Chapter 5. How Do We Read Aloud?

This chapter will present answers to two questions:

What is the purpose of reading aloud?

How should we read aloud to achieve this purpose best?

The practical, basic concepts will be presented here. For refinements in oral reading procedures, see Chapter 14, "Oral Interpretation of Literature."

THE MAIN PURPOSE IN READING ALOUD IS TO CONVEY MEANING FROM THE PRINTED PAGE TO THE AUDIENCE

1. The Purpose of Reading Aloud

We read aloud for one main purpose, to convey meaning. All other purposes are secondary. If we succeed in the main purpose, we shall also succeed in fulfilling certain secondary purposes, such as increasing our appreciation of literature, developing poise within ourselves, and improving our silent and oral reading ability.

We read some literature aloud because its meaning may be more effectively conveyed in oral reading than it can be in silent reading. This is true of all drama, most poetry, and many novels and stories. Remember that the wealth of the past as recorded in literature leads to the riches of the future.

Understanding the thoughts of other men, as recorded in literature of all types, increases our own horizons and enriches our knowledge. In short, it helps us to understand this complex world and life.

Reading a scene from Thornton Wilder's play, Our Town, may help Larry understand more clearly the recent death of one of his best friends. Carol may take the opportunity to read Robert Frost's "Home Burial" to her class, to help them grasp more clearly what may happen to a young couple whose first baby dies. Death is one of the most difficult concepts we have to face, but reading the literature aloud which concerns death can help us come to some understanding of this phenomenon.

We read other material aloud, not only because an oral reading can enhance its meaning, but also because there exists an audience to which the material must be presented. This is true of much that is read in the courtroom, in the meetings of business executives, in the church, in the college classroom, and in the political assemblies of our country. We read some speeches aloud, not because an oral reading is better than an extemporaneous speech, but because we must sometimes submit our remarks in advance for clearance. Many people do not know how to speak fluently without a manuscript and are afraid they might make a mistake, or say the wrong thing, on a sensitive topic.

Jean may be required to read the minutes of the last meeting to her employer's executive council; Phil may need to cite at length from Hammer vs. Dagenhart in his moot court law brief at law school; Francis may wish to read a short statement to the high school assembly, concise and well organized, explaining the revisions that are being proposed to the student government regulations. In all of these instances, if you know how to read aloud effectively, you will be able to understand more fully what you read and, in turn, be able to communicate it and help others to understand the material better.

If our main purpose is to convey the meaning of the printed page, we must "screen" all of our preparations to this end and let through the sieve only the techniques which improve this purpose.

We will discuss three methods of conveying an author's meaning. The success of each, however, depends upon how well you and your audience understand the main idea that the author wished to express. This is the only valid criterion for judging whether or not the oral reading is successful.

2. Oral Interpretation of Literature

When we use the approach of "oral interpretation", we read to convey the meaning so that as little attention is called to ourselves as possible. In a sense, we want the audience to daydream. We want our listeners to forget us, our book, the room we are in, and the time of day it is. We want them to become engrossed in the atmosphere of the selection and be carried along with it as it unfolds.

Therefore, in this approach, if Sue reads "Hiawatha" to her audience, so that her listeners can give detailed descriptions of Hiawatha, Minnchaha, and the land of the Dacotans, but cannot remember much about how Sue looks, what kind of clothes she wears, or whether her voice is beautiful, she would be successful.

Oral interpretation, then, requires a manner of reading aloud which calls the least attention to the reader and places all focus on the material being delivered. It is characterized by these aspects:

A. The reader has not necessarily memorised the selection. Although lie may know a few phrases and sentences, he is de pendent upon the printed page and refers to it often.

B. Although the reader must respond physically to the selection, his responses are limited to restrained facial and bodily expression. He does not gesture excessively, nor make any move meant akin to "acting".

C. The reader's voice is for all purposes his normal speaking voice. Tendencies toward "impersonation" or the use of dialect should only be suggested.

For example, before reading from Joel Chandler Harris' Uncle Remus' Tales, the oral interpreter would make a thorough study of Harris and Uncle Remus, would practice his selection by reading it aloud until he was entirely familiar with it, but would make no conscious effort to memorize it. He would respond to the selection, in limited facial and bodily movement, but he would not gesture or "act". He would suggest the dialect but would not attempt to read it as broadly as he thought Uncle Remus himself would have.

The oral interpreter, therefore, is the lens through which the listener's mind is focused on the picture drawn by the selection. He should be no more apparent than the lens is in your finished negatives. If the lens shows up in the proofs, the picture is likely to be distorted and inaccurate. So it is with the oral reader.

3. Impersonation

When we use the approach of "impersonation" (sometimes called "declamation" or "expression"), we are calling more attention to ourselves than we did in oral interpretation. The reader has decided that he can more nearly convey the complete meaning of what he reads by participating actively, or by creating an image or personality.

Impersonation may be defined as that type of reading aloud which allows the reader to call a measure of attention to himself by gesture, bodily action, and voice. It approaches acting, but remains short of it, usually because of limited properties, scenery, and lighting, and because of a more restrained use of character representation, movement, and even voice variety, than the stage permits. It is characterized by these aspects:

A. The reader may retain the book in his hand or he may not. But in either case, the selection approaches memorization.

B. The reader may interpret the material with appropriate gestures and bodily movement. This is done by "representative" gestures and movements, so that the reader demonstrates occasional action, without having to portray each action called for by the script. Facial movement is broad, so that the audience may note a distinct attempt to "get into character".

C. The reader may use dialect or any form of vocal sympathy which he feels will best convey the sense of what is being read. He should remember, however, that a poor and inconsistent dialect is likely to result in injurious distraction. Unless the student intends to work hard on his dialect, he should probably read the selection fairly straight.

For example again, in reading from Uncle Remus, the impersonator would memorize his selection to all intent and purpose so that, at the most, he would need only to occasionally look at his script. He might decide to introduce a bench and even a cane; to wear an old hat and baggy clothes. He would show plainly by his gestures, facial expression, and movement that he was representing an old man. His voice would show dialectical influences, or it would, if accurate, achieve much of the actual dialect of the period.

The impersonator, therefore, has decided to color the lens with certain characteristics which he hopes will show up on the color print to the advantage of the selection. He hopes, by refining the lens and developing one of a particular type, that lie may increase the amount of meaning he is conveying. Again, the only way in which his success can be measured lies in how well he "puts over" the meaning of the selection. Preconceived ideas that impersonation is not sophisticated or intellectual should be easily refuted by anyone who has seen Charles Laughton, Cornelia Otis Skinner, or Agnes Moorehead in their professional readings.

GESTURES HELP TO EMPHASIZE THE MEANING OF WHAT IS BEING SAID

STUDENTS FROM UPPER DARBY (PENNSYLVANIA) HIGH SCHOOL ACT A SCENE FROM THE DIARY OF ANNE FRANK, USING SIMPLE COSTUMES AND MAKE-UP IN KEEPING WITH THE CHARACTERS

4. Acting

When using the approach of "acting", we assume that the reader is as important as the selection itself, in order to interpret it. In using this technique, the reader has decided that the meaning of his selection can best be conveyed if the meaning is "represented" rather than implied.

Acting, then, may be defined as that type of reading (or reciting) aloud which permits the reader to represent or picture the author's meaning, rather than merely to imply or just to present it. Little is left to the imagination of the audience. Scenery, properties, costumes, make-up, and other aids to realism may be used.

In a broad sense, acting is not so much reading aloud as it is reciting aloud. It is characterized by these aspects:

A. The actor never keeps a hook in hand. The script is memorized.

B. The actor gives his idea of what the author's meaning is by consistent use of gestures, movement, emotion, and vocal inflection, highlighted with costumes, lighting, and other stage properties.

C. The reader's voice is as nearly that of the character he represents as possible. He is truly imitating vocally and physically the part he is portraying.

If the reader were to act out a section of Oliver Twist, he would, of course, make the usual background study required in both oral interpretation and impersonation. Then, he would memorize his selection, use costumes, gestures, facial expression, lighting, properties, etc., to strongly suggest lie is recreating Oliver Twist. His voice would imitate, to the best of his ability, the Cockney dialect, without going to extremes. (Extremes such as these are often seen in inexperienced Shakespearean actors, whose Scotch and Welsh brogues are so accurate they cannot be understood.)

The actor has replaced the lens with himself. When the negative is developed, the listener will see only that part of the author's meaning that can be seen in the picture representation given to us by the actor; anything more will have to be surmised. The degree to which we enjoy looking at these "prints" depends upon the skill of the actor and his associates in the "developing" process.

In a broad sense, we may then say that oral interpretation presents the material; impersonation imitates the material; and acting represents the material, or gives it life through representing it as it is real.

5. How to Read Aloud

If Hank is planning to interpret, impersonate, or act, he must use the following steps.

Choose the Selection

Hank is planning to become a psychiatrist. He realizes that not only will he need to know how to read aloud in order to present papers to psychiatric societies, but that much of his success in psychiatry will depend upon his knowledge of people and why they act the way they do. He also knows that a doctor learns from the past what to do in the future; so, Hank decides to study the records of people's actions in the past in order to predict what they may do in the future. Therefore, he wants to know how to read aloud effectively from the world's best literature, where he will find many "case studies" of men in success and distress.

Like the Selection

Hank wants to select something related to psychiatry, especially dealing with the reaction of a person's mind when he feels frustrated because everyone seems to have turned against him unjustly. His speech teacher is not familiar with articles that may have appeared in medical journals dealing with this topic, but suggests that perhaps he would like to read a literary masterpiece touching on this subject. When Hank says that he likes the suspense stories used by Alfred Hitchcock on T.V., the teacher suggests that he go to the library and ask to see some of the stories written by Guy de Maupassant and Edgar Allan Poe.

Since Hank will be limited in the time he has to perform his selection, the librarian recommends some of the shorter stories by de Maupassant and shows him a book containing a collection of these stories. Hank takes the book and becomes so interested that he soon reads the book through from cover to cover. He decides that he likes "The Piece of String" best for his purpose as it embodies the very elements that he has been seeking. (The selection lie used will be found in this book, in the further chapter(s).

Become Familiar with the Selection

Hank's teacher explained to him that he should be thoroughly familiar with the selection and its history before reading it to the class. The teacher suggests that he "live with" it for at least a week before trying to read it aloud to anyone. Therefore, Hank keeps the book handy, so he can re-read it several times. He also obtains a book from the library containing a biography of the author, Guy de Maupassant, and, with the help of the librarian, he finds a book that provides him with a description of the setting of the story-a market-day in rural France in the 19th century.

Criteria for Final Selection

Is the selection sufficiently new to the audience to offer a challenge? Something that is too familiar to the audience may be boring; the reader may be a failure in the eyes of the listeners because he does not present the selection as well as others they have heard. Patrick Henry's famous address to the House of Burgesses and Abraham Lincoln's Gettysburg Address are examples to avoid, unless you are a very good reader.

MANY STUDENTS, SUCH AS THESE AT ENSLEY HIGH SCHOOL, BIRMINGHAM, ALABAMA, USE TAPE RECORDERS TO PRACTICE READING SELECTIONS ALOUD

Evaluate the Selection

Does the selection suit your personality? Inexperienced readers should, of course, seek to broaden their experiences, but they should also realize their limitations. Men should think twice before reading dialogue involving women, and vice versa. Young people may have more trouble depicting older persons than persons their own age. Some readers have a particular type of vocal quality which limits their range of selection. Hank feels that his selection is suitable for the range of his voice.

Does the selection have literary standing? There is too much good material available to permit spending time on mediocre selections. Since Hank is going to be a doctor, he knows how busy he will be later on, and that his reading time will be limited. Therefore, he wants to be certain that anything on which he spends so much time will live with him the rest of his life. He satisfies himself about this, after learning that Guy de Maupassant is considered one of the greatest of the French short story writers.

Can the selection be read satisfactorily in the time available? Hank knows that he will have only fifteen minutes to read. This means that he will have to shorten the selection a little. His teacher has warned him that nothing is worse than a hurried selection. Hank feels that the description of the market place at the beginning of the story could be cut, so that the rest of the selection could be read within the allotted time.

In editing his selection, Hank made sure that he did not eliminate any important descriptions nor characters who were essential to the plot. However, he knew that to read with expression, he would need about two minutes for each page. While de Maupassant's description of the market place at the beginning of the story was interesting, it could be cut and the story would still retain all the essential material needed.

If you find that a selection you are planning to read aloud will take too long, cutting out a paragraph here and there that is not essential to the story may shorten the selection sufficiently so that you can read it within the time allotted. If you are worried that you have cut too much, read the selection to a friend and ask if he understands it. If he doesn't, try deleting some less essential material.

Analyse the Selection

Although Hank has been thinking about his selection for several weeks, he has not made an organized approach to it. Some skill in oral reading may come from inspiration, but most of it comes from perspiration. You can think about it in this manner: there may be some magic in the way a seed grows into a plant, but this magic fails to function if the seed falls on un-spaded stony ground. If Hank has not taken the time to "dig into" his selection, his possibilities of soaring to inspired heights during his reading will lessen. Therefore, Hank should:

1. Express the purpose of the selection in one sentence.
2. Write a paraphrase of the selection, so that he is certain he understands the sequence of events involved.
3. Make a plot or graph of the moods of the selection, so that he understands what changes in atmosphere must be portrayed.
4. Make a list of all of the words with which he has difficulty, either as to meaning or as to pronunciation.

This procedure is followed on the analysis blank, shown below. Other items which Hank may include in his analysis are suggested at the bottom of the sample form.

Prepare the Introduction

You have commonly heard the expression, "I'm not in the mood to do that right now." Any speaker must face the possibility that his audience is not ready for what he wants to tell them. Therefore, he phrases an introduction in an attempt to prepare and introduce them to his selection.

Some preview of the action may be given, but this material should not "give away" any of the suspense or plot involved in the selection. In situations where the plot is very complicated, as in Robert Browning's "My Last Duchess", it may even be necessary to give a complete description of the events beforehand, so that the audience can follow the intricate developments during the reading. (A pilot study was performed at Mississippi Southern College in 1957. It showed that college audiences which had been given an introduction describing the events in "My Last Duchess" were able to answer content questions not mentioned in the introduction to a much greater degree than another group given a less complete introduction. Such audiences also achieved considerable superiority in their attitudes toward the selection.)

