Reading Task 4

The Tell-Tale Heart (By Edgar Allan Poe)

True!  Nervous -- very, very nervous I had been and am!  But why will you say that I am mad?  The disease had sharpened my senses -- not destroyed them.

Above all was the sense of hearing.  I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth.  I heard many things in the underworld.  How, then, am I mad?  Observe how healthily -- how calmly I can tell you the whole story.

It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain.  I loved the old man.  He had never wronged me.  He had never given me insult.  For his gold I had no desire.  I think it was his eye!  Yes, it was this!  He had the eye of a bird, a vulture -- a pale blue eye, with a film over it.  Whenever it fell on me, my blood ran cold; and so -- very slowly -- I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and free myself of the eye forever.

Now this is the point.  You think that I am mad.  Madmen know nothing.  But you should have seen me.  You should have seen how wisely and carefully I went to work!

I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him.  And every night, late at night, I turned the lock of his door and opened it – oh, so gently!  And then, when I had made an opening big enough for my head, I put in a dark lantern, all closed that no light shone out, and then I stuck in my head.  I moved it slowly, very slowly, so that I might not interfere with the old mans sleep.  And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid the lantern just so much that a single thin ray of light fell upon the vulture eye.

And this I did for seven long nights -- but I found the eye always closed; and so it was impossible to do the work; for it was not the old man who was a problem for me, but his Evil Eye.

On the eighth night, I was more than usually careful in opening the door.  I had my head in and was about to open the lantern, when my finger slid on a piece of metal and made a noise.  The old man sat up in bed, crying out "Whos there?"

I kept still and said nothing.  I did not move a muscle for a whole hour.  During that time, I did not hear him lie down.  He was still sitting up in the bed listening -- just as I have done, night after night.

Then I heard a noise, and I knew it was the sound of human terror.  It was the low sound that arises from the bottom of the soul.  I knew the sound well.  Many a night, late at night, when all the world slept, it has welled up from deep within my own chest.  I say I knew it well.

I knew what the old man felt, and felt sorry for him, although I laughed to myself.  I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first noise, when he had turned in the bed.  His fears had been ever since growing upon him.

When I had waited a long time, without hearing him lie down, I decided to open a little -- a very, very little -- crack in the lantern.  So I opened it.  You cannot imagine how carefully, carefully.  Finally, a single ray of light shot from out and fell full upon the vulture eye.

It was open -- wide, wide open -- and I grew angry as I looked at it.  I saw it clearly -- all a dull blue, with a horrible veil over it that chilled my bones; but I could see nothing else of the old mans face or person.  For I had directed the light exactly upon the damned spot.

And have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but a kind of over-sensitivity?  Now, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when inside a piece of cotton.  I knew that sound well, too.  It was the beating of the old mans heart.  It increased my anger.

But even yet I kept still.  I hardly breathed.  I held the lantern motionless.  I attempted to keep the ray of light upon the eye.  But the beating of the heart increased.  It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder every second.  The old mans terror must have been extreme!  The beating grew louder, I say, louder every moment!

And now at the dead hour of the night, in the horrible silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror.  Yet, for some minutes longer I stood still.  But the beating grew louder, louder!  I thought the heart must burst.

And now a new fear seized me -- the sound would be heard by a neighbor!  The old mans hour had come!  With a loud shout, I threw open the lantern and burst into the room.

He cried once -- once only.  Without delay, I forced him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him.  I then smiled, to find the action so far done.

But, for many minutes, the heart beat on with a quiet sound.  This, however, did not concern me; it would not be heard through the wall.  At length, it stopped.  The old man was dead.  I removed the bed and examined the body.  I placed my hand over his heart and held it there many minutes.  There was no movement.  He was stone dead.  His eye would trouble me no more.

If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise steps I took for hiding the body.  I worked quickly, but in silence.  First of all, I took apart the body.  I cut off the head and the arms and the legs.

I then took up three pieces of wood from the flooring, and placed his body parts under the room.  I then replaced the wooden boards so well that no human eye -- not even his -- could have seen anything wrong.

There was nothing to wash out -- no mark of any kind -- no blood whatever.  I had been too smart for that.  A tub had caught all -- ha! ha!

When I had made an end of these labors, it was four oclock in the morning.  As a clock sounded the hour, there came a noise at the street door.  I went down to open it with a light heart -- for what had I now to fear?  There entered three men, who said they were officers of the police.  A cry had been heard by a neighbor during the night; suspicion of a crime had been aroused; information had been given at the police office, and the officers had been sent to search the building.

I smiled -- for what had I to fear?  The cry, I said, was my own in a dream.  The old man, I said, was not in the country.  I took my visitors all over the house.  I told them to search -- search well.  I led them, at length, to his room.  I brought chairs there, and told them to rest.  I placed my own seat upon the very place under which lay the body of the victim.

The officers were satisfied.  I was completely at ease.  They sat, and while I answered happily, they talked of common things.  But, after a while, I felt myself getting weak and wished them gone.  My head hurt, and I had a ringing in my ears; but still they sat and talked.

