Do you like surprise endings? Enjoy asking “what if”?

look Do you like surprise endings? Enjoy asking “what if”?

Read on for twists, turns, and the unexpected! The selections in this unit will challenge you with the weird and the unusual ... and in some cases, you may find you don’t have all the answers!

Dorothy Livesay When I was a child, Lying in bed on a summer evening, The wind was a tall sweet woman Standing beside my window. She came whenever my mind was quiet. But on other nights I was tossed about in fear and agony Because of goblins poking at the blind, And fearful faces underneath my bed. We played a horrible game of hide-and-seek With Sleep the far-off, treacherous goal. And even now, stumbling about in the dark, I wonder, Who was it that touched me?— What thing laughed?

Activities Focus Your Learning Reading this poem will help you: n use visuals to extend your understanding and explore the mood of a poem n explain and experiment with techniques

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1.

Create a three-panel illustration of this poem, with one panel per stanza. Try to capture the mood of each stanza in your illustrations.

2. How do the italics contribute to the effect of the last line? Discuss with a partner and experiment with different ways of reading the line. Share your interpretation with the class.

Knife

SARAH ELLIS

Nobody pays much attention to new people at Focus Your Learning Reading this short story will help you: n interpret choices and motives of characters n create a dramatic monologue n explain events from a different point of view n identify flashback and explain what effect it has on a story

our school. We have the highest turn-over rate of any high school in the city. Families move here, live in an apartment for a while, then move out to the burbs so they can have a carport and a lawn and a golden retriever. The kids learn English and figure out locker culture and then they’re ready to move on as well. We’re a kind of boot camp for the guerrilla warfare that is real

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high school. Mrs. Fitzgerald, who teaches urban geography, calls us a high-density transitional area. In our graduating class there are only three people who have been here since grade eight. Hester Tsao, Don Apple, and me. Mrs. Fitzgerald calls us the core community. I call us stuck. So, anyway, it wasn’t much of a deal when the principal interrupted history last week to introduce a new student. Ron something-or-other with a lot of syllables. Ron was big. Not tall so much as wide. A red baseball cap shaded his eyes. Mrs. Fitzgerald put him in the desk in front of me, recently vacated by Maddy Harris. Maddy with the clicking beads in her hair. The back of Ron’s head was not going to be as interesting, especially when Mrs. Fitzgerald made him turn his baseball cap around. “I have no objection to hats,” she said, “but I need to check your eyes for vital signs.” Mrs. F. has used this joke before, but in this school she gets a fresh audience frequently. Hester and Don and I don’t mind. Ron sat down without a word. He shifted uncomfortably, like maybe the desk was too small for him. Then the weirdest thing happened. I felt this damp chill, like when someone comes in from the cold in winter. But we’re talking a sunny afternoon in May here. I thought I also caught a faint whiff of sea salt. Mrs. F. came down the aisle to bring Ron his textbook. She was wearing a sleeveless dress. I didn’t see any goose bumps. Meanwhile, I was beginning to shiver, and I pulled my hands up into my jacket sleeves. Maybe I was getting sick. Maybe I was getting the flu. I leaned my forehead on my hand. Fever? I stuck out my tongue and rolled my eyes down to see if it was coated. I couldn’t see my tongue, but my eyes were definitely starting to hurt. And what was that tingling in my right elbow? Wasn’t that one of the first symptoms of the flesh-eating disease? That was it. I certainly couldn’t go to my father’s for dinner next week in that condition. Especially not with Stevie there. It would be

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completely irresponsible to expose a five-year-old boy to my rare, highly infectious virus. To understand why I would rather have the flesh-eating disease than dinner with my father, you have to know that I haven’t seen him in six years. He took off the summer I was eleven. For the longest time I was sure he was coming home again and that everything was going to be the same, that our family was just in some temporary alternate reality that we would flip out of at any minute. When the truth finally bored itself into my mind, I made the decision to hate him. I took good care of my hating. I watered it and weeded it and pruned it. I backed it up to disc. I carried it with me all the time. It was always there, handy, if I wanted to take it out. And now he was back. Of all the transitions in our transitional area, this is the one I never expected. I thought he was in the Middle East for good, around the curve of the world, out of the picture, part of a new family and nothing to do with me. Mum says I have to go to visit him, even just once. “It’s all water under the bridge, Curt. And he has been good about child support all these years, that’s one thing. Who knows, maybe you’ll get to know each other again.” Yeah. Right. How about not. “Curtis?” There was something anticipatory in Mrs. F.’s tone, a question in the air. I did a quick survey of the blackboard. William Lyon Mackenzie. The Family Compact. Not much help there. And then the bell rang. Mrs. F. grinned. I knew she would say it. “Saved by the bell once again, Curtis. Have a pleasant weekend, ladies and gentlemen. Buy low, sell high, and don’t forget the quiz on Monday.” Then it happened. In the dull roar of Friday-afternoon liberation, Ron turned around slowly. The desk shifted with him. And he looked at me. His eyes were dark brown like a beer bottle. Pale eyelashes. His eyes locked with mine and I couldn’t look away. My breath stopped in

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my throat. It seemed like he was looking at me forever, but it couldn’t have been because the desks were still closing, the chairs still scraping, far, far away. He put his hand on my desk. I tore my gaze away and looked down. His hand was closed into a fist. He spread out his fingers and I heard a small clunk. His hand was big and pale, and the webs between his fingers went halfway up to the first knuckle. I felt his eyes on me. When he lifted his hand, still spread out and tense, a knife lay on my desk. A red Swiss army knife. And the six years vaporized into nothing, and I was eleven years old again. I was in a rowboat and everything about that bad summer became enclosed in one moment, when I threw the knife. The summer of being eleven. That summer we rented a cabin up the coast. It was going to be so good. There was a tree house and a rowboat and Dad would come up every weekend. I slept in a room with bunk beds and a door covered in glued-on seashells and driftwood. The first morning I woke up early. The birds were loud. I got up quietly and pulled on some clothes and went down to the beach. The rowboat was right there, waiting for me. I rowed around for a while, getting the feel of the oars. There was a thin mist on the surface of the water. And then, as I was lazily drifting in on the tide, there was the sound of a small splash, and a shiny black cannonball head popped out of the mist. A seal. He stared right at me, friendly but quizzical, as if to say, “What kind of a strange seal are you?” He had huge, shiny brown eyes and grandfather whiskers. He swam right around the boat once. Then he slipped under the glassy surface and disappeared. To let out a little happiness I rowed around the cove like a maniac, like it was some Rowboat Indy 500. When I got back to the cabin Mum was just getting up. We had hot dogs for breakfast. That first week I saw the seal every morning. He glided past the boat underwater, on his side or even upside-down, fat and sleek. He

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started to come so close I could almost touch him. He liked to hide in the seaweed. I decided his name was Rollo, because he was so good at rolling over. “My dad’s coming Friday after work,” I told Rollo. “And guess what? Friday is my birthday. I’m not going to tell him about you. On Saturday morning I’ll surprise him. We’ll come out in the boat. We’ll be pretty early. My dad is an early riser. So am I. I inherited it.” Dad was late that Friday. We waited and waited. Mum walked up to the phone booth at the corner where the dirt road met the highway. When she came back, her face was like concrete. But then he came. He arrived at the door holding my cake with the candles already lit. He had parked the car around the curve of the road and snuck up to the house. “Happy birthday, birthday boy!” The cake was chocolate with blue icing. The decoration in the middle was a little wooden dog on a stand. In the candlelight he looked like a miniature real dog who was all set to bark and jump up and give me a tiny lick. I made a wish. I don’t remember what it was. What did I wish for before I started to wish for the same thing over and over? I blew out the candles and pulled the dog out of the icing. I pushed the button on the bottom of the stand and he collapsed. I let it go and he jumped back into shape. “Present time,” said Dad, and he set something on the table beside my plate. It was a bright red Swiss army knife. I picked it up. It was smooth and solid and heavy. I pulled out one stiff shining blade. “Jerry, don’t you think that’s a bit dangerous?” said Mum. “He’ll be careful, won’t you, pal?” said Dad. Dad and I looked at all the parts of the knife, the blades and scissors, the corkscrew and screwdriver, the tweezers and toothpick, the tool for taking stones out of horses’ hooves. Dad made jokes about me opening bottles of wine and learning to whittle and helping out horses in distress. He got louder and louder and jokier. Mum stopped talking.

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When I went to bed I put the knife under my pillow. Later I woke up and heard Mum and Dad arguing. There was yelling and crying. Anger seeped through the wooden wall beside me. I grabbed the knife and put the pillow over my head. I woke up early the next morning and jumped into my shorts. I put my knife in my pocket. I peeked into Mum and Dad’s room. Mum was asleep, huddled in a ball. Dad wasn’t there. I ran outside, up the road, around the curve. The car was gone. The dust was soft around my feet. He didn’t say goodbye. He didn’t come out in the boat with me. He didn’t meet Rollo. I spent most of that day in the treehouse thinking and gouging the wooden planks with the biggest blade of the knife. And I figured it out. They were fighting about the knife. I would just hide it away and then they would forget about it and it would be okay again. Dad didn’t come the next weekend or once again that summer. But still I kept my knife hidden in my pocket, next to the collapsing dog. Until the day I went out in the rowboat with Laurel. How did I end up in the rowboat with Laurel? It can’t have been my idea. Mum must have arranged it. Laurel and her family had the next cabin but one. Mum spent a lot of time sitting on their deck, drinking coffee and smoking and talking to Laurel’s mother. Mum said how nice it was that Laurel was just my age so that I could have a friend because it must be a bit lonely for me. It wasn’t nice at all. I hated Laurel. She looked like a weasel and talked like a grown-up. Besides, I already had a friend, Rollo. I avoided Laurel. But I guess I got trapped that day. I don’t remember why we were in the boat. But I remember absolutely clearly what happened. I can rerun that movie any time. We’re floating around in the middle of the cove. I’m letting Laurel row because she has a way of getting what she wants. And I take out my knife and she grabs it. She pops the scissors in and out in a way I know is going to break them. She removes the tweezers and starts

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tweezing my leg with them and I lunge for them and she throws them back at me and they disappear over the side of the boat. I see them sinking, a little silver light, and then they disappear into the murk. I want to scream and cry and hurt Laurel. But I don’t. I hold out my hand for the knife and she gives it to me, slapping it down on my palm. “Here’s your stupid old knife.” I run my thumb over the hole where the tweezers should be. I pull out the biggest blade and push its point into the side of the rowboat, seeing how hard I can push before it starts to enter the wood. Laurel starts to row again, out towards the mouth of the cove. She doesn’t look at me. “I hear your father’s got a new girlfriend.” She acts like she’s talking to air. I don’t say anything. “I heard your mum talking to my mum. He’s got a new girlfriend. Her name’s Carmelle. She’s going to have a baby.” “That’s not true.” I knew it was true. Things added up. The little collapsing dog jumped into shape. “Oh, grow up,” said Laurel. “Just wait. They’ll take you aside and say ‘we’ve grown apart but this isn’t your fault.’” I stuck the knife into the gunwale of the boat. “They read it in books, you know. How to tell your kids about divorce.” She made her voice as deep as a dad’s. “‘We can’t live together but we both still love you.’” And then she laughed her weasel laugh. I didn’t think about what I did next. I could not have stopped my hand that grabbed the knife and pitched it through the air toward Laurel. It missed her by a mile and then everything slowed right down. The knife turned in the blue air and Rollo raised his little cat face above the water. Why was he there? He was never there in the middle of the day. He was only there in the early morning. The knife flew toward that head, oh, so slowly. And then they joined. I saw the red knife sway once in the seal’s head just before he dived.