Both the title and the author of the selection should be worked into the introduction, and not appended to it. Avoid such sentences as, "I am going to read to you Robert Browning's 'My Last Duchess" or just saying bluntly, "'My Last Duchess' by Robert Browning", as if you were announcing the arrival of a train. Remember that the more educated the audience, the less it likes to be hit over the head. Try instead such sentences as, "When Robert Browning had finished writing his dramatic monologue, 'My Last Duchess', lie . . ." or, "There is little doubt that many modern marriages feature such couples as Robert Browning depicts in his dramatic monologue, 'My Last Duchess', but it is even less doubtful . . ."

ANALYSIS FORM Name of student _______________________ Selection "The Piece of String" Guy de Maupassant       (selection)    (author) I. Author's purpose in writing this material: De Maupassant is showing that people generally are willing to believe slander and gossip rather than find out the truth of a matter. II. Paraphrase .the selection: Hauchecorne, a poor man, coming to the village of Goderville one market day, finds a piece of string in the road and picks it up. He sees that an old enemy, Malandain, is watching him. He is ashamed and tries to hide it under his coat. That same day a pocketbook containing 500 francs and valuable papers was lost by M. Houlbreque. Later, Hauchecorne is arrested and charged with having found the pocketbook and failing to return it* The witness who speaks against him is Malandain* The authorities are unable to prove Hauchecorne's guilt and he is released. The entire village has heard the story and believes he is guilty. He is unable to prove ha is not. The pocketbook is returned by someone else, whom the townspeople believe to be an accomplice. Hauchecorne turns all of his energies to proving his innocence and clearing his good name* The harder he tries the less he is believed. The ordeal weakens him, and at last he dies, defending his innocence even in his last words* III. The moods of the selection: humor, insult, pity, despair, futility.

Both the title and the author of the selection should be worked into the introduction, and not appended to it. Avoid such sentences as, "I am going to read to you Robert Browning's 'My Last Duchess" or just saying bluntly, "'My Last Duchess' by Robert Browning", as if you were announcing the arrival of a train. Remember that the more educated the audience, the less it likes to be hit over the head. Try instead such sentences as, "When Robert Browning had finished writing his dramatic monologue, 'My Last Duchess', lie . . ." or, "There is little doubt that many modern marriages feature such couples as Robert Browning depicts in his dramatic monologue, 'My Last Duchess', but it is even less doubtful . . ."

If there are words or phrases with which you think your audience may not be familiar, they should be clarified. Be careful not to appear to instruct your audience by saying, 'When Browning refers to Fra Pandolf and Claus of Innsbruck, he is referring to imaginary artists." Rather, say, "The imaginary artists which Browning creates-the monk, Fra Pandolf, a painter, and the Austrian, Claus of Innsbruck, a sculptor-point up the concern that Renaissance nobility had with being patrons of the arts." If there is a key phrase which you think the audience may miss, put it in your introduction so that it will stand out when you read it. For example, you might explain, "Note, when Browning has the Duke say, 'Will't please you rise?' what has actually happened is that the envoy, so struck with horror by the Duke's cold-blooded actions, has risen almost unconsciously from his chair before the portrait of the last Duchess and is walking mechanically for the stairs." ("My Last Duchess" appears further.)

A memorized, "set" introduction is to be avoided. This defeats all purposes. If the introduction is pre-established, it cannot be easily adapted to different groups. Audiences vary widely. Establish in general what you wish to say and put some notes on a card. Then, let your introduction work its way out of you to fit a particular audience. If you stumble and appear awkward the first few times, your reward will come with the improvement you make in working extemporaneously with your audience.

Other items may be included in your introduction, if you wish. There are no set rules for what must be included. The only question you must ask yourself is, "Have I given my audience sufficient information so that it will understand as much of the meaning of my selection as possible?"

Deliver the Introduction and Selection

Now that Hank has chosen his selection properly, has given it a thorough analysis, and has prepared an appropriate introduction, he is ready to concern himself with the finer points of delivering the selection.

Read your selection aloud a number of times. Ask a friend to listen to you and give his comments. Can your friend paraphrase the selection for you when you have finished? Can he hear you without any strain? Is he attentive?

Enjoy your selection and be moved by it as you read, but do not be "carried away" with it. The reader should at all times be in perfect control of himself! Remember, that your aim is to make the audience experience the selection; your own personal satisfaction is secondary!

Choose a position in the room where you will be able to contact the most people. This may mean a corner, or the center, or before the front row. Just because the room has been previously arranged to put you on the stage or behind a table far from your audience, does not mean that you must be restricted. Unless it is too inconvenient, move yourself to a point closest to your group.

If you lose your place, or drop your book, or make any other minor mistakes, do not be embarrassed or say, "Excuse me." Simply rectify the mistake and move on.

6. Delivery

The main points to remember when delivering the reading in each of the three techniques previously discussed are as follows:

Delivery for Oral Interpretation of Literature

Maintain a reasonable amount of eye contact with your audience. When you look up, encompass the edges of your audience rather than only its center. There may be certain selections, such as those from Elizabeth Barrett Browning's Sonnets from the Portuguese, in which, because of the delicate nature of the material, direct eye contact should be minimal. You should be able to sense these exceptions.

Introduce sufficient pauses in your reading to allow your audience to think along with you. Remember, this is the first time that most of your listeners have heard your selection. They are not as familiar with it as you are. Do not rush. Read calmly, at a speed suiting the material. When you pause, pause as long as you think you ought to, and then pause a little longer. This will compensate for your tendency to feel that a few seconds of silence has lasted a year.

Remember that you, yourself, are not as important as your selection! Do not do or say anything that calls attention to yourself and therefore distracts from your selection. Dress simply. Avoid ornaments, pins, rings or any "loud" clothing. Hank decides to wear a tweed suit, plain tie, and white shirt. He leaves his high school fraternity pin at home that day. Appear alive, but keep head and body movements limited. Hank feels himself getting more and more tense as he begins reading the selection that he has chosen, but he does not let himself get overly excited so that he cannot coordinate properly and simultaneously watch the reactions of his audience.

Slide or turn the pages of your manuscript quietly

Do not "shout" or "cry" or show any other extreme emotion literally, but merely represent or suggest such attitudes. After all, a whisper may be of more assistance in getting an audience to imagine a scream than the scream itself. Loud noises call too much attention to themselves and distort the lens. Subtle oil paintings are considered greater than literal photographs. A photograph may allow little exercise of the imagination, while a well-executed oil painting encourages the viewer to imagine much more than is shown. Restraint in depicting deep emotion is highly recommended. Even the Greeks, in open-air theatres, using stories that were already familiar to their audiences, had the violent acts of murder committed off-stage, for fear of offending their audiences.

Delivery for Impersonation

Rather than risk forgetting your place, keep your book with you. This will relieve you from the pressure of complete memorisation.

The time of day and the size of the room you are in should govern the amount of action you use. Usually, in the morning, action should be subdued; in the afternoon it may be moderate; in the evening, it may be showy or extreme. You may have to "tone down" your selection if your audience and room are small. What may look "grand" on a large platform with many people watching may look awkward in a small room with few people in attendance.

Remember that you may call a certain amount of attention to yourself. You may suggest a more complete picture of your selection by the use of one or more objects, such as a basket, a handkerchief, and so forth. However, these are not required. Such additions should be limited and not approach complete scenery or costuming.

You may suggest movement. Avoid turning your head from side to side too much as different characters speak, because this seems more confusing to the audience than helpful. However, be careful to place each character so the audience knows who is speaking. Introduce character changes with voice variation rather than too much turning of the head. Remember that an audience may be led along, but not driven. The impersonator should help his audience to derive a fuller meaning of the selection with gestures, movement and voice, but he should avoid "over-acting".

Begin your selection easily and work up into the more theatrical parts later. Do not startle your audience with an initial scream or a broad gesture or a fast movement. One young lady was laughed at when, at 9:00 A.M. on a Monday morning, in a church basement, she began her selection with a loud cry. Her feelings were hurt and she asked for an explanation, saying that she had done what the script of Euripides' play, Medea, had called for.

The cry had startled the audience; they had not been prepared for so abrupt a beginning. "It would have been preferable," said the teacher, "to begin with a soft sound of some sort which would suggest a cry, rather than trying to literally portray the cry."

Delivery for Acting (or the Dramatic Monologue)

Try to represent one character only. It is very difficult to portray more than one person at a time without appearing awkward. If you must use dialogue from more than one person, make one of the characters dominant and use the other person or persons as devices to assist the main figure.

If you are afraid of forgetting, you may have your book where it is unobtrusively available. However, the book distracts from the effectiveness of most monologists and should be dispensed with when at all possible.

Since you yourself are as important in the monologue as the material you are reading, you must be particularly careful.

LISTEN TO GOOD SPEECH SUCH AS SPOKEN BY LAURENCE OLIVIER IN HAMLET

Be consistent in your actions. If you attempt to use dialects, work at it until you apply it evenly. Make your physical activity in keeping with your character. For instance, an elderly person does not get up or sit down quickly. Do not "slip out of character".

Do not attempt material too difficult for you or beyond your range. You may find more success portraying young people than older persons.

Do not complicate your picture with excessive costuming, properties, or scenery. Even with the monologue, a few representative items will suffice. Do not attempt "realism", but rather represent or suggest the background, costuming, and properties.

Summary

Subsequent chapters will present more detailed instructions on oral interpretation and on acting. Since impersonation is no more than a half-way point between the two, no further material concerning this technique will be offered.

Needless to say, all of the work that Hank puts into his exercise in reading aloud will be time well spent. It will not only make specific contributions toward his success as a doctor, but will also make him a more intelligent, responsible citizen, with the ability to communicate his well-founded knowledge to his family, his friends, and the agencies of his community.

Exercises

1. Choose one of the "Selections for Oral Interpretation" at the end of this chapter. Then perform the following:

a. Write a short essay on how you have prepared your particular selection. Make the three main divisions of your essay: first, how you chose the selection; second, how you became familiar with the selection; and third, your criteria for final selection.

b. Make an analysis of the selection, following the directions given on the sample analysis form in this chapter.

c. Create an informal, extemporaneous introduction for your selection, lasting between one and three minutes, prepare your notes for this introduction on one note card (preferably 4" x 6") in outline form. You are permitted no more than two complete sentences on the note card. The remainder must be in single words or in phrases.

d. Choose a partner and read your selection to him. Have your partner grade you, using a "partner sheet" that you can prepare in advance, based on Check List that you will find on page 160 of this text.

2. Choose one of the "Selections for Impersonation" at the end of this chapter. Perform the same steps as suggested under Exercise 1, except memorise your selection.

3. Choose one of the "Selections for Acting" at the end of this chapter. Perform the same steps as suggested in Exercise 1, except memorise your selection and introduce no more than three items of costumes or properties.

4. Read a short literary selection to your family. Choose a time after dinner or some other suitable time when you think that your family will be willing to listen to you. Write a short essay describing your experience and the reactions of your family to your reading.

5. Arrange with your English teacher, your social studies teacher, or your science teacher, to let you read to one of your classes an item now being studied. For example, you might read a part of Sir Walter Scott's Lady of the Lake to the ninth grade English class, or the Mayflower Compact to the 11th grade social studies class, or excerpts from Hippocrates' oath to the science class in chemistry. After you have finished your reading, write five questions on the blackboard concerning the content of the material you have just read and ask the members of the class to answer the questions. Collect the papers and examine them carefully. Write an essay, covering the following points:

a. A graph, showing what percentage of the class answered each question correctly.

b. Reasons why you think the class was successful or unsuccessful in answering each of the questions, in relation to your reading.

SELECTIONS FOR ORAL INTERPRETATION

1. John Mason Brown, "The Trumans Leave the White House"

"I am just Mr. Truman, private citizen, now."

In response to cries of "We Want Harry", he had come out of Dean Acheson's Georgetown house to speak to three hundred people, old and young, rich and poor, white and colored, but most of them misty-eyed, who had gathered there to say goodbye to him.

Twenty minutes earlier a red light at Seventh and D Streets had abruptly reminded those of us following him that Mr. Truman was no longer President. For the first time in nearly eight years an automobile in which he was riding had had to stop for traffic. There were other such stops before he and his little motorcade reached the Acheson home, and on the way other reminders.

Secret Service men, though attending him, were not clustered around Mr. Truman's car. No police escort cleared his way. Few among the hundreds of thousands who a short hour and a half before had waved and called to him, as he rode to the Capitol with General Eisenhower in a black Lincoln convertible, recognized him in the limousine which carried him and his family to the Achesons' for lunch. Two or three motorists, also going about their private business, even tried to cut into the motorcade as it neared Georgetown, not realizing it was a motorcade and unaware of Mr. Truman's presence.

The listening and the seeing world had heard and watched the proceedings just completed in the Capitol Plaza. No ceremonies which elevate mortals to power are more impressive in their pageantiy than these time-honored rites in their simplicity. Compared to the medieval color and pomp of a coronation, they are as plain as the clothes Ben Franklin wore at Louis XVI's court. The spectacle of an inauguration is not a show of wealth or might or temporal grandeur. It is a reaffirmation of principles in which simple dignity replaces ostentation and is in itself a display.

The man driving through Washington unnoticed had ridden up to the Capitol as President of the United States, possessed of all the rights and powers of that office. When he appeared on the temporary platform shortly after noon the Color Guard had raised its flags in his honor and he had been greeted by "Hail to the Chief." Just before he left, less than an hour later, he had heard those familiar strains again. This time, however, the scarlet-coated Marine Band was saluting another chief.

During that hour, against the background of the Capitol with its dome topped by the statue of Freedom, America had demonstrated its beliefs and aspirations in ways movingly American. "The Star-Spangled Banner" had been sung by a Negro woman. A Catholic archbishop, a rabbi, and a Protestant bishop had offered prayers for this land, its citizens, its new Government, and especially its new President, beseeching God, in the rabbi's words, to "keep him with great kindness" and permit us as a people "to walk always in the dignity of free men."

The new Vice President had been sworn in. So had the new President, who was as visibly moved as were his wife and the thousands on hand to watch him. Mr. Truman, sitting in front of our other ex-President, Mr. Hoover, had listened intently to President Eisenhower as he delivered his inaugural address. The actual transfer of power from Truman to Eisenhower had taken less than a minute and required a mere thirty-five words in an oath terrible and terrifying in the responsibility it imposes.

