door hard, threw his hat on the floor and shouted, "Isn't anybody here?"
At lunch he spoke roughly to his father.
"How was school today?" I asked.
"Oh, all right." He said.
His father asked if he had learned anything. Laurie looked at his father coldly. He said he had learned nothing.
"The teacher punished a boy, though." Laurie said with his mouth full of bread and butter.
"What did he do?" I asked, "Who was it?"
Laurie thought for a minute. "It was Charles," he said, "Charles was bad. The teacher hit him and made him stand in a corner. He was very bad."
"What did he do?" I asked again. But Laurie slid off his chair, took a cookie and left while his father was still saying "See here, young man."
The next day, Laurie said at lunch, "Well, Charles was bad again today. Today Charles hit the teacher."
"Good heavens," I said, "I suppose he got punished again."
"He sure did," Laurie said.
"Why did Charles hit the teacher?" I asked.
"Because she tried to make him use red paints. Charles wanted to use green paints, so he hit her. Then she hit him on the bottom and said nobody should play with him. But everybody did."
The third day, Wednesday, Charles hit a little girl on the head with a piece of wood. The teacher made him remain inside all during playtime. Thursday, Charles had to stay in a corner during story time because he kept beating his feet on the floor. Friday, Charles was punished again because he threw a piece of chalk from the blackboard.
I said to my husband that perhaps school was not so good for Laurie after all. He could be a rough boy and this Charles sounded like such a bad influence.
"It'll be alright," my husband said, "there are sure to be people like Charles in the world. Laurie might as well meet them now as later."
The second week, Laurie came home full of news. "Charles," he shouted as he came up the hill. I was waiting on the front steps. "Charles!" Laurie shouted all the way up the hill. "Charles was bad again."
"Come right in," I said as soon as he came close enough, "lunch is waiting."
"Hello, pop, you old mop." he said to his father as he came through the door.
"You know what Charles did? Charles shouted so loudly in school that they sent a boy from another class to tell the teacher to make Charles keep quiet. And so Charles had to stay after school. All of children stayed to watch him."
"What did he do then?" I asked.
"He just sat there," Laurie said, climbing into his chair at the table.
"What does Charles look like?" my husband asked Laurie, "What is his other name?"
"He is bigger than me," Laurie said, "and he does not have any rubber shoes to wear when it rains, and he does not wear a jacket."
Monday night was the first Parent-Teacher's meeting. I wanted to go. I wanted very much to meet Charles' mother. But I had to stay home because the baby was sick.
On Tuesday, Laurie said suddenly, "Our teacher had a friend come to see her in school today."
"Charles's mother?" My husband and I asked at the same time.
"Nah," he said, "there was a man who made us do exercises. We had to touch our toes like this." Laurie showed us how. "Charles did not do the exercises."
"Didn't Charles want to do the exercises?" I said.
"Nah," Laurie said, "Charles was so bad to the teacher's friend that he would not let Charles do the exercises."
"Bad again?" I said.
"He kicked the teacher's friend." Laurie said, "The teacher's friend told Charles to touch his toes like I just did and Charles kicked him."
"What are they going to do about Charles do you suppose?" Laurie's father asked him.
Laurie could not say. "Throw him out of school I guess," he answered.
Nothing special happened on Wednesday and Thursday. Charles shouted during story hour and he hit a boy in the stomach, and made him cry. On Friday, Charles stayed after school again, so did all the other children.
With the third week of school, the word "Charles" had become part of our family. The baby was being a Charles when he filled his wagon full of mud and pulled it through the house. Even my husband when he accidentally pushed an ashtray off the table, said, "hum, looks like Charles."
During the third and fourth weeks, it looked as if Charles had reformed. Laurie reported unhappily that Charles was so good today that the teacher gave him an apple.
"What?" I said, and my husband added carefully, "You mean Charles?"
"Charles," Laurie said. "He passed out the paints to the other children. Then he collected the books. The teacher said he was her helper."
"What happened?" I said, "I could not believe it."
"He was her helper, that's all," Laurie said.
"Can this be true about Charles?" I asked my husband that night. "Can something like this happen?"
"Wait and see," My husband said. "When you have a Charles to deal with this may mean he is only plotting."
He seemed to be wrong. For over a week, Charles was the teacher's helper. Each day he passed things out and he picked things up. No one had to stay after school.
"The Parent-Teacher's meeting is being held again next week." I told my husband one evening, "I am going to find Charles' mother there."
"Ask her what happened to Charles. I would like to know."
"I would like to know myself."
On Friday of that week, things were back to normal.
"You know what Charles did today?" Laurie said in a voice full of the excitement and wonder. "He told a little girl to say a bad word and she said it and the teacher washed out her mouth with soap. Charles laughed."
"What word?" his father asked unwisely.
Laurie said, "I'll have to whisper to you. It's very bad." He got down off his chair and went around to his father. His father bent his head down and Laurie whispered joyfully. His father's eyes widened, "Did Charles tell the little girl to say that?"
"She said it two times," Laurie said, "Charles told her to say it two times."
Monday morning, Charles said the bad word three or four times. He got his mouth washed out with soap each time. That evening, my husband came to the door with me as I started out for the Parent-Teacher's meeting.
"Invite Charles' mother over for a cup of tea after the meeting," he said, "I wanna get a look at her."
"If only she is there," I said with a prayer.
"She'll be there," my husband said, "I do not see how they get hold that Parent-Teacher's meeting without her."
At the meeting, I sat looking at all the women's faces. I tried to discover which one hid the secret of Charles. None of them seemed tired enough to be Charles' mother. No one stood up, made excuses for the way her son had been acting. No one talked about Charles. After the meeting, I found Laurie's teacher.
"I have wanted to meet you," I said, "I am Laurie's mother."
"Oh! We are … we are so interested in Laurie." She said, "We had a little trouble with him the first week or so, but now he is a fine little helper, most of the time anyway."
"Laurie usually learns to obey and to cooperate very quickly," I said, "I suppose this time it was Charles' influence."
"Charles?" the teacher asked.
"Yes," I said, laughing, "You must have your hands full in that class with Charles."
"Charles?" she said, "We do not have any Charles in the class."

