American Stories

Our story today is called "No Place to Hang the Lantern". It was written by John Wotarua. It is about a young farmer Nate and his wife Olive who is soon to become a mother. And their cow Maudie who is also going to be a mother. It is a story about the beauty of birth, the wonder of new life. Here is Shep O'Neal with our story. Olive Bowen made some hot coffee to bring to her husband Nate who was over in the barn. He was helping their cow Maudie to give birth. Olive herself was expecting a baby very soon. She felt heavy and moved around slowly. The coffee boiled on the stove and Olive poured some into a pot and carried it to the barn. It was black inside the barn. The darkness made Olive nervous and she stood at the door not sure what to do. Should she call Nateor go slowly and carefully through the darkness. Then she saw a light at the far end. Olive called out to Nate and was happy to see the light come toward her. Nate held his lantern high as he came up to Olive and said: "Where is your lamp? You shouldn't have some out when it's too cold." "I brought you some hot coffee." Nate was happy that she did. But he did not want her to say. He took the thingsOlive carried and asked her to sit down. "Maybe for a minute to get warm," she said. Olive kept looking into the darkness of the barn to see where Maudie was. Maudie was ready to have her calf any minute now. "I don't want you to stay," her husband said. "Oh, no, Nate, I don't want to. If it begins to happen, I'll go back to the house." They walked slowly to the back of the barn to look at Maudie. Nate looked around for something Olive could sit on. "Would this be all right?" He helped Olive sit down on a small stool. He made the oil stove hotter so she could get warm. Then he told her again that he did not want her to stay when Maudie's calf came. It wasn't something a young wife should see, especially a young wife who would soon be a mother herself. Nate sat down on the floor near Olive. The cow lay quietly, chewing some hay. Husband and wife did not say much as they waited; words did not seem to some easily to them. But, after some time, Olive said she was sorry that she could not help Nate with the cow. Nate smiles and told her not to worry about him--after all, he said, Maudie was having the calf-not he. And Maudie would know what to do when the time came. There was something else that was worrying Oive, and she did not know just how to begin to talk about it--At last, she spoke out, not sure what Nate's answer would be. "Momma says--I mean Momma thinks--maybe I should go to her house to have the baby ... After all, the doctor lives in town. If you couldn't get him here in time, I don't know what I would do." She had said it, and was glad that at last she got the word out. Nate was a quiet, thoughtful and gentle man. He knew that Olive was afraid and he wanted to calm her fears. "Of course," he answered. "That's a good idea. It would be much easier for you in your mother's house." Time seemed to be moving slowly--too slowly for Olive. She looked nervously at the cow. She asked Nate when the cow would begin. Nate answered that birth had already stared--Maudie had pain a short time ago. Then Nate began to rub the cow's head ...the cow turned its head away from his hands...and then Suddenly it came... a frightening bellow that gave Olive a violent. Olive could see it clearly--part of the head of the young calf stowly, painfully coming out. Olive felt shaky. Her hands nervously touched her own body. She could feel the shape of her baby. Nate was worried, he told Olive to leave. But Olive could not go....she just could not pull herself away. She kept looking at Maudie as the cow made her great noises and struggled to push out the calf. Nate saw that the cow was in trouble. He knew she needed help. He looked for a nail in the wall where he could hang his lamp. There was none. He was angry, but did not know what to do. He had to have light. Olive said he should have asked another farmer to help him. This made Nate even more angry. He ordered Olive out of the barn. Suddenly, Olive saw that Nate was also afraid--fearful that the cow's struggle would be too much for him alone. And at that moment she decided that nothing could drive her from the barn. She demanded that Nate give her the lamp to hold so that he could have all the light he needed to help Maudie. Nate said,"no," the birth would make her sick... "Please go," he said. Olive laughed and answered: "Nate, I think it is you who is going to be sick. Give me lamp!" The emergency strangely changed Olive. She no longer felt fearful. There was a sudden new strength in her...it surprised her. Nate looked at his wife. As she took the lamp from him, he smiled. He softly touched Olive's face with his hand. Olive had never before felt so close her husband. It was a wonderful moment. Now, Nate could see, and could work. He put fresh hay around Maudie and went to look for some old cloth. He needed the cloth, he said to hold the calf's wet head as he pulled it out. Nate and Olive joked and laughed as they waited. But soon they stopped. For the cow was now in violent pain, and they could see the calf's whole head. Olive held the lamp. Nate told her not to look. But she had to look. As she watched, Olive was afraid, but not for the cow or even for herself. She was fearful for the baby-for the little creature that was coming into the world. At last, it was done. Maudie was quiet. In the hay, lay a 1ittle wet calf. It tried to stand up, but could not. Nate gently helped the calf to its feet. He brought it to Maudie. He opened the calf's mouth so that it could take milk from its mother. But Maudie made an angry noise and kicked the calf away. Nate Spoke to Maudie at though she could understand him: "Here now! A mother shouldn't do that to her baby!" Olive asked, "Doesn't she love her bably?" Nate said, "She still remembers her pain. But she'll love her calf in the morning." Olive and Nate were both tired. Olive remembered the coffee she had brought to the barn. She put it on the hot stove. Nate dried the calf with the cloth. As he worked, Olive looked through the barn window. She saw the apple trees with snow on them and the light in her kitchen and the frist grace of the morning sun. It made her feel warm and happy. She was part of her husband's life. Suddenly, Olive heard the sound of the boiling coffee. She turned from the window. She laughed as she saw Nate trying to cover the long, kicking legs of the baby calf. And he laughed, too. Now, the calf was covered and quiet, sleeping near its mother. Nate and Olive sat in the hay. They held hands as they drank the hot coffee. They felt no need to speak as they looked at the beauty of the first baby in their lives. You have been listening to the Special English program American Stories. Our story today is called "No Place to Hang the Lantern". It was written by John Wotarua, and was published by Yankee Magazine. Your storyteller was Shep O'Neal. The producer was Wang Daives. The Voice of America invites you to listen again next week at the same time to another American story told in Special English. This is Shirley Griffith.