The clouds had lifted on a day that threatened to be gray, and grateful people described the sunshine as being "Truman weather" or "Eisenhower weather" depending on their politics. Solemn as the event was, the cheerfulness was not all in the sky. In the difficult moments of waiting, the Trumans, Mrs. Eisenhower, the Barkleys, and the Nixons were as conversational as neighbors on a front porch. When the ceremonies were over there were handshakes and friendly partings, including a kiss from the new First Lady for Mrs. Truman. Then the Trumans slipped away to the cars assigned to take them to Georgetown. The change of Administrations had been achieved, the continuity of government guaranteed. In spite of all the bitterness of a bitter election year, one part had supplanted the other with that public show of good nature we like to feel is in the American tradition.

2. Condensed from Emily Kimbrough, Through Charley's Door

After college, most of my friends just stayed home waiting to get married, and any urge to get a job was quickly stamped out by family disapproval. But my mother felt every girl should earn her own living, and frequently said so. Bird life made one of her favorite examples. "When the time comes"-she illustrated this with a violent gesture of heave-ho-"the parents push the little ones out of the nest."

I am not quick at catching a hint, but I gathered Mother felt the Kimbrough nest was becoming crowded. I went to see a spinster friend of the family's, Miss Etheridge. I didn't want the family to know, I said, and Mother would probably disapprove -I had no intention of revealing that I was barely hanging on to the rim of my home-but I was a girl of high ambition.

Miss Etheridge was impressed. Ambition was an admirable trait, and I should not be ashamed of it. She would help me further it despite any family opposition.

A few days later she telephoned to say she had talked with a young woman she knew in Marshall Field's Advertising Department. Her name was Achsah Gardner, and she would see me the following morning at nine-thirty.

I broke the news to Mother the next morning about eight-thirty.

"Hurray!" Mother answered, and added loudly, "Remember, with your shield or on it."

When she voiced this familiar battle cry I was already out of her sight, and deliberately. I did not want her to suggest any changes in my armor.

I had selected for my interview a dress I had made in Paris. For reasons not clear to myself, I had selected a material that must have been designed for a couch covering-heavy velour with a raised pattern, in dull gold. My intention had been to copy a dress I'd bought at a sale. I'd laid the sale dress on top of my material and sheared around it, but no one had ever explained about making allowances for seams. When the seams were sewn, I could get into the garment only by easing it down over my figure, as if I were putting a case on an umbrella.

The only adornment I'd permitted was a belt of heavy silver-coloured metal, studded with large, very imitation turquoises. Since my shape at that time was akin to that of an umbrella, it afforded no natural resting place for the belt. Loops had proved impractical because the weight of the belt pulled out the seams of the dress. Left unsupported, the belt would coast rapidly to the ground, shackling me. I had learned to forestall this ignominy by inserting a thumb under the belt and resting my hand on one hip. Since this was the position affected by models I had seen, I had quite a fancy for the stance.

My dress had no sleeves, because I did not know how to make them, but I was happy in the addition to my costume of very short gloves. The combination of no sleeves and short gloves had just come into style in Paris. I hoped to surprise Marshall Field's with it.

My hat was of golden velvet with a dark-brown ostrich plume curled round the crown. I'd added a veil, cream color with large brown spots. I tied this very tight over my face, because it seemed to me that to have my eyelashes caught in its meshes was seductive. The end of my nose, however, caught the brunt of this pressure, and carried for some time after the veil was removed a conspicuously indented ring. My pocketbook for this costume was beige suede, with a large medallion of enamel. My shoes were beige suede too, with exceptionally high heels. I was forced to wear my old muskrat coat, but I planned to leave it at the checking counter.

I was afraid Mother might consider this costume too dressy for 8:30 a.m., a point of view I held to be old-fashioned. Nor did I care for her to see that I was taking my dog along. My dog, Gamin, was a Brussels griffon; beige, too. He would look effective, I decided, in the crook of the arm that supported my belt.

Charley, the doorman, was on duty as always at the Washington Street entrance-a post he had held for 33 years.

Charley was a symbol of what made Marshall Field's different from other department stores, a Chicago institution which employees and customers alike thought of as belonging to them. Charley greeted you by name. He took and delivered messages or parcels for his patrons; a book one of them wanted to lend to a friend, an umbrella left behind at a house. Social exchange between the North and South Sides in Chicago involves considerable traveling; Charley's Door was a middle ground.

Charley smiled when he saw me, and gave me the news as usual. "Miss Donnelley's up on the fifth floor looking for a hat. She said to tell any of your crowd that came in she'd be in the Narcissus Room at one o'clock for lunch-regular table."

"I'm not here for shopping today." My tongue seemed to get thick and heavy. "I'm going to try to get a job here."

My friend nodded. "Well, God be with you. You'll never regret working here to the longest day you live."

Gamin and I went through Charley's Door.

At the checking desk, the girl who took my coat stared as I adjusted my thumb through my belt to hold it in place, and then arranged my dog under my arm. I had to ask her twice: "Can you tell me where the Advertising Department is?"

Even then she only gave a start and told me she didn't know. This annoyed me a little, but she pleased me almost immediately by asking if I were a foreigner. When I hurried away carrying Gamin, she was still standing there, holding my coat.

In the Advertising Bureau, which I finally discovered on the ninth floor, I brought up at a counter, more than waist high. A boy sat at a desk behind it.

"Did you want to see someone?" he said.

"Miss Gardner," I told him. My voice squeaked. "I have an appointment with her."

He walked around the corner and came back with a pretty young woman. She shook hands with me over the counter and said, "Will you come into my office?"

Miss Gardner led the way into her office and we sat down. First, we talked about Paris. Miss Gardner asked if I got my clothes there. Fashion was her business, she said, but my costume was one she hadn't seen before. I assured her happily that my clothes had indeed come from Paris. I thought it unnecessary to add that my dress came from the floor of my own bedroom there.

I had noticed from the start of our interview that Miss Gardner could hardly take her eyes off my costume, and I accepted this endorsement with a glow of pleasure.

3. From William Faulkner, "Mississippi"

Mississippi begins in the lobby of a Memphis, Tennessee, hotel and extends south to the Gulf of Mexico. It is dotted with little towns concentric about the ghosts of the horses and mules once tethered to the hitch-rail enclosing the county courthouse and it might almost be said to have only two directions, north and south, since until a few years ago it was impossible to travel east or west in it unless you walked or rode one of the horses or mules. Even in the boy's early manhood, to reach by rail either of the adjacent county towns thirty miles away to the east or west, you had to travel ninety miles in three different directions on three different railroads.

In the beginning it was virgin-to the west, along the Big River, the alluvial swamps threaded by black, almost motionless bayous and impenetrable with cane and buck vine and cypress and ash and oak and gum; to the east, die hardwood ridges and the prairies where the Appalachian Mountains died and buffalo grazed; to the south, the pine barrens and the moss-hung live oaks and the greater swamps, less of earth than water and lurking with alligators and water moccasins, where Louisiana in its time would begin. . . .

There were deer to drift in herds alarm less as smoke then, and bear and panther and wolves in the brakes and bottoms, and all the lesser beasts-coon and possum and beaver and mink and muskrat (not muskrat: muskrat); they were still there and some of the land was .still virgin in the nearly nineteen hundreds when the boy himself began to hunt. But, except for looking occasionally out from behind the face of a white man or a Negro, the Chickasaws and Choctaws and Natchez and Yazoos were as gone as the predecessors; and the people the boy crept with were the descendants of the Sartorises and de Spains and Compsons who had commanded the Manassas and Sharpsburg and Shiloh and Chickamauga regiments, and the McCaslins and Ewells and Holstons and Hogganbecks whose fathers and grandfathers had manned them, and now and then a Snopes, too, because by the beginning of the twentieth century Snopeses were everywhere: not only behind the counters of grubby little side-street stores patronized mostly by Negroes, but behind the presidents' desks of banks and the directors' tables of wholesale grocery corporations and in the deaconries of ...churches, buying up the decayed Georgian houses and chopping them into apartments and on their deathbeds decreeing annexes and baptismal fonts to the churches as mementoes to themselves or maybe out of simple terror.

4. From James Thurber, "The Glass in the Field"

A short time ago some builders, working on a studio in Connecticut, left a huge square of plate glass standing upright in a field one day. A goldfinch fling swiftly across the field struck the glass and was knocked cold. When he came to he hastened to his club, where an attendant bandaged his head. . . . "What . . . happened?" asked a sea gull. "I was flying across a meadow when all of a sudden the air crystallized on me," said the goldfinch. The sea gull and a hawk and an eagle all laughed heartily. A swallow listened gravely. "For fifteen years, fledgling and bird, I've flown this country," said the eagle, "and I assure you there is no such thing as air crystallizing. Water, yes; air, no." "You were probably struck by a hailstone," the hawk told the goldfinch. "Or he may have had a stroke," said the sea gull.

"What do you think, swallow?"

"Why, I-I think maybe the air crystallized on him," said the swallow.

The large birds laughed so loudly that the goldfinch became annoyed and bet them each a dozen worms that they couldn't follow the course he had flown across the field without encountering the hardened atmosphere. They all took his bet; the swallow went along to watch. The sea gull, the eagle, and the hawk decided to fly together over the route the goldfinch indicated. "You come, too," they said to the swallow. "I-I-well, no," said the swallow. "I don't think I will."

So the three large birds took off together and they hit the glass together and they were all knocked cold.

Moral: He who hesitates is sometimes saved.

5. From Anita Loos, "Gentlemen Prefer Blondes"

March 16th:

A gentleman friend and I were dining at the Ritz last evening and he said that if I took a pencil and a paper and put down all of my thoughts it would make a book. This almost made me smile as what it would really make would be a whole row of encyclopedias. I mean I seem to be thinking practically all the time. I mean it is my favorite recreation and sometimes I sit for hours and do not seem to do anything else but think. So this gentleman said a girl with brains ought to do something else with them besides think. And he said he ought to know brains when he sees them, because he is in the senate and he spends quite a great deal of time in Washington, D.C., and when lie comes into contact with brains he always notices it. So it might have all blown over but this morning he sent me a book. And so when my maid brought it to me, I said to her, "Well, Lulu, here is another book and we have not read half the ones we have got yet." But when I opened it and saw that it was all a blank I remembered what my gentleman acquaintance said, and so then I realized that it was a diary. So here I am writing a book instead of reading one.

6. Antoine de St. Exnpery, "The First South Atlantic Flight"

Thus, when Mermoz first crossed the South Atlantic in a seaplane, as day was dying he ran foul of the Black Hole region off Africa. Straight ahead of him were the tails of tornadoes rising minute by minute gradually higher, rising as a wall is built; and then the night came down upon these preliminaries and swallowed them up; and when, an hour later, he slipped under the clouds, he came out into a fantastic kingdom.

Great black waterspouts had reared themselves like temple pillars. Swollen at their tops, they were supporting the squat and lowering arch of the tempest, but through the rifts in the arch there fell slabs of light, and the full moon sent her radiant beams between the pillars down upon the frozen tiles of the sea. Through these uninhabited ruins Mermoz made his way, gliding slantwise from one channel of light to the next, circling round those giant pillars in which there must have rumbled the upsurge of the sea, flying for four hours through these corridors of moonlight toward the exit from the temple. And this spectacle was so overwhelming that only after he had got through the Black Hole did Mermoz awaken to the fact that he had not been afraid.

7. Rupert Brooke, 'The Soldier"

If 1 should die, think only this of me:

That there's some corner of a foreign field That is for ever England. There shall be

In that rich earth a richer dust concealed; A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,

Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam, A body of England's, breathing English air,

Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away, A pulse in the eternal mind, no less

Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given; Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day; And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness, In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

8. John Masefield, "Sea-Fever"

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky, And all I ask is a tall ship, and a star to steer her by, And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking, And a grey mist on the sea's face and a grey dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied; And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying, And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again to the vagrant gypsy life, To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife; And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover, And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

9. Christina Kossetti, "When I Am Dead, My Dearest"

When I am dead, my dearest,
Sing no sad songs for me;
Plant thou no roses at my head,
Nor shady cypress tree.
Be the green grass above me
With showers and dewdrops wet;
And if thou wilt, remember,
And if thou wilt, forget.
I shall not see the shadows,
I shall not feel the rain;
I shall not hear the nightingale
Sing on as if in pain.
And dreaming through the twilight
That doth not rise nor set,
Haply I may remember,
And haply may forget.

10. Alfred Lord Tennyson, "Crossing the Bar"

Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me! And may
there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,

But such a ride as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam, When that which drew
from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark! And may there
be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;

For though from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far, I hope
to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crost the bar.

11. From Samuel Clemens, "Huckleberry Finn"

I read considerable to Jim about kings and dukes and earls and such, and how gaudy they dressed, and how much style they put on, and called each other your majesty, and your grace, and your lordship, and so on, 'stead of mister; and Jim's eyes bugged out, and he was interested. He says: . . .

". . . dey ain' no kings here, is dey, Huck?"
"No."
"Den he cain't git no situation. What he gwyne to do?"
"Well, I don't know. Some of them gets on the police, and some of them learns people how to talk French."
"Why, Huck, doan' de French people talk de same way we does?"
"No, Jim; you couldn't understand a word they said-not a single word."
"Well, now, I be ding-busted! How do dat come?"
"I don't know; but it's so. I got some of their jabber out of a book. S'poso a man was to come to you and say Polly-voo-franzy-what would you think."
"I wouldn' think nuffin; I'd take en bust him over de head . . ."
"Shucks, it ain't calling you anything. It's only saying, do you know how to talk French?"
"Well, den, why couldn't he say it?"
"Well, he is a-saying it. That's a Frenchman's way of saying it."
"Well, it's a blame ridicklous way, en I doan' want to hear no mo' about it. Dey ain' no sense in it."

12. John G. Magec, Jr., "High Flight"

Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth,
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds-and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of-wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there,
I've chased the shouting wind along and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air,
Up, up the long delirious, burning blue
I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace,
Where never lark, or even eagle, flew;
And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

13. Joyce Kilmer, "Trees"

"I think that I shall never see A
poem lovely as a tree.

"A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;

"A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

"A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair.

"Upon whose bosom snow has lain,
Who intimately lives with rain.

"Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree."