The ringing became more severe.  I talked more freely to do away with the feeling.  But it continued until, at length, I found that the noise was not within my ears.

I talked more and with a heightened voice.  Yet the sound increased -- and what could I do?  It was a low, dull, quick sound like a watch makes when inside a piece of cotton.  I had trouble breathing -- and yet the officers heard it not.  I talked more quickly -- more loudly; but the noise increased.  I stood up and argued about silly things, in a high voice and with violent hand movements.  But the noise kept increasing.

Why would they not be gone?  I walked across the floor with heavy steps, as if excited to anger by the observations of the men -- but the noise increased.  What could I do?  I swung my chair and moved it upon the floor, but the noise continually increased.  It grew louder -- louder -- louder!  And still the men talked pleasantly, and smiled.

Was it possible they heard not?  No, no!  They heard!  They suspected!  They knew!  They were making a joke of my horror!  This I thought, and this I think.  But anything was better than this pain!  I could bear those smiles no longer!  I felt that I must scream or die!  And now -- again!  Louder!  Louder!  Louder!

"Villains!" I cried, "Pretend no more!  I admit the deed!  Tear up the floor boards!  Here, here!  It is the beating of his hideous heart!"

Reading task 3

Luck by: Mark Twain

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

I cannot describe my excitement when I saw this great and famous man. There he sat, the man himself, in person, all covered with medals. I could not take my eyes off him. He seemed to show the true mark of greatness. His fame had no effect on him. The hundreds of eyes watching him, the worship of so many people did not seem to make any difference to him.

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

This came as a shock to me. I looked hard at him. I could not have been more surprised if he has said the same thing about Nepoleon, or Socrates, or Solomon. But I was sure of two things about the clergyman. He always spoke the truth. And, his judgment of men was good. Therefore, I wanted to find out more about our hero as soon as I could.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And there – oh dear, it was terrible. Mistakes, fearful mistakes – why, he never did anything that was right – nothing but mistakes. But, you see, nobody knew the secret of how stupid he really was. Everybody misunderstood his actions. They saw his stupid mistakes as works of great intelligence. They did, honestly!

His smallest mistakes made a man in his right mind cry, and shout and scream too – to himself, of course. And what kept me in a continual fear was the fact that every mistake he made increased his glory and fame. I kept saying to myself that when at last they found out about him, it will be like the sun falling out of the sky.

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

The battle grew hotter. The English and their allies were steadily retreating all over the field. Our regiment occupied a position that was extremely important. One mistake now would bring total disaster. And what did Scoresby do this time – he just mistook his left hand for his right hand…that was all. An order came for him to fall back and support our right. Instead, he moved forward and went over the hillto the left. We were over the hill before this insane movement could be discovered and stopped. And what did we find? A large and unsuspected Russian army waiting! And what happened – were we all killed? That is exactly what would have happened in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred.  But no – those surprised Russians thought that no one regiment by itself would come around there at such a time.

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

The allied commander looked on, his head spinning with wonder, surprise and joy.  He sent right off for Scoresby, and put his arms around him and hugged him on the field in front of all the armies. Scoresby became famous that day as a great military leader – honored throughout the world. That honor will never disappear while history books last.

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

Until now, nobody knew it but Scoresby and myself. He has been followed, day by day, year by year, by a strange luck. He has been a shining soldier in all our wars for years.  He has filled his whole military life with mistakes. Every one of them brought him another honorary title. Look at his chest, flooded with British and foreign medals. Well, sir, every one of them is the record of some great stupidity or other. They are proof that the best thing that can happen to a man is to be born lucky. I say again, as I did at the dinner, Scoresby's a complete fool.

Reading task 2

The Story of an Eyewitness

The western American city of San Francisco, California suffered a huge earthquake on April 18th, 1906.

More than three thousand people are known to have died.  The true number of dead will never be known.  Two hundred fifty thousand people lost their homes. Just a few hours after the terrible earthquake, a magazine named Collier's sent a telegraph message to the famous American writer Jack London.  They asked Mr. London to go to San Francisco and report about what he saw.

He arrived in the city only a few hours after the earthquake.  The report he wrote is called, "THE STORY OF AN EYEWITNESS."  Here is Doug Johnson with the story.

Not in history has a modern city been so completely destroyed.  San Francisco is gone.  Nothing remains of it but memories and a few homes that were near the edge of the city.  Its industrial area is gone.  Its business area is gone. Its social and living areas are gone.  The factories, great stores and newspaper buildings, the hotels and the huge homes of the very rich, are all gone.

Within minutes of the earthquake the fires began.  Within an hour a huge tower of smoke caused by the fires could be seen a hundred miles away.  And for three days and nights this huge fire moved in the sky, reddening the sun, darkening the day and filling the land with smoke.

There was no opposing the flames.  There was no organization, no communication.  The earthquake had smashed all of the modern inventions of a twentieth century city.  The streets were broken and filled with pieces of fallen walls.  The telephone and telegraph systems were broken.  And the great water pipes had burst.  All inventions and safety plans of man had been destroyed by thirty seconds of movement by the earth.