Our story today is called "The White Circle". It was written by John Bell Coliton. Here is Shep O'Neal to tell you the story. As soon as I saw Anvol sitting in the apple tree, I knew we would fight. I also knew he would win. But winning or losing was not important, at least not so important as getting him down from the tree. The tree was mine. It was a young tree. And it had 13 beautiful apples on it. Now my beautiful apples were under Anvol`s shirt. The tree became mine the day I was 12 years old. Father called me to come to the barn to see the new young horses. When I got there, father lit a cigarette and placed one foot on the fence. He looked pleased and proud. "Toker", he finally said, "This is a big day. There, before you, are five of the finest horses in our Virginia. Now I would give you a gift for your birthday. Could you make a choice? " "Yes, " I said. "Which one?" he asked. "I would like to have an apple tree across the road. " Father looked at me for a long time. You would have to know how much he loved horses to understand the look on his face. But I was 12 years old. How could I explain my choice? It was something about the apple tree. The color of the red apples as they hung among the green leaves. But it was more than this. It had something to do with being proud. I can give one of the apples to my friend Jenny. "Jenny, " I would say, "I want to give you this apple. It came from my tree. The tree grows on my father's land. " Before my father had the land, it belonged to his father. And before that, to his father. Now I owned the tree. Because of this, I am a tie to all my people of long ago way back to Moses and all of bible people. Father finally answered, "Now, right, son. If you want a tree more than a horse, the tree is yours. " I thanked him for the tree and he left. I picked up a stone and ran across the fields to protect my tree. "All right, Anvol. Climb down. " Anvol looked at me as if I wasn't there. "Yah. . . " he said, "You lead on nothing. Throw that stone at me and see what happens. " "Anvol, " I said again, "come down. They are my apples. " Anvol stopped eating and smiled at me with evil in his heart. "You want an apple? I'll give you one. " And he threw one with all his strength and hit me in the head. I threw the stone at him, but missed and hit the tree. Anvol's face turned red. "Boy, you are going to get a hit. " I began to pull his feet. Down he came along with parts of the tree and young fresh leaves. He hit me as he fell. We both hit the ground. He jumped on top of me, and placed his knees on my arms. I could not move. "Stop kicking, " he said. And then calmly looked at the sky, and began to eat another one of my beautiful apples. "You, smelly cow, " I said to him, "I wish you were never born. I'm gonna tell my father. " I said. "Father, " Anvol said, trying to make his voice sound like mine, "Father, say, oh, man. You think your old man is very important, don't you? You think your old man is a king, don't you? Say, oh, man, go to hell. Say, oh, man, oh man, I wish you were dead. " He let me get up and stood over me. "Stop crying. " he said. "I am not crying. " I was lying on the ground with murder in my heart. There were times when I did not hate Anvol. I remembered the day his father came to school. He told the teacher he was going to hit Anvol to make him a good boy. His father was a bitter cruel man. He had a big stick. Anvol saw the stick, and hid under a table. He lay there, frightened until the teacher made his father go away. I had no hate for Anvol that day. But another day, Anvol acted cruel like his father. He entered the school when everyone had gone and threw things all over the floor. Sometimes he was more cruel and hit little boys and made them cry. One day he came to me as I was sitting under a tree. "They all hate me, " he said, "They hate me because my father is cruel. "They don't hate you. " I said, "at least I don't. " That was true then, I did not hate him. I asked him to come home to eat with me. He did and threw stones at me all the way home. But today was different. He was stealing my apples. I had no soft feelings for him. He stood over me and kept telling me not to cry. "I'm not crying. " "All right, you not. But you are still angry. " "No, I'm not. There was a little. But I'm not anymore. " "Well, why do you look so funny around your eyes?" "I don't know. " "Let's go to the barn to play. " "Play what? " Anvol looked at me with surprise. He did not know if he should be a friend or enemy. "We play anything. " I said. "Come on, I'll race you to the barn. " We got to the barn. And the first thing Anvol saw was a white circle that my father had painted on the floor. "What is that for? " "Nothing, " I answered. I was not ready to use my plan yet. We jumped from the hay to the floor a few times. Later, I felt ready. "That's no fun. " I said, "Let's play prisoner circle. " "Oh, what's that? " Anvol asked as if he was too big to play foolish games. I was getting excited. I did not trust myself to look at the circle on the floor. Anvol might learn my plan if I did. Nor did I look up at the top of the barn just above the circle. I knew what was there. It was a big steel fork to pick up hay grass and placed on the truck. It had two long sharp points. A man had come to the barn to build it, for days he worked until he placed the fork up high out of the way. The fork could be led down by a rope and was tied to a pole. I remembered the first day it was tested. My father called all the workers from the field to watch. I did not remember the details, but something went wrong. The fork fell and buried itself in the back of one of the horses. Father said little. He simply painted a white circle on the barn floor where the fork fell. He pulled the big steel fork back up to the top and tied the rope up high where no one could reach it. Then he said quietly with a white face, "I do not want anyone to step inside the white circle or to touch the rope that holds the fork, never. " "I do not want to play a foolish game. " said Anvol. "All right, " I said, "but play just one game of prisoner circle with me first. Get in the Circle, shut your eyes and begin to count. " "Oh all right. " Anvol agreed weakly. "One, two, three. . . " "Get right in the middle of the circle. " I told him, "and count slowly so I can hide. " Anvol counted slower, "Four. . . five. . . six. " I looked at him once again. Then climbed up to the floor above where the rope was tied. I pulled on the rope with all my power. The fork dropped with a whizzing sound. Anvol must felt something was wrong because he jumped out of the way in time. The heavy fork buried its sharp points deep in the barn floor. For a moment, Anvol stood very still. He turned around and saw the shining steel fork. His face turned a light green color. The muscles in his legs moved up and down. After a few quiet moments of surprised wonder, he reached into a shirt and pulled out my apples one by one. He dropped them on the barn floor. "You can have your smelly old apples. " he said, "You tried to kill me for a few smelly apples. Your old man owns everything around here. I haven't got a thing of my own. Go ahead and keep your old apples. " He got to his feet, and slowly walked out of the barn door. I had not moved or said one word. A moment later, I ran and picked the apples from the floor. "Anvol, Anvol" He continued to walk and crossed the field. I shouted louder, "Anvol, wait. You can have the apples. " Anvol climbed the fence and did not looked back. He walked toward the store down the road. Three birds flew out of the barn door, squeaking and squawking. Now only the great steel fork was left. There was a lone shining accusing me in the silence and emptiness of the barn.