14. From Lewis Carroll, "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland"

"Don't you think you'd be safer down on the ground?" Alice went on, not with any idea of making another riddle, but simply in her good-natured anxiety for the queer creature. "That wall is so very narrow!"
"What tremendously easy riddles you ask!" Humpty Dumpty growled out. "Of course I don't think so! Why, if ever I did fall off-which there's no chance of-but if I did-" Here he pursed up his lips, and looked so solemn and grand that Alice could hardly help laughing. "If I did fall," he went on, "the King has promised me-oh, you may turn pale, if you like! You didn't think I was going to say that, did you? The King has promised me- with his very own mouth-to-to-"
"To send all his horses and all his men," Alice interrupted, rather unwisely.
"Now I declare that's too bad!" Humpty Dvimpty cried, breaking into a sudden passion. "You've been listening at doors- and behind trees-and down chimneys-or you couldn't have known it."

15. From Jane Austen, "Pride and Prejudice"

Mr. Bennet raised his eyes from his book as she entered, and fixed them on her face with a calm unconcern which was not in the least altered by her communication.
"I have not the pleasure of understanding you," said he, when she had finished her speech. "Of what are you talking?"
"Of Mr. Collins and Lizzy. Lizzy declares she will not have Mr. Collins, and Mr. Collins begins to say that he will not have Lizzy."
"And what am I to do on the occasion? It seems an hopeless business."
"Speak to Lizzy about it yourself. Tell her that you insist upon her marrying him."
"Let her be called down. She shall hear my opinion."
Mrs. Bennet rang the bell, and Miss Elizabeth was summoned to the library.
"Come here, child," cried her father as she appeared. "I have sent for you on an affair of importance. I understand that Mr. Collins has made you an offer of marriage. Is it true?" Elizabeth replied that it was. "Very well - and this offer of marriage you have refused?"
"I have, sir."
"Very well. We now come to the point. Your mother insists upon your accepting it. Is it not so, Mrs. Bennet?"
"Yes, or I will never see her again."
"An xinhappy alternative is before you, Elizabeth. From this day you must be a stranger to one of your parents. Your mother will never see you again if you do not marry Mr. Collins, and I will never see you again if you do."

16. From Willis Thornton, "The Day They Burned the Capitol"

At about 3 P.M., Dolley Madison was still sturdily waiting at the White House for specific instructions from her husband. At last a wagon was procured, and Dolley superintended the packing into it of plate and other valuables, consigned to the Bank of Maryland. Charles Carroll came up to urge haste, and was annoyed when Dolley insisted upon removing the Stuart portrait of Washington. The heavy gilt frame had to be smashed, but the picture was at last removed, and entrusted to "two gentlemen from New York," who were successful in preserving it.

Dolley waited staunchly, though long before four o'clock ... it was felt that at any moment British advance guards might appear. Mayor Blake twice came to urge her to fly, and at last she climbed into a carriage. The coachman whipped up his horses and headed for the crowded bridge that led to Virginia and safety.

Very soon after, the weary Madison . . . appeared in the White House grounds with Monroe and Attorney General Rush. . . . But they dared not tarry. Madison, with Monroe and Rush, set their horses to follow Mrs. Madison. John Sioussat, known to all Washington as "French John", and steward at the White House, was true to his trust. He carried Dolley Madison's parrot to the French minister's cook at the Octagon. . . . By eight o'clock the Capitol was in flames.

17. From Rudolph Marx, "A Medical Profile of George Washington"

On the day of December 12, 1799, as was his custom, Washington was riding about his farm from 10 A.M. until 3 P.M. The weather on the day was bad, with rain, hail and snow falling alternately, driven by an icy wind. . . . The next day he complained of a cold and sore throat. Upon retiring, Colonel Lear suggested that the General take something for his cold, but Washington answered, "No, you know I never take anything for a cold; let it go as it came."

On the following day at three o'clock in the morning Washington told Martha that he was very unwell ... At daybreak a servant came and lighted the fire. Soon Colonel Lear arrived and found the General voiceless ... A loathsome mixture of molasses, vinegar and butter was offered to Washington but he could not swallow a drop. . . . Rawlins, the overseer of the farm, was sent for with Washington's request to bleed him. . . . He took a pint of blood from Washington, but there was no relief. About eight o'clock Washington got up for two hours, but obtained no relief from the changed position. ... At eleven o'clock the bleeding was repeated ... In the meantime Dr. Gustave Richard Brown, of Port Tobacco, and Dr. Elisha Cullen Dick of Alexandria, had been summoned. . . . Dr. Brown suggested using the standard treatment for this condition; namely, to resort to a more copious bleeding. The young American doctor, Dick, objected. He argued, "He needs all his strength-bleeding will diminish it." He was overruled by his two senior colleagues who were supported by the good soldier, Washington. A whole quart of blood was taken this time and it was observed that the blood came "slow and thick" . . .

About half past four Washington gave instructions about his will. . . . The process of gradual suffocation progressed inexorably until about ten minutes before the general expired; then the breathing became easier. The exhausted heart stopped beating between ten and eleven o'clock on the evening of December 14, 1799.

18. From Max Beerbohm, "Seeing People Off"

On a bleak morning of last week I duly turned up at Euston, to see off an old friend who was starting for America.

Overnight, we had given him a farewell dinner, in which sadness was mingled with festivity. Years probably would elapse before his return. Some of us might never see him again. . . . And, now, here we were, stiff and self-conscious on the platform; and framed in the window of the railway-carriage was the face of our friend; but it was as the face of a stranger-a stranger anxious to please, an appealing stranger, an awkward stranger. "Have you got everything?" asked one of us, breaking the silence. "Yes, everything," said our friend, with a pleasant nod. . . . "You'll be able to lunch on the train," said I, though this prophecy had already been made more than once. "Oh, yes," he said, with conviction. He added that the train went straight through to Liverpool. This fact seemed to strike us as rather odd. We exchanged glances. "Doesn't it stop at Crewe?" asked one of us. "No," said our friend, briefly. He seemed almost disagreeable. There was a long pause. One of us, with a nod and a forced smile at the traveller, said, "Well!" The nod, the smile, and the unmeaning monosyllable were returned conscientiously. Another pause was broken by one of us with a fit of coughing. It was an obviously assumed fit, but it served to pass the time. The bustle of the platform was unabated. There was no sign of the train's departure. Release-ours, and our friend's-was not yet.

19. From A. E. Housman, "A Shropshire Lad"

When I was one-and-twenty
I heard a wise man say, "Give
crowns and pounds and guineas
But not your heart away;
Give pearls away and rubies
But keep your fancy free."

But I was one-and-twenty, No
use to talk to me.

When I was one-and-twenty
I heard him say again, "The
heart out of the bosom
Was never given in vain; 'Tis
paid with sighs a plenty
And sold for endless rue."
And I am two-and-twenty,
And oh, 'tis true, 'tis true.

20. From Lucretia P. Hale, "The Peterkin Papers"

Elizabeth Eliza had a present of a piano, and she was to take lessons of the postmaster's daughter.

They decided to have the piano set across the window in the parlor, and the carters brought it in, and went away.

After they had gone the family all came in to look at the piano; but they found the carters had placed it with its back turned toward the middle of the room, standing close against the window.

How could Elizabeth Eliza open it? How could she reach the keys to play upon it?

Solomon John proposed that they should open the window, which Agamemnon could do with his long arms. Then Elizabeth Eliza should go round upon the piazza, and open the piano. Then she could have her music-stool on the piazza, and play upon the piano there.

It was very pleasant, too, moonlight evenings. Mr. Peterkin liked to take a doze on his sofa in the room; but the rest of the family liked to sit on the piazza. So did Elizabeth Eliza, only she had to have her back to the moon. All this did very well through the summer; but, when the fall came, Mr. Peterkin thought the air was too cold from the open window, and the family did not want to sit out on the piazza.

Elizabeth Eliza practiced in the mornings with her cloak on; but she was obliged to give up her music in the evenings the family shivered so.

One day, when she was talking with the lady from Philadelphia, she spoke of this trouble.

The lady from Philadelphia looked surprised, and then said, "But why don't you turn the piano round?"

One of the little boys pertly said, "It is a square piano."

But Elizabeth Eliza went home directly, and, with the help of Agamemnon and Solomon John, turned the piano round.

"Why did we not think of that before?" said Mrs. Peterkin. "What shall we do when the lady from Philadelphia goes home again?"

WHEN READING ALOUD, BE AS RELAXED AND FRIENDLY AS BETTE DAVIS, AS SHOWN IN THIS PHOTOGRAPH TAKEN DURING A READING PERFORMANCE OF THE WORLD OF CARL SANDBURG

21. Joyce Kilmer, "The House with Nobody In It"

Whenever I walk to Suffern along the Erie track, I go by a poor old farmhouse with its shingles broken and black.
I suppose I've passed it a hundred times, but I always stop for a minute, And look at the house, the tragic house, the house with nobody in it.
I never have seen a haunted house, but I hear there are such things; That they hold the talk of spirits, their mirth and sorrowing. I know this house isn't haunted, and I wish it were, I do; For it wouldn't be so lonely if it had a ghost or two.
This house on the road to Suffern needs a dozen panes of glass, And somebody ought to weed the walk, and take a scythe to the grass. It needs new paint and shingles, and the vines should be trimmed and tied; But what it needs the most of all is some people living inside.
If I had a lot of money and all my debts were paid, I'd put a gang of men to work with brush and saw and spade. I'd buy that place and fix it up the way it used to be, And I'd find some people who wanted a home and give it to them free.
Now, a new house standing empty, with staring window and door, Looks idle, perhaps, and foolish, like a pot on its block in the store.
But there's nothing mournful about it; it cannot be sad and lone For the lack of something within it that it has never known.
But a house that has done what a house should do, a house that has sheltered life,
That has put its loving wooden arms around a man and his wife, A house that has echoed a baby's laugh and held up his stumbling feet, Is the saddest sight, when it's left alone, that ever your eyes could meet.
So whenever I go to Suffern along the Erie track, I never go by the empty house without stopping and looking back. Yet it hurts me to look at the crumbling roof and the shutters fallen apart, For I can't help thinking the poor old house is a house with a broken heart.

22. From William Shakespeare, "Hamlet"

In this speech, Polontus, the Lord Chamberlain to the King of Denmark, is bidding good-by to his son, Laertes, who is departing for France.

There; my blessings with thee.
And these few precepts in thy memory
See thou character. Give thy thoughts no tongue,
Nor any unproportion'd thought his act.
Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar.
The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried,
Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel;
But do not dull thy palm with entertainment
Of each new-hatch'd, unfledg'd comrade. Beware
Of entrance to a quarrel; but being in,
Bear't that th' opposed may beware of thee.
Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice;
Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment.
Gostly thy habit as thy purse can buy,
But not express'd in fancy; rich, not gaudy;
For the apparel oft proclaims the man;
And they in France of the best rank and station
Are of a most select and generous chief in that.
Neither a borrower nor a lender be;
For loan oft loses both itself and friend,
And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.
This above all: to thine own self be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.
Farewell; my blessing season this in thee!

23. From T. D. Clark, "Pills, Petticoats, and Ploughs"

Over a hill trailed a man behind a mule drawing a plow. Unexpectedly the plow hit a root, the mule stopped, and the man began to grumble as he fixed the hames: "Bill, you are just a mule, the son of a jackass, and 1 am a man made in the image of God. Yet, here we work hitched up together year after year. I often wonder if you work for me or I work for you. Verily, I think it is a partnership between a mule and a fool, for surely I work as hard as you, if not harder. Plowing or cultivating we cover the same distance, but you do it on four legs and I on two, therefore I do twice as much as you.

Soon we will be preparing for a corn crop. When the corn is harvested I give one-third to the landlord for being so kind as to let me use a small speck of God's earth. One-third goes to you, the rest is mine. You consume all your portion, while I divide mine among seven children, six hens, two ducks and a storekeeper. If we both need shoes, you get 'em. You are getting the best of me, and I ask you, is it fair for a mule, the son of a jackass, to swindle a man, the lord of: creation, out of his substance?

Why, you only help to plow and cultivate the ground, and I alone must cut, shock, and husk the corn, while you look over the pasture fence and heehaw at me. All fall and most of the winter the whole family from baby up picks cotton to help raise enough money to pay taxes and buy a new set of harness and pay the mortgage on you. Not a thing, you ornery cuss, do you have to do. I even have to do the worrying about the mortgage on your tough, ungrateful hide.

About the only time I am your better is on Election Day, for I can vote and you can't. After election I realize that I was fully as big a jackass as your papa. Verily, I am prone to wonder if politics were made for a man or a jackass, or to make jackasses out of men.

And that ain't all, Bill, when you are dead, that's supposed to be the end of you. But me? The preacher tells me that when I die I may go to hell forever. That is, Bill, if I don't do just as they say. And most of what they say keeps me from getting any fun out of life.

Tell me, William, considering these things, how can you keep a straight face and still look so dumb and solemn?"

24. Richard Joseph, "To the Man Who Killed My Dog"

This moving document is a real letter, written by Mr. Joseph to the Westport, Connecticut, Town Crier and Herald, when his dog, Vicky, was run down and killed by a hit-and-run driver.

I hope you were going some place important when you drove so fast down Cross Highway across Bayberry Lane, Tuesday night.

I hope that when you got there, the time you saved by speeding meant something to you or somebody else.

Maybe we'd feel better if we could imagine that you were a doctor rushing somewhere to deliver a baby or ease somebody's pain. The life of our dog to shorten someone's suffering-that mightn't have been so bad.

But even though all we saw of you was your car's black shadow and its jumping tail lights as you roared down the road, we know too much about you to believe it.

You saw the dog, you stepped on your brakes, you felt a thump, you heard a yelp and then my wife's scream. Your reflexes are good, we know, because you jumped on the gas again and got out of there fast.

Whoever you are, mister, and whatever you do for a living, we know you are a killer.

And in your hands, driving the way you drove Tuesday night, your car is a murder weapon.

You didn't bother to look, so I'll tell you what the thump and yelp were. They were Vicky, a six-months-old Basset puppy; white, with brown and black markings. An aristocrat, with twelve champions among her forebears; but she clowned and she chased, and she loved people and kids and other dogs as much as any mongrel on earth.

I'm sorry you didn't stick around to see the job you did, though a dog dying by the side of the road isn't a very pretty sight. In less than two seconds you and that car of yours transformed a living being that had been beautiful, warm, white, clean, soft and loving into something dirty, ugly, broken and bloody. A poor, shocked and mad thing that tried to sink its teeth into the hand it had nuzzled and licked all its life.

I hope to God that when you hit my dog you had for a moment the sick, dead feeling in the throat and down to the stomach that we have known ever since. And that you feel it whenever you think about speeding down a winding country road again.