You have just heard the American story "Charles". It was written by Shirley Jackson. Your narrator was Kay Gallant. The Voice of America invites you to listen again next week at this time for another American story told in Special English. This is Susan Clark.

找到的原作，不保证无错。

CHARLES by Shirley Jackson
The day my son Laurie started kindergarten he renounced corduroy overalls with bibs and began wearing blue jeans with a belt; I watched him go off the first morning with the older girl next door, seeing clearly that an era of my life was ended, my sweetvoiced nursery-school tot replaced by a long-trousered, swaggering character who forgot to stop at the corner and wave good-bye to me.
He came running home the same way, the front door slamming open, his cap on the floor, and the voice suddenly become raucous shouting, “Isn’t anybody here?”
At lunch he spoke insolently to his father, spilled his baby sister’s milk, and remarked that his teacher said we were not to take the name of the Lord in vain.
“How was school today?” I asked, elaborately casual.
“All right,” he said.
“Did you learn anything?” his father asked.
Laurie regarded his father coldly. “I didn’t learn nothing,” he said.
“Anything,” I said. “Didn’t lean anything.”
“The teacher spanked a boy, though,” Laurie said, addressing his bread and butter. “For being fresh,” he added, with his mouth full.
“What did he do?” I asked. “Who was it?”
Laurie thought. “It was Charles,” he said. “He was fresh. The teacher spanked him and made him stand in the corner. He was awfully fresh.”
“What did he do?” I asked again, but Laurie slid off his chair, took a cookie, and left, while his father was still saying, “See here, young man.”
The next day Laurie remarked at lunch, as soon as he sat down, “Well, Charles was bad again today.” He grinned enormously and said, “Today Charles hit the teacher.”
“Good heavens,” I said, mindful of the Lord’s name, “I suppose he got spanked again?”
“He sure did,” Laurie said. “Look up,” he said to his father.
“What?” his father said, looking up.
“Look down,” Laurie said. “Look at my thumb. Gee, you’re dumb.” He began to laugh insanely.
“Why did Charles hit the teacher?” I asked quickly.
“Because she tried to make him color with red crayons,” Laurie said. “Charles wanted to color with green crayons so he hit the teacher and she spanked him and said nobody play with Charles but everybody did.”
The third day—it was a Wednesday of the first week—Charles bounced a see-saw on to the head of a little girl and made her bleed, and the teacher made him stay inside all during recess. Thursday Charles had to stand in a corner during story-time because he kept pounding his feet on the floor. Friday Charles was deprived of black-board privileges because he threw chalk.
On Saturday I remarked to my husband, “Do you think kindergarten is too unsettling for Laurie? All this toughness and bad grammar, and this Charles boy sounds like such a bad influence.”
“It’ll be alright,” my husband said reassuringly. “Bound to be people like Charles in the world. Might as well meet them now as later.”
On Monday Laurie came home late, full of news. “Charles,” he shouted as he came up the hill; I was waiting anxiously on the front steps. “Charles,” Laurie yelled all the way up the hill, “Charles was bad again.”
“Come right in,” I said, as soon as he came close enough. “Lunch is waiting.”
“You know what Charles did?” he demanded following me through the door.
“Charles yelled so in school they sent a boy in from first grade to tell the teacher she had to make Charles keep quiet, and so Charles had to stay after school. And so all the children stayed to watch him.
“What did he do?” I asked.
“He just sat there,” Laurie said, climbing into his chair at the table. “Hi, Pop, y’old dust mop.”
“Charles had to stay after school today,” I told my husband. “Everyone stayed with him.”
“What does this Charles look like?” my husband asked Laurie. “What’s his other name?”
“He’s bigger than me,” Laurie said. “And he doesn’t have any rubbers and he doesn’t wear a jacket.”
Monday night was the first Parent-Teachers meeting, and only the fact that the baby had a cold kept me from going; I wanted passionately to meet Charles’s mother. On Tuesday Laurie remarked suddenly, “Our teacher had a friend come to see her in school today.”
“Charles’s mother?” my husband and I asked simultaneously.
“Naaah,” Laurie said scornfully. “It was a man who came and made us do exercises, we had to touch our toes. Look.” He climbed down from his chair and squatted down and touched his toes. “Like this,” he said. He got solemnly back into his chair and said, picking up his fork, “Charles didn’t even do exercises.”