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I’ve told this part like a story. But as I sat at my desk staring at that knife, it didn’t come back as a story, but as one moment of feeling, with blue sky and Laurel laughing and the obscenity of that red knife sticking out of the side of that gentle seal head. The moment came and went as Ron looked at me. I picked up the knife and ran my thumb over where the tweezers would have been. It wasn’t as heavy as I remembered. It wasn’t as heavy as the memory of that moment. When I looked up, Ron had walked away. He was standing at the front of the room and everyone was jostling by him. Hester had Don in a hammerlock and was escorting him out the door. I started to stand up, but I seemed to have collapsing-dog legs. Ron turned back to look at me and slowly took off his cap. His hair was black, thick and very short. And just above his temple there was a white line. Some guys do that. They shave patterns into their hair. Then he smiled at me, friendly and quizzical as if to say, “What kind of weird seal are you?” And something inside me, something hard and heavy, went fuzzy at the edges and started to melt away. He turned and walked out the door. Ron wasn’t in school on Monday. Or Tuesday. I asked Mrs. F. about him. She consulted her much-erased class register. “He transferred out,” she said. “A single day’s attendance. That’s the record, the shortest stay I’ve ever had from a student. I guess he didn’t like your face, Curtis.” She smiled, and the members of the core community snorted and made rude noises. I thought about what it must be like to push through air on two legs, air heavy with gravity, when your body remembers sliding and diving and rolling through the slippery sea. The knife. I think I’ll give it to Stevie when I see him tonight. Dad dropped by on the weekend. He has a beard now. We had a careful conversation. He talked about Stevie. He told me that the little guy is nervous about starting kindergarten. Apparently Carmelle asked him if he was looking forward to school and he said, “No, I’m

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looking sideways.” Dad said Stevie talks about me all the time and really wants to meet me. So I’ll go. And I’ll give Stevie the knife. He could probably use a present, a heavy present to keep in his pocket. Sometimes it’s good to have something to hang onto. And sometimes it’s good to give things away.

Activities 1.

Why does Curtis decide to give the knife to Stevie? Why does he decide that “sometimes it’s good to give things away”? In a group of three, discuss your opinions. Then, on your own, prepare a oneminute monologue in which Curtis explains his motives.

2. What really happened in the classroom on the day Ron came to school? What does Curtis believe? Could the events be explained in any other way? Explain the events from Ron’s point of view. You can make the story as eerie or as “down to earth” as you choose. 3. A “flashback” occurs when a character, through some event in the story, goes back to an earlier time and relives previous events. Identify the flashback in this story. How does the writing style change in the flashback? Why do you think the writer chooses to use the technique of flashback? 4. Look for some other examples of flashback, either in books or in films. Ask your classmates to make some suggestions. Why is flashback used in the example you find, and what effect does it have?

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Old Men of Magic Dionne Brand Focus Your Learning Studying this poem will help you: n focus on details n identify the mood of the poem n read aloud n write a diary entry

Old men of magic with beards long and aged, speak tales on evenings, tales so entrancing, we sit and listen, to whispery secrets about the earth and the heavens. And late at night, after sundown they speak of spirits that live in silk cotton trees, of frightening shadows that sneak through the dark, and bright balls of fire that fly in night air, of shapes unimaginable, we gasp and we gape, then just as we’re scared old men of magic wave hands rough and wrinkled and all trace of fear disappears.

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Activities 1.

Old people are often thought of as being wise. With a partner, make a list of characteristics that you think wise old men should possess. Reread the poem and check the characteristics on your list that are included. For each characteristic evident in the poem, record the appropriate words or phrases.

2. What feelings do you experience as you read this poem? What mood does it create? Think of a personal experience—perhaps at a camp, cottage, or sleepover—that created a similar mood. Relate the story of that experience to your partner or group. 3. With a partner or in a small group, practise reading the poem aloud. Together, discuss which sounds and images create the overall mood of the poem. 4. Imagine that you are one of the children in this poem, listening to the “men of magic.” Write a diary entry describing what you have heard and what you felt. Emphasize the mood of the evening through your choice of words.

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The Wretched Stone Excerpts from the Log of the Rita Anne

CHRIS VAN ALLSBURG 16

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Focus Your Learning Reading this story will help you: n identify and interpret a metaphor n organize information n examine images

May 8 We finished bringing supplies aboard early this morning. At midday we left on the tide and found a fresh breeze just outside the harbour. It is a good omen that our voyage has begun with fair winds and a clear sky.

May 9 The first mate, Mr. Howard, has brought together a fine crew. These men are not only good sailors, they are accomplished in other ways. Many read and have borrowed books from my small library. Some play musical instruments, and there are a few good storytellers among them. May 17 Our passage is going well. The usual boredom that comes with many days at sea is not present on this ship. When the members of this clever crew are not on duty, I find them singing and dancing or amusing each other with tales of past adventure. June 5 Land ho! Slightly before sunset we spotted an island. I have consulted my charts, but do not see it recorded. This is odd, since ships have sailed through these waters for years. Apparently they have all missed this small place. We are low on water and would be happy to find fresh fruit growing here. Tomorrow I will take some men ashore and look about.

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June 6 I have just returned from the island. It is strange indeed. The vegetation is lush, but not a single plant bears fruit. The air has an odour that at first seems sweet and pleasant, then becomes an overpowering stink. I saw no sign of animal life, not even an insect. We found a spring that had water too bitter to drink. We also discovered something quite extraordinary, which I have brought aboard. It is a rock, approximately two feet across. It is roughly textured, gray in colour, but a portion of it is as flat and smooth as glass. From this surface comes a glowing light that is quite beautiful and pleasing to look at. The thing is unbelievably heavy, requiring six strong men to lift it. With great effort we were able to get it aboard and into the forward hold. We have set sail and are under way again. June 10 The crew is fascinated by the rock. When not needed on deck, they are down below, gazing in silence at the peculiar light it gives off. I miss the music and storytelling that had become part of our ship’s life. The last few days have passed quite slowly. The men, however, seem perfectly content. I am sure their interest in the stone will fade away soon.

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June 13 Something is wrong with the crew. They rarely speak, and though they swing through the rigging more quickly than ever, they walk the decks in a clumsy, stooped-over fashion. Last night I heard shrieks coming from the forward hold. I believe they have contracted some kind of fever that came on board with the stone. I told Mr. Howard that tomorrow I will have the thing thrown overboard. June 14 This morning I awoke to find the deck deserted. The wheel was tied steady with a rope. I believe Mr. Howard, who spent some time around the rock, told the men about my plan to get rid of it. They have now locked themselves in the forward hold. They apparently believe, in their feverish state, that I can sail this boat alone while they sit around that wretched stone. June 15 We are in grave danger. A powerful storm is headed this way. All morning long the wind has grown steadily stronger; the sky is filled with dark clouds. I am unable to shorten the sails by myself. With this much canvas up, we will surely be blown over and sink when the full force of the storm arrives. I am going forward again to try to get the crew to work. All our lives depend on it.

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This is, I am sure, my last entry. What I have just seen is so horrifying I barely have the strength to write it down. After I pounded at the door to the forward hatch, it finally swung open. But it was not a man who opened the door, it was an ape. The whole crew has turned into hairy beasts. They just sat there, grinning at that terrible rock. They don’t understand a word I say. We are doomed. June 16 The storm has passed. The Rita Anne is still afloat, but both masts and rudder are lost. The stone has gone dark. We were struck by lightning twice during the storm. I believe that was the cause. Unfortunately, the crew is unchanged. They are still beasts, but seem sad and lost without the glowing rock. I have moved them back to their quarters. We have food for two weeks. I am hopeful of a rescue. June 19 I have made an encouraging discovery. I am playing the violin and reading to the crew. It is having a positive effect. They are walking upright and have an alert look in their eyes. June 24 I was in the forward hold today. A dull glow was coming from the stone. I have covered it and will keep the compartment locked. June 28 I am happy to report that the men have returned to normal. It seems that those who knew how to read recovered most quickly.

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June 30 We are saved! A ship has been spotted off our starboard side. I have decided to scuttle the Rita Anne. There is only one place for the wretched stone. Before we abandon ship, I will set a fire that will send this vessel and her cargo to the bottom of the sea. July 12 Our rescuers have left us in the harbour town of Santa Pango. One by one the crew should be able to sign on to ships passing through and work their way home. We have made an agreement not to talk about the strange events that took place aboard the Rita Anne. The men appear to have recovered completely, though some show an unnatural appetite for the fruit that is available here.

Activities 1.

Reread the description of the stone. Make a sketch based on the description. A metaphor is a type of comparison where one object is likened very directly to another. For what might the wretched stone be a metaphor? Support your view with details from the text.

2. Make a “Before and After” chart describing how the behaviour of the crew members changed as a result of the stone. In what way

might the description be a comment on our society? Discuss your ideas with other members of the class. 3. Study the visual of the apes watching the stone. Working in groups of three, discuss: n the content of the picture n the message the picture gives n the mood Van Allsburg has created in the picture n the technique used to create the mood

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One Who Lives Under the Water

Courtesy of the Royal Ontario Museum, © ROM

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Blake Debassige

Focus Your Learning Looking at this painting will help you: n tell a story from different points of view n use visual clues to understand the painting n create your own artwork on a similar theme

Activities 1.