Because the next time some eight-year-old boy might be wobbling along on his first bicycle. Or a very little one might wander out past the gate and into the road in the moment it takes his father to bend down to pull a weed out of the driveway, the way my puppy got away from me.

Or maybe you'll be real lucky again, and only kill another dog, and break the heart of another family.

25. From John Gunther, "Death Be Not Proud"

Nothing, not even the birth of one's child, brings one so close to life as his death.

Johnny lay dying of a brain tumor for fifteen months. He was in his seventeenth year. I never kissed him good night without wondering whether I should see him alive in the morning. I greeted him each morning as though he were newly born to me, a re-gift of God. Each day he lived was a blessed day of grace.

The impending death of one's child raises many questions in one's mind and heart and soul. It raises all the infinite questions, each answer ending in another question. What is the meaning of life? What are the relations between things: life and death? the individual and the family? the family and society? marriage and divorce? the individual and the state? medicine and research? science and politics and religion? man, men, and God?

All these questions came up in one way or another, and Johnny and I talked about them, in one way or another, as he was dying for fifteen months. He wasn't just dying, of course. He was living and dying and being reborn all at the same time each day. How we loved each day. "It's been another wonderful day, Mother!" he'd say, as I knelt to kiss him good night.

There are many complex and erudite answers to all these questions, which men have thought about for many thousands of years, and about which they have written many thousands of books.

Yet at the end of them all, when one has pot away all the books, and all the words, when one is alone with oneself, when one is alone with God, what is left in one's heart? Just this:

I wish we had loved Johnny more.

He had many worthy ambitions which he did not live long enough to achieve. But he did achieve one: graduation with his class at Deerfield. Despite the long illness that kept him out of school a year and a half, he insisted on being tutored in the hospital and at home, taking his class exams, and the college board exams for Harvard, and then returning to Deerfield for commencement week. The boys cheered him as he walked down the aisle to receive his diploma, his head bandaged but held high, his young face pale, his dark blue eyes shining with the joy of achievement. A fortnight later, he died.

Today, when I see parents impatient or tired or bored with their children, I wish I could say to them, "But they are alive, think of the wonder of that! They may be a care and a burden, but think, they are alive! You can touch them-what a miracle! You don't have to hold back sudden tears when you see just a headline about the Yale-Harvard game, never see the house in Paris he was born in, never bring home his girl, and you will not hand down your jewels to his bride and will have no grandchildren to play with and spoil. Your sons and daughters are alive. Think of that-not dead but alive! Exult and sing."

All parents who have lost a child will feel what I mean. Others, luckily, cannot. But I hope they will embrace them with a little added rapture and a keener awareness of joy.

I wish we had loved Johnny more when he was alive. Of course we loved Johnny very much. Johnny knew that. Everybody knew it. Loving Johnny more. What does it mean? What can it mean, now?

Parents all over the earth who lost sons in the war have felt this kind of question, and sought an answer. To me, it means loving life more, being more aware of life, of one's fellow human beings, of the earth.

It means obliterating, in a curious but real way, the ideas of evil and hate and the enemy, and transmuting them, with the alchemy of suffering, into ideas of clarity and charity.

It means caring more and more about other people, at home and abroad, all over the earth. It means caring more about God. I hope we can love Johnny more and more till we too die, and leave behind us, as he did, the love of love, the love of life.

26. Rachel Field, "Something Told the Wild Geese"

Something told the wild geese
It was time to fly,-summer sun
was on their wings,
Winter in their cry.

Something told the wild geese
It was time to go.
Though the fields lay golden
Something whispered,-"Snow".

Leaves were green and stirring,
Berries, luster-glossed, But
beneath warm feathers
Something cautioned,-"Frost."

All the sagging orchards
Steamed with amber spice,
But each wild breast stiffened
At remembered ice.

Something told the wild geese
It was time to fly,-summer sun
was on their wings,
Winter in their cry.

27. "Commander Shea's Last Letter to His Son" from Robert Goodman, Editor, Masterpieces for Radio and Declamation, Vol. II

Commander John Joseph Shea of the U. S. Naval Air Force was lost aboard the aircraft carrier Wasp on Sept. 15, 1942, in South Pacific waters. His last letter to his five-year-old son, John, in North Cambridge, Massachusetts, follows:

DEAR JACKIE: This is the first letter I have written directly to my little son. I am thrilled to know you can read it all by yourself. If you miss some of the words it will be because I do not write very plainly. Mother will help you in that case, I am sure.

I was certainly glad to hear your voice over the long distance telephone. It sounded as though I were right in the living room with you. You sounded as though you missed your daddy very much. I miss you, too, more than anyone will ever know. It is too bad this war could not have been delayed a few more years so that I could grow up again with you and do all the things I planned to do when you were old enough to go to school.

I thought how nice it would be to come home early in the afternoon and play ball with you and go mountain climbing and see the trees, brooks, and learn all about woodcraft, hunting, fishing, swimming and other things like that. I suppose we must be brave and put these things off now for a while.

When you are a little bigger you will know why your daddy is not home so much any more. You know we have a big country and we have ideals as to how people should live and enjoy the riches of it and how each is born with equal rights to life, freedom and the pursuit of happiness. Unfortunately there are some countries in the world where they do not have these ideals, where a boy cannot grow up to be what he wants to be with no limit on his opportunities to be a great man, such as a great priest, statesman, doctor, soldier, business man, etc.

Because there are people in countries who want to change our nation, its ideals, its form of government and way of life, we must leave our homes and families to fight. Fighting for the defense of our country, ideals, homes and honor is an honor and a duty which your daddy has to do before he can come home and settle down with you and mother. When it is done he is coming home to be with you always and forever. So wait just a little while longer. I am afraid it will be more than the two weeks you told me on the phone.

In the meantime, take good care of mother, be a good boy and grow up to be a good young man. Study hard when you go to school. Be a leader in everything good in life. Play fair always. Strive to win but if you must lose, lose like a gentleman and a good sportsman.

Don't ever be a quitter, either in sports or in your business or profession when you grow up. Get all the education you can stay close to Mother and follow her advice. Obey her in everything, no matter how you may at times disagree. She knows what is best and will never let you down or lead you away from the right and honorable things of life.

If I don't get back you will have to be Mother's protector because you will be the only one she has. You must grow up to take my place as well as your own in her life and heart.

Love your grandmother and granddad as long as they live. They, too, will never let you down. Love your aunts and see them as often as you can. Last of all, don't ever forget your daddy. Pray for him to come back and if it is God's will that he does not, be the kind of a boy and man your daddy wants you to be.

Kiss Mother for me every night. Goodbye for now.

With all my love and devotion for Mother and you,

YOUR DADDY

28. Alice Duer Miller, "The White Cliffs"

My father wrote me a letter-
My father, scholarly, indolent, strong,
Teaching Greek better
Than high school students repay-
Teaching Greek in the winter, but all summer long
Sailing a yawl in Narragansett Bay;
Happier perhaps when I was away,
Free of an anxious daughter,
He could sail blue water
Day after day,

Beyond Breton Reef Lightship, and Beavertail,
Past Cuttyhunk to catch a gale
Off the Cape, while he thought of Hellas and Troy,
Chanting with joy
Greek choruses-those lines that he said
Must be written some day on a stone at his head:
'But who can know
As the long years go
That to live is happy, has found his heaven/
My father, so far away-
I thought of him, in Devon,
Anchoring in a blind fog in Booth Bay.

'So, Susan, my dear,' the letter began, 'You've fallen in love with an Englishman. Well, they're a manly, attractive lot, If you happen to like them, which I do not. I am a Yankee through and through, And I don't like them, or the things they do. Whenever it's come to a knockdown fight With us, they were wrong, and we were right; If you don't believe me, cast your mind Back over history, what do you find? They certainly had no justification For that maddening plan to impose taxation Without any form of representation. Your man may be all that a man should be, Only don't you bring him back to me Saying he can't get decent tea-He could have got his tea all right In Boston Harbour a certain night, When your great-great-grandmother-also a Sue-Shook enough tea from her husband's shoe To supply her house for a week or two. The War of 1812 seems to me About as just as a war could be. How could we help but come to grips With a nation that stopped and searched our ships, And took off our seamen for no other reason Except that they needed crews that season. I can get angry still at the tale Of their letting the Alabama sail, And Palmerston being insolent To Lincoln and Seward over the Trent. All very long ago, you'll say, But whenever I go up Boston-way, I drive through Concord-that neck of the wood Where once the embattled farmers stood, And I think of Revere, and the old North Steeple, And I say, by heck, we're the only people Who licked them not only once, but twice. Never forget it-that's my advice.

They have their points-they're honest and brave, Loyal and sure-as sure as the grave; They make other nations seem pale and flighty, But they do think England is God Almighty, And you must remind them now and then That other countries breed other men. From all of which you will think me rather Unjust. I am.

Your devoted

FATHER

I read, and saw my home with sudden yearning-the small white wooden house, the grass-green door, My father's study with the fire burning, And books piled on the floor.

I saw the moon-faced clock that told the hours, The crimson Turkey carpet, worn and frayed, The heavy dishes-gold with birds and flowers-Fruits of the China trade.

I saw the jack o' lanterns, friendly, frightening, Shine from our gateposts every Hallow-e'en; I saw the oak tree, shattered once by lightning, Twisted, stripped clean.

I saw the Dioscuri-two black kittens, Stalking relentlessly an empty spool; I saw a little girl in scarlet mittens Trudging through snow to school.

John read the letter with his lovely smile. 'Your father has a vigorous English style, And what he says is true, upon my word; But what's this war of which I never heard? We didn't fight in 1812.'

'Yes, John,
That was the time when you burnt Washington.' 'We couldn't have, my dear . . .'
'I mean the city.'
'We burnt it?'
'Yes, you did.'
'What a pity!
No wonder people hate us. But, I say, I'll make your father like me yet, some day.

29. Guy de Maupassant, "The Piece of String"

It was market-day, and from all the country round Goderville the peasants and their wives were coming toward the town.

Maitre Hauchecorne, of Breaute, had just arrived at Goderville, and was taking his way toward the square, when he perceived on the ground a little piece of string. Maitre Hauchecorne, economical, like all true Normans, reflected that everything was worth picking up which could be of any use; and he stooped down-but painfully, because he suffered from rheumatism. He took the bit of thin string from the ground, and was carefully preparing to roll it up when he saw Maitre Malandain, the harness-maker, on his door-step, staring at him. They had once had a quarrel about a halter, and they had remained angry, bearing malice on both sides. Maitre Hauchecorne was overcome with a sort of shame at being seen by his enemy looking in the dirt so for a bit of string. He quickly hid it beneath his blouse in the pocket of his breeches; then pretended to be still looking for something on the ground which he did not discover; finally went off toward the marketplace, with his head bent forward, and a body almost doubled in two by rheumatic pains.

All the aristocracy of the plough were eating at Mait' Jourdain's, the inn-keeper's, a dealer in horses also, and a sharp fellow who had made a great deal of money in his day.

The dishes were passed round, were emptied, with jugs of yellow cider. Every one told of his affairs, of his purchases and his sales. They asked news about the crops.

Suddenly the drum rolled in the court before the house. Every one, except some of the most indifferent, was on his feet at once, and ran to the door, to the windows, with his mouth still full and his napkin in his hand.

When the public crier had finished his tattoo he called forth in a jerky voice, making his pauses out of time:

"Let it be known to the inhabitants of Goderville, and in general to all-persons present at the market, that there has been lost this morning, on the Beuzeville road, between-nine and ten o'clock, a black leather pocketbook, containing five hundred francs and business papers. You are requested to return it-to the mayor's office, at once, or to Maitre Fortune Houlbreque, of Manneville. There will be twenty francs reward."

Then the man went away. They began to talk of this event, reckoning up the chances which Maitre Houlbreque had of finding or of not finding his pocketbook again.

The meal went on. They were finishing their coffee when the corporal of gendarmes appeared on the threshold. He asked:

"Is Maitre Hauchecorne, of Breaute, here?" Maitre Hauchecorne, seated at the other end of the table, answered:
"Here I am."

And the corporal resumed:

"Maitre Hauchecorne, will you have the kindness to come with me to the mayor's office? Monsieur le Maire would like to speak to you."

The peasant, surprised and uneasy, gulped down his little glass of cognac, got up, and, even worse bent over than in the morning, followed the corporal.

The mayor was waiting for him, seated in an armchair. He was the notary of the place, a tall, grave man of pompous speech.

"Maitre Hauchecorne," said he, "this morning, on the Beuzeville road, you were seen to pick up the pocketbook lost by Maitre Houlbreque, of Manneville."

The countryman, speechless, regarded the mayor, frightened already by this suspicion which rested on him he knew not why. "I-I picked up that pocketbook?" "Yes, you."

"I swear I know nothing about it at all." "You were seen."
"They saw me, me? Who is that who saw me?"
"Monsieur Malandain, the harness-maker."

Then the old man remembered, understood, and, reddening with anger:

"Ah! He saw me, did he, the rascal? He saw me picking up this string here, M'sieu' le Maire."

And, fumbling at the bottom of his pocket, he pulled out of it the little end of string.

But the mayor incredulously shook his head:

"You will not make me believe, Maitre Hauchecorne, that Monsieur Malandain, a man worthy of credit, has mistaken this string for a pocketbook."

The peasant, furious, raised his hand and spit as if to attest his good faith, repeating:

"For all that, it is the truth of the good God, the blessed truth, M'sieu' le Maire. There! On my soul and my salvation I repeat it."

The mayor continued:

"After you picked up the thing in question, you even looked for some time in the mud to see if a piece of money had not dropped out of it."

The good man was suffocated with indignation and with fear:

"If they can say!-if they can say . . . such lies as that to slander an honest man! If they can say-!"

He might protest, he was not believed.

He was confronted with M. Malandain, who repeated and sustained his testimony. They railed at one another for an hour. At his own request Maitre Hauchecorne was searched. Nothing was found upon him.

At last, the mayor, much perplexed, sent him away, warning him that he would inform the public prosecutor, and ask for orders.

The news had spread. When he left the mayor's office, the old man was surrounded, interrogated with a curiosity which was serious or mocking as the case might be, but into which no indignation entered. And he began to tell the story of the string. They did not believe him. They laughed.

He passed on, button-holed by every one, himself buttonholing his acquaintances, beginning over and over again his tale and his protestations, showing his pockets turned inside out to prove that he had nothing.