“That’s fine,” I said heartily. “Didn’t Charles want to do exercises?”
“Naaah,” Laurie said. “Charles was so fresh to the teacher’s friend he wasn’t let do exercises.”
“Fresh again?” I said.
“He kicked the teacher’s friend,” Laurie said. “The teacher’s friend just told Charles to touch his toes like I just did and Charles kicked him.
“What are they going to do about Charles, do you suppose?” Laurie’s father asked him.
Laurie shrugged elaborately. “Throw him out of school, I guess,” he said.
Wednesday and Thursday were routine; Charles yelled during story hour and hit a boy in the stomach and made him cry. On Friday Charles stayed after school again and so did all the other children.
With the third week of kindergarten Charles was an institution in our family; the baby was being a Charles when she cried all afternoon; Laurie did a Charles when he filled his wagon full of mud and pulled it through the kitchen; even my husband, when he caught his elbow in the telephone cord and pulled the telephone and a bowl of flowers off the table, said, after the first minute, “Looks like Charles.”
During the third and fourth weeks it looked like a reformation in Charles; Laurie reported grimly at lunch on Thursday of the third week, “Charles was so good today the teacher gave him an apple.”
“What?” I said, and my husband added warily, “You mean Charles?”
“Charles,” Laurie said. “He gave the crayons around and he picked up the books afterward and the teacher said he was her helper.”
“What happened?” I asked incredulously.
“He was her helper, that’s all,” Laurie said, and shrugged.
“Can this be true about Charles?” I asked my husband that night. “Can something like this happen?”
“Wait and see,” my husband said cynically. “When you’ve got a Charles to deal with, this may mean he’s only plotting.” He seemed to be wrong. For over a week Charles was the teacher’s helper; each day he handed things out and he picked things up; no one had to stay after school.
“The PTA meeting’s next week again,” I told my husband one evening. “I’m going to find Charles’s mother there.”
“Ask her what happened to Charles,” my husband said. “I’d like to know.”
“I’d like to know myself,” I said.
On Friday of that week things were back to normal. “You know what Charles did today?” Laurie demanded at the lunch table, in a voice slightly awed. “He told a little girl to say a word and she said it and the teacher washed her mouth out with soap and Charles laughed.”
“What word?” his father asked unwisely, and Laurie said, “I’ll have to whisper it to you, it’s so bad.” He got down off his chair and went around to his father. His father bent his head down and Laurie whispered joyfully. His father’s eyes widened.
“Did Charles tell the little girls to say that?” he asked respectfully.
“She said it twice,” Laurie said. “Charles told her to say it twice.”
“What happened to Charles?” my husband asked.
“Nothing,” Laurie said. “He was passing out the crayons.”
Monday morning Charles abandoned the little girl and said the evil word himself three or four times, getting his mouth washed out with soap each time. He also threw chalk.
My husband came to the door with me that evening as I set out for the PTA meeting. “Invite her over for a cup of tea after the meeting,” he said. “I want to get a look at her.”
“If only she’s there.” I said prayerfully.
“She’ll be there,” my husband said. “I don’t see how they could hold a PTA meeting without Charles’s mother.”
At the meeting I sat restlessly, scanning each comfortable matronly face, trying to determine which one hid the secret of Charles. None of them looked to me haggard enough. No one stood up in the meeting and apologized for the way her son had been acting. No one mentioned Charles.
After the meeting I identified and sought out Laurie’s kindergarten teacher. She had a plate with a cup of tea and a piece of chocolate cake; I had a plate with a cup of tea and a piece of marshmallow cake. We maneuvered up to one another cautiously, and smiled.
“I’ve been so anxious to meet you,” I said. “I’m Laurie’s mother.”
“We’re all so interested in Laurie,” she said.
“Well, he certainly likes kindergarten,” I said. “He talks about it all the time.”
“We had a little trouble adjusting, the first week or so,” she said primly, “but now he’s a fine helper. With occasional lapses, of course.”
“Laurie usually adjusts very quickly,” I said. “I suppose this time it’s Charles’s influence.”
“Charles?”
“Yes,” I said, laughing, “you must have your hands full in that kindergarten, with Charles.”
“Charles?” she said. “We don’t have any Charles in the kindergarten.”

