Children of the Frost by Jack London

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

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Our story this week is "Keesh." It was written by Jack London. Here is Shep O'Neal to tell you the story.

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SHEP O'NEAL: Keesh lived at the edge of the polar sea. He had seen thirteen suns in the Eskimo way of keeping time. Among the Eskimos, the sun each winter leaves the land in darkness. And the next year, a new sun returns, so it might be warm again.

The father of Keesh had been a brave man. But he had died hunting for food. Keesh was his only son. Keesh lived along with his mother, Ikeega.

One night, the village council met in the big igloo of Klosh-kwan, the chief. Keesh was there with the others. He listened, then waited for silence.

He said, "It is true that you give us some meat. But it is often old and tough meat, and has many bones."

The hunters were surprised. This was a child speaking against them. A child talking like a grown man!

Keesh said, "My father, Bok, was a great hunter. It is said that Bok brought home more meat than any of the two best hunters. And that he divided the meat so that all got an equal share."

"Naah! Naah!" the hunters cried. "Put the child out! Send him to bed. He should not talk to gray-beards this way!"

Keesh waited until the noise stopped. "You have a wife, Ugh-gluk," he said.  "And you speak for her. My mother has no one but me. So I speak. As I say, Bok hunted greatly, but is now dead. It is only fair then that my mother, who was his wife, and I, his son, should have meat when the tribe has meat. I, Keesh, son of Bok, have spoken."

Again, there was a great noise in the igloo. The council ordered Keesh to bed. It even talked of giving him no food.

Keesh jumped to his feet. "Hear me!" he cried. "Never shall I speak in the council igloo again. I shall go hunt meat like my father, Bok."

There was much laughter when Keesh spoke of hunting. The laughter followed Keesh as he left the council meeting.

The next day, Keesh started out for the shore, where the land meets the ice.  Those who watched saw that he carried his bow and many arrows. Across his shoulder was his father's big hunting spear. Again there was laughter.

One day passed, then a second. On the third day, a great wind blew. There was no sign of Keesh. His mother, Ikeega, put burned seal oil on her face to show her sorrow. The women shouted at their men for letting the little boy go. The men made no answer, but got ready to search for the body of Keesh.

Early next morning, Keesh walked into the village. Across his shoulders was fresh meat. "Go you men, with dogs and sleds. Follow my footsteps. Travel for a day," he said.  "There is much meat on the ice. A she-bear and her two cubs."

His mother was very happy. Keesh, trying to be a man, said to her, "Come, Ikeega, let us eat. And after that, I shall sleep. For I am tired."

There was much talk after Keesh went to his igloo. The killing of a bear was dangerous.  But it was three times more dangerous to kill a mother bear with cubs. The men did not believe Keesh had done so. But the women pointed to the fresh meat. At last, the men agreed to go for the meat that was left. But they were not very happy.

One said that even if Keesh had killed the bear, he probably had not cut the meat into pieces. But when the men arrived, they found that Keesh had not only killed the bear, but had also cut it into pieces, just like a grown hunter.

So began the mystery of Keesh.

On his next trip, he killed a young bear...and on the following trip, a large male bear and its mate.

Then there was talk of magic and witchcraft in the village. "He hunts with evil spirits," said one. "Maybe his father's spirit hunts with him," said another.

Keesh continued to bring meat to the village. Some people thought he was a great hunter. There was talk of making him chief, after old Klosh-kwan. They waited, hoping he would come to council meetings. But he never came.

"I would like to build an igloo." Keesh said one day, "but I have no time. My job is hunting. So it would be just if the men and women of the village who eat my meat, build my igloo." And the igloo was built. It was even bigger than the igloo of the Chief Klosh-kwan.

One day, Ugh-gluk talked to Keesh. "It is said that you hunt with evil spirits, and they help you kill the bear."

"Is not the meat good?" Keesh answered. "Has anyone in the village yet become sick after eating it? How do you know evil spirits are with me? Or do you say it because I am a good hunter?"

Ugh-gluk had no answer.

The council sat up late talking about Keesh and the meat. They decided to spy on him.

On Keesh's next trip, two young hunters, Bim and Bawn, followed him. After five days, they returned. The council met to hear their story.