They said to him:

"You old rogue, go!"

And he grew angry, exasperated, feverish, in despair at not being believed, and always telling his story.

The night came. It was time to go home. He left with three of his neighbors, to whom he pointed out the place where he had picked up the string; and all the way he talked of his adventure.

That evening he made the round in the village of Breaute, for the purpose of telling every one. He met only unbelievers.

He brooded over it all night.

The next day, about one in the afternoon, a farm-hand, returned the pocketbook and its entire contents to Maitre Houl-breque, of Manneville.

This man said, indeed, that he had found it on the road; but not knowing how to read, he had carried it home and given it to his master.

The news spread to the environs. Maitre Hauchecorne was informed. He put himself at once upon the alert and began to relate his story as completed by the denouement. He triumphed.

"What grieved me," said he, "was not the thing itself, do you understand; but it was the lies. There's nothing does you so much harm as being in disgrace for lying."

All day he talked of his adventure, he told it on the roads to the people who passed; at the wine-shop to the people who drank; and the next Sunday, when they came out of church. He even stopped strangers to tell them about it. He was easy, now, and yet something worried him without his knowing exactly what it was. People had a joking manner while they listened. They did not seem convinced. He seemed to feel their small talk behind his back.

On Tuesday of the next week he went to market at Goder-ville, prompted entirely by the need of telling his story.

Malandain, standing on his door-step, began to laugh as he saw him pass. Why?

When seated at table in Jourdain's tavern he began again to explain the whole affair.

A horse-dealer of Monvilliers shouted at him:

"Get out, get out, you old scamp; I know all about your string!"

Hauchecorne stammered:

"But since they found it again, the pocketbook-!"

But the other continued:

"Hold your tongue, daddy; there's one who finds it, and there's another who returns it. And no one the wiser."

The peasant was choked. He understood at last. They accused him of having had the pocketbook brought back by an accomplice, by a confederate.

He tried to protest. The whole table began to laugh.

He could not finish his dinner, and went away amid a chorus of jeers.

He went home, indignant, choked with rage, with confusion, the more cast down since, from his Norman cunning, he was, perhaps, capable of having done what they accused him of, and even of boasting of it as a good trick. His innocence dimly seemed to him impossible to prove, his craftiness being so well known. He felt himself struck to the heart by the injustice of the suspicion.

He began anew to tell of his adventure, lengthening his recital every day, each time adding new proofs, more energetic declarations, and more sacred oaths which he thought of, which he prepared in his hours of solitude, for his mind was entirely occupied with the story of the string. The more complicated his defense, the more artful his arguments, the less he was believed.

"Those are liars' proofs," they said behind his back.

He felt this, for it preyed upon his heart. He exhausted himself in useless efforts.

He was visibly wasting away.

The jokers now made him tell the story of "The Piece of String" to amuse them, just as you make a soldier who has been on a campaign tell his story of the battle. His mind kept growing weaker, and about the end of December he took to his bed.

He passed away early in January, and, in the ravings of the death-agony, he protested his innocence, repeating:

"A little bit of string-a little bit of string-see, here it is, M'sieu' le Make."

30. Laurence Perrine, "A Handful of Limericks"

A tutor who tooted the flute
Tried to tutor two tooters to toot.
Said the two to the tutor,
"Is it harder to toot or To
tutor two tooters to toot?"

There was a young maid who said, "Why
Can't I look in my ear with my eye?
If I put my mind to it,
I'm sure I can do it. You never
can tell till you try."

There was a young woman named Bright,
Whose speed was much faster than light.
She set out one day
In a relative way And returned on
the previous night.

Additional Suggestions for Oral Reading

Alden, Raymond McDonald. "Why the Chimes Rang" (Bobbs-Merrill Co., 1908).

Benchley, Robert C. "Christmas Afternoon," Inside Benchley (Harper & Brothers, 1942).

Benson, Sally. Junior Miss (Random House, 1941).

Brown, Cecil. "Stand by for Torpedo," Colliers (January 17, 1942).

Browning, Robert, "How They Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix."

Clemens, Samuel L. (Mark Twain), "I Steal the King's Plunder," Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Chapter XXVI (Grosset & Dun-lap, 1923).

Dasent, George Webbe. "The Princess on the Glass Hill," Popular Tales from the Norse (D. Appleton & Company).

Dickens, Charles. "A Christmas Carol", Christmas Stories (World Publishing Company, 1946).

Fitzgerald, F. Scott. "Josephine" and other stories, Stories (Charles Scribner's Sons, 1951).

Frost, Robert. "Blueberries" and "Wild Grapes." Golden, Harry. Only In America (World Publishing Company, 1958).

Gordon, George (Lord Byron). "The Prisoner of Chillon."

Grierson, Elizabeth W. "The Prince and the Giant's Daughter," The Book of Celtic Stories (The Macmillan Company, 1922).

Harris, Joel Chandler. "The Wonderful Tar-Baby Story," Uncle Remus, His Songs and His Sayings (Appleton and Company, 1910).

Hemingway, Ernest. The Old Man and the Sea (Charles Scribner's Sons, 1952).

Henry, O. "A Retrieved Reformation."

Holmes, Oliver Wendell. "The Wonderful One-Hoss Shay."

Johnson, James Weldon. Gods Trombones (The Viking Press, 1927).

Lamb, Charles. "A Dissertation Upon Roast Pig."

Lindbergh, Charles A. The Spirit of St. Louis (Charles Scribner's Sons, 1953).

Masefield, John. "Dauber."

Munro, H. H. "The Open Window," The Short Stories of Saki (Viking Press, 1946).

Sandburg, Carl. "Lincoln Speaks at Gettysburg," Abraham Lincoln: The War Years (Harcourt, Brace and Company, 1939).

Saroyan, William. "Locomotive 38, The Ojibway," My Name Is Aram (Harcourt, Brace and Company, 1940).

Shulman, Max. Barefoot Boy with Cheer (Doubleday & Co., Inc., 1939). Stuart, Jesse. Tales from the Plum Grove Hills (E. P. Dutton and Company, 1946).

Taylor, Henry J. "General Patton and the Sicilian Slapping Incidents," Deadline Delayed (E. P. Dutton and Company, 1947).

Tennyson, Alfred Lord. "The Revenge" and "The Lady of Shalott."

Thurber, James. "My Life and Hard Times," Thurber Carnival (Harper and Bros., 1945).

Washington, Booker T. Up from Slavery (Doubleday, Page and Company, 1919).

Wolfe, Thomas. Letters to His Mother (Charles Scribner's Sons, 1943). Wylie, Philip. "-And What about Hurricanes?" The Saturday

Evening Post (December 30, 1950).

(FOR ADDITIONAL SELECTIONS, SEE CHAPTER 14 ON ORAL INTERPRETATION.)

Selections for Impersonation

1. From Elmer Rice, "The Adding Machine"

I'm gettin' sick o' them Westerns. All them cowboys ridin' around an' foolin' with them ropes. I don't care nothin' about that. I'm sick of 'em. I don't see why they don't have more of them stories like "For Love's Sweet Sake." I like them sweet little love stories. They're nice an' wholesome. Mrs. Twelve was sayin' to me only yesterday, "Mrs. Zero," says she, "what I like is one of them wholesome stories, with just a sweet, simple little love story." "You're right, Mrs. Twelve," I says, "that's what I like, too." They're showin' too many Westerns at the Rosebud. I'm gettin' sick of them. I think we'll start goin' to the Peter Stuyvesant They got a good bill there Wednesday night. There's a Chubby Delano comedy called "Sea-Sick". Mrs. Twelve was tellin' me about it. She says it's a scream. They're havin' a picnic in the country and they sit Chubby next to an old maid with a great big mouth. So he gets sore an' when she ain't lookin' he goes and catches a frog and drops it in her clam chowder. An' when she goes to eat the chowder the frog jumps out of it an' right into her mouth. Talk about laugh! Mrs. Twelve was tellin' me she laughed so she nearly passed out. He sure can pull some funny ones. An' they got that big Grace Darling feature, "A Mother's Tears". She's sweet. But I don't like her clothes. There's no style to them. Mrs. Nine was tellin' me she read in Pictureland that she ain't living with her husband. He's her second, too. I don't know whether they're divorced or just separated. You wouldn't think it to see her on the screen. She looks so sweet and innocent. Maybe it ain't true. You can't believe all you read. They say some Pittsburgh millionaire is crazy about her and that's why she ain't livin' with her husband. Mrs. Seven was tellin' me her brother-in-law has a friend that used to go to school with Grace Darling. He says her name ain't Grace Darling at all. Her right name is Elizabeth Dugan, he says, an' all them stories about her gettin' five thousand a week is the bunk, he says. She's sweet, though. Mrs. Eight was tellin' me that "A Mother's Tears" is the best picture she ever made. "Don't miss it, Mrs. Zero," she says. "It's sweet," she says. "Just sweet and wholesome. Cry!" she says, "I nearly cried my eyes out." There's one part in it where this big bum of an Englishman-he's a married man, too-and she's this little simple country girl. An' she nearly falls for him, too. But she's sittin' out in the garden, one day, and she looks up and there's her mother lookin' at her, right out of the clouds. So that night she locks the door of her room. An' sure enough, when everybody's in bed, along comes this big bum of an Englishman an' when she won't let him in, what does he do but go an' kick open the door. "Don't miss it, Mrs. Zero," Mrs. Eight was tellin' me. It's at the Peter Stuyvesant Wednesday night, so don't be tellin' me you want to go to the Rosebud. The Eights seen it downtown at the Strand. They go downtown all the time. Just like us-nit! I guess by the time it gets to the Peter Stuyvesant all that part about kickin' in the door will be cut out. Just like they cut out that big cabaret scene in "The Prince of Virtue." They sure are pulling some rough stuff in the pictures nowadays. "It's not a place for a young girl," I was tellin' Mrs. Eleven, only the other day.

A FINE ACTRESS AND IMPERSONATOR, LIKE KATHERINE CORNELL, MAKES A SCENE COME ALIVE

An' by the time they get uptown half of it is cut out. But you wouldn't go downtown-not if wild horses was to drag you. You can wait till they come uptown! Well, I don't want to wait, see? I want to see 'em when everybody else is seem' them and not a month later. Now don't go tellin' me you ain't got the price. You could dig up the price all right, all right, if you wanted to. I notice you always got the price to go to the ball game. But when it comes to me havin' a good time then it's always: "I ain't got the price, I gotta start savin'." An' don't go pullin' that stuff about bein' tired. "I been workin' hard all day. Twice a day in the subway's enough for me." Tired! Where do you get that tired stuff, anyhow? What about me? Where do I come in? Scrubbin' floors and cookin' your meals an' washin' your dirty clothes. An' you sittin' on a chair all day just addin' riggers an' waitin' for five-thirty. There's no five-thirty for me. I don't wait for no whistle. I don't get no vacations neither. And what's more, I don't get no pay envelope every Saturday night neither. I'd like to know where you'd be without me. An' what have I got to show for it-slavin' my life away to give you a home? What's in it for me, I'd like to know? But it's my own fault, I guess. I was a fool for marryin' you. If I'd 'a' had any sense, I'd 'a' known what you were from the start. I wish I had it to do over again, I hope to tell you. You was goin' to do wonders, you was! You wasn't goin' to be a bookkeeper long-oh, no, not you. Wait till you got started-you was goin' to show 'em. There wasn't no job in the store that was too big for you. Well, I've been waitin'- waitin' for you to get started-see? It's been a good long wait, too. Twenty-five years! An' I ain't seen nothin' happen. Twenty-five years in the same job. Twenty-five years tomorrow! You're proud of it, ain't you? Twenty-five years in the same job an' never missed a day! That's somethin' to be proud of, ain't it? Sittin' for twenty-five years on the same chair, addin' up figures. What about bein' store-manager? I guess you forgot about that, didn't you? An' me at home here lookin' at the same four walls an' workin' my fingers to the bone to make both ends meet. Seven years since you got a raise! An' if you don't get one tomorrow, I'll bet a nickel you won't have the guts to go on an' ask for one. I didn't pick much when I picked you, I'll tell the world. You ain't much to be proud of.

2. From Booth Tarkington, "Seventeen"

The little girl across the street was of course instantly aware of Jane, though she pretended not to be. Apparently in the very midst of her cares, she suddenly and without warning walked out into the street, halted, and stared frankly at Jane. Jane came out to the sidewalk and began to kick one of the fence-pickets.

"You see that ole fatty?" asked the little girl, pointing to one of the workmen.
"Yes."
"That's the one broke the goldfish." There was a pause during which she continued to scuff the curbstone with her shoe, Jane likewise scuffing the fence-picket. "I'm goin' to have papa get him arrested," added the new girl.
"My papa got two men arrested once," Jane said, calmly. "Two or three."
The new neighbor placed her feet far apart and leaned backward upon nothing, curving her front outward and her remarkably flexible spine inward until a profile view of her was grandly semicircular.
"Let's go in our yard," said Jane.
The little girl's eyes wandering upward, took note of a fierce young gentleman framed in an open window upstairs studying. "Who is that?" she asked.
"It's Willie."
"Is it your papa?"
"Nooooo!" Jane exclaimed. "It's Willie, my brother."

Jane thereupon placed her feet wide apart and leaned backward, attempting the feat just performed by the stranger. But she lacked the other's genius, lost her balance, and fell.

"No! Look at me!" the new girl cried. "This is the way. I call it 'putting your stummick out o' joint.' You haven't got yours out far enough."

"No! Look at me!" the new girl cried. "This is the way. I call it 'putting your stummick out o' joint.' You haven't got yours out far enough."
"Yes, I have," said Jane, gasping.
There came an outraged shout from the open window upstairs. "Jane!"
"What?"
"Stop that. Stop putting your stomach out in front of you like that! It's disgraceful."
"Why doesn't he like it?" the stranger asked.
"I don't know," said Jane. "He doesn't like much of anything. He's seventeen years old." But here Jane interrupted herself, and hopping behind a bush, peeped over it at a boy of ten or eleven who was passing along the sidewalk.
"Who was that boy?" the new neighbor inquired.
"It's Freddie," said Jane. "He's in our Sunday school. He's in love of me."
"Jane!" Again the voice from the window.
"What do you want?" Jane asked.
"What you mean talking about such things?"
"He's in love of Miss Pratt," said Jane.
William, to whom all was audible, shouted, "I'll see to you" and disappeared from the window.
"Will he come down here?"
"No! He's just gone to call mamma. All she'll do'll be to tell us to go play somewhere else."
"Jane," called Mrs. Baxter from William's window.
"Yes'm?"
"You must go somewhere else to play. Willie's trying to work at his studies up here, and he says you've disturbed him."
Yesm.
"I tell you what let's do,' Rannie suggested in a lowered voice. "He's got so fresh with us, an' made your mother come, an' all, let's-let's-"
"Let's what?" Jane urged her.
"Let's think up somep'n he won't like-an' do it!"