Every year at this time, the peasants began their long religious pilgrimage to Geed-leh, to visit the church there, and to pray for God's help. They walked or rode in wagons; they crowded the roads leading to the holy town, for Geed-leh was famous in Poland as a place where God did miracles. The cool autumn days also brought many beggars to Geed-leh. The peasants gave away more of their money on such a religious holiday as this. Some of the beggars were blind, some had no feet or arms. Some were very old and seemed like lost children looking for their mothers. There was one among them who was called "the Mute Singer". He was given this name because he could not speak. There was a time when he was able to sing, while playing his guitar. But he lost his voice. Now he played the guitar and sang, but no sounds came from his throat. His lips just moved with the music. The Mute Singer was a tall, strange-looking man. His face and hands were brown, like the color of copper. He had white hair and a white beard: he looked like one of the wise men you read about in the Bible. Early one morning I saw the Mute Singer washing himself at the river. He smiled and touched the ground with his hand, meaning that I should sit down. Then, he pointed his finger straight up, to tell me that he had a surprise for me. Suddenly, he put his hand into the water and rubbed two of his fingers together, making a strange sound, exactly like the sound of a croaking frog. He did it many times, then he lightly hit the top of the weater, sending little ripples of waves across the water to the other side. Suddenly, everything around us seemed to be moving. I could not believe that it was real. Thousands of frogs came racing toward us, jumping, and swimming...under the water and on top of the water. I began to shake with excitement. The frogs crowded around us, I could see their heads and eyes showing above the top of the water. The Mute Singer found some snails and cut them into small pieces and began to feed the frogs. They came closer and closer, and the Mute Singer started to play his guiter. As he did so, the frogs became quiet and listened. And then they, too, started to sing. Young frogs, old frogs...every one of them began to sing. I never heard anything like it. Not a frog moved: they all just sat and sang. No one ever saw the Mute Singer at night. Nobody even knew where he slept. But during the day he could be found at the same place, sitting near the church and playing his guitar while his lips moved silently with the music. Everybody liked the Mute Singer-the peasants as much as the beggars. People threw their pennies into the cups of the beggars sitting on the ground, asking for help. But not so with the Mute Singer. Into his cup, they dropped their pennies gently. He used the shell of a turtle as a cup. He got much more money than the others, but this did not trouble any of the beggars. At the end of the day, the beggars crowded around the Mute Singer in front of the church. He took a clean white handkerchief from the pocket of his old coat, and put it smoothly on the ground. He made it seem like a religious ceremony. Then he put all his money on the clean white cloth, he made all the beggars an equal share of the money but kept nothing for himself. Sadly, he looked around at the baggars, covered with dirt and disease. The sun was sinking fast and the peasants had all left the church area. The Mute Singer lowered his head and started to pray; the baggars were on their knees, joining him in prayer. Then the Mute Singer began to play his guitar, moving his lips with the music. The beggars sat still and listened. The music cut deep into their hearts. It cut through their years of pain and suffering and loss of hope. It made them feel human again. Many of them cried, and with dried okd hands wiped away their tears. I heard a beggar say the Mute Singer was not a human being, but God dressed as a beggar. "If that is true," another answered, "he would not come as a beggar, but as a priest..." One day, hundreds of new peasants entered the city. They were welcomed at the church by its religious leaders who dropped water on their heads and blessed them. Religious singing and church bells felled the air, as did the cried of the beggars asking for help. As the peasants came out of the church, the Mute Singer began to play. The peasants crowded around him and dropped pennies into his cup. Suddenly, his fingers hit the wrong strings. He threw his arms into the air. His guitar fell to the ground and broke. One of the beggars caught the Mute Singer as he fell and held his beautiful head on his knees. We carried him into my mother's empty barn and put him down gently. I held his hand and he slept a little, then opened his eyes and smiled weakly. He looked like a lost child. The Mute Singer pointed to his chest and made the sign of the cross. A beggar said, "He wants me to give him the last rites. Can you get me a piece of bread?" "But you are not a priest," I said. "This is something any man would be glad to do for him it is an emergency. But I am dirty, my cothes are dirty. Hurry, get some bread and a white shirt." I ran out and got some bread. Next to my house was a synagogue, and in the dark I saw the rabbi's finest white shirt hanging to be dried. I took the shirt and hurried to the side of the dying Mute Singer. The beggar put on the white shirt, and gave me a candle to hould. Then he got down close to the Mute Singer and said: "Hear me, my brother! Open your eyes if you can, so that you may see the sign of the cross made over you. Here is your Last Communion, a beggar's Communion of black bread." The dying man looked at the beggar, smiled weakly and left us forever.... That night I had very strange dreams. In one dream, I saw something white moving slowly toward me. It was liike a flog. But when it got very close it changed into the shape of a man. It was the Mute Singer still holding his guitar. Then two angles floated out of the dark into my dream: they fell to their knees before the Mute Singer, kissing his hands while he gently touched their heads. It was like what I had often seen in old religious paintings. I slept badly. I felt something heavy, and it was hurting me. I awoke and saw that I was holding too hard against my chest, the shell of a turtle. It was the turtle shell which the Mute Singer used as a beggar's cup for money. He gave it to me while he lay dying.