"Brothers," Bim said, "we followed Keesh, and he did not see us. The first day he came to a great bear. Keesh shouted at the bear, loudly. The bear saw him and became angry. It rose high on its legs and growled. But Keesh walked up to it."

"We saw it," Bawn, the other hunter, said. "The bear began to run toward Keesh. Keesh ran away. But as he ran, he dropped a little round ball on the ice. The bear stopped and smelled the ball, then ate it. Keesh continued to run, dropping more balls on the ice. The bear followed and ate the balls."

The council members listened to every word. Bim continued the story. "The bear suddenly stood up straight and began to shout in pain.

"Evil spirits," said Ugh-gluk.

I do not know," said Bawn. "I can tell only what my eyes saw. The bear grew weak. Then it sat down and pulled at its own fur with its sharp claws.  Keesh watched the bear that whole day."

"For three more days, Keesh continued to watch the bear. It was getting weaker and weaker. Keesh moved carefully up to the bear and pushed his father's spear into it."

"And then?" asked Klosh-kwan.

"And then we left."

That afternoon, the council talked and talked.  When Keesh arrived in the village, the council sent a messenger to ask him to come to the meeting. But Keesh said he was tired and hungry. He said his igloo was big and could hold many people, if the council wanted a meeting.

Klosh-kwan led the council to the igloo of Keesh. Keesh was eating, but he welcomed them. Klosh-kwan told Keesh that two hunters had seen him kill a bear. And then, in a serious voice to Keesh, he said, "We want to know how you did it." Did you use magic and witchcraft?"

Keesh looked up and smiled. "No, Klosh-kwan. I am a boy. I know nothing of magic or witchcraft. But I have found an easy way to kill the ice-bear.  It is head-craft, not witchcraft."

"And will you tell us, O Keesh?" Klosh-kwan asked in a shaking voice.

"I will tell you. It is very simple. Watch."

Keesh picked up a thin piece of whalebone.  The ends were pointed and sharp as a knife. Keesh bent the bone into a circle. Suddenly he let the bone go, and it became straight with a sharp snap. He picked up a piece of seal meat.

"So," he said, "first make a circle with a sharp, thin piece of whale bone. Put the circle of bone inside some seal meat. Put it in the snow to freeze. The bear eats the ball of meat with the circle of bone inside. When the meat gets inside the bear, the meat gets warm, and the bone goes snap! The sharp points make the bear sick. It is easy to kill then. It is simple."

Ugh-gluk said, "Ohhh!" Klosh-kwan said "Ahh!"  Each said something in his own way. And all understood.

That is the story of Keesh, who lived long ago on the edge of the polar sea. Because he used head-craft, instead of witchcraft, he rose from the poorest igloo to be the chief in the village. And for all the years that followed, his people were happy. No one cried at night with pains of hunger.

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SHIRLEY GRIFFITH: You have just heard the story, "Keesh."  It was written by Jack London. Your storyteller was Shep O'Neal.  This is Shirley Griffith.

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The Story of Keesh first published in Holiday Magazine for Children, January 1904, as "Keesh the Bear Hunter". You can read the full story of Keesh online at:
http://carl-bell-2.baylor.edu/~bellc/jl/KeeshSonOfKeesh.html

The Ransom of Red Chief

FAITH LAPIDUS: Now, the VOA Special English program, AMERICAN STORIES.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Red Chief was attempting to cut off the top of Bill's head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

【听写作业】AMERICAN STORIES - 2007/11/24 - The Animals Give Themselves

以下是网友听写初稿，还未经最终审核校正，可能存在错误之处。

Now, the VOA Special English program -- AMERICAN STORIES.

Our story is called The Animals Give Themselves, from the book Cloudwalker by Joel Monture, published by Fulcrum Publishing.

Mr. Monture is a Native American from the Mohawk Nation. He has written stories about young Native Americans who grow up in American cities and do not always know a lot about their Indian traditions. Here is Faith Lapidus with the story.

"Elizabeth..." Betti Tylen turned to her best friend Debby. "I hate it when my mother calls me Elizabeth. It always means I have to do some work." Betty made her music louder and two girls laughed. Betty and Debby are twelve years old and live in Fairbanks, Alaska. Together, they share schoolwork and movies and talk a lot. Betty is Koyucan, an Alaskan native nation. And Debby's ancestors came from England.
Missis Tylen came to Betty's room. "We are going home to our village for a potlatch." she told her daughter. "What is a potlatch?" asked Debby. "It is a big ceremony and meal." said Betty. "People cook food and give away blankets. It is really silly." "Do I have to go?" she asked her mother. "Yes, it is our responsibility." said her mother. "We are flying out tomorrow morning."