By Wednesday afternoon, only twelve hours after the earthquake, half the heart of the city was gone. I watched the huge fire.  It was very calm.  There was no wind.  Yet from every side, wind was pouring in upon the city.  East, west, north and south, strong winds were blowing upon the dying city.

The heated air made a huge wind that pulled air into the fire, rising into the atmosphere.  Day and night the calm continued, and yet, near the flames, the wind was often as strong as a storm.

ANNOUNCER: There was no water to fight the fire.  Fire fighters decided to use explosives to destroy buildings in its path.  They hoped this would create a block to slow or stop the fire.  Building after building was destroyed.  And still the great fires continued.  Jack London told how people tried to save some of their possessions from the fire.

STORYTELLER: Wednesday night the whole city crashed and roared into ruin, yet the city was quiet.  There were no crowds.  There was no shouting and yelling.  There was no disorder.  I passed Wednesday night in the path of the fire and in all those terrible hours I saw not one woman who cried, not one man who was excited, not one person who caused trouble.

Throughout the night, tens of thousands of homeless ones fled the fire.  Some were wrapped in blankets. Others carried bedding and dear household treasures.

Many of the poor left their homes with everything they could carry.  Many of their loads were extremely heavy.  Throughout the night they dropped items they could no longer hold.  They left on the street clothing and treasures they had carried for miles.

Many carried large boxes called trunks. They held onto these the longest.  It was a hard night and the hills of San Francisco are steep.  And up these hills, mile after mile, were the trunks dragged.  Many a strong man broke his heart that night.

Before the march of the fire were soldiers. Their job was to keep the people moving away from the fire.  The extremely tired people would arise and struggle up the steep hills, pausing from weakness every five or ten feet.  Often, after reaching the top of a heart-breaking hill, they would find the fire was moving at them from a different direction.

After working hour after hour through the night to save part of their lives, thousands were forced to leave their trunks and flee.

At night I walked down through the very heart of the city.  I walked through mile after mile of beautiful buildings.  Here was no fire.  All was in perfect order.  The police patrolled the streets.  And yet it was all doomed, all of it.  There was no water.  The explosives were almost used up.  And two huge fires were coming toward this part of the city from different directions.

Four hours later I walked through this same part of the city.  Everything still stood as before.  And yet there was a change.  A rain of ashes was falling.  The police had been withdrawn.  There were no firemen, no fire engines, and no men using explosives.  I stood at the corner of Kearney and Market Streets in the very heart of San Francisco.   Nothing could be done. Nothing could be saved.  The surrender was complete.

It was impossible to guess where the fire would move next.  In the early evening I passed through Union Square.  It was packed with refugees.  Thousands of them had gone to bed on the grass.  Government tents had been set up, food was being cooked and the refugees were lining up for free meals.

Late that night I passed Union Square again.  Three sides of the Square were in flames.  The Square, with mountains of trunks, was deserted.  The troops, refugees and all had retreated.

The next morning I sat in front of a home on San Francisco's famous Nob Hill.  With me sat Japanese, Italians, Chinese and Negroes.  All about were the huge homes of the very rich.  To the east and south of us were advancing two huge walls of fire.

I went inside one house and talked to the owner.  He smiled and said the earthquake had destroyed everything he owned.  All he had left was his beautiful house.  He looked at me and said, "The fire will be here in fifteen minutes."

Outside the house the troops were falling back and forcing the refugees ahead of them.  From every side came the roaring of flames, the crashing of walls and the sound of explosives.

Day was trying to dawn through the heavy smoke.  A sickly light was creeping over the face of things.  When the sun broke through the smoke it was blood-red and small.  The smoke changed color from red to rose to purple.

I walked past the broken dome of the City Hall building. This part of the city was already a waste of smoking ruins.  Here and there through the smoke came a few men and women.  It was like the meeting of a few survivors the day after the world ended.

ANNOUNCER: The huge fires continued to burn on.  Nothing could stop them.  Mr. London walked from place to place in the city, watching the huge fires destroy the city.  Nothing could be done to halt the firestorm.

In the end, the fire went out by itself because there was nothing left to burn.  Jack London finishes his story:

All day Thursday and all Thursday night, all day Friday and Friday night, the flames raged on.  Friday night saw the huge fires finally conquered, but not before the fires had swept three-quarters of a mile of docks and store houses at the waterfront.

San Francisco at the present time is like the center of a volcano.  Around this volcano are tens of thousands of refugees.  All the surrounding cities and towns are jammed with the homeless ones.  The refugees were carried free by the railroads to any place they wished to go.  It is said that more than one hundred thousand people have left the peninsula on which San Francisco stood.

The government has control of the situation, and thanks to the immediate relief given by the whole United States, there is no lack of food.  The bankers and businessmen have already begun making the necessary plans to rebuild this once beautiful city of San Francisco.