VOA Special English now presents a story for the Christmas holiday. The story is called "A Brooklyn Christmas". It is about Christmas in the Brooklyn part of New York City in the early 1900s. It was written by Betty Smith. K.Glat is the story teller. Christmas was a wonderful time in Brooklyn. But holiday was in the air long before it came. The first sure sign of it was the windows of the stores. You have to be a child to know the wonder of a store window filled with dolls, sleds and other playthings. And this wonder was free for a girl named Francy. How exciting it was for Francy to walk down the street and see another store all ready for Christmas. The clean shinning window was filled with cotton to look like snow. On this cotton snow, were boxes filled with dolls, dolls with golden hair, and other dolls which Fanrcy liked even better, their hair with the color of rich coffee with lots of milk in it, owned the deep blue eyes that looks straight into a little girl`s heart. Francy had never had such a doll. Her doll was a little one that costed only 5 cents. Then there were the sleds for sliding across the snow. One sled had a flower painted on it, a deep blue flower with bright green leaves. The sleds had a wonderful names painted on them too, Rose board, Megnolya, Snow King, The Flier. Francy thought if I could only have one of those, I would never ask god for another thing as long as I live. There were other beautiful toys in the store windows. And Francy felt weak from looking at so many wonderful things and thinking about them so hard. A week before Christmas, evergreen trees began arriving in Francy`s part of Brooklyn. Christmas tree sellers tied ropes along the street. They put the green trees against the ropes and sold them to people who want to buy. All day, the sellers walked up and down their little street of trees. The air all around smelled of the sharp green branches, the smell of Christmas. A few people stopped to choose a tree. They would ask the seller to keep it for them until the day before Christmas. Then they will take their tree home and cover it with colorful paper, glass balls and lights. Some people stopped to ask the prices of trees. But most people came just to look at the trees, to touch them or break a tiny branch to release the wonderful smell. The air was full of the fresh green smell of the trees. The poor little street in Francy`s neighborhood was truly wonderful for a while. There was a cruel custom in Francy`s part of Brooklyn. It was about the Christmas trees that had not been sold by 12 o`clock midnight on Christmas Eve. A custom was this, after midnight, the sellers will give away the unsold trees to children, but getting one was not easy. The seller would throw a tree at a child who wanted it. If you caught it without falling down, you could keep it. But if you fell down, you gave up your chance for a free tree. Before midnight on Christmas Eve, children will gather around the unsold trees. The men would throw each tree in turn starting with the biggest tree. Many children would try to catch a tree. But only the strongest, roughest boys would try to catch the big trees. The littlest children waited for the littlest trees. They screamed with happiness when they caught a Christmas tree. On this Christmas Eve, Francy was 10 years old. Her little brother Nily was nine. Mother agreed to let them have their first try to win a free tree. Francy had chosen her tree earlier in the day. She had stood near it all afternoon, hoping that no one would buy it. To her great happiness, the tree was still there at midnight. It was the biggest tree, more than 3 meters tall. The tree`s price was so high. No one could buy it. The tree man took this big tree out first and got ready to throw it. Before Francy could speak, a big rough boy, 18 years old, stepped forward. He demanded that the man throw the tree at him. The man hated the way the big boy was so sure of himself. He looked around and asked "anybody else wanna take a chance on it?" Francy stepped forward, "me, Mister." The tree man laughed. So did the children, and a few grown-ups gathered to watch the fun. "Aha, go on," the man said, "You are too little." Francy argued, "me and my brother will not too little together." She pulled Nily forward. The man looked at the 2 of them, a thin girl of 10 who looked as if she did not get enough to eat, a thin little boy with light hair and round blue eyes. "Two catchers is not fair." shouted the big rough boy. "Shut your mouth." the tree man said. "These two kids got nerve. Stand back the rest of youth. These kids is going to have a try of this tree." The other people stood in a line making a kind of path. Francy and Nily stood at one end. The man with big tree stood at the other end. The man raised his arms to throw the great tree. He saw how small the children looked. For the breathless moment of time, the man struggled within himself. "Oh Jes," he thought "why don`t I just give them the tree, say merry Christmas, and let them go. The tree means nothing to me. It is too late to sell it this year. And it will not last till next year." The children watched the tree man as he stood there in his moment of thought. But he said himself again. "If I did that, all the others will expect me to give them free trees, too. And next year, nobody would buy a tree from me. They would all wait until I gave them away. I`m not a big enough man to give away this tree for nothing. No, I am not big enough to do a thing like that. I have to think of myself and my own children." The tree man made his decision. "Oh, what the hell, these 2 kids is got leaving this world. They`ve got understand it, they`ve got a learn to give and to take punishment. And bye god. It is nothing but take, take, take all the time in this world." He threw the tree with all his strength. And as he threw it, his heart scream to him "it is a dirty, wrong, lousy world." With the smallest part of second, time and space have no meaning to Francy. The world stood still as something dark and terrible came through the air toward her. The tree blocked every memory of her life. There was nothing, nothing, but the sweet smelling darkness. And something that grew larger and larger as it flew at her. Francy almost felt as the tree struck them. Nily fell to his knees. But she pulled him up fiercely before he could go down completely. There was a powerful swishing sound as the tree settled around them. Everything was dark, green, and sharp. Then Francy felt pain at the side of her head where the tree had hit her. When some of the older boys pull the tree away, they found Francy and her brother standing up holding hands. Blood was coming from cuts on Nily`s face. But Francy and Nily were smiling. They had won the biggest tree. Some of the boys shouted "Great." Some people clapped their hands. And the tree man shouted "Now, get the hell out of here with your tree. You damn lousy kids." Francy had her rough words like those all the life. Such words had no special meaning to her or the other people on the street. The hash words came from people who had few ways to express their feelings. Such words could mean many different things. It depended on the way they were spoken. And the sound of the speaker`s voice. So now, when Francy heard the tree man called her and Nily damn lousy kids, she smiled. She knew he was really saying, "goodbye, god bless you." You have been listening to a special story for the Christmas holiday. It is called "A Brooklyn Christmas". Your story teller was K.Glat. Our story was written by Betty Smith and appeared in her book "A Tree Grows in Brooklyn". It was adapted for Special English by Carolin Viver, by permission of Harper and Roll publishers.