Many paintings tell a story in visual form. What is the story of this painting? Retell the story orally from one of three perspectives: as the creature, as a survivor from one of the canoes, or as an Aboriginal elder looking back on the event.

2. Describe some of the physical characteristics of the creature. Write a short-answer response explaining how its appearance adds to the power of the illustration. 3. Using a similar style of art, create an illustration depicting the cause of any natural phenomenon.

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The White Owl HAZEL BOSWELL

Focus Your Learning Reading this folk tale will help you: n conduct an interview n identify foreshadowing and explain its effect n create stories from other points of view

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Taken from The Basketball Player © 1996 Sheldon Cohen: illustrations published by Tundra Books

It was a still day late in September. The maples were glowing scarlet and gold; the plowing had been done, and the fields lay bare and brown under the silver-grey sky. Madame Blais sat on an upturned box on the narrow gallery that ran the length of the summer kitchen.

She was plaiting long strings of red onions to hang in the attic for the winter. The little gallery was heaped with vegetables: great golden-yellow squashes, green pumpkins, creamy brown turnips, and great piles of green cabbages and glossy red carrots. It was a good day for work. Her husband and Joseph, her eldest boy, together with their neighbour, Exdras Boulay, had gone off to repair the old sugar cabane. Her sister’s fiancé, Felix Leroy, who had come up from the States for a holiday, had gone with them. Not to work. He despised that sort of work, for he was a factory hand in the United States and, as he said, “made more money in a week than he would make in a month working on the land.” The older children were off at school; the little ones, Gaetané, Jean-Paul, and MarieAnge, were playing happily with old “Puppay.” Me’Mère was spinning in the kitchen, keeping an eye on P’tit Charles who was sleeping peacefully in his cradle. Madame worked happily. She didn’t often get such a good day for work. Her mind was turning in a placid, peaceful circle, “Que tous s’adonne bien aujourd-hui.” Suddenly the peace was broken. Puppay had begun to bark furiously; then the barking changed to joyful yapping. The children were shouting too. Madame turned on her box and looked out to where they had been playing, but they had left their game and were

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racing off across the field. As her eye followed them on the far side of the field she saw her husband, Joseph, and Exdras Boulay coming out of the wood by the road to the old sugar cabane. Me’Mère had heard the noise too and had come to the door. “What is it?” she asked. “Un Jerusalem?” “No,” answered Madame, “it’s the men coming home, and it’s not yet four. Something must have happened.” She watched the men anxiously as they crossed the field. She noticed that Felix wasn’t with them. As they came up to the house she called out, “What has happened?” No one answered her; the men tramped on in silence. When they got to the house, her husband sat down on the step of the gallery and began taking off his bottes-sauvages. The other two and the children stood watching him. “Where is Felix?” asked Madame. “He wouldn’t come with us.” “Why did you leave so early?” Again there was silence; then her husband said, “We saw the white owl, Le Hibou Blanc.” “You saw him?” “Yes,” answered her husband, “that’s why we came home.” “Why didn’t Felix come with you?” “He said it was all nonsense. Old men’s stories.” “You should have made him come with you,” said Me’Mère. “You can’t remember the last time Le Hibou Blanc came. But I can. It was just two years after I was married. Bonté Lemay was like Felix, he didn’t believe. He stayed on plowing when the others left. The horse got scared and ran away. Bonté’s arm was caught in the reins and he was dragged after the plow. His head struck a stone and he was dead when they found him. His poor mother. How she cried. One doesn’t make fun of Le Hibou Blanc.” The noise had wakened P’tit Charles and he began to cry. Madame went in to the kitchen and picked him up. She felt to see if he was wet;

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and then sat down by the stove, and began to feed him. The men came in too and sat around in the kitchen. “Do you think Felix will have the sense to come home?” asked Madame. Joseph shook his head and spat skillfully into the brown earthenware spittoon. “No fear,” he answered. “He says in the States they have more sense than to believe all those old stories.” “If Felix stays on in the woods, harm will certainly come to him,” said Me’Mère. “I tell you Le Hibou Blanc always brings disaster.” “Why don’t you go and speak to the curé?” said Madame Blais. “He’s away at Rimouski for a retreat,” answered Exdras. “I saw his housekeeper, Philomène, yesterday, and she told me. They had sent for him to bring the last rites to old Audet Lemay who was dying, but he was away and they had to send for the curé of St. Anselem instead.” “Well, it’s time to get the cows,” said Monsieur Blais. “Go along and get them, Joseph.” Joseph got up and went out. The children and Puppay joined him. Me’Mère went back to her spinning. Madame Blais put P’tit Charles back in his cradle, then went off to milk the cows. There were ten cows to milk. Her husband and Joseph did the milking with her and up to a year before Me’Mère had always helped too. The autumn evenings close in quickly in the north. By the time the cows were milked and supper finished, the clear cold green evening had swept up over the sky; the stars were out, and the little silver crescent of the moon had risen over the maple wood. Joseph was sitting out on the step of the little gallery, his eyes fastened on the break in the maple wood that marked the road leading to the sugar cabane. Every now and then his father went out and joined him. They were both watching for Felix. As the kitchen clock began to strike eight Madame put down her work. “It’s time for the rosary,” she said. “Tell Joseph to come in.” Her husband opened the door and called to Joseph. He came in, followed by Puppay.

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The family pulled their chairs up round the stove, for the evenings were beginning to be chilly, and it was cold away from the stove. Me’Mère began the rosary: “Je crois en Dieu, le Père toutpuissant….” The quiet murmur of their voices filled the kitchen. When the rosary was said, Madame sent the children off to bed. Then she went to the salon and got a cierge bénit, lit it, and put it in the kitchen window. “May God have pity on him,” she said. Then she picked up P’tit Charles and went off to bed with her husband, while Me’Mère went to her little room next to the salon. It was bright and cold the next day, and the ground was covered with white hoarfrost. Joseph was the first to speak of Felix. “He may have gone and slept with one of the neighbours,” he said. “If he did, he’d be back by now,” answered his father. They were still eating their breakfast when Exdras Boulay came into the kitchen. “Felix hasn’t come back?” he asked. Before anyone could answer, the door opened and two other neighbours came in. The news of Felix and Le Hibou Blanc had already spread along the road. Soon there were eight men and boys in the kitchen and half a dozen excited children. The men sat round in the kitchen smoking. Old Alphonse Ouellet did most of the talking. He was always the leader in the parish. “We’ll have to go and find him,” he said. “It’s too bad the curé isn’t here to come with us. Well, we might as well start off now. Bring your rosary with you,” he told Monsieur Blais. Madame Blais and Me’Mère and a group of the children stood on the kitchen gallery watching the men as they tramped off along the rough track to the maple wood. “May God have them in His care,” said Madame. “And may he have pity on Felix,” added Me’Mère, and she crossed herself. In the maple wood the ground was still covered with frost. Every little hummock of fallen leaves was white with it, and the

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puddles along the track were frozen solid. The men walked in silence. A secret fear gripped each one of them that they might suddenly see Le Hibou Blanc perched on some old stump, or one of the snow-covered hummocks. A few hundred metres from the sugar cabane they found Felix. He was lying on his back. His red shirt looked at first like a patch of maple leaves lying in the hoarfrost. A great birch had fallen across his chest, pinning him to the ground. One of his hands was grasping a curl of the bark–his last mad effort to try and free himself. The men stood round staring down at him, the immense silence of the woods surrounding them. Then from far away in the distance came a thin whinnying note, the shrill triumphant cry of Le Hibou Blanc.

Activities 1.

a) Interview classmates or family members about superstitions they have or know about. How does superstition affect the way they or other people behave? b) Choose one superstition and speculate on how it might have originated. Share your conclusions with the class. Discuss why superstition can sometimes be a powerful force in people’s lives. Support your views with evidence from your interviews and from the story.

2. “Foreshadowing” is the prediction or suggestion of ominous events that are going to happen in a story. List all the references in this story that foreshadow tragic events. Write a short paragraph explaining what effect the foreshadowing has on your reading of the text. 3. This tale is written in the third-person narrative form. Retell the story from the perspective of one of the characters, as a first-person narrative. In which form is the narrator more detached from the events of the story? Explain. Why do you think the author of this story chooses to use the third-person narrative form?

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Create a movie poster that depicts the first human contact with alien life. Predict the storyline and tone of the movie from the poster. Create a chart of your predictions, making specific references to aspects of the image.

Artisan Enterta inment Inc.

What’s the purpose of using babies in space in a commercial product such as this one?

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How do the visuals support the promise that your adventure will be surreal?

What visuals could change places without changing the primary message of this cartoon? What does this tell us about the power of visuals in comparison to language?

ZIGGY © 1992 ZIGGY AND FRIENDS, INC. Reprinted with permission of UNIVERSAL PRESS SYNDICATE. All rights reserved.

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The Dinner Party MONA GARDNER

Focus Your Learning Reading this story will help you: n investigate the importance of a story’s setting n write an interior monologue n identify irony n create a tableau ROY, Pierre. Danger on the Stairs {Danger dans l’escalier}. (1927 or 1928). Oil on canvas, 36 × 23 5/8" (91.4 × 60 cm). The Museum of Modern Art, New York. Gift of Abby Aldrich Rockefeller. Photograph ©1999 The Museum of Modern Art, New York.

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The country is India. A colonial official and his wife are giving a large dinner party. They are seated with their guests—army officers and government attachés and their wives, and a visiting American naturalist—in their spacious dining room, which has a bare marble floor, open rafters, and wide glass doors opening onto a veranda. A spirited discussion springs up between a young girl who insists that women have outgrown the jumping-on-a-chair-at-the-sight-of-amouse era and a colonel who says that they haven’t. “A woman’s unfailing reaction in any crisis,” the colonel says, “is to scream. And while a man may feel like it, he has that ounce more of nerve control than a woman has. And that last ounce is what counts.” The American does not join in the argument but watches the other guests. As he looks, he sees a strange expression come over the face of the hostess. She is staring straight ahead, her muscles contracting slightly. With a slight gesture she summons the servant standing behind her chair and whispers to him. The servant’s eyes widen, and he quickly leaves the room. Of the guests, none except the American notices this or sees the servant place a bowl of milk on the veranda just outside the open doors. The American comes to with a start. In India, milk in a bowl means only one thing—bait for a snake. He realizes there must be a cobra in the room. He looks up at the rafters—the likeliest place—but they are bare. Three corners of the room are empty, and in the fourth the servants are waiting to serve the next course. There is only one place left—under the table. His first impulse is to jump back and warn the others, but he knows the commotion would frighten the cobra into striking. He speaks quickly, the tone of his voice so arresting that it sobers everyone.