They disappeared around a corner of the house, their heads close together.

3. Cornelia Otis Skinner, "Nuit de Sin"

Monologue of a Young Man Buying Perfume

He approaches the counter with caution.

"Er . . ."

He stands for a moment dejectedly surveying the array of bottles as if they were musical glasses and somebody had commanded him to perform on them. He looks at the saleslady.

"Er . . ."

She doesn't seem to care. Nobody seems to care. He clears his throat more loudly than he means to. A saleslady approaches His spirits revive tremulously.

"Er . . . yes. Have you any perfume . . . ah, that is, any good perfume ... I mean what makes have you? Yes, it's for a present. I thought I'd . . . just what would make a good present for a good . . . present?" The saleslady suggests a few names. He smiles apologetically.

"I don't speak ... ha ... French ... ha ... very well, What was that? 'Parfum pour Blondes?' Well, no, I don't think that'll do; she's not exactly a blonde . . . she's sort of ... sort of ... ha ... brindle ... I mean. What're some other brands?"

The girl asks if he wants something in a bouquet.

"Oh, no. Just in a bottle."

The lady holds out a bottle. He takes it as if it might suddenly go off.

"Yes, that's a pretty bottle . . . that . . . that certainly is a pretty bottle, all right. 'Amour, Amour.' Well, that might seem a little premature. I mean, up to now we've just . . ."

The lady has produced another bottle which she thrusts under his nose. This frightens him quite badly and he recoils. Then he realizes she's not attacking him so he smiles awkwardly and sniffs with the courage of one taking chloroform.

"My! That's fine. I guess that's the real thing."

She withdraws the bottle and he feels to make sure his nose is still there. The young lady states the price. Pause.

"I see. Well ... I guess that must be good, all right."

Pause. She gets out another "flacon" and holds it under his nose. This time he leans forward to sniff it and hits his nose against the saleslady's hand.

"I beg your pardon. What's this one? . . . 'Evening in Paris?' Say, that's pretty good, isn't it? I was only over there for a short time ... I mean, I don't remember Paris smelling like that . . . How much is an Evening in . . . I mean how much?"

Pause.

"I see. Haven't you any of those pre-war kinds . . . You know those . . . well ... ha ... ha ... you know, 'Lemon Verbena?' . . . she seems to think that was great stuff. Even I can tell a smell like 'Lemon Verbena.'"

Silently the lady walks to the cheaper end of the counter and returns with a bottle of toilet water which she places scornfully beside the more exotic array.

"Oh, well, I guess my aunt was sort of conservative."

He tries without success to laugh it off. Something in the case attracts his gaze.

"Is that a good one? That one."

He tries to point but his finger conies abruptly in contact with the glass, which surprises him a good deal.

"No ... to the left . . . No, it isn't that one either. It's . . . well, yes, that's the one."

It isn't, but the girl has brought out five bottles already and he thinks he'd better let it go at that. She holds this again under his nose.

"Ha! My nose has gotten sort of deaf. I can't tell one from the other."

He turns slightly and realizes there are several impatient customers waiting silently behind him.

"Well now, I'd better make up my mind, hadn't I? Which would you choose ... if you were a girl which would you choose? I mean if you were my girl ... I beg your pardon . . . well, supposing somebody said to you, 'Choose!' Which would you choose? 'N'aimez que moi' or Indiscreet?'"

He feels the women behind him are listening. They are. It is with the utmost willpower he can bring himself to pronounce these names.

The saleslady says, "I can't say, sir. They're all very fine."

He decides to plunge. "I'll take that one."

He points resolutely between two bottles. The salesgirl picks up one and asks. "This?"

"Yes."

She picks up another and says, "Or this."

"Yes, that's it. No, don't send it. I'll deliver it myself. I'll just . . . carry it on my hip ... I mean I'll take it in my . . . That's fine. Well, I'm very glad I'm sure."

He turns around and bumps into one of the waiting women.

"I beg your pardon."

He bumps into another and grazes another on the way out but exits whistling.

4. Ernest Lawrence Thayer, "Casey at the Bat"

The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day;
The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play;
And so, when Cooney died at first, and Burrows did the same,
A sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest Clung
to the hope which springs eternal in the human breast; They
thought, if only Casey could but get a whack, at that, They'd
put up even money now, with Casey at the bat.

But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,
And the former was a pudding and the latter was a fake;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Casey's getting to the bat.

But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Blake, the much despised, tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and they saw what had occurred,
There was Jimmy safe on second, and Flynn a-hugging third.

Then from the gladdened multitude went up a joyous yell,
It bounded from the mountaintop, and rattled in the dell;
It struck upon the hillside, and recoiled upon the flat;
For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place,
There was pride in Casey's bearing, and a smile on Casey's face;
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt,
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt;
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance gleamed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there;
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped. "That
ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one," the umpire said.

From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore;
"Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted someone on the stand, And
it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.

With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew,
But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two."

"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and the echo answered, "Fraud!"
But a scornful look from Casey, and the audience was awed;
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.

The sneer is gone from Casey's lips, his teeth are clenched in hate,
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate;
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.

Oh! Somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright,
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light;
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout,
But there is no joy in Mudville-mighty Casey has struck out!

5. Bret Harte, "Entertaining Sister's Beau"

"My sister'll be down in a minute, and says you're to wait, if you please; And says I might stay till she came, if I'd promise never to tease, Nor speak till you spoke to me first. But that's nonsense, for how would you know What she told me to say, if I didn't? Don't you really and truly think so?

"And then you'd feel strange here alone! And wouldn't know just where to sit; For that chair isn't strong on its legs, and we never use it a bit. We keep it to match with the sofa. But Jack said it would be just like you To flop yourself right down upon it, and knock out the very last screw.

"S'pose you try? I won't tell. You're afraid to! Oh! You're afraid they would think it was mean! Well, then, there's the album-that's pretty, if your fingers are clean. My sister says sometimes I daub it; but she only says that when she's cross; There's her picture. You know it? It's like her, but she ain't as good looking, of course!

"That is me. It's the best of 'em all. Now, tell me you'd never have thought That once I was little as that? It's the only one that could be bought For that was the message to pa from the photograph man where I sat-That he wouldn't print off any more till he first got his money for that.

"What? Maybe you're tired of waiting. Why, often she's longer than this.

There's all her back hair to do up, and all her front hair to friz. But it's nice to be sitting here talking like grown people, just you and me. Do you think you'll be coming here often? Oh, do! But don't come like Tom Lee.

"Tom Lee? Her last beau. Why, my goodness! He used to be here day and night. Till the folks thought he'd soon be her husband; and Jack says that gave him a fright. You won't run away, then, as he did? For you're not a rich man, they say; Pa says you're as poor as a church mouse. Now, are you? And how poor are they?

"Ain't you glad that you met me? Well, I am; for I know your hair isn't red; But what there is left of it's mousy, and not what that naughty Jack said. But there! I must go! Sister's coming. But I wish I could wait, just to see If she ran up to you and kissed you in the way she used to kiss Lee."

6. Kate Douglas Wiggin, "The Author's Reading at Bixby Centre"

Oh! Yes, the Readin' was a great success, as everything is in Bixby Centre, when we get around to it, but it takes lots of work, I can tell you. There ain't many small places that's got the talent we have here in the Centre, and talent allus attracts talent, somehow . . .

They've had these author's readings in the cities lately, and the Winter Night Club's been saving up money for one these two years, and they was determined to do it up in style, so they wrote to the author they decided on and told her they wa'n't goin' to spare expense, and she could have $5.00 and railroad fare if she'd come and read, and she could stop with Miss Stevens at the Upper Corner. She sent word right back that she was expecting to be in Portland for a month, and she could come just as well as not and wouldn't trouble us to pay the $5.00. She said it would be a pleasure and profit enough to meet the Committee who had been correspondin' with her. I didn't suspicion that writers was rich enough to refuse a five-dollar bill, but maybe she had money left to her by somebody and was kind of independent.

Of course, it wa'n't what you would call "skilled labour" anyway. She didn't make no pretense hardly, she just read right along good and clear, but she wa'n't no elocutionist and she didn't act out anything a mite. In one way, she couldn't hold a candle to that Miss-what is that black-haired girl's name, that's cousin to Miss Tucker of the Lower Corner? Well, anyway, she graduated at a school of oratory and she's been here twice and recited "The Curfew Shall Not Ring To-night" and the "Maniac." . . . Miss Tucker says her cousin has real talent. I guess she has. She's got courage anyhow, and she sure has a good pair of lungs.

No, I ain't said much about the readin' itself, for if you're on the committee, you're too busy to listen to anything that goes on. The author looked pretty and appeared pretty. The audience was real pleased with her, and she said they were awful easy to read to; but I told her it wa'n't no ordinary State o' Maine audience she had in Bixby, a place that has three churches, two settled ministers, four college graduates, and a Reading Club, and a High School and a drinkin' fountain.

The next morning, the committee went to the depot to see the author off. Just as the author was gettin' on the train, the president of the Readin' Club stepped up and presented her with an album that had the photographs of all the members pasted in it. Si says it ain't the handsomest club in the L'nited States, even when it's got its best clothes on: but that's nothin' but a man's way of runnin' down women's clubs.

7. Clarence Day, "Father Hires a Cook," from Life with Father and Mother

One late afternoon when Father came up from downtown, he found his home much upset. Our cook had walked out and left us. I was a child of four, George was two, and there was a new baby besides. Mother was ill. She hadn't been able to leave us to go to an agency. And as she was no hand at cooking herself, the outlook for dinner was poor.

This state of affairs was unprecedented in all Father's experience. In his father's home, they never changed their servants suddenly; they seldom changed them at all; and as his mother was a past mistress of cooking, he had always been doubly protected. Since his marriage, he had had to live a much bumpier life. But this was the worst yet.

He asked Mother, who was lying in bed, what she was going to do about it. There were no telephones then, and she couldn't do anything at all, at the moment; but she said she would try to go to an agency in the morning and see what she could find. "In the morning? Good God!" Father said. "Where is the place, anyhow?" And he clapped on his hat and strode out again, over toward Sixth Avenue.

As I heard the story years afterward, it was late when he got there, and he bounded up the front stoop two or three steps at a time, and went quickly into the little office, where the gaslights were burning. He had never been in such a place before, and to his surprise it was empty, except for a severe-looking woman who sat at a desk at one side. "Where do you keep 'em?" he urgently demanded, his mind on the question of dinner.

She looked at him, got out her pen, and opened a large book deliberately. "I will take your name and address," she informed him, "and then, if you please, you may give me the details as to what kind of person you require and when you would wish her to call."

But Father had no time, he told her, for any damned fol-de-rol. "Where do you keep 'em?" he said again. She was standing in the way of his dinner. I can imagine how his face must have reddened and how his eyes must have blazed at her. "I am asking you where you keep them!" he roared.

"Why, the girls are in there," the lady explained, to calm him, "but clients are not allowed in that room. If you will tell me the kind of position you wish me to fill for you, I will have one come out."

Before she'd half finished, Father had thrown open the door and gone in. There sat a crowd of the girls, young and old, sickly and brawny, of all shapes and sizes; some ugly, some pretty and trim and stylish, some awkward; nurses, ladies' maids, waitresses, washerwomen, and cooks.

The manager was by now at Father's elbow, trying to make him get out, and insisting that he tell her the position he wished her to fill. But Father was swiftly glancing around at the crowd, and he paid no attention. He noticed a little woman in the corner, with honest gray eyes, who sat there, shrewd-looking and quiet. He pointed his cane over at her and said, "I'll take that one.

The manager was flustered, but still she kept trying to enforce her authority. She protested she didn't yet know the position . . . "Cook," Father said, "Cook."

"But Margaret doesn't wish to be a cook, she wants-" "You can cook, can't you?" Father demanded. Margaret's plain little face was still pink with excitement and pleasure at being chosen above all that roomful by such a masterful gentleman. Father had probably smiled at her, too, for they liked each other at once. Well, she said, she had cooked for one family.

"Of course she can cook," Father said.

He said afterward, when describing the incident, "I knew at once she could cook."

The manager didn't like this at all. The discipline of the office was spoiled. "If you are going to take her anyhow," she said acidly, "what day would you wish her to come, and will you please give me your name?"

"Yes, yes," Father said, without giving it. "Come on, Margaret." And he planked down the fee and walked out.

Margaret followed him through the door and trotted over to our home at his heels. He sent her down to the kitchen immediately, while he went upstairs to dress.

"I don't know why you make such a fuss about engaging new servants. It's simple enough," he said comfortably to Mother that evening, after Margaret's first dinner.

It was the first of a long series, for she stayed with us twenty-six years.

8. From Franklin D. Roosevelt, "First Inaugural Address"

Franklin D. Roosevelt was the last of the Presidents to be inaugurated on March 4, as the date of inauguration has since been changed to January 20. When Roosevelt stood on the steps of the capitol in Washington on March 4, 1932, the nation was plunged in the depths of a severe depression. People from Coast to Coast looked to the new President for some words of encouragement to dispel their pessimism. This is the speech for which the people waited.

Even those who disagreed with Roosevelt and his policies, conceded that he was a very eloquent speaker. His frequent "Fireside Chats" which he broadcast throughout the land over the radio networks did much to allay the fears of the people. A quotation from this speech: "the only thing we have to fear is fear itself" became a watchword in the President's New Deal to get the nation back on the road to prosperity.

This is a day of national consecration, and I am certain that my fellow-Americans expect that on my induction into the Presidency, I will address them with candor and a decision which the present situation of our nation impels.

This is pre-eminently the time to speak the truth, the whole truth, frankly and boldly. Nor need we shrink from honestly facing conditions in our country today. This great nation will endure as it has endured, will revive and will prosper.

So first of all, let me assert my firm belief that the only thing we have to fear is fear itself-nameless, unreasoning, unjustified terror which paralyzes needed efforts to convert retreat into advance.