Our story today is adapted from a book for young people, called Shiloh, by Phyllis Reynolds Naylor. Ms Naylor won the Newbery Award for Shiloh. It is the highest honor for a writer of children's books in the United States. Here is Shep O'Neal with the story. My name is Marty Preston. I'm eleven years old and I live with my parents and two sisters. We live in a little four-room house high-up in the hills above Frendly, West Virginia. It's Sunday and we are having us a big Sunday dinner. My sister Dara Lynn is dipping bread in her glass of cold tea the way she likes. My other sister Becky pushes her beans up over the edge of her plate in her rush to get them down. Ma gives her a scolding look. "Just once in my life," Ma says, "I'd like to see a bite of food go direct from the dish into somebody's mouth without a detour of any kind." The best thing about Sundays is we eat our big meal at noon. Once you get your belly full, you can walk all over West Virginia before you're hungry again. On this afternoon, I was walking on the road next to the river when I see a short-haired dog, white, with brown and black spots. He's not making any kind of noise, just slinking alone with his head down. A beagle, may be a year or two old. I name him Shiloh. "But that's Judd Travers' beagle," says Dad, "he got himself another hunting dog. We'll drive him over to Judd's." Dad opens the door of the jeep and Shiloh leaps onto my lap. When Dad crosses the bridge I can feel Shiloh's body begin to shake. He's trembling all over. When we get to Judd's place, Shiloh jumps onto the ground. The dog connects with Judd's right foot. Shiloh makes a crying sound and runs behind the trailer, tail tugged down, belly to the ground. "Please don't kick him like that," I say. All the way home I can't speak a word, trying to hold the tears back. I want Shiloh, because he needs me, needs me bad. A few days later, I hear the noise, I know he's Shiloh. Soon as I see him outside my house again, I know I'm not gonna take him back. Not now, not ever. But for now I've got to keep Shiloh a secret. Up the hill and back of our house, I make a pen for the dog with some old wood. I manage to take a piece of potato and some corn bread up to Shiloh before it gets dark. I tell him he's my dog now and I'm not gonna let anybody hurt him again, ever. I pray to Jesus trying to figure out what to do. "Jesus," I whisper, "which you want me to do, be one hundred percent honest and carry that dog back to Judd so that one of your creatures can be kicked and starved all over again or keep him here and fatten him up to glorify your creation?" The problem's more mixed up than that though. I'm lying to my folks. I'm not eating the meat I've put away after supper. Every bit of food saved is money saved that I could go to buy Dara Lynn a new pair of shoes. Then Ma won't have to cut open the tops of Dara's old shoes to give her toes more room. But the way I figure, if it's food from my own plate, I wouldn't eat myself but give to Shiloh instead. What's the harm in there? A lie don't seem like a lie any more when it's meant to save a dog and right and wrong's all mixed up in my head. One day I sneak up the hill to see Shiloh. His pen is still a secret. I'm lying there, patting his head and he's got this happy dog smile on his face. Nobody else loves he as much as a dog except your mum maybe. I figure I'm about as happy right then as you can get in your whole life. That night I hear Shiloh making a noise upon the hill in his pen. I hear a loud yell and a snarl and a growl. And it's the worst kind of noise you can think of a dog being hurt. By the time I reach the pen, I see this big German shepherd dog with Shiloh on the ground. There are footsteps behind me and I'm bent over in the light of Dad's flashlight, crying. We take Shiloh to Doc Murphy in Dad's jeep. Hardest thing in the world is to leave Shiloh there! Second hardest thing is to climb back in the jeep with dad afterward. Dad studies me. "You can keep that dog until he's well, that's all," Dad says, "then we'll take him back to Judd." Shiloh's getting well at our house. When Judd comes by in his truck, "Somebody goes to the Doc the other day and sees a beagle lying out on his back porch," says Judd. "So I ride over to Doc's this evening, and he tells me it was you who brought him in." Judd stares down at Shiloh at his bandage and the shaved place where he's all stitched up and the rip on his ear. "Look what you've done to my dog!" he yells at me as big in angry, " I want him back by Sunday!" On Friday I'm on my way to talk to Judd, when I see a deer. Then I hear the sound of a rifle, Crack! The deer goes down. I can't move. One part of me wants to go to the deer; the other part knows that somebody is out here with a rifle shooting deer at a season when it's not legal. And before I can decide whether to go on or turn back, out of the woods on the other side steps Judd Travers, rifle in hand. When he looks up, I'm right beside him. "Deer ain't in season," I say, "There is a 200-dollar fine for killing a doe." "Not unless the game warden finds out," Judd says, "and who's gonna tell him? I'll tell him that the deer was eating my garden." All at once I realize I've got Judd Travers right where I want him. "I'll tell him different," I say. "Come off it, Marty." Judd says, "I'll give you half the meat." "I don't want the meat," I say, "I want Shiloh." "And you're saying if I let you keep my hunting dog, you're gonna keep this deer a secret?" Judd ask. "Yes, I will." I say. "Well, you gotta do more than that, boy. Because I've paid 35 dollars for that dog, and I want 40 to let him go." Judd says, "And I want it now. You work for me and pay it off. I'll pay you two dollars an hour and that comes to 20 hours." "I'll do it," I say. The closer I get the home, the bigger the grin on my face. I slide into my chair and almost have to put my cheeks in to keep the smile from going all the way round the head. " Went to see Judd Travers," I say, "and I'm buying his dog." Ma turns to Dad, "You know," she says, "I think it's because Shiloh was hurt, Judd figured he got rid of a lame dog." And at last, Dad begins to smile. "Now we got to worry about is how we can afford to feed him as well as ourselves," he says, "but there is food for the body and food for the spirit. And Shiloh show(s) enough feeds on spirit" Monday afternoon at three o'clock, I'm waiting on Judd's porch, when he pulls up in his truck. "You see that corn?" he asks, "I want the dirt chopped up so fine I can sift it through my fingers." I see what he's getting at. He's going to make it so there is no way I can please him. Monday of the second week, it seems like Judd likes to break my back or my spirit or both. This time he's got me splitting wood. To tell the truth, I think Ma's right. Judd would have sold Shiloh to me by and by, because the dog has a hurt leg and don't walk right. Judd's the kind that don't like that in a dog, same as he don't want a scratch on his pick-up truck, his truck's got to be perfect to make up for all the ways Judd's knocked. The last day I work for Judd he keeps bothering me, making me do my work over. I start off for home not feeling too good in my chest. "Just a minute," says Judd. He goes back inside and comes out with a dog's collar. "Might be a little big, but he'll growing into it. You got yourself a dog." he says, goes back in sudden, don't even look back. I get home that evening and Ma's baked a chocolate cake to celebrate. I'm thinking how nothing is as simple as you guess. Not right or wrong, not Judd Travers, not even me or this dog I got here. But the good part is I save Shiloh and open my eyes on. Not any bad for eleven years old. You have just heard the American Story Shiloh. Your story teller was Shep O'Neal. This story was adapted for Special English by Carron Leggett from the book written and copyrighted by Phyllis Reynolds Naylor. The book was published by Simon & Schuster in 1992. All rights reserved. Ms Naylor wrote two more books about Marty and his dog Shiloh, Shiloh Season and Saving Shiloh. Listen again next week at this time for another American Story told in Special English on the Voice of America. I'm Faith Lapidus.