The next morning, Betty was flying in a small plane beside her mother. "I really hate this." she said. "Why couldn't I stay with Debby?" But when the plane landed, Betty was beginning to think the potlatch might be fun. She would see her uncle Vincent and aunt Molly, and visit with her cousins". But most important was that her father would be at the potlatch. He was often away from home for months working with the tribe on environmental issues.

Uncle Vincent met them at the airport. He had a thick way of talking and a missing tooth in a corner of his smile. Uncle Vincent was a hunter in the village. "How you folks been doing there, Fairbanks?" he asked as he drove his truck down a snowy road. They drove for almost an hour. Betty thought everything just looked frozen. But to her mother, it was the place where she had grown up. She showed Betty the birds and other animals along the road.

Suddenly, uncle Vincent stopped the truck and looked into the bushes. Missis Tylen watched too. But Betty could see nothing. Then, Betty saw a large moose whose breath made steam in the winter air. Uncle Vincent quickly reached for his gun and stepped out of his truck. Betty looked at her mother. "He is not going to shoot the moose, is he?"

Before her mother could answer, there was a loud sound from the gun. Then, silence. Missis Tylen got out of the truck and stood beside Vincent. Betty watched them talk softly. Then, her mother said, "Come on, Betty. We have a moose." Betty said softly to her mother, "This is so horrible! I hate it! Why can't we just go?" But Missis Tylen put her finger to her lips as a sign to be quiet. A short way into the woods, they came upon the moose lying on her side in the snow.

Betty watched as uncle Vincent touched different parts of the dead moose praying quietly and offering thanks for the use of the animal. Then, he stood up and said, "Betty, run up to the truck and bring back the knives under the seat. Betty walked to the snow feeling unsure. A potlatch was supposed to be fun. Now, here they were, in the middle of the forest was a dead moose. "Ahem..." she found the knives in the truck and returned to where her mother and uncle were waiting. "This is so horrible." she said under her breath.

Uncle Vincent and Missis Tylen both took off their coats. It was freezing, but her mother did not seem cold. She took one of the knives from Betty. "Mom?" asked Betty. "What? You do not know that I know how to cut the skin off a moose? I used to help my brothers all the time. My mother and I took care of the skins and we smoked them to make coverings for our feet and hands. When you were born, I used to give you a moose bone to chew on to help your baby teeth grow." She said with a laugh. "No way!" Betty protested.

As they worked late into the afternoon, Betty thought it was so strange to see her mother working on the moose. Betty was used to seeing her mother working in an office wearing dresses and nice shoes, but not in the middle of the snow taking the skin off a moose. What else didn't she know about her mother? When they were ready to leave, Betty saw that the woods did not seem quiet anymore. Black birds called ravens were circling high in the sky and a cold wind was blowing.

As they drove along the snowy road, Betty thought to herself: This land was difficult. But her mother was a part of it because she knew things. As they drove into the small village, Betty saw that there were no big stores. This was the place her mother had been raised. And Betty suddenly felt as though she did not know very much.

Uncle Vincent stopped by a small house at the far end of the village. There were so many people inside. Betty did not remember any of them, but they seemed to know her. Betty was only a baby when she left. And her relatives rubbed her cheeks in welcome. She smiled as they put their arms around her. Then, out of the crowd came her father, David Tylen. He picked her up and cried, "Betty Wolf!" "Dad! Do not call me that!" she said. But she was still smiling. She put her arms around him.

"We killed a moose for potlatch." Betty did not know where her words came from. But she sensed the importance of this group of family members. "You got a moose?" asked Betty's father. He smelt her and added with a laugh, "You smell like a moose. Hey! You!"

That night, Betty slept on blankets on the floor. She was so tired from working in the woods with the moose. She dreamed that the moose talked to her and said, "I give myself to you, so your people can eat and live." When she woke up, she thought her dream was real. Betty found her mother having a cup of coffee. "Mom, I had a dream." she said, "The moose was there and she told me her death was like a gift to us. I do not understand."