In every dark hour of our national life a leadership of frankness and vigor has met with that understanding and support which is essential to victory. I am convinced that you will again give that support to leadership in these critical days. . . .

We do not distrust the future of essential democracy. The people of the United States have not failed. In their need, they have registered a mandate that they want direct vigorous action.

They have asked for discipline and direction under leadership. They have made me the present instrument of their wishes. In the spirit of the gift I take it.

PRESIDENT "FRANKLIN D. ROOSEVELT WAS A MOST ELOQUENT SPEAKER

9. Elijah Kellogg, "Spartacus to the Gladiators"

Spartacus was a Grecian slave in Rome where he was forced to become a gladiator and, perform in the arena for the entertainment of the Roman people. In 73 B.C., he rebelled against this inhuman treatment and persuaded several thousand, other fellow-slaves to fight their way to freedom. Here is his famous speech in which he aroused the gladiators to action as reconstructed by Elijah Kellogg.

"Ye call me chief, and ye do well to call him chief, who, for twelve long years has met upon the arena every shape of man or beast that the broad Empire of Rome could furnish, and yet never has lowered his arm. And if there be one among you who can say that, ever, in public fight, or private brawl, my actions did belie my tongue, let him step forth and say it. If there be three in all your throng dare face me on the bloody sand, let them come on!

"Yet I was not always thus, a hired butcher, a savage chief of savage men. My father was a reverent man, who feared great Jupiter, and brought to the rural deities his offerings of fruit and flowers. He dwelt among the vine-clad rocks and olive groves at the foot of Helicon. My early life ran quiet as the brook by which I sported. I was taught to prune the vine, to tend the flock; and then, at noon, I gathered my .sheep beneath the shade, and played upon the shepherd's flute. I had a friend, the son of our neighbor; we led our flocks to the same pasture, and shared together our rustic meal.

"One evening, after the sheep were folded, and we were all seated beneath the myrtle that shaded our cottage, my grandsire, an old man, was telling of Marathon and Leuctra, and how, in ancient times, a little band of Spartans, in a defile of the mountains, withstood a whole army. I did not then know what war meant; but my cheeks burned. I knew not why; and I clasped the knees of that venerable man, till my mother, parting the hair from off my brow, kissed my throbbing temples, and bade me go to rest, and think no more of those old tales and savage wars.

"That very night the Romans landed on our shore, and the clash of steel was heard within our quiet vale. I saw the breast that had nourished me trampled by the iron hoof of the war-horse; the bleeding body of my father flung amid the blazing rafters of our dwelling. Today T killed a man in the arena, and when I broke his helmet-clasps, behold; he was my friend! He knew me,-smiled faintly,-gasped,-and died; the same sweet smile that I had marked upon his face when, in adventurous boyhood, we scaled some lofty cliff to pluck the first ripe grapes, and bear them home in childish triumph. I told the praetor he was my friend, noble and brave, and I begged his body, that f might burn it upon the funeral-pile, and mourn over him. Ay, on my knees, amid the dust and blood of the arena, I begged that boon, while all the Roman maids and matrons, and those holy virgins they call vestals, and the rabble, shouted in mockery, deeming it rare sport, forsooth, to sec Rome's fiercest gladiator turn pale, and tremble like a very child before that piece of bleeding clay; but the praetor drew back as if I were pollution, and sternly said, 'Let the carrion rot! There are no noble men but Romans.'" And he, deprived of funeral rites, must wander, a hapless ghost, beside the waters of that sluggish river, and look-and look-and look in vain to the bright Elysian Fields where dwell his ancestors and noble kindred. And so must you, and so must I, die like dogs!

"Oh Rome! Rome! Thou hast been a tender nurse to me! Ay, tliOu hast given to that poor, gentle, timid shepherd-lad, who never knew a harsher sound than a flute-note, muscles of iron and a heart of flint; taught him to drive the sword through rugged brass and plaited mail, and warm it in the marrow of his foe, to gaze into the glaring eyeballs of the fierce Numidian lion, even as a smooth-cheeked boy upon a laughing girl. And he shall pay thee back till thy yellow Tiber is red as frothing wine, and in its deepest ooze thy life-blood lies curdled!

"Ye stand here now like giants, as ye are! The strength of brass in your toughened sinews; but tomorrow some Roman Adonis, breathing sweet odors from his curly locks, shall come, and with his lily fingers pat your brawny shoulders, and bet his sesterces upon your blood! Hark! Hear ye yon lion roaring in his den? 'Tis three days since he tasted meat; but tomorrow he shall break his fast upon your flesh; and ye shall be a dainty meal for him.

"If ye are brutes, then stand here like fat oxen waiting for the butcher's knife; if ye are men, follow me! Strike down yon sentinel, and gain the mountain-passes, and there do bloody work as did your sires at old Thermopylae! Is Sparta dead? Is the old Grecian spirit frozen in your veins, that ye do crouch and cower like base-born slaves beneath your master's lash? O comrades! Warriors! Thracians! If we must fight, let us fight for ourselves; if we must slaughter, let us slaughter our oppressors; if we must die, let us die under the open sky, by the bright waters, in noble, honorable battle."

10. Josephine Dickerson, "The T. V. Bug"

We use to have the loveliest lawn,
So nice and smooth and green. Without the ugly bumps and things
Like other yards I've seen. The bushes cut and trimmed just right
And tended so, each year They'd burst in bloom and best by far,
Most any growing near. But now the weeds are thick and tall,
There's no potatoes dug.
And all this happened just since Pa's
Been hit by the T.V. bug. The shovel lies around, unused;
Both hoe and rake are dusty. I'm going to sell the lawn-mower soon,
It's getting awful rusty. Our house don't even look the same,
(I'll whisper this to you) To tell the truth, it's all because-
The blame bug bit me too.

Selections for Acting

1. From Maxwell Anderson, "Joan of Lorraine"

Act II-The Trial

Joan [Kneeling]. King of Heaven, the night is over. My jailers have worn themselves out with tormenting me, and have gone to sleep. And I should sleep-I could sleep safely now-but the bishop's questions come back to me over and over. What if I were wrong? How do I know that my visions were good? I stare wide awake at the dawn in the window and I cannot find an answer.-So many things they said were true. It is true that the king we crowned at Rheims is not wise nor just nor honest. It is true that his realm is not well governed. It is true that I am alone, that my friends have forgotten me, both the King and the nobles who fought beside me. There is no word from them, no offer of ransom. And I am doubly alone, for I have denied my visions, and they will come to me no more.-I believe my visions to be good. I know them to be good, but I do not know how to defend them. When I am brought into a court, and must prove what I believe, how can I prove that they are good and not evil?-Yes, and I ask myself whether I have been honest always, for when I went among men I acted a part. It was not only that I wore boy's clothes.-I stood as my brother stood and spoke heartily as he spoke, and put my challenges in the words he would have spoken. When I spoke with my own voice nobody listened, nobody heard me, yet, was it honest to assume ways that were not my own?-I know there's to be no answer. I can expect no answer now, after I have betrayed and denied my saints.-They will not burn me now because I admitted that I could not prove my voices good-and I submitted to the church. And now, when I am to live, when I have done what they say is right, I am more unhappy than when they said I was wrong, and must die. [She bows her head. To the left, and partly in the wings, a light brightens]

St. Michael. [Off-stage]. Jeannette.

Joan. Yes.

St. Michael. You were not wrong. You were not mistaken. Only keep true to us, and what you have done will set France free.

Joan. But the King is not a good king.

St. Michael. A king is not for long. Good will come of his crowning. The French will have his kingdom.

Joan. You have spoken to me, and I denied you.

St. Michael. How would you understand these things, Jeanette? They confuse you with questions, questions that no man can answer. But the church itself is built on revelations, and these revelations came out of darkness and went back into darkness like your own.

Joan. They say I can prove nothing.

St. Michael. They can prove no more. In all the articles of belief and creed not one is capable of proof.

Joan. How sharply I see-how different everything looks-the window-and the dim cell-and the black dress. I wanted a black dress when I left Domremy, but I had to wear that old, red patched one. [Puts dress down]

I wonder where my mother and father are. The taxes are remitted on Domremy. Remitted forever, it's said. [She crosses to window]

It cannot take long to die. There will be a little pain and then it will end. No, the pain will not be little but it will end. [Turns front]

And if it were to do over, I would do it again. I would follow my faith, even to the fire.

2. From Robert Browning, "My Last Duchess"

(The speaker is the Duke of Ferrara. He is in the process of negotiating with an envoy from an unnamed Court for his second wife, his first wife, as you learn from the poem, having been disposed of by the Duke. Evidently, the envoy and the Duke are touring the Duke's palace in the city of Ferrara in Northern Italy, and, on the upstairs gallery, they pass by the picture of the Duke's first wife. As is often the case, there are formal chairs where you may sit to look at paintings. The Duke and the envoy take two of these chairs early in the monologue.)

That's my last Duchess painted on the wall, Looking as if she were alive. I call That piece a wonder now; Fra Pandolf s hands Worked busily a day, and there she stands. Will 't please you sit and look at her? 2 I said "Fra Pandolf" by design,3 for never read Strangers like you that pictured countenance, The depth and passion of its earnest glance, But to myself they turned (since none puts by The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)4 And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst, How such a glance came there; so, not the first Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not Her husband's presence only, called that spot Of joy into the Duchess' cheek; perhaps Fra Pandolf chanced to say, "Her mantle laps Over my Lady's wrist too much," or "Paint Must never hope to reproduce the faint Half-flush that dies along her throat." Such stuff Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough For calling up that spot of joy. She had A heart-how shall I say?-too soon made glad, Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er She looked on, and her looks went everywhere. Sir, 'twas all one! My favor at her breast,5 The dropping of the daylight in the West, The bough of cherries some officious fool

Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule She rode with round the terrace-all and each Would draw from her alike the approving speech, Or blush, at least. She thanked men-good! But thanked Somehow-I know not how-as if she ranked My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame this sort of trifling? Even had you skill In speech-which I have not-to make your will Quite clear to such an one,6 and say, "Just this Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss, Or there exceed the mark"-and if she let Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse-E'en then would be some stooping; and I choose Never to stoop. Oh, Sir, she smiled, no doubt, Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands; Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands As if alive. Will't please you rise? 7 We'll meet The company below, then.8 I repeat, The Count your master's known munificence Is ample warrant that no just pretense Of mine for dowry will be disallowed; Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go Together down, Sir.9 Notice Neptune, though, Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity, Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me! 10

3. From Robert Benchley, "Treasurer's Report"

You must all understand at the start that I am not nervous. I am simply giving an imitation of a nervous man who has been called upon to read a Treasurer's Report in place of the regular treasurer who is ill.

I shall take but a very few moments of your time this evening, for I realize that you would much rather be listening to this interesting entertainment than to a dry financial report.

Now, in connection with reading this report, there are one or two points which Dr. Murnie wanted brought up in connection with it and he has asked me to bring them up in connec-to bring them up. In the first place, there is the question of the work that we are trying to do up there at our little place at Silver Lake, a work which we feel not only fills a very definite need in the community, but also fills a very definite need in-the community.

I was speaking on this subject only last week at our uptown branch, and, after the meeting, a dear little old lady, dressed all in lavender, came up on the platform and, laying her hand on my arm, said: "Mr. So-and-So (calling me by name) Mr. So-and-So, what did you do with all the money we gave you last year?" Well, I just laughed and pushed her off the platform, but it has occurred to the committee that perhaps some of you, like that little old lady, would be interested in knowing the disposition of the funds.

Following, then, is a summary of the Treasurer's Report: (Reads, in a very businesslike manner)

During the year 1929-and by that is meant 1928-The Choral Society received the following in donations:

B. L. G. ................ $500.00

G. K. M. ................ $500.00

Lettie and Nellie W ..... $500.00

In memory of a happy summer at Rye Beach ... 10.00 Proceeds of a sale of coats and hats left in the

boat-house .............. 14.55

And then the Junior League gave a performance of "Pinafore" for the benefit of the Funds, which, unfortunately, resuited in a deficit of $300.00

Then, from dues and charges ..... 354.75

Making a total of receipts amounting to $3,645.75

This is all, of course, reckoned as of June.

In the matter of expenditures, the Club has not been so fortunate. There was the unsettled condition of business, and the late Spring, to contend with, resulting in the following- er-rather discouraging figures, I'm afraid.

Expenditures ............ $23,574.85

Then, there was a loss, owing to-several

things .................. 3,326.70

Car-fare ................ 4,452.25

And, then, Mrs. Rawlin's expense account, when she went down to see the work they are doing in Baltimore, came to $256.50, but I am sure that you will all agree that it was worth it to find out-er-what they are doing in Baltimore. And then, under the general head of Odds

and Ends ................ $2,536.50

Making a total disbursement of (hurriedly)...416,546.75 Or a net deficit of-ah-several thousand dollars.

Now, these figures bring us down only to October. In October, my sister was married and the house was all torn up, and in the general confusion we lost track of the figures for May and August. All those wishing the approximate figures for May and August, however, may obtain them from me in the vestry after the dinner, where I will be with pledge cards for those of you who wish to subscribe over and above your annual dues, and I hope that each and every one of you here tonight will look deep into his heart and (archly) into his pocketbook, and see if he cannot find it there to help us put this thing over with a bang (accompanied by a wholly ineffectual gesture representing a bang) and to help and make this just the biggest and best year the Armonians have ever had. ... I thank you.

(Exits, bumping into proscenium)

(FOR ADDITIONAL SELECTIONS SUITABLE FOR ACTING, SEE CHAPTER 15 ON DRAMATISATION.)

Student Check List 5: HOW WELL DO YOU READ ALOUD?
How would you rate yourself?	Point Value	Your Score
1. When you are reading aloud, do you always keep in mind its main purpose?	20
2. Do you always try to focus the attention of the audience on the selection you are reading, and not on yourself?	20
3. Have you read aloud with gestures to impersonate the character?	5
4. Do you always analyze in advance each selection you are planning to use, so that your reading will be well organized?	5
5. Do you always prepare your selection by reading it aloud to yourself, prior to the time of its presentation?	10
6. Do you always provide a suitable introduction to each selection?	10
7. Do you always try to maintain "eye contact" with the audience?	10
8. Do you allow sufficient pauses in your reading to allow your audience time to "think along"?	10
9. Do you keep your own physical activity, while reading, in keeping with the character being portrayed?	10
TOTAL	100

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