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“I want to know just what control everyone at this table has. I will count three hundred—that’s five minutes—and not one of you is to move a muscle. Those who move will forfeit fifty rupees. Ready!” The twenty people sit like stone images while he counts. He is saying “… two hundred and eighty …” when, out of the corner of his eye, he sees the cobra emerge and make for the bowl of milk. Screams ring out as he jumps to slam the veranda doors safely shut. “You were right, Colonel!” the host exclaims. “A man has just shown us an example of perfect control.” “Just a minute,” the American says, turning to his hostess. “Mrs. Wynnes, how did you know that cobra was in the room?” A faint smile lights up the woman’s face as she replies: “Because it was crawling across my foot.”

Activities 1.

“Setting” can refer to both time and place. Do some research to find out more about the setting of this story. Write a short essay explaining how the setting contributes to the story’s plot and theme.

2. Write an interior monologue, recording the thoughts of the hostess through the events described in the story. What does she think about the other characters as well as the problem she faces? 3. Irony can refer to a set of events that is the opposite of what might be expected in the circumstances. In a group, present this scene in a “frozen moment” tableau. Try to demonstrate the irony in the story.

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The Revenge of the Blood Thirsty Giant A Tlingit Legend C . J . TA Y L O R

This nineteenth century “dancing headdress frontlet” comes from the same Tlingit tradition as the following story.

The people were frightened. High in the Focus Your Learning Reading this Tlingit legend will help you: n use role playing to extend the story n illustrate key events of a story n investigate some of the characteristics of a legend n write a legend or fable

Rocky Mountains where they lived, an evil giant roamed, killing anyone he found. The people were afraid to leave the village. A hunting party had gone out and aimed arrows at the giant’s heart. But nothing could stop him. From The Monster from the Swamp: Native Legends of Monsters, Demons and Other Creatures © 1995 C. J. Taylor, published by Tundra Books.

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“It is because he has no heart,” the people decided. “That is why he wants to kill everyone and drink blood. How do you destroy a creature if it has no heart?” They turned in desperation to their chief. Chief Red Bird had been puzzling over that very question. Every time another member of the village was killed by the giant, Red Bird became more determined to find the answer. Finally he decided what he must do. He called his people together and announced: “Every creature that walks the earth has a heart. As your chief, I will go and find the heart of this evil giant so we can be rid of him forever.” The next morning Red Bird set out for the path where the giant had last attacked. When he heard branches break and the earth tremble, he knew the giant was approaching. He lay down and pretended to be dead. The giant laughed as soon as he saw Red Bird. “These humans are so afraid, they drop dead as soon as they hear me coming. This one is still warm.” He picked up Red Bird, threw him over his shoulder and returned to his home. There he flung Red Bird on the floor, took out his skinning knife and called to his son to bring wood for a fire. When the son did not answer, the giant went out to get the wood himself, grumbling all the while about his lazy son. As soon as the giant left, Red Bird heard someone else approaching quietly. It must be the giant’s son. Red Bird grabbed the skinning knife and hid behind the door. He was surprised by how small the boy was. “This is the son of the giant?” he thought. Red Bird jumped on him and held up the skinning knife. “Tell me where your father’s heart is,” Red Bird growled. The boy was terrified. “My father is mad,” he said. “The madder he gets, the bigger he grows. I stay away from him. If he finds me here with you he will kill us both. Let me go before he returns.” “I will only let you go if you tell me where his heart is,” Red Bird repeated, raising the knife. “It is in his left heel,” the boy cried. He struggled free and ran for his life.

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Red Bird hid behind the door and waited. As soon as the giant stooped to enter and put his left foot inside, Red Bird drove the knife into the giant’s heel and through his heart. The giant fell, mortally wounded. As he was dying he uttered a last threat: “Even though you kill me, I will continue to feed on human blood until the end of time.” “No, you won’t,” said Red Bird. He made a fire and threw the body of the giant into it. Then he took the ashes and scattered them to the wind. They rose in a cloud. It turned into a swarm of mosquitoes that came back to attack Red Bird. One landed on his nose and bit him. Red Bird wiped the mosquito away. “What a nuisance,” he thought. Then he saw the little stain of blood on his hand. “Maybe you will keep biting us. Maybe you’ll get a drop of blood now and then. But at least you’re not killing anyone anymore.”

Activities 1.

In a small group, predict the response of the chief’s people when he returns to tell them he has killed the giant, but they will be plagued forever by small insects that draw blood. Prepare a role play in which the chief explains what has happened and the people respond.

2. Prepare a visual representation of this story. Divide the story into scenes and represent it either in a series of paintings or drawings, or as a comic strip. 3. A fable is a legend that carries a lesson or moral. Read one of Aesop’s fables, and identify the moral of the story. Then write a moral that could emerge from “The Revenge of the Blood Thirsty Giant.” 4. List three similarities between one of Aesop’s fables and “The Revenge of the Blood Thirsty Giant.” Using what you have discovered to be common elements, write your own legend or fable to explain the origin of any insect or pest for an audience of young children.

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The

Phantom Dog Team

H A R R Y PA D D O N

A

Focus Your Learning Reading this story will help you: n identify the central conflict in a story n design a film poster n choose music to match scenes within the story n write a persuasive response

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ll sparsely populated back country areas have their ghosts and Labrador, like the rest, has its share. The nice thing about the ghosts of Labrador is that they have kept the qualities of the old-timers of the era in which they entered the spirit world. They are a friendly, helpful group of spirits with more constructive things to do than merely to haunt the living as their more highly civilized counterparts seem to do. Instead, they appear to have a protective attitude toward their still living neighbours and descendants. Such a one is the “Smoker” who, many times, has stuck his ethereal nose into the battering blasts of a Labrador blizzard to rescue a careless or unlucky traveller who should have known better. How the Smoker got his name I couldn’t say unless it derives from his ability to appear and vanish like a puff of smoke, or possibly it came from the fact that his appearance always occurred on a night of smoking thick drift on the barren lands he ranged. There is no question that the many to whom he appeared, including a newlyarrived and hard-boiled Hudson’s Bay man

who had never heard of him, firmly believe that he did indeed come to their aid and that without his help they would surely have perished. The particular incident I wish to relate occurred some 50 years ago and, since the people involved were friends of my family, I shall take a few liberties with their names though the story shall remain theirs as they told it. Bill and Jane Gordon’s winter home lay several miles inland from their summer fishing place at Bluff Head. Chosen for the generous area of woods that had furnished logs for the comfortable house and now sheltered it from the savage winds off the rocky barrens, the winter place was an isolated spot. The nearest neighbours were two families at Rocky Cove, fifteen miles across the barren, rocky neck, and it was nearly forty miles to the trading post at Rigolet. The Neck was something to be treated with respect by winter travellers, for the way across the bare, windswept ridges was unmarked and to go astray in one of the frequent winter gales was to risk death by freezing on its pitiless miles of shelterless rocks and ice, or by plunging storm-blinded from one of its many cliffs. A few days before Christmas Bill and Jane left home to go to Rigolet to trade their furs and bring home a few extras from the store. The two children, twelve-year-old Joe and little Janet, ten, were undismayed at

the prospect of being left to fend for themselves for a night or two. Joe had considered himself a man for quite some time, for he could do a man’s work in the woods or the fish stage, and he had been hunting and trapping alone for a couple of winters. Janet reckoned she could look after the house as well as any woman. Joe, as he helped his father harness the dogs that morning, was rather looking forward to being the boss for a while, and it was with quite a holiday feeling that the youngsters watched the team fade into the distance as they speculated on what wonders its load might contain when it again came over the hill in two or three days. A couple of hours on the easy going of the firm, wind-packed snow of the ridges brought Bill and Jane to Rocky Cove where they stopped briefly for a cup of tea and a yarn with the first of their neighbours that they had not seen for two months. From Rocky Cove the way lay mostly on the ice

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Halfway across the neck the first few snowflakes began to fall to Rigolet and their arrival there was before sundown. Putting up at the Hudson’s Bay Company’s kitchen, where open house was kept for travellers, they spent the evening visiting the few households of the tiny village and the next day settled to their trading. By the time this was finished it was too late to leave Rigolet and a second night was spent in the cheery company of friends who had not been seen for months and might not again be seen for many more. It was in the graying dawn of their third day from home that Bill lashed up his load and harnessed his team for the return trip. When the red rim of the sun turned the sea ice to a crimson plain at the purpleshadowed feet of the hills they were five or six miles on their way. The day promised to be fair as the frosty vapour from the panting breaths of the dogs hung in the still air. They stopped again for a brief warm-up and a snack at Rocky Cove before starting the last fifteen miles across the neck to home. It was with a slight feeling of unease that Bill noticed the beginning of a wispy cloud formation to the eastward as they pulled away from Rocky Cove and began the ascent to the ridges. The evening was calm and fine, however, and he reckoned

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that the two-hour run to home would be safely done long before any bad weather moved in. The only worrisome thing was that his was a young team and the year-old pup he was training to be a leader seemed to have little sense. The old leader that had died last fall could have been trusted to take them home no matter how thick the weather, without deviating a whisker’s length from the trail. Bill didn’t quite know if he could trust the pup who always seemed to want to be told where to go. It was clouding in rapidly now and though still calm the very stillness held the menace of something waiting to pounce. Halfway across the neck the first few snowflakes began to fall, and as darkness curtained the rocky slopes the first searching fingers of icy wind stirred the gathering powder into feathery swirls and dragged them, rustling, across the tops of the drifts. In the space of a quarter of an hour it was blowing a gale and in the black of the night the thickening snow blotted everything from sight in a weaving wall of wind and pelting icy particles. The team faltered, slowed and stopped. The young leader had no confidence in his ability to stay on the trail,

and his mates shared his uncertainty. Unable to see more than a few yards, Bill began to consider the advisability of finding a hollow sheltered enough to burrow into the snow for the night. Though this would mean a risk of freezing, it might present a better chance of survival than would be offered by blundering blindly on with a very good chance of plunging over a cliff. Already the biting wind was beginning to leave little spots of frost bite on any exposed skin and it wouldn’t be too long before Bill and Jane began to freeze quite badly. Bill knew that they were still on the trail, for just there by his leader a pyramid-shaped

cairn of rocks marked where the Big Brook trail came in from the north to join their own. He walked out through the team and stood by the cairn, recalling to mind the various folds in the nearby land that might offer shelter enough to permit them to get through this night. As he stood, the voice of another driver reached his ears, the voice of a man urging his team onward, and, as he looked, a team surged out of the swirling darkness. Nine black and white dogs trotted by almost near enough to touch. On the komatik behind them knelt a lone man who gestured urgently at Bill to follow before he turned again to face his team. Bill’s own