Our story today is called "Here It Comes, There It Goes." It was written by Margaret Haggard. Here is Shep O' Neil with our story. I never thought that my clock, my beautiful old clock would make the town laugh at me, but it did. One day, two strangers came in and sat down. "Welcome to my hotel." I said, and told them what they could have to eat. While they ate, I happily thought about what they owed me, it was a lot of money. They were just finishing their coffee when they began to argue. "I tell you Farence, it can not be done." the younger man said. The other one hit the table until my dishes rattled, "Anyone can do it." he shouted, "Even this hotel owner could do it." Since they were talking about me, I went over to their table. "Could do what, gentleman?" I asked. The younger one did not look at me. "I will bet fifty dollars he can not do it." he said in a quiet voice. "Cannot do what, gentleman?" I asked again. The older man smiled at me."Why?" he said, "My friend and I were looking at your fine clock over there." "Oh, a fine clock, a very old one." I said. "My father brought it to this country." "We were looking at the slow steady swing of pendulum as it counts the seconds." the young one said, "And my friend said it would be easy to stand in front of the clock for one hour. To stand without moving and say 'Here it comes, there it goes.' as the clock's pendulum swings back and fore." That would be easy, I laughed. Why? I have stood and watched my clock for longer than an hour. "Would you like to bet on that?", the young man said, looking at me seriously. "I will pay you fifty dollars if you can do it, you pay me if you can not." "Fifty dollars?" I asked, it seemed a lot of money for such an easy trick. "Yes." he answered. Then he looked around the empty restaurant and said "If it is too much, we will bet only twenty five dollars." That did something to me, so they thought I was too poor to bet fifty dollars. "I will bet one hundred dollars." I cried, I wished I had beaten my tongue the minute the words were out, it was all the money I had. Without another word, he brought out one hundred dollars and gave them to his friend, "Here, Farence." he said, "You hold the money for us." I gave Farence my money too. he did not count it, but put it with the other money. "He trusts me." I thought, "A true gentleman." I decided to give them the dinner free if I won the bet. "These are the rules." the old man said, put his gold watch on the table. "You must stand there looking at the clock for one hour. Every time the pendulum swings, you say 'Here it comes, there it goes,' do you understand?" "Yes." I answered smiling. I felt that the money was already in my pocket. "I agree to that too" the young one said, nodding his head. "Very good." I said, and went over to the clock. It hung on the wall above a shelf filled with my best dishes. I stood there with my back toward the men. "Begin now." ordered the older one. "Here it comes, there it goes. Here it comes, there it goes..." I started to say in a loud clear voice. While I spoke these words, I thought about many things. "First, I thank to God for my fine old clock, this old clock might help me get money for my son's education, then I could buy a new coat for my wife Sarah. Perhaps, I could even buy a walking stick for myself. Yes the hundred dollars would go quickly. And so the minutes past." Seven, sixteen, twenty-eight, then I heard someone come in and close the door. I recognized the voice of my old friend Laizar, "Michaelson." he cried, "What's wrong? Why are you standing there talking to a clock? Have you lost your mind?" The two strangers said nothing. This made me angry. I decided I would make them pay for their dinner. Laizar began to pray. "Dear God help this poor man, look Michaelson." he said gently, "I will get your coat and take you outside for a walk, fresh air might help you." I kept saying "Here it comes, there it goes". "Michaelson." he said, his voice sick with emotion. "Let me take you home to your wife Sarah" I heard Laizar come near me, I was afraid he would pull me outside, then I would lose the hundred dollars. I got so worried, I took a dish and threw it over my shoulder at him, it missed. "He is getting violent." Laizar said. "Michaelson, listen to me, you can stand there and say anything you like, just stay there one minute longer, do not move, I will be right back, one minute!" He rushed outside. "Here it comes, there it goes." I continued in my angriest voice. I wanted those strangers to know how I thought about them. They should have explained the bet to Laizar. They surely did not act like gentlemen "The minutes went by slowly, oh so slowly!" Then the door opened again. "Hey, Michaelson", someone yelled, after the next words I knew it was Naufmann, the tailor. "What are you doing?" Naufmann is a fine tailor but a very stupid man. When I did not answer, he ran out the hotel. In less than three minutes he was back again with a crowed of people. They all talked at same time. "He is sick in the mind" one said. "It's true." said another, "But what can we do?", "We must take him to a hospital." shouted others. Then I was really angry. Forty seven minutes of my hour gone, and these fools might try to stop me. I took two more dishes and threw them over my head, this time I did not miss. "How could I in such a crowded place?" Then, suddenly, everything was quiet. I could hear someone softly walking toward me. I waited until I thought he was close enough, then I kick out behind me. Poor Naufmann, he yelled in pain. "Get a rope!" he shouted, "A rope, we must tie his arms and feet." Two of them ran off to find one. I prayed they would not return until the hour was gone. After a minute, I heard the door opened and shouted again. "Let him alone all of you", it was my old friend Laizar, his voice shaking with worry. "Here it comes, there it goes", I kept saying for the two strangers, "It must be a weakness in the brain", I heard grandpa Sadecer say "His aunt Viola died the same way, she counted features, features for her wedding day." "Here it comes, there it goes" I said, thinking that grandpa was a foolish old man. Nobody spoke, it was so quiet, the sound of the clock seemed loud. Fifty eight minutes gone, only two minutes and one hundred dollars would be mine. My voice was getting weak and my mouth was dry. Then, again, I heard the door open, and a crying of a woman filled my ears, it was my wife Sarah. "Oh, please, please!" I prayed, "do not let her come near me, I could not throw anything at my wife, not even one small dish." Ten seconds, three, two, one. I quickly turned around, "I won! I won!" I shouted, "Give me the hundred dollars." nobody moved, they all looked at me, "My one hundred dollars." I yelled, "And the two strangers, where are they? What have you done with them? They were sitting right over there at that table." I told the story many times before they believed me. And when they did, the sound of their laughter could be heard in the next town. So that's why they called me "Here It Comes, There It Goes Michaelson," and that's why anyone who comes into my hotel always asks "Can you tell me what time it is?" and goes away laughing hard. You have heard the American Stories "Here It Comes, There It Goes." written by Margaret Haggard. Your storyteller was Shep O' Neil, the producer was Lawan Davis. The story was published by Random House in Best College Writing of 1961. This story is copyrighted, all rights reserved. Listen again next week at the same time for another American Story told in Special English on the Voice Of America. This is Shirley Griffith.