Betty's mother held the warm cup of coffee in her hands and explained. "No matter how far we travel from home, when we return, this is still our land, the place we come from. This is a place of people, ravens, moose and so many other beings. The bird does not take more than it needs, and people do not either. This is the balance of our world. Your moose visited you to let you know that it was all right. She gave up herself to feed your family because we honored her. And from that, you are learning to be honorable. You watch here how all this meat will be shared. Everyone will be fed from your moose. That is life.'

Just then, Betty's father joined them. Her mother looked up and smiled. "Betty dreamed about the moose." "Oh, I see." said Betty's father. "Would you feel better if I told you aunt Aster makes soft shoes? She will make you a pair from your moose." Betty smiled, "Really?" Her father said, "Maybe we should all talk more about our traditions, so we do not forget them." "You are always gone." said Betty. "Well, that could change." said her Dad, "I am moving back to Fairbanks." Her mother jumped up and put her arms around him. "That is wonderful, David."

The next day, Betty enjoyed the potlatch ceremony. All the people cooked big parts of meat and fried bread. Older members of the village stood up to speak about the unity of the people. They offered prayers to the spirits and everyone ate. "I never ate so much in my life." Betty said to her mother. "My moose was very good."

When Betty flew back to Fairbanks, she looked down at the land. Her mother's village looked like little dots on the snowy earth. Back home, Betty was happy to see her friend Debby. "Look what I brought you. A pair of soft shoes! My aunt made them." Debby said, "I wish I could go to a potlatch." Betty said, "Maybe next year, I will ask my mother if you can come. But if we shoot a moose, you have to help!"

You have heard the Native American story The Animals Give Themselves from the book Cloudwalker. It was written by Joel Monture and adapted into Special English by Carrion Legged. Your storyteller was Faith Lapidus. The producer was Lawan Davis. Listen again next week at this time for another American story in VOA Special English. I'm Bob Doughty.

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About Cloudwalker

Cloudwalker by Joel Monture

Monture, Joel. (1996). Cloudwalker: Contemporary Native American stories. Golden: Fulcrum Kids.

Native American children all over the country have the very difficult task of taking, appreciating, and living two very different cultures- Native American and modern day. Many young people struggle with the clash that is caused by retaining Native practices while growing up in contemporary American society. These are stories about how children are living in our society today and how they are still being amazed by the rich beautiful culture of their native people. This is a great book to help students understand that Native American struggles still exist today and that they are kids just like them

Our story today is called Rainbabies. It was written by Laura Krauss Melmed. Here is Barbara Klein with the story.

An old woman and her husband lived in a small house in a green field. They had plenty of food and a good roof over their heads and the river ran close to their door. But the thing they wanted most was the thing they lacked - a child to call their own.

The Rain Babies by Laura Krauss Melmed

One spring night, the couple was asleep when a broad ribbon of white light slid across the old woman's pillow. Her eyes flew open. She could hear the steady rainfall on the roof top. Yet her eyes met the white face of the full moon looking through her window. The old woman shook her husband. "Wake up old man. I have heard that the moon shower brings good luck to everyone it touches." The old man rose and followed his wife outside. She was surprised at what she saw in the wet grass. There were 12 shiny drops of water, each holding a tiny baby no larger than her big toe.

Very carefully the couple gathered up the small babies and brought them into the house. The woman dried them gently and set them on a soft cloth on the kitchen table. There were 12 perfect little ones all in a row. The old couple smiled and cooled until the babies began to yawn and rub their eyes with tiny fists. Then the woman wrapped the rain babies in pieces of cloth and laid them to sleep in a drawer.

Day after day the old couple cared for the rain babies. When they were tired or wanted to be held they cried out in tiny voices and reached up with their little arms. Then the old man and woman held the rain babies in the palms of their hands or they rocked them to sleep in a pair of wooden shoes. The old man and woman would carry the babies in a straw basket as they went about their work.

One morning the family set out in their wooden boat with fishing poles to catch some supper. The woman placed the basket at her feet in the boat. The rain babies soon fell asleep because of the gentle row of the river. But suddenly the river became wild. A mighty wave rose up and over the side of the boat. Before the old man and old woman could stop it, the basket of babies was swept out of the boat. The old man jumped into the river. Round and round he swam trying to reach the basket. The old woman threw him a fishing pole so he could catch the handle of the basket. As he lifted the basket from the water, the river immediately became calm. The couple hugged each other and rode home, forgetting about catching fish.