What does the "Hello, pop, you old mop" mean?

下面的听写稿由网友 Eva Huang 热情提供

Now the Special English Programme, American Stories.

(Music)

Our story today is called Charles. It was writen by Shirley Jackson. Here is Kay Glant.

(Music)

The day my son Lori started going to school, he began wearing blue jeans with a belt. I watched him leave with an older girl who lived next door. I clearly saw that this was the end of period in my life.

My sweet voice baby had suddenly changed. He was now a little man who was too full of himself to say goodbye to his mother. My son came home the same way. He shut the front door hard, threw his hat on floor and shouted: "Isn't anybody here?"

At lunch, he spoke roughly to his father.

"How was the school today?" I asked.

"Oh, all right." He said.

His father asked if he had learned anything. Lori looked at his father coldly. He said he had learnt nothing.

"The teacher punished a boy though." Lori said with his mouth full of bread and butter. "What did he do?" I asked, "Who was it?"

Lori thought for a minute.

"It was Charles." He siad, "Charles was bad. The teacher hit him and made him stand in the corner. He was very bad."

"What did he do?" I asked again.

But Lori slid off his chair, took a cookie and left. While his father was still saying: "See here, young man."

The next day, Lori said at lunch: "Well, Charles was bad again today. Today, Charles hit the teacher."

"Good heavens." I said, "I surpose he got punished again."

"He sure did." Lori said.

"Why did Charles hit the teacher?" I asked.

"Because she tried to make him use red paints. Charles wanted to use green paints. So he hit her. Then she hit him on the buttn and said nobody should play with him. But everybody did."

The third day, Wednesday, Charles hit a little girl on the head with a piece of wood. The teacher made him remain inside all during play time.

Thursday, Charles had to stay in the corner during story time because he kept beating his feet on the floor.

Friday, Charles was punished again because he threw a piece of chalk from the blackboard.

I said to my husband that perhaps school was not so good for Lori after all. He could be a rough boy. And this Charles sounded like such a bad influence.

"It will be alright." My husband said, "There are sure to be people like Charles in the world. Lori might as well meet them now and later."

The second week, Lori came home full of news. "Charles." He shouted as he came up the hill.

I was waiting on the front steps. "Charles." Lori shouted all the way up the hill. "Charles was bad again." "Come right in." I said as soon as he came close enough, "Lunch is waiting."

"Hello, Pap, your mop." He said to his father as he came into the door.

"You know what Charles did. Charles shouted so loudly in school, they sent a boy from another class to tell the teacher to make Charles keep quiet. And so Charles had to stay after school. All children stayed to watch him."