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dogs, crazy with excitement, were already lunging into their traces and as the komatik slid by him he dropped to his seat on the load. Though the other team was a strange one to him the driver seemed to know where he was going, for he drove with the assurance of a man whose leader had been over the road before. For an hour the two teams trotted steadily through the swirling blackness, Bill’s young team straining against their heavy load to let the young leader keep his nose almost touching the stern of the leading komatik. On some of the steeper grades where the weight of their load threatened to cause them to fall behind, the black team slowed a little to let them keep up. Bill marvelled at the control the stranger had over his team, for he was travelling light and could easily run them out of sight in no time. It wasn’t till a faint spark of light through the storm showed where the house lay ahead that the strange team drew ahead in a burst of speed. Back at the house the youngsters had been having a grand time. Joe had had one day hunting ptarmigan on the ridges above the house. The second day he had harnessed up his own team of pups and gone out to the summer place, where a day on the ice foot by the open sea had yielded some of the big eider ducks that make a fine Christmas dinner. Both days, with her housework done, Janet had spent some

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hours fishing through the ice at the mouth of the brook, and several dozen trout and a few hundred smelt had been added to the stock of frozen fish in the bins of the storehouse. The third day they both stayed close to home, and from noon on many were the glances they took at the trail from the hills where their parents’ team should appear any time now. The first twinges of anxiety began as the weather worsened at dusk. The coming of full darkness brought with it a wind that roared off the hills and drove icy scuds of drift rattling across the window panes. The youngsters were silently thoughtful as they sat down to supper. Both hoped that the storm had struck on the other side of the neck early enough to cause their parents to stay the night at Rocky Cove. Supper was barely over when a chorus of welcoming yelps and howls from Joe’s pups brought them to their feet to stare through the windows. A team, not their father’s, but a team of nine big black and white dogs, drew up to the door and stopped at a low-voiced command from the driver. Joe hastily pulled on his jacket and cap to go out and welcome the stranger and Janet watched as the dogs, in the usual fashion of a team glad to have reached the end of a hard day, rolled and rubbed their faces in the snow to rid their eyes of the accumulation of frost from their breaths. The driver stood for a moment by his

komatik and coiled up his long whip as he waited for some sign from within. As Janet watched, Joe appeared from the lean-to porch and walked into the square of lamplight from the window. The leader, a huge, powerful-looking beast, gambolled playfully toward him and Joe stooped to pull its harness off. As he reached for the leader Joe stopped and gazed unbelieving at his hands, for there was nothing between them. There on the wind-swept deck he was alone, more alone than he had ever been in his life, for nine big dogs with their driver and the big tripping komatik had vanished. Joe turned and started back to the door, worried by what little Janet, watching from the window, might be making of this. As he reached for the latchstring an uproar of welcome again broke

from his team of pups tethered in the edge of the woods. This time, as he turned to face whatever might be coming, it was his father’s familiar team that trotted jauntily on to the lamp-lit deck. The dogs crowded around Joe, rubbing their bodies against his legs, each frantic to draw his attention and be the next unharnessed. It wasn’t till Joe had sorted out and coiled up the mass of sealskin traces that he approached the komatik to help his father unleash and carry in the load. As he straightened from his bent position to coil the long lash-line Bill asked, “What became of the team that came in ahead of us?” Joe hoisted a heavy sack to his shoulder and turned toward the house. “There was no team,” he answered quietly.

Activities 1.

Most stories are structured around conflicts. Determine the central conflict in this story. Design a poster for a feature film version of the story, illustrating this conflict.

2. If this story were to be made into a film, what sort of music would accompany the action? Choose one section of the story and find a piece of music that, to you, captures the mood. Present it to the class with an explanation of why you have chosen this piece of music.

3. Most ghost stories are frightening. In this story, we know from the introduction that the ghost is likely to be a “friendly, helpful” spirit. Write a persuasive response arguing either that the introduction spoils the impact of the story, or that the story maintains suspense despite the information in the introduction. Support your argument with details from the text.

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Metamorphosis III

© 1998 Cordon Art B.V. - Holland. All rights reserved.

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M. C. Escher

Focus Your Learning Viewing this visual will help you: n examine visual techniques n create an illustration with interesting visual effects

Activities 1.

In a short written response, explain why the title “Metamorphosis III” is used for this piece of art. Include specific references to the visual. In what way does the use of colour add impact to the visual?

2. Create your own illustration, either in colour or black and white, that creates interesting visual effects. Give your work a title that communicates your intention.

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The New Food STE PH EN LEACOCK

Focus Your Learning Reading this essay will help you: n use a graphic organizer n discuss information and meaning based on text n debate an issue

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I see from the current columns of the daily press that “Professor Plumb, of the University of Chicago, has just invented a highly concentrated form of food. All the essential nutritive elements are put together in the form of pellets, each of which contains from one to two hundred times as much nourishment as an ounce of an ordinary article of diet. These pellets, diluted with water, will form all that is necessary to support life. The professor looks forward confidently to revolutionizing the present food system.” Now this kind of thing may be all very well in its way, but it is going to have its drawbacks as well. In the bright future anticipated by Professor Plumb, we can easily imagine such incidents as the following: The smiling family were gathered round the hospitable board. The table was plenteously laid with a soup plate in front of each beaming child, a bucket of hot water before the radiant mother, and at the head of the board the Christmas dinner of the happy home, warmly covered by a thimble and resting on a poker chip. The expectant whispers of the little ones were hushed as the

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father, rising from his chair, lifted the thimble and disclosed a small pill of concentrated nourishment on the chip before him. Christmas turkey, cranberry sauce, plum pudding, mince pie—it was all there, all jammed into that little pill and only waiting to expand. Then the father with deep reverence, and a devout eye alternating between the pill and heaven, lifted his voice in a benediction. At this moment there was an agonized cry from the mother. “Oh, Henry, quick! Baby has snatched the pill!” It was too true. Dear little Gustavus Adolphus, the golden-haired baby boy, had grabbed the whole Christmas dinner off the poker chip and bolted it. Three hundred and fifty pounds of concentrated nourishment passed the esophagus of the unthinking child. “Clap him on the back!” cried the distracted mother. “Give him water!” The idea was fatal. The water striking the pill caused it to expand. There was a dull rumbling sound and then, with an awful bang, Gustavus Adolphus exploded into fragments! And when they gathered the little corpse together, the baby lips were parted in a lingering smile that could only be worn by a child who had eaten thirteen Christmas dinners.

Activities 1.

This essay was written in 1910. It is a humorous piece, but it has a serious message. With a partner, discuss what you think Leacock was saying about technology at the time. Then create a web diagram, at the centre of which is a current form of technology. In the web, record possible implications of this technology. Find a way to code your web so that it is clear to viewers whether you consider a particular implication to be positive, negative, or neutral.

2. Conduct a class debate on the following topic: Leacock’s message about technology is as true today as it was in 1910. Evaluate the arguments and choose a winning side.

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Zoo EDWARD D. HOCH

The children were always good during the month of August, especially when it began to get near the

Focus Your Learning Reading this short science fiction story will help you: n respond to the imagery in a text n examine the effect of a surprise ending n role-play an interview n see your world from an unusual viewpoint

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twenty-third. It was on this day that the great silver spaceship carrying Professor Hugo’s Interplanetary Zoo settled down for its annual six-hour visit to the Chicago area. Before daybreak the crowds would form, long lines of children and adults both, each one clutching his or her dollar, and waiting with wonderment to see what race of strange creatures the Professor had brought this year. In the past they had sometimes been treated to three-legged creatures from Venus, or tall, thin men from Mars, or even snake-like horrors from somewhere more distant. This year, as the great round ship settled slowly to earth in the huge tri-city parking area just outside of Chicago, they watched with awe as the sides slowly slid up to reveal the familiar barred cages. In

them were some wild breed of nightmare—small, horse-like animals that moved with quick, jerking motions and constantly chattered in a high-pitched tongue. The citizens of Earth clustered around as Professor Hugo’s crew quickly collected the waiting dollars, and soon the good Professor himself made an appearance, wearing his manycoloured rainbow cape and top hat. “Peoples of Earth,” he called into his microphone. The crowd’s noise died down and he continued. “Peoples of Earth, this year you see a real treat for your single dollar—the littleknown horse-spider people of Kaan—brought to you across a million miles of space at great expense. Gather around, see them, study them, listen to them, tell your friends about them. But hurry! My ship can remain here only six hours!” And the crowds slowly filed by, at once horrified and fascinated by these strange creatures that looked like horses but ran up the walls of their cages like spiders. “This is certainly worth a dollar,” one man remarked, hurrying away. “I’m going home to get the wife.” All day long it went like that, until ten thousand people had filed by the barred cages set into the side of the spaceship. Then, as the six-hour limit ran out, Professor Hugo once more took the microphone in hand. “We must go now, but we will return next year on this date. And if you enjoyed our zoo this year, telephone your friends in other cities about it. We will land in New York tomorrow, and next week on to London, Paris, Rome, Hong Kong, and Tokyo. Then on to other worlds!” He waved farewell to them, and as the ship rose from the ground, the Earth peoples agreed that this had been the very best Zoo yet…. Some two months and three planets later, the silver ship of Professor Hugo settled at last onto the familiar jagged rocks of Kaan, and the queer horse-spider creatures filed quickly out of their cages. Professor Hugo was there to say a few parting words, and then they scurried away in a hundred different directions, seeking their homes among the rocks.

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In one house, the she-creature was happy to see the return of her mate and offspring. She babbled a greeting in the strange tongue and hurried to embrace them. “It was a long time you were gone. Was it good?” And the he-creature nodded. “The little one enjoyed it especially. We visited eight worlds and saw many things.” The little one ran up the wall of the cave. “On the place called Earth it was the best. The creatures there wear garments over their skins, and they walk on two legs.” “But isn’t it dangerous?” asked the she-creature. “No,” her mate answered. “There are bars to protect us from them. We remain right in the ship. Next time you must come with us. It is well worth the nineteen commocs it costs.” And the little one nodded. “It was the very best Zoo ever….”

Activities 1.

Imagine that you have been to see Professor Hugo’s zoo. In a journal entry, describe your reaction to the strange horse-spider people.