A few days later the wind began to blow about their fields. "The peaches have ripened and should be picked, wife", said the old man, "Let us gather them now before the wind does our work for us." So the old woman carried the basket of babies to the orchard where the peach trees grew. The old man climbed a ladder, picked a peach and handed it to his wife. Suddenly the sky turned dark. A crash of thunder sounded as a bolt of lighting struck the ground close to the basket where the rain babies slept. Flames quickly surrounded the basket in a perfect ring of fire. The woman torn off her apron and tried to beat out the fire with the cloth. But as soon as she put out the flames they rose again. So the old man leaped across the barrier of fire and seized the basket. As he handed the basket to his wife, a sudden rush of cool rain put out the fire. The rain babies were unharmed.

The next day the sky was blue and clear. The husband went early to the river to fish. The wife went to work in the vegetable garden. She put the basket of babies on a blanket in the shade of a chestnut tree. An animal called a weasel saw the silvery pink babies and thought they were weasel babies. The weasel came closer but the babies sensing danger cried out. The old woman came running, still holding a turnip, freshly dug from the earth. She reached the blanket just in time to see the weasel run off with a tiny rain baby hanging from its mouth. The old woman ran after them putting the turnip in her pocket. The woman and the weasel ran around and around the fields. Finally she could run no more. Then she remembered the turnip in her pocket. She tossed it over the weasel's head hitting the ground in front of the surprised animal. The weasel dropped the frightened rain baby and ran off. The old woman grabbed the baby and returned to find the others safely in their basket.

That night after supper the old couple sat sleepily by the fire. The rain babies slept soundly in their drawer. A loud knock awaken the old man. As he pulled the door open, a cold rain rushed into the kitchen almost sweeping him from his feet. A tall stranger wrapped in a heavy coat came into the house. Then the stranger threw off his hood. He was a handsome young man. His hat posed securely over his hair. He walked across the room and placed on the table a basket woven from silver.

The old woman asked "Who are you?"

"I'm a messenger sent by lady Curd Declair, a woman of extreme riches." said the young man. He pulled something from his coat. It was a shiny white jewel stone on a silver chain. The stone was the size and shape of a hen's egg. The couple stared. "My lady has huge wealth", continued the messenger, "But in one thing she is poor. She has been blessed with neither sons nor daughters and she wants these more than anything else. Therefore she offers you this precious moonstone in exchange for the 12 babies. Give her the babies and live your remaining days in comfort and riches for the moonstone is worth many bags of gold."

The old woman moved closer to the sleeping rain babies. "Thank you!" she said, "but the babies will stay with us." The old man put his arm around her shoulder.

"So be it", said the young man. He slipped the silver chain over his hat. No sooner had the moonstone touched his chest than the coat and hat fell away. And in his place appeared a woman of great beauty.

"My dear old man and woman", she said. "I'm Mother Moonshower on the night of the last full moon I gave my rain babies into your care. What loving care-takers you have been. You protected them from the dangers of water, fire and earth. You refused the offer of great riches to keep the babies with you. You have proven yourselves the worthiest of parents. But know I have to come to take the rain babies away with me."

"You must not", the old woman cried. "Please understand", said mother moon shower," The rain babies can not grow properly without me. I will love them as you did and do not fear. I will not leave you lonely. See what I have brought for you.

They went to the table and lifted the cover of the silver basket. Inside was the most beautiful baby girl the old couple had ever seen. she had hair like the midnight sky,and she smiled up them with shining gray eyes.As the old man lifted the little girl in his arms, Mother Moonshower put the rain babies into the silver basket. "Wait", cried the old woman. She bent over the basket touching her lips softly to the forehead of each sleeping rain baby. Each one smiled in turn without waking. As the woman kissed the last tiny head, Mother Moonshower and the rain babies disappeared.