Our story is called Jacob Have I Loved, by Katherine Paterson. It received the Newbery Award for the best book written for young people in the United States. The story takes place on Rass Island in the Chesapeake Bay along the eastern coast of the United States, near Maryland and Virginia. The story is told by Sara Louise Bradshaw, a 13-year-old girl who lives with her parents and her twin sister Caroline. Here is Gwen Outen with the story. Rass Island lies as low as the back of a turtle on the dark green water of the Chesapeake Bay. We Bradshaws have lived here for more than two hundred years. I love Rass Island although for much of my life I did not think I did. During the summer of 1941, every morning McCall Purnell and I would get my small boat and go out to catch shellfish called crabs. Watermen on our island sell crabs and eat crabs. Call and I were right smart crabbers and we could always come home with a little money as well as crabs for dinner. My mother was pleased with money I made. "My!" she said, "that was a good morning. By the time you wash , we'll be ready to eat!" I like the way she did that. She never said I was dirty or that I smelled bad. Just by the time you wash up. She was a real lady my mother, she had come to teach in the island school and fell in love with my father. What my father needed more than a wife was sons. What my mother gave him was girls--twin girls! I was older than my sister by a few minutes. I always treasure the thought of those minutes. They were the only time in my life when I was the center of everyone's attention. From the moment Caroline was born, she took all the attention for herself. When my mother and grandmother told the story of our births, it was mostly of how Caroline had refused to breathe. "But where was I?" I asked my mother. "In the basket," she said, "Grandma dressed you and put you in the basket." Caroline's true gift was her voice. Our teacher, Mr. Rice, said she should have singing lessons. I was proud of my sister, but something began to hurt me under the pride. One day, Mama and Caroline came back to the island on a boat after Caroline’s singing lesson. There was an old man on the boat whom I'd never seen before. Our island held few secrets or surprises beyond the weather. But all the old people agreed that he was Hiram Wallace . My friend Call and I started visiting Hiram Wallace. We decided simply to call him the Captain. The Captain stayed at our house when the big storm hit in 1942. Afterward, we took my little boat heading straight for the Captain's house. But nothing was left at the spot where the Captain's house had stood the night before. Even with his white beard the Captain looked like a little boy trying not to cry. Not long after that, the Captain married Trudy Braxton who lived on the island. She was not well and did not live long. Soon the Captain came up the path to our house, his face red with excitement. He told my mother and me that Trudy left a little money. ''There is enough for Caroline to go to boarding school in Baltimore, Maryland and continue her music.'' said the Captain. I sat there as surprised as if he had thrown a rock in my face! ''Caroline!'' My grandmother came up close behind me. I stiffened at the sound of her hoarse whisper. ''Romans 9-13,'' she said. She repeated the saying from the Christian Bible about the competition between two brothers for their father's love. ''Jacob Have I Loved, but Esau have I hated''. I had always believed the Captain was different. But he, like everyone else, had chosen Caroline over me. In the autumn I left school, I spent the winter catching oysters, another kind of shellfish, with my father. That strange winter with my father on his boat was the happiest of my life. I was, for the first time, deeply satisfied with what life was giving me. Part of it was the things I discovered. Who would have believed that my father sang while catching oysters! My quiet father whose voice could hardly be heard in church sang to the oysters! It was a wonderful sound! I did not want to go back to school, so my mother taught me at home. I passed the test for graduation with the highest grades recorded from Rass Island. The war in Europe ended in 1945. At the end of crab season Call came home from the war. The body of a large man in uniform was filling the door. ''Call,'' I cried, ''Oh my blessed Call, you have grown up!'' ''That's what the navy promised,'' he said. Call told the Captain he had stopped to see Caroline. His face burned with happiness when he told the Captain ''She said YES to me,'' he said softly, ''I guess it is hard for you to think someone like Caroline might like me.'' I went back to the crab house. Soon after Call and Caroline were married, the Captain said to me, ''This is hard for you, isn't it? What is it you really want to do?'' I was totally empty. What was it I really wanted to do? ''Your sister knew what she wanted,'' said the Captain, ''so when the chance came she could take it. Do not tell me no one ever gave you a chance, Sara Louise. You can make your own chances. But first you have to know what you are after, my dear.'' ''I would like to see the mountains,'' I said, and then my dream began to form along with the sentence, ''I might, I want to be a doctor.'' ''So what is stopping you?'' the Captain asked. I realized that under all my dreams of leaving home, I was afraid to go. My mother had told me that she had chosen to leave her people and build the life for herself somewhere else. ''I certainly would not stop you from making the same choice,'' my mother said to me now, ''but all we will miss you, your father and I.'' I wanted so to believe her, ''As much as you miss Caroline?''