2. What is the effect of the surprise ending? In what way is this story ironic? 3. Work with a partner. Assume that a journalist, through the services of an interpreter, has the opportunity to interview a horse-spider person. Prepare the interview, with the journalist asking questions and the horse-spider person providing answers and comments. Role-play the interview for the class. 4. Professor Hugo is preparing the next trip of his Interplanetary Zoo. Write the advertisement he will display to attract visitors to Earth. Include details about the exotic and unusual sights the visitors will see.

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The outer space intelligence who hovered over my desk, a glowing vibrating sphere, one foot in diameter, asked me endless questions, for instance: “What were you doing before I appeared?” and “Why?” and “For what reason?” to which I replied I was reading the newspaper to be informed about what was going on Focus Your Learning Reading this poem will help you: n focus on how the poet develops the characters in the poem n write a dialogue n consider ways of describing objects and events that are often taken for granted n prepare a script and video recording

in the world, and explained the nature of money and economics and capitalism and communism and inflation and crises and wars and nations and borders and territorial expansion and history— Then he asked me what the other creature (my two-year-old daughter) was doing.

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I said she was playing on the broadloom, talking to her dolls and herself— Well, this outer space intelligence rather disappointed me, for after my succinct answers he asked such a stupid question that I suspected he hadn’t understood anything at all, the question being: “How many years does it take for a wrinkled, wrought-up human baby like you behind a desk, to shrink into a happy, light-hearted being like the one on the rug?”

Activities 1.

Contrast the descriptions of the three characters in this poem. Consider the number of lines given to each, the images created, and the kinds of words used. What is the overall effect?

2. Write a short dialogue in which the poet answers the final question of this poem, and the outer-space intelligence responds by explaining why he believed the baby to be more mature than the poet. 3. Prepare a guided tour of your bedroom or any other room of your home or school for a visiting alien. You must assume that the alien has no comprehension of how you live or what you do. You must explain items in the room and your activities very carefully. Write the script for your guided tour. If possible, make a video recording of the tour presentation.

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The Rabbit R . P. M A C I N T Y R E

You have a dog named Rusty … you had a dog named Rusty. This is not so much a story about

Focus Your Learning Reading this story will help you: n focus on how a narrator’s voice can reveal feelings n build an argument

Rusty as it is about your parents, of which you still have two. That’s because nobody’s shot them, yet. You have this theory that parents are very stupid people, especially after you get to know them for awhile. You’ve known yours fourteen years. Fifteen, actually. The first year doesn’t count. If your dad was an animal, which you occasionally think he is, he’d be a bird. He’d be one that’s nearly extinct, because it forgot how to fly. So he just flaps his wings and jumps instead, jumps to conclusions. And your mom is like a pair of eyes that glow on the side of the road at night. You can’t make out what they belong to, you just hope they don’t spring across in front of the car. But one of these days, you know it’s going to happen. The thing is, you’d probably never notice how weird your parents are if you didn’t have neighbours or other people to

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compare them to. For instance, the Unruhs, who live next door and have a rabbit. It’s a pet rabbit they keep in a cage beside the toolshed in the backyard. They feed it greens from the kitchen, and they recycle the little bunny turds, you know, throw them in the garden, where they grow their own organic food. They have a complete little eco-system over there—compost piles, solar heating panels, bird feeders—you name it. And just like the rabbit, the Unruhs are vegetarians. You, on the other hand, have Rusty. Rusty is locked in his back yard prison. Every now and then, someone will leave the gate open and he will run madly all over the neighbourhood, sniffing and peeing on everything in sight. Doggy freedom. So leaving the gate open is a definite no-no in your house. Normally, however, he’s stuck in the back yard where he dumps all over the place. When he’s really bored, he eats it. Your job is to clean up before he does. Unfortunately, you’re not very good at your job. Rusty has foul breath. Rusty eats meat too, of course. He sits beside the barbecue, begging with his big sad piggy-doggy eyes, “Me too, me too,” he’s saying. He wants a piece of steak. If you break down and give him some, he sort of inhales it. He’s more patient with sticks and shoes and plastic garden hose—those he chews on for a while. You don’t pretend to understand dogs. They’re dogs. They do strange things. Rusty has dug up most of the lawn looking for bones, or China, or whatever dogs look for when they dig holes. Maybe he’s just looking for a way out of the yard. It’s like stepping through a minefield of holes and doggie-doo to get to the barbecue that pollutes the atmosphere with the smell of burning dead cows because you eat meat too. That’s the kind of people you are. Yet you are friends with the Unruhs, your rabbit neighbours. When you were little, you took swimming lessons together with their kids. Both sets of parents took turns chauffeuring you, your parents in your Ford, the Unruhs in their Volvo. They give you zucchini from their garden. Your mom makes five loaves of zucchini bread and you eat one. The rest she hides in the freezer.

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One weekend the Unruhs go away. They have asked your dad to keep an eye on their house. No problem. Three days. He can handle that. It’s evening of the second day, Saturday. You go to the video store to rent a movie. Nobody can agree on what movie to get so you get three. On the way home, you stop at the store for popcorn and coke. It’s going to be fun, a family evening fighting over which movie to watch first. But when you get home, driving into the driveway, black smoke belching from the Ford, you lurch to a halt and freeze. Your dad turns off the ignition. The exhaust settles like an air of doom. You know there is going to be trouble because the gate is open. Rusty is gone. You call, “Rusty, Rusty,” you hope the dog remembers his name. He does. He appears, wagging his tail. He is wearing a foolish grin on his face. Rusty has returned from the neighbours’ yard. The Unruhs’. You go into their yard, and there, lying almost neatly on the compost pile, is a dead rabbit, a dirty dead pet bunny rabbit. You know now that Rusty is a killer. Your dad says if this is what Rusty will do to a rabbit, what might Rusty do to small children? But Rusty is still standing there with that grin on his face, still wagging his tail. It’s clear that Rusty is denying everything. He seems to be saying, “Is there a problem here?” Yes Rusty, there is a problem. Mentally, you can see your dad lining up the telescopic cross-hairs between Rusty’s loving stupid eyes and shooting him. Except he can’t. This is where the story gets ugly. Your dad puts Rusty in the car. Rusty thinks he’s going for a car ride. He is. To the vet, who will do what your dad can’t. You wave goodbye to Rusty. You thought he was such a good dog. Stupid, but good. Meanwhile, your mom springs into action. Her eyes are like headlights, her face a grill. She takes the dead rabbit into the kitchen. She washes it in the sink, then takes her hair drier and blow dries the dead rabbit’s fur. She fluffs it up. It looks almost as good as new. It really does.

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By this time, your dad has returned from the vet. Your whole family is silent. Your dad takes the dead rabbit and puts it back into its cage. He props it up. He gives it a carrot. It looks like the dead rabbit is eating the carrot. You go home. You do not watch movies. You go to bed. The next day the Unruhs return. Your dad gives them time to be home for awhile. Time to unpack the Volvo and put things away. There is no eye contact in your house. Your mom is trying to thaw a loaf of zucchini bread. Your dad goes into the back yard and starts scooping up dog turds. You join him, holding a plastic garbage bag. Dr. Unruh is in his back yard digging a hole. You hear your dad ask, in a friendly neighbourly sort of way, how their trip was. Dr. Unruh answers, it was fine, the trip was fine, but that something really strange had happened here, here in the back yard. Your dad fakes great interest. Dr. Unruh says that someone dug up their pet rabbit and put it back into its cage. Your dad’s voice breaks. “Dug it up?” “Yes,” says Dr. Unruh. “It died last Thursday.” You look at your dad. He flaps his wings like he’s trying to fly. “I didn’t know,” he says to you. “I didn’t know.”

Activities 1.

The narrator does not describe his reaction to events in this story. List the phrases that reveal what he is feeling. At whom are his feelings directed, and why?

2. You have been entrusted to serve as Rusty’s advocate. Build a case for his defence, citing circumstantial evidence. Work in groups to share your completed cases and to select the best one in each group. These defences will be read aloud to the class, and a vote taken on the final defence to be adopted on behalf of Rusty.

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The Necklace

G U Y D E M A U PA S S A N T

The Boulevards 1899 by Pierre Bonnard

She was one of those pretty and charming girls, Focus Your Learning Reading this tale will help you: n focus on a character’s view of herself n create a collage n write a character sketch n revise and edit your work n express personal understanding in a debate

born, as if by an accident of fate, into a family of clerks. With no dowry, no prospects, no way of any kind of being met, understood, loved, and married by a man both prosperous and famous, she was finally married to a minor clerk in the Ministry of Education. She dressed plainly because she could not afford fine clothes, but was as unhappy as a woman who has come

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down in the world; for women have no family rank or social class. With them, beauty, grace, and charm take the place of birth and breeding. Their natural poise, their instinctive good taste, and their mental cleverness are the sole guiding principles which make daughters of the common people the equals of ladies in high society. She grieved incessantly, feeling that she had been born for all the little niceties and luxuries of living. She grieved over the shabbiness of her apartment, the dinginess of the walls, the worn-out appearance of the chairs, the ugliness of the draperies. All these things, which another woman of her class would not even have noticed, gnawed at her and made her furious. The sight of the little Breton girl who did her humble housework roused in her disconsolate regrets and wild daydreams. She would dream of silent chambers, draped with Oriental tapestries and lighted by tall bronze floor lamps, and of two handsome butlers in knee breeches, who, drowsy from the heavy warmth cast by the central stove, dozed in large overstuffed armchairs. She would dream of great reception halls hung with old silks, of fine furniture filled with priceless curios, and of small, stylish, scented sitting rooms just right for the four o’clock chat with intimate friends, with distinguished and sought-after men whose attention every woman envies and longs to attract. When dining at the round table, covered for the third day with the same cloth, opposite her husband, who would raise the cover of the soup tureen, declaring delightedly, “Ah! A good stew! There’s nothing I like better …” she would dream of fashionable dinner parties, of gleaming silverware, of tapestries making the walls alive with characters out of history and strange birds in a fairyland forest; she would dream of delicious dishes served on wonderful china, of gallant compliments whispered and listened to with a sphinxlike smile as one eats the rosy flesh of a trout or nibbles at the wings of a grouse. She had no evening clothes, no jewels, nothing. But those were the things she wanted; she felt that was the kind of life for her. She so much longed to please, be envied, be fascinating and sought after.