The old man and woman named their daughter Raina. Like all children she brought her parents great joy. She brought them some heartache too. But never such adventures as the rain babies. Raina grew stronger and more lovely with each passing year. She picked the sweetest peaches from the orchard and caught the fastest fish. Her laughter warmed the small house. Some nights when the full moon shone, the couple stood at the window. They watched their daughter dancing gracefully across the moon-lit field, her hair floating in the soft air and the old couple felt themselves truly lucky for their happiness was complete.

John Henry

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

(MUSIC)

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. 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 or 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.

(MUSIC)

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 sould 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.

(MUSIC)

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.

(MUSIC)

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."

(MUSIC)

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.

(MUSIC)

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.

Now the Special English Program, American Stories.

(Music)

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

(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 said, "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.

Ben was awakened by a gunshot. The sharp noise came through the thick stone walls of the house.

It was cold in the bedroom and Ben Newman was shaking as he got out of bed.

He put on his eyeglasses and went over to the window. The field was covered with white frost. Nothing moved out there in the deep quiet just before sunrise.

Ben looked past the field to the thick woods. Two weeks ago he saw a deer among the trees. He held his breath with excitement; then the deer walked off.

Ben wondered where the shot had come from. He thought perhaps he had dreamed he heard a gunshot.

He looked out toward the frozen lake. Near the trees he saw a shining piece of metal. When it moved, Ben saw that it was a long gun.

A minute later a man came out of the woods. He wore hunting clothes.

Suddenly a bird flew upward. The man quickly put the gun to his shoulder and shot.

Ben watched the bird, praying it had not been hurt. It flew near the ground and went into some tall grass.

Safe, Ben thought.

The hunter did not move for a moment, then he began to follow the bird.

Hate for the hunter burned inside of Ben. "Hey!" he shouted.

His voice cut through the stillness.

The hunter stopped, but then continued to follow the bird.

Ben shouted again, but this time the hunter did not stop and Ben started to move toward him. But Ben was in his night clothes and he did not go far. Istead he returned to the house. He got a metal shovel and hit the stone sides of the house so that the noise would warn the birds and animals of danger.

The hunter looked back at Ben.

"No hunting!" Ben shouted, "No hunting on my land!" The man called back, "Where can I hunt?"

"South," Ben said, "go South," and pointed behind the man.

The hunter started to walk away.

Ben had just bought this house in the woods. He wanted to protect everything on his land. He thought that everyone would obey the signs: "No Hunting."

Ben had just finished putting on his clothes when he heard another gunshot.

He walked toward the lake. He did not want to fight, but the man must go.

He walked quietly. He wanted to surprise the hunter. But then, what would he do? He could not fight the hunter.

Suddenly he heard a bird's wings beating the dry grass. Ben moved quickly toward the sound.

He saw a colored head ... the head of a beautiful pheasant bird. The bird did not move until Ben came close. Then it tried to fly away, but one wing was broken.

Ben lifed the bird and held it close against his body. The bird fought ot escape, but soon lay quietly in Ben's arms. Its body was warm and heavy.

Ben decided to take the bird home and fix its broken wings so that it could fly again.

He was almost tbroug the woods when he heard the hunter behind him.

"You just find that bird?" the hunter asked.

"Yes," Ben answered.

"It is mine!"

Ben was afraid and tried to answer, but his mouth was too dry to speak. But be wet his lips and said "No."

"I shot him and I say he is mine!"

"But he is not dead yet," Ben answered, "and besides, anything on my land belongs to me."

The hunter reached out for the bird. "I will have to kill it," he said. "Tbe bird will soon die anyway."

Ben got angry. "Get out of here!" he said. "I told you before and I am telling you again: get off my land!"

The hunter looked down at the little man and smiled. "Say, who are you?"

Ben's voice shook with both fear and anger. "I own this land. There are signs everywhere that say, "no hunting."

"No need to get angry, mister," the hunter said. "Control youself."

There was something threatening in the man's cool quiet voice. And he had a gun. His arms were free and Ben's were not.

The hunter stepped closer and said, "Give me that bird!"

Ben was white with anger. "No!" he answered. His eye glasses became wet and he had to look over top of them to see the other man.

"Give me the bird and I will go away," the hunter said.

"You get off my land," Ben told him. "Get off right now...you do not belong here!"

The man's face got red. "Mister," he said, "l nave been hunting here all my life. I grew up here."