Keesh lived at the edge of the polar sea. He had seen thirteen suns in the Eskimo way of keeping time. Among the Eskimos, the sun each winter leaves the land in darkness. And the next year, a new sun returns, so it might be warm again. The father of Keesh had been a brave man. But he had died hunting for food. Keesh was his only son. Keesh lived along with his mother, Ikeega. One night, the village council met in the big igloo of Klosh-kwan, the chief. Keesh was there with the others. He listened, then waited for silence. He said, “It is true that you give us some meat. But it is often old and tough meat, and has many bones.” The hunters were surprised. This was a child speaking against them. A child talking like a grown man! Keesh said, “My father, Bok, was a great hunter. It is said that Bok brought home more meat than any of the two best hunters. And that he divided the meat so that all got an equal share.” “Naah! Naah!” the hunters cried. “Put the child out! Send him to bed. He should not talk to gray-beards this way!” Keesh waited until the noise stopped. “You have a wife, Ugh-gluk,” he said. “And you speak for her. My mother has no one but me. So I speak. As I say, Bok hunted greatly, but is now dead. It is only fair then that my mother, who was his wife, and I, his son, should have meat when the tribe has meat. I, Keesh, son of Bok, have spoken.” Again, there was a great noise in the igloo. The council ordered Keesh to bed. It even talked of giving him no food. Keesh jumped to his feet. “Hear me!” he cried. “Never shall I speak in the council igloo again. I shall go hunt meat like my father, Bok.” There was much laughter when Keesh spoke of hunting. The laughter followed Keesh as he left the council meeting. The next day, Keesh started out for the shore, where the land meets the ice. Those who watched saw that he carried his bow and many arrows. Across his shoulder was his father’s big hunting spear. Again there was laughter. One day passed, then a second. On the third day, a great wind blew. There was no sign of Keesh. His mother, Ikeega, put burned seal oil on her face to show her sorrow. The women shouted at their men for letting the little boy go. The men made no answer, but got ready to search for the body of Keesh. Early next morning, Keesh walked into the village. Across his shoulders was fresh meat. “Go you men, with dogs and sleds. Follow my footsteps. Travel for a day,” he said. “There is much meat on the ice. A she-bear and her two cubs.” His mother was very happy. Keesh, trying to be a man, said to her, “Come, Ikeega, let us eat. And after that, I shall sleep. For I am tired.” There was much talk after Keesh went to his igloo. The killing of a bear was dangerous. But it was three times more dangerous to kill a mother bear with cubs. The men did not believe Keesh had done so. But the women pointed to the fresh meat. At last, the men agreed to go for the meat that was left. But they were not very happy. One said that even if Keesh had killed the bear, he probably had not cut the meat into pieces. But when the men arrived, they found that Keesh had not only killed the bear, but had also cut it into pieces, just like a grown hunter. So began the mystery of Keesh. On his next trip, he killed a young bear…and on the following trip, a large male bear and its mate. Then there was talk of magic and witchcraft in the village. “He hunts with evil spirits,” said one. “Maybe his father’s spirit hunts with him,” said another. Keesh continued to bring meat to the village. Some people thought he was a great hunter. There was talk of making him chief, after old Klosh-kwan. They waited, hoping he would come to council meetings. But he never came. “I would like to build an igloo.” Keesh said one day, “but I have no time. My job is hunting. So it would be just if the men and women of the village who eat my meat, build my igloo.” And the igloo was built. It was even bigger than the igloo of the Chief Klosh-kwan. One day, Ugh-gluk talked to Keesh. “It is said that you hunt with evil spirits, and they help you kill the bear.” “Is not the meat good?” Keesh answered. “Has anyone in the village yet become sick after eating it? How do you know evil spirits are with me? Or do you say it because I am a good hunter?” Ugh-gluk had no answer. The council sat up late talking about Keesh and the meat. They decided to spy on him. On Keesh’s next trip, two young hunters, Bim and Bawn, followed him. After five days, they returned. The council met to hear their story. “Brothers,” Bim said, “we followed Keesh, and he did not see us. The first day he came to a great bear. Keesh shouted at the bear, loudly. The bear saw him and became angry. It rose high on its legs and growled. But Keesh walked up to it.” “We saw it,” Bawn, the other hunter, said. “The bear began to run toward Keesh. Keesh ran away. But as he ran, he dropped a little round ball on the ice. The bear stopped and smelled the ball, then ate it. Keesh continued to run, dropping more balls on the ice. The bear followed and ate the balls.” The council members listened to every word. Bim continued the story. “The bear suddenly stood up straight and began to shout in pain. “Evil spirits,” said Ugh-gluk. I do not know,” said Bawn. “I can tell only what my eyes saw. The bear grew weak. Then it sat down and pulled at its own fur with its sharp claws. Keesh watched the bear that whole day.” “For three more days, Keesh continued to watch the bear. It was getting weaker and weaker. Keesh moved carefully up to the bear and pushed his father’s spear into it.” “And then?” asked Klosh-kwan. “And then we left.” That afternoon, the council talked and talked. When Keesh arrived in the village, the council sent a messenger to ask him to come to the meeting. But Keesh said he was tired and hungry. He said his igloo was big and could hold many people, if the council wanted a meeting. Klosh-kwan led the council to the igloo of Keesh. Keesh was eating, but he welcomed them. Klosh-kwan told Keesh that two hunters had seen him kill a bear. And then, in a serious voice to Keesh, he said, “We want to know how you did it.” Did you use magic and witchcraft?” Keesh looked up and smiled. “No, Klosh-kwan. I am a boy. I know nothing of magic or witchcraft. But I have found an easy way to kill the ice-bear. It is head-craft, not witchcraft.” “And will you tell us, O Keesh?” Klosh-kwan asked in a shaking voice. “I will tell you. It is very simple. Watch.” Keesh picked up a thin piece of whale bone. The ends were pointed and sharp as a knife. Keesh bent the bone into a circle. Suddenly he let the bone go, and it became straight with a sharp snap. He picked up a piece of seal meat. “So,” he said, “first make a circle with a sharp, thin piece of whale bone. Put the circle of bone inside some seal meat. Put it in the snow to freeze. The bear eats the ball of meat with the circle of bone inside. When the meat gets inside the bear, the meat gets warm, and the bone goes snap! The sharp points make the bear sick. It is easy to kill then. It is simple.” Ugh-gluk said, “Ohhh!” Klosh-kwan said “Ahh!” Each said something in his own way. And all understood. That is the story of Keesh, who lived long ago on the edge of the polar sea. Because he used head-craft, instead of witchcraft, he rose from the poorest igloo to be the chief in the village. And for all the years that followed, his people were happy. No one cried at night with pains of hunger.