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She had a well-to-do friend, a classmate of convent-school days whom she would no longer go to see, simply because she would feel so distressed on returning home. And she would weep for days on end from vexation, regret, despair, and anguish. Then one evening, her husband came home proudly holding out a large envelope. “Look,” he said, “I’ve got something for you.” She excitedly tore open the envelope and pulled out a printed card bearing these words: “The Minister of Education and Mme. Georges Ramponneau beg M. and Mme. Loisel to do them the honor of attending an evening reception at the Ministerial Mansion on Friday, January 18.” Instead of being delighted, as her husband had hoped, she scornfully tossed the invitation on the table, murmuring, “What good is that to me?” “But, my dear, I thought you’d be thrilled to death. You never get a chance to go out, and this is a real affair, a wonderful one! I had an awful time getting a card. Everybody wants one; it’s much sought after, and not many clerks have a chance at one. You’ll see all the most important people there.” She gave him an irritated glance and burst out impatiently, “What do you think I have to go in?” He hadn’t given that a thought. He stammered, “Why, the dress you wear when we go to the theatre. That looks quite nice, I think.” He stopped talking, dazed and distracted to see his wife burst out weeping. Two large tears slowly rolled from the corners of her eyes to the corners of her mouth; he gasped, “Why, what’s the matter? What’s the trouble?” By sheer will power she overcame her outburst and answered in a calm voice while wiping the tears from her wet cheeks: “Oh, nothing. Only I don’t have an evening dress and therefore I can’t go to that affair. Give the card to some friend at the office whose wife can dress better than I can.”

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He was stunned. He resumed, “Let’s see, Mathilde. How much would a suitable outfit cost—one you could wear for other affairs too—something very simple?” She thought it over for several seconds, going over her allowance and thinking also of the amount she could ask for without bringing an immediate refusal and an exclamation of dismay from the thrifty clerk. Finally, she answered hesitatingly, “I’m not sure exactly, but I think with four hundred francs I could manage it.” He turned a bit pale, for he had set aside just that amount to buy a rifle so that, the following summer, he could join some friends who were getting up a group to shoot larks on the plain near Nanterre. However, he said, “All right. I’ll give you four hundred francs. But try to get a nice dress.” As the day of the party approached, Mme. Loisel seemed sad, moody, and ill at ease. Her outfit was ready, however. Her husband said to her one evening, “What’s the matter? You’ve been all out of sorts for three days.” And she answered, “It’s embarrassing not to have a jewel or a gem—nothing to wear on my dress. I’ll look like a pauper: I’d almost rather not go to that party.” He answered, “Why not wear some flowers? They’re very fashionable this season. For ten francs you can get two or three gorgeous roses.” She wasn’t at all convinced. “No…. There’s nothing more humiliating than to look poor among a lot of rich women.” But her husband exclaimed, “My, but you’re silly! Go see your friend Mme. Forestier and ask her to lend you some jewelry. You and she know each other well enough for you to do that.” She gave a cry of joy, “Why, that’s so! I hadn’t thought of it.” The next day she paid her friend a visit and told her of her predicament.

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Mme. Forestier went toward a large closet with mirrored doors, took out a large jewel box, brought it over, opened it, and said to Mme. Loisel: “Pick something out, my dear.” At first her eyes noted some bracelets, then a pearl necklace, then a Venetian cross, gold and gems, of marvelous workmanship. She tried on these adornments in front of the mirror, but hesitated, unable to decide which to part with and put back. She kept on asking, “Haven’t you something else?” “Oh, yes, keep on looking. I don’t know just what you’d like.” All at once she found, in a black satin box, a superb diamond necklace; and her pulse beat faster with longing. Her hands trembled as she took it up. Clasping it around her throat, outside her high-necked dress, she stood in ecstasy looking at her reflection. Then she asked, hesitatingly, pleading, “Could I borrow that, just that and nothing else?” “Why, of course.” She threw her arms around her friend, kissed her warmly, and fled with her treasure. The day of the party arrived. Mme. Loisel was a sensation. She was the prettiest one there, fashionable, gracious, smiling, and wild with joy. All the men turned to look at her, asked who she was, begged to be introduced. All the Cabinet officials wanted to waltz with her. The minister took notice of her. She danced madly, wildly, drunk with pleasure, giving no thought to anything in the triumph of her beauty, the pride of her success, in a kind of happy cloud composed of all the adulation, of all the admiring glances, of all the awakened longings, of a sense of complete victory that is so sweet to a woman’s heart. She left around four o’clock in the morning. Her husband, since midnight, had been dozing in a small empty sitting room with three other gentlemen whose wives were having too good a time. He threw over her shoulders the wraps he had brought for going home, modest garments of everyday life whose shabbiness clashed with

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the stylishness of her evening clothes. She felt this and longed to escape, unseen by the other women who were draped in expensive furs. Loisel held her back. “Hold on! You’ll catch cold outside. I’ll call a cab.” But she wouldn’t listen to him and went rapidly down the stairs. When they were on the street, they didn’t find a carriage; and they set out to hunt for one, hailing drivers whom they saw going by at a distance. They walked toward the Seine, disconsolate and shivering. Finally on the docks they found one of those carriages that one sees in Paris only after nightfall, as if they were ashamed to show their drabness during daylight hours. It dropped them at their door in the Rue des Martyrs, and they climbed wearily up to their apartment. For her, it was all over. For him, there was the thought that he would have to be at the Ministry at ten o’clock. Before the mirror, she let the wraps fall from her shoulders to see herself once again in all her glory. Suddenly she gave a cry. The necklace was gone. Her husband, already half undressed, said, “What’s the trouble?” She turned toward him despairingly, “I … I … I don’t have Mme. Forestier’s necklace!” “What! You can’t mean it! It’s impossible!” They hunted everywhere, through the folds of the dress, through the folds of the coat, in the pockets. They found nothing. He asked, “Are you sure you had it when leaving the dance?” “Yes, I felt it when I was in the hall of the Ministry.” “But if you had lost it on the street we’d have heard it drop. It must be in the cab.” “Yes, Quite likely. Did you get its number?” “No. Didn’t you notice it either?” “No.” They looked at each other aghast. Finally Loisel got dressed again.

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“I’ll retrace our steps on foot,” he said, “to see if I can find it.” And he went out. She remained in her evening clothes, without the strength to go to bed, slumped in a chair in the unheated room, her mind a blank. Her husband came in about seven o’clock. He had had no luck. He went to the police station, to the newspapers to post a reward, to the cab companies, everywhere the slightest hope drove him. That evening Loisel returned, pale, his face lined; still he had learned nothing. “We’ll have to write your friend,” he said, “to tell her you have broken the catch and are having it repaired. That will give us a little time to turn around.” She wrote to his dictation. At the end of the week, they had given up all hope. And Loisel, looking five years older, declared, “We must take steps to replace that piece of jewelry.” The next day they took the case to the jeweler whose name they found inside. He consulted his records. “I didn’t sell that necklace, madame,” he said. “l only supplied the case.” Then they went from one jeweler to another hunting for a similar necklace, going over their recollections, both sick with despair and anxiety. They found, in a shop in Palais Royal, a string of diamonds which seemed exactly like the one they were seeking. It was priced at forty thousand francs. They could get it for thirty-six. They asked the jeweler to hold it for them for three days. And they reached an agreement that he would take it back for thirty-four thousand if the lost one was found before the end of February. Loisel had eighteen thousand francs he had inherited from his father. He would borrow the rest. He went about raising the money, asking a thousand francs from one, four hundred from another, a hundred here, sixty there. He signed notes, made ruinous deals, did business with loan sharks, ran the

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whole gamut of moneylenders. He compromised the rest of his life, risked his signature without knowing if he’d be able to honour it, and then, terrified by the outlook for the future, by the blackness of despair about to close around him, by the prospect of all the privations of the body and tortures of the spirit, he went to claim the new necklace with the thirty-six thousand francs which he placed on the counter of the shopkeeper. When Mme. Loisel took the necklace back, Mme. Forestier said to her frostily, “You should have brought it back sooner; I might have needed it.” She didn’t open the case, an action her friend was afraid of. If she had noticed the substitution, what would she have thought? What would she have said? Would she have thought her a thief? Mme. Loisel experienced the horrible life the needy live. She played her part, however, with sudden heroism. That frightful debt had to be paid. She would pay it. She dismissed her maid; they rented a garret under the eaves. She learned to do the heavy housework, to perform the hateful duties of cooking. She washed dishes, wearing down her shell-pink nails scouring the grease from pots and pans; she scrubbed dirty linen, shirts, and cleaning rags which she hung on a line to dry; she took the garbage down to the street each morning and brought up water, stopping on each landing to get her breath. And, clad like a peasant woman, basket on arm, guarding sou by sou her scanty allowance, she bargained with the fruit dealers, the grocer, the butcher, and was insulted by them. Each month notes had to be paid, and others renewed to give more time. Her husband laboured evenings to balance a tradesman’s accounts, and at night, often, he copied documents at five sous a page. And this went on for ten years. Finally, all was paid back, everything including the exorbitant rates of the loan sharks and accumulated compound interest.

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Mme. Loisel appeared an old woman, now. She became heavy, rough, harsh, like one of the poor. Her hair untended, her skirts askew, her hands red, her voice shrill, she even slopped water on her floors and scrubbed them herself. But, sometimes, while her husband was at work, she would sit near the window and think of that long-ago evening when, at the dance, she had been so beautiful and admired. What would have happened if she had not lost that necklace? Who knows? Who can say? How strange and unpredictable life is! How little there is between happiness and misery! Then one Sunday when she had gone for a walk on the Champs Élysées to relax a bit from the week’s labours, she suddenly noticed a woman strolling with a child. It was Mme. Forestier, still young-looking; still beautiful, still charming. Mme. Loisel felt a rush of emotion. Should she speak to her? Of course. And now that everything was paid off, she would tell her the whole story. Why not? She went toward her. “Hello, Jeanne.” The other, not recognizing her, showed astonishment at being spoken to so familiarly by this common person. She stammered, “But … madame … I don’t recognize … You must be mistaken.” “No, I’m Mathilde Loisel.” Her friend gave a cry, “Oh, my poor Mathilde, how you’ve changed!” “Yes, I’ve had a hard time since last seeing you. And plenty of misfortunes—and all on account of you!” “Of me … How do you mean?” “Do you remember that diamond necklace you loaned me to wear to the dance at the Ministry?” “Yes, but what about it?” “Well, I lost it.” “You lost it! But you returned it.”