"That is a thing of the past," Ben said. "I do not know who you are and I do not care. I own this place now and I am telling you to leave. You go back through the woods and get off my land!"

"Now look, mister," the hunter said, "be reasonable."

"I am trying to be as reasonable as I can," said Ben,holding the bird tightly. "I just want you to get off my land."

The hunter raised his gun.

A cold wind blew across Ben's face. He looked into the hunter's gray eyes. Ben was frightened. It was not too late, he thought.

He could still give the bird to the hunter and return safely home...that would end this whole ugly business.

The bird struggled weakly and made a wild, strange noise.

Then Ben knew he could never give this bird to the hunter. This feeling gave Ben great strength, and he was no longer afraid.

"I will never let you kill this bird," he said. "Get away from here. If you try to take this bird, I will fight...you have a gun and you are bigger, but that does not worry me. You will never get this bird...you will have to kill me first."

The two men looked at each other. Ben's fear returned. His knees began to shake and he felt sick. Yet he stood straight, wondering what would happen next.

They stood close to each other for a long time. The woods were strangely guiet. Then the hunter's rough voice broke the silence.

"You are a fool." And then to Ben's surprise, he slowly walked away.

Ben watched until he was gone. His arms hurt, his body felt was and cold... he went to the house.

Ben carried the bird into the kitchen and put it gently on the floor. It did not move. Ben took off his foggy glasses and dried his face. The bird watched him. Ben smoothed its feathers with gentle fingers.

He carefully studied the injured wing. There seemed to be no hope. The wing was pulled almost away from the body. The bullet had smashed the bone.

Ben knew the bird was dying ...there was nothing he could do to help it. He wondered if birds felt pain. He wondered how long it took a bird to die. The hunter was right, the bird would soon die.

There was just one thing to do now to stop its suffering.

Ben could kill it quickly.

He put his hands around the bird's neck. But when he felt the warm life under his fingers, he could not kill this beautiful thing.

Tears filled his eyes. He knew now what he would do ... he would stay with the bird, smoothing its feathers until it died.

Now, the Special English program AMERICAN STORIES.

Our story today is called "A Girl for Walter". It was written by Theodore Jacobs. Here is Shep O' Neil with the story.

We never knew what Walter was, we called him an idiot. We called it that without knowing if he really was as foolish and stupid as an idiot. Walter worked for a food store. He carried food to the homes that ordered it on the telephone. When we saw Walter coming down the street, pushing his four wheel wagon filled with food, we knew we would have fun. We stopped playing our games and followed him. We always saw him coming. He wore the same cloth every day. A brown hat, green shirt opened at the neck, and a pair of gray pants. We recognized the way he walked too, long slow steps with stiff legs. We followed him down the street, try to walk as he did.

Often, we would try to pull his hat off and see how funny he looked. Walter did not seem to be troubled by our words, except when we talked about girls. When one of us asked him how his lover like was, or said "Hey, Walter, I hear a beautiful woman is looking for you." He was get very angry. He would push his food wagon with one hand and try to capture one of us with the other. If he caught one, he held him close to his face and shouted in a loud voice. "I am going to get a girl. I am going to get a girl." Sometimes, he would say it again and again even when we get tired making fun of him. He would walk down the street shouting to himself. "I am going to get a girl."

Walter did not bring food to our house, mother was afraid of him. She went to a different store and bought the food home herself. When grandmother came to live with us, this changed.

Grandmother liked all sorts of people. She was interest in people no one else loved. During her life, she had made friends with men who drank too much, women who ate too much, and people who were just very lonely. Grandmother worked with church groups for many years but finally stopped. I think she could not work with them because she did not agree that it was right to try to change a person.

Grandmother liked people for what they were. If she knew a man who drank too much, she would not tell him to stop drinking. She would tell him how to drink and still be a gentleman. Once, she wrote a book on ten different ways to drink, and still act as if you had not had a drink. The important thing to grandmother was that things were done well in the right way and with control.

When grandmother learned about Walter, she told my mother she wanted Walter to bring the food to the house. Mother, of course, was strongly against it. She thought all sorts of strange things would happen. She did not trust Walter. But grandmother simply said, "Oh pooh, you are forty two years old, Sarah." And then she telephoned to the people at the food store and told them to let Walter bring the food.