"What did he do then?" I asked.

"He just sat there." Lori said, climbing into his chair and table.

"What does Charles look like?" My husband asked Lori, "What is his other's name?"

"He is bigger than me." Lori said, "And he does not have any rubber shoes to wear when it rains. And he does not wear a jacket."

Monday night was the first parent-teacher's meeting, I wanted to go. I wanted very much to meet Charles's mother, but I had stayed at home because the baby was sick.

On Tuesday, Lori said suddenly: "Our teacher had a friend come to see her in school today."

"Charles' mother?" My husband and I asked at the same time.

"Nah." He said, "It was a man who made us do exercises. We had touched our toes like this." Lori showed how.
"Charles did not do the exercises."

"Didn't Charles want to do exercised?" I said.

"Nah." Lori said, "Charles was so bad to the teacher's friend. But he would not let Charles do the exercises."
"Bad again." I said.

"He kicked the teacher's friend." Lori said, "The teacher's friend told Charles to touch his toes like I just did and Charles kicked him."

"What are they going to about Charles you surpose?" Lori's father asked him.

Lori could not say. "Do a model school, I guess." He answered.

Nothing special happened on Wednesday and Thursday. Charles shouted during story hour and hit a boy in the stomach and made him cry.

On Friday Charles stayed after school again. So did all the other children.

With the third week of school, the world of Charles had become a part of our family.

The baby was being a Charles when he filled his wagon full of mud and pulled it through the house.

Even my husband when he accidently pushed his ash tray off the table, he said, "Emm, looks like Charles."
During the third and forth weeks, it looked as if Charles had been reformed.

Lori reported unhappily: "That Charles was so good today that the teacher gave him an apple."

"What?" I said and my husband added carefully: "You mean Charles?"

"Charles." Lori said, "He passed out the paints to the children, then he collected the books. The teacher said he was a helper."

"What happened?" I said, "I could not believe it."

"He was a helper. That's all." Lori said.

"Can this be true about Charles?" I asked my husband that night, "Can something like this happen?"

"Wait and see." My husband said, "When you have Charles to deal with, this will mean only a ploting."

He seemed to be wrong. For all a week, Charles was the teacher's helper. Each day he passed things out and picked thing up. No one had to stay after school.

"The parent-teacher's meeting is being held again next week." I told my husband one evening, "I am going to find Charles' mother there. I will ask her what happened to Charles. I would like to know. I would like to know myself."

On Friday that week, things were back to normal.

"You know what Charles did today?" Lori said in a voice full of excitement and wonder.

"He told a little girl to say a bad word and she said it. And the teacher washed our her mouth with soap. Charles laughed."

"What word? His father unwisely.

Lori said: "I will have to whisper to you. It's very bad."

He got down off his chair and went around to his father. His father bended his head down and Lori whispered joyfully. His father's eyes widened.

"Did Charles tell a little girl to say that?"

"He said two times." Lori said, "Charles told her to say it two times."

Monday morning, Charles said a bad word three or four times. He got his mouth washed out with soap each time.

That evening, my husband came to the door with me as I started out for the parent-teacher's meeting.

"Invite Charles' mother over for a cup of tea after the meeting." He said, "I want to get a look at her."

"If only she is there." I said with a prayer.

"She will be there." My husband said, "I do not see how they get

hold the parent-teacher's meeting without her."

At the meeting, I sat looking at all the women's faces, I tried to discover which one hid the secrets of Charles. None of them seemed tiring enough to be Charles' mother.

No one stood up, made excuses for the way her son had been acted.

No one talked about Charles.

After the meeting, I found Lori's teacher.

"I have wanted to meet you." I said, "I am Lori's mother." "Oh, we are... we are so interested in Lori." She said, "We had a little trouble with him the first week or so, but now he is a fine little helper, most of time, anyway, Lori usually learns to obey and cooperate very quickly."

I said: "I surpose this time was Charles' influence."

"Charles?" The teacher asked.

"Yes." I said laughing, "You must have your hands full in class with Charles."

"Charles." She said, "We do not have any Charles in the class."

You have just heard the American Story Charles. It was writen by Shirly Jackson.

Your narrator was Kay Glant. The Voice of America invites you to listen again next week at this time for another American Story told in Special English. This is Susan Cluck.