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“I brought you another just like it. And we’ve been paying for it for ten years now. You can imagine that wasn’t easy for us who had nothing. Well, it’s over now, and I am glad of it.” Mme. Forestier stopped short. “You mean to say you bought a diamond necklace to replace mine?” “Yes. You never noticed, then? They were quite alike.” And she smiled with proud and simple joy. Mme. Forestier, quite overcome, clasped her by the hands. “Oh, my poor Mathilde. But mine was only paste. Why, at most it was worth only five hundred francs!”

Activities 1.

What qualities does Mathilde possess that convince her she has been born into the “wrong class”? Discuss this question in class.

2. Create a two-panel collage. On the left show Mathilde’s life as it is. On the right show Mathilde’s life as she’d like it to be. 3. Write a character sketch of Mathilde’s husband. Include a paragraph of support for every characteristic that you identify. Trade your first draft with a partner, and use an editing checklist to review it. Pay particular attention to paragraphing and descriptive writing. Then prepare a final draft of your character sketch. 4. Do you think that Mathilde is the instrument of her own downfall, or is she the hapless victim of a rigid social class? Prepare for a class debate on this topic. Be prepared to argue either side, as instructed by your teacher.

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Clever Manka E T H E L J O H N STO N PHELPS

There once was a rich farmer who was as grasping and mean as he was rich. He was always driving a

Focus Your Learning Reading this folk tale will help you: n identify the oral elements of folk tales n examine the use of dialogue

hard bargain and always getting the better of his poor neighbours. One of these neighbours was a humble shepherd to whom the farmer owed payment of a calf. When the time of payment came, the farmer refused to give the shepherd the calf, forcing the shepherd to bring the matter to the mayor of the village. The mayor was a young man who was not very experienced. He listened to both sides, and when he had thought a bit, he said, “Instead of making a decision on this case, I will put a riddle to you both, and the man who makes the best answer shall have the calf. Are you agreed?” The farmer and the shepherd accepted this proposal, and the mayor said, “Well then, here is my riddle: What is the swiftest thing in the world? What is the sweetest thing? What is the richest? Think out your answers and bring them to me at this same time tomorrow.”

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The farmer went home in a temper. “What kind of a mayor is this young fellow!” he growled. “If he had let me keep the calf, I’d have sent him a bushel of pears. Now I may lose the calf, for I can’t think of an answer to his foolish riddle.” “What is the riddle?” asked his wife. “Perhaps I can help you.” The farmer told her the riddle, and his wife said that of course she knew the answers. “Our grey mare must be the swiftest thing in the world,” said she. “You know that nothing ever passes us on the road. As for the sweetest, did you ever taste any honey sweeter than ours? And I’m sure there’s nothing richer than our chest of golden ducats that we’ve saved up over the years.” The farmer was delighted. “You’re right! Now we will be able to keep the calf!” Meanwhile, when the shepherd got home, he was very downcast and sad. His daughter, a clever girl named Manka, asked what troubled him. The shepherd sighed. “I’m afraid I’ve lost the calf. The mayor gave us a riddle to solve, and I know I shall never guess it.” “What is the riddle? Perhaps I can help you,” said Manka. The shepherd told her the riddle, and the next day, as he was setting out for the mayor’s, Manka told him the answers. When the shepherd reached the mayor’s house, the farmer was already there. The mayor repeated the riddle and then asked the farmer his answers. The farmer said with a pompous air: “The swiftest thing in the world? Why that’s my grey mare, of course, for no other horse

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ever passes us on the road. The sweetest? Honey from my beehives. The richest? What can be richer than my chest of gold pieces?” “Hmmm,” said the mayor. “And what answers does the shepherd make?” “The swiftest thing in the world,” said the shepherd, “is thought, for thought can run any distance in the twinkling of an eye. The sweetest thing of all is sleep, for when a person is tired and sad, what can be sweeter? The richest thing is the earth, for out of the earth come all the riches of the world.” “Good!” cried the mayor. “The calf goes to the shepherd.” Later the mayor said to the shepherd, “Tell me now, who gave you those answers? I’m sure you never thought of them yourself.” The shepherd was unwilling to tell, but finally he confessed that the answers came from his daughter Manka. The mayor became very interested in the cleverness of Manka, and he sent his housekeeper for ten eggs and gave them to the shepherd. “Take these eggs to Manka and tell her to have them hatched by tomorrow and bring me the chicks,” said he. The shepherd went home and gave Manka the eggs and the message. Manka laughed and said, “Take a handful of corn and bring it back to the mayor with this message, ‘My daughter says if you plant this corn, grow it, and have it harvested by tomorrow, she will bring you the ten chicks to feed on your ripe grain.’” When the mayor heard this answer, he laughed heartily. “That’s a very clever daughter you have! I’d like to meet her. Tell her to come to see me, but she must come

neither by day nor by night, neither riding nor walking, neither dressed nor undressed.” Manka smiled when she received this message. The next dawn, when night was gone and day not yet arrived, she set out. She had wrapped herself in a fishnet, and throwing one leg over a goat’s back and keeping one foot on the ground, she went to the mayor’s house. Now I ask you, did she go dressed? No, she wasn’t dressed, for a fishnet isn’t clothing. Did she go undressed? Of course not, for wasn’t she covered with a fishnet? Did she walk to the mayor’s? No, she didn’t walk, for she went with one leg thrown over a goat. Then did she ride? Of course she didn’t ride, for wasn’t she walking on one foot? When she reached the mayor’s house, she called out, “Here I am, and I’ve come neither by day nor by night, neither riding nor walking, neither dressed nor undressed.” The young mayor was so delighted with Manka’s cleverness that he proposed to her, and in a short time they were married. “But understand, my dear Manka,” he said, “you are not to use your cleverness at my expense. You must not interfere in any of my cases. If you give advice to those who come to me for judgment, I’ll send you home to your father!” “Very well,” said Manka. “I agree not to give advice in your cases unless you ask for it.” All went well for a time. Manka was busy and was careful not to interfere in any of the mayor’s cases. Then one day two farmers came to the mayor to have a dispute settled. One of the

farmers owned a mare which had foaled in the marketplace. The colt had run under the wagon of the other farmer, and the owner of the wagon claimed the colt as his property. The mayor was thinking of something else while the case was being argued, and he said carelessly, “The man who found the colt under his wagon is the owner of the colt.” The farmer who owned the mare met Manka as he was leaving the house, and stopped to tell her about the case. Manka was ashamed that her husband had made so foolish a decision. She said to the farmer, “Come back this afternoon with a fishing net and stretch it across the dusty road. When the mayor sees you, he will come out and ask what you are doing. Tell him you are catching fish. When he asks how you can expect to catch fish in a dusty road, tell him it’s just as easy to catch fish in a dusty road as it is for a wagon to foal a colt.... He’ll see the injustice of his decision and have the colt returned to you. But remember one thing—you must not let him know that I told you to do this.” That afternoon when the mayor looked out of his window, he saw a man stretching a fishnet across the dusty road. He went out and asked, “What are you doing?” “Fishing.” “Fishing in a dusty road? Are you crazy?” “Well,” said the man, “it’s just as easy for me to catch fish in a dusty road as it is for a wagon to foal.” Then the mayor realized he had made a careless and unjust decision. “Of course, the colt belongs to your mare and it must be returned to you,” he said. “But tell me, who

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put you up to this? You didn’t think of it yourself!” The farmer tried not to tell, but the mayor persisted and when he found out that Manka was at the bottom of it, he became very angry. He rushed into the house and called his wife. “Manka,” he said, “I told you what would happen if you interfered in any of my cases! I won’t hear any excuses. Home you go this very day, and you may take with you the one thing you like best in the house.” Manka did not argue. “Very well, my dear husband. I shall go home to my father’s cottage and take with me the one thing I like best in the house. But I will not go until after supper. We have been very happy together, and I should like to eat one last meal with you. Let us have no more angry words, but be kind to each other as we’ve always been, and then part as friends.” The mayor agreed to this, and Manka prepared a fine supper of all the dishes her husband particularly liked. The mayor opened his choicest wine and pledged Manka’s health. Then he set to eat, and the supper

was so good that he ate and ate and ate. And the more he ate, the more he drank, until at last he grew drowsy and fell sound asleep in his chair. Then, without awakening him, Manka had him carried out to the wagon that was waiting to take her home to her father. The next morning when the mayor opened his eyes, he found himself lying in the shepherd’s cottage. “What does this mean?” he roared. “Nothing, dear husband,” said Manka. “You know you told me I might take with me the one thing I liked best in your house, so of course I took you! That’s all.” The mayor stared at her in amazement. Then he laughed loud and heartily to think how Manka had outwitted him. “Manka,” he said, “you’re too clever for me. Come, my dear, let’s go home.” So they climbed back into the wagon and drove home. The mayor never again scolded his wife, but after that, whenever a very difficult case came up, he always said, “I think we had better consult my wife. You know she’s a very clever woman.”

Activities 1.

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List the oral elements of Clever Manka. How do these elements contribute to the story? Discuss as a class.

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2. This folk tale has two major scenes. In each, Manka helps someone, then outsmarts the mayor. Examine the use of dialogue. How does the repetition of riddles create suspense? Write a short explanation, including specific references.

End-of-unit Activities 1.

Many of the selections in this unit involve tales of the unexplainable. In small groups, use a graphic organizer to compare the plot, setting, characters, and theme of at least four different selections. Then compile a list of characteristics they share.

2. View a TV show or film that deals with unexplainable events. Write a review of the show or film, assessing its effectiveness based on the characteristics you identified in Activity 1. Remember that sometimes a work can be more effective, rather than less effective, when it departs from expected characteristics. 3. Compare one of the poems with one of the stories in this unit. How effective is each text as an example of a tale of the unexplainable? Share your conclusions with the class, giving detailed examples from the texts you have chosen. 4. In the selections “Zoo” and “A Strange Visitor,” extraterrestrial life is presented in a positive rather than negative light. How

would the selections be different if the aliens were presented in a negative way? Retell the story, changing the ending. 5. In “The Rabbit” and “The Necklace,” the protagonists come face to face with an unjust fate. Which story do you think best exemplifies that life isn’t fair? Choose a side, prepare your argument, and engage in a debate with other members of your class. 6. Many of the selections in this unit finish with a surprise ending. Choose two selections, one with a surprise ending that is especially good, and one with a surprise ending that you think is not very effective. Compare the strengths and weaknesses of the two endings. Rewrite the surprise ending for the story you feel has the less effective ending. 7. Identify selections in this unit in which humour is used to communicate a point of view. Draw a comic strip or cartoon capturing the humour in one of these selections.

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