Walter and grandmother became friends. The first time, he came to the house. He told grandmother he was going to get a girl. Grandmother seemed pleased, and told him how nice it would be. She said the trouble with young man today is that they do not know how to win a girl's heart. "You must be honest", she said. Walter just stood there and listened. Grandmother then told him how her husband won her heart. She told him about her marriage and the great love there was between them.

As he listened, Walter made funny faces and moved his mouth from one side of his face to the other. When she finished her story, she asked Walter where he met his young ladies. Walter did not say anything.

"I can understand how difficult it is for young people to meet these days." Then she said in a low voice, "If you meet a nice young lady, Walter, do you know how to act?"

"What? No, I don't" Walter said.

"Well, you should." Grandmother said, and she told him how.

Walter and grandmother became very close. Every time he came with food, she had a talk ready for him. It was funny to me, but to Walter and grandmother was serious.

Later, she began to read books to Walter, a little from a book each time he came. The first book was called "How to dress when you go out with a girl?" The next book told how a young man should act when he meets the girl's mother and father. Walter seemed to enjoy readings at least he listened. He would stand next to the wall and wrinkle his nose. If grandmother expected more from Walter, she never showed it, she continued reading to him.

As time past, Walter listened harder than before. He never took his eyes off grandmother as she read. When she smiled, he smiled too. When she was serious, Walter became serious. She read about the problems of early friendship. "How to become better friends and how to decide your girl is the right one to marry."

Grandmother was almost finished reading one day, when Walter stopped her.

"Know something Mrs. Gorman, I have a girl."

"How wonderful?" grandmother answered.

"I really do, a girl like you always talking."

"Isn't that wonderful? Where did you meet her?"

"A friend helped me."

"Isn't that exciting, tell me about her, is she nice?"

"I like her very much."

"Well, she must be. What's her name?"

"I forgot. That's something. I told her my name was Walter."

"Would you kind her and a gentleman?"

"All the time, I told her the nice thing."

"I am proud of you, Walter, is she pretty?"

Walter did not answer. He told again how he met her. It seemed to me that he had to say a thing more than once or no one would believe them.

"She must be nice," grandmother said. "I hope you comb your hair and wear a coat when you see her. And you must promise me that you will always be a gentleman."

After that, grandmother read "How to Choice the Right Wedding Ring and How to be Prepare for Marriage?" She seemed to be in a hurry as if Walter might get marry before she had finished his education. Nothing mother said helped. Grandmother continued to teach Walter. The next book she read to Walter was "How to love your wife?" Soon after grandmother finished reading it, she died. Just like that. It was difficult to believe. It was only after I saw them lower her body and cover it that I knew she would not come back.

The morning after she died, Walter came with food. Mother went to the door. "Mrs. Gorman is dead" she told Walter. "She died last night." Walter did not move at first, he did not seem to understand or he thought she was lying. He then tried to enter, but mother shut the door a little. "Can't you understand, she is dead, no one is here, she died last night, please do not come here again." Walter just stood there, his face white. Mother closed the door on him. She telephoned the food store and told them not to send Walter any more.

I did not see Walter again for a long time, I had forgotten all about him and the days that grandmother had read to him. Then one day, I saw him. He looked different, he was wearing a suit of cloth, the coat was old, and the trousers had been worn many times. He wore a white shirt and a necktie. I waited until he walked up to me, and I walked along with him. "Hello, Walter, do you remember me?" He turned quickly toward me, then smiled as he recognized my face.

"Oh, sure, hiya, how are you?"

"I am fine, Walter, how are you doing?"

"Thank you, ok. How are you doing?"

"Fine"

We walked a few steps in silence. Suddenly, I had the old feeling that grandmother was still alive and Walter was still coming to the house. Without thinking, I asked "How is your girl, Walter?" Suddenly, he was on me holding and tearing my shirt. He pulled me close to him and shouted "She is still alive! She is still alive!" His cry was loud and real. He pushed me away from him and I fell to ground, he ran down the street. As I get off, I could still hear him crying until his voice was lost among the sounds of playing boys.

You have heard the American story "A Girl for Walter" written by Theodore Jacobs. It first appears in N.G. magazine in nineteen sixty. Your storyteller was Shep O' Neil. This story is copyrighted, all rights reserved for VOA Special English. This is Shirley Griffith.