Take the quiz after reading the previous post!

Have you ever been in a catch-22? That is, you’re darned if you do, darned if you don’t? The term came from a book written in 1961 by Joseph Heller called … you guessed it, Catch-22. (Wouldn’t that be something–to write a novel that becomes so popular that it ends up being a common expression?) This book is about some sort of logic irrationality. You’ve got these soldiers trapped in war, and one of them Orr, is insane–he’s absolutely crazy. Now–here’s the dilemma. Because Orr is crazy, he could technically be grounded. That is, he wouldn’t have to fly and fight. But the airforce has come up with a rule called Catch 22. If you are worried about your own safety, that is what sane people do. So if you’re worried about flying and dying, then you are sane and you must fly.  So Orr was trapped in this dilemma because he told his officers that he was insane and shouldn’t be flying, and since he said that the authorities said he had to fly!

Examples of catch-22’s:

• Homeless people need a job so they can afford a home and nice clothes. Yet, they need to be able to say they live at a physical address to put down on the application, and they need nice clothes to land the job. So you can say this is a Catch-22 situation since both problems cancel each other out and you don’t feel as if you can go forward.
• Consumer loan: You need a good credit history to get a loan. Yet, how can you build up a good credit history if nobody will give you a loan since you don’t have a history of taking out any loans?

Journal lesson: Read as you listen to The Gift of the Magi by O. Henry by clicking here. (Or you can just read it). In what way did the couple in Gift of the Magi end up in a catch 22? Also, apply your new knowledge to describe an experience of yours that could be called a catch 22.

At the end of  The Gift of the Magi, O. Henry says: Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. Of all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi.

Here our author doesn’t hide that he has something deeper that he wants us to get. Remember, titles are clues. The Gift of the Magi alludes to the Bible story of the Wise Men who give gifts to baby Jesus. In this story, what gifts were given? We had the chain for the pocket watch and the combs for Della’s hair.

• What did they have to sacrifice for the gifts? They had to give up the very items they wanted to enhance. Jim had to sell the pocket watch for Della’s combs, and Della had to sell her hair for the chain to match Jim’s pocket watch.
• How were Jim and Della foolish? They had to give things away that would ruin the gift the other was giving to each other.
• How were they wise? That’s the question. Why does O.  Henry call them wise? We’re getting there.
• What is the climax of the story? That’s when everything comes to a head–the moment of the gift exchange.
• What is the resolution? They discover that their treasures have been given away and that their gifts can’t be used right now.

Honing in on Theme

We said that themes might be difficult to put into words. These are the possible themes that others have suggested for the story:

1. Love is more important than material things.
2. Love is selfless.
3. It’s the thought that counts.
4. It’s better to give than to receive.

Think about these four possibilities, think about the title and what the characters did. Think of how everything wound up at the end and tell me–in your opinion–what O. Henry really wanted us to understand at the end. Enjoy, and enjoy the gift of giving and receiving your own gifts in the future!

From watching the movie on Thursday, November 12, 2009. Answer the questions below. Choose the BEST answer.

Take this quiz after reading the previous post,  (click here to read it).

[QUIZZIN3]

By Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Are you familiar with the Arthurian Legends? Perhaps you have seen The Sword and The Stone? Or The Defense of Gweneviere? Or Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Alfred, Lord Tennyson takes the romance of this era, and puts it in this poem in the form of a ballad.

Who was Alfred, Lord Tennyson? What is a ballad?

Alfred, Lord Tennyson

• Born in 1809 in a small town. Father was a clergyman.
• Went to Cambridge University.
• 1830 published “Poems Chiefly Lyrical” without much success or acclaim.
• Continued writing and finished his studies.
• Best friend Arthur Hallaman died suddenly in 1833.

1. Devastated Tennyson;
2. Changed his life and writing forever.

• Published “In Memoriam” in 1850 as an extended elegy for his friend.
• Prince Albert was so impressed by this elegy that Queen Victoria declared Tennyson as England’s poet laureate.
• In 1884 Queen Victoria made him a Baron, thus his title “Lord.”
• Considered the poetic voice of his age by the public and his collegues.

What is a Ballad?

• Song-like narrative poem with lyrical rhyme and meter. (Narrative means that it tells a story).
• Word Music: the rhythm, cadences and sound devices that create a song-like quality. When you read a ballad, you almost want to sing it since it has such a nice rhythm.
• Short, regular stanzas with a repeated refrain at the end of each stanza
• Simple language and rhyme. (In a moment we’ll look at the rhyme scheme).
• Often about adventure or romance; depicts emotional, dramatic action.
• Centers around one theme or one character.

The Lady of Shalott

Content

• Based in Arthurian Legend
• About how society accepts or does not accept the artist, (she is the artist who weaves tapestries of the world–scenes she sees).
• Lady lives under a curse that keeps her isolated from the real world.
• Locked in a tower; if she leaves, she will die. (Question of acceptance or not being accepted–there’s the literal meaning; but there’s also a metaphoric and thematic level to the poem).
• She weaves a tapestry of the scenes she sees in her magic mirror.
• She sees a vision of Sir Lancelot in her mirror.
• She decides to leave the tower to find her love, Lancelot, (a very risky decision since she’s aware of the curse she’s under).
• Discovers a boat and sails secretly toward Camelot. She carves her name in the boat, which indicates that she knows she might not make it.
• She dies before she arrives without ever seeing Lancelot.
• At the end, he bestows a blessing on her, so he at least, gets to see her.

Form

• 9-line stanzas
• One line refrain at the end of each stanza
• lambic pentameter (which contributes to the song-like quality)
• Rhyme Scheme–aaaa(b)ccc(b) (which means, 4 lines that end with words that all rhyme with each other. Then a line that ends in a word that doesn’t rhyme with the previous 4 lines. The first “b” ends in Lancelot, or Camelot. The second “b” is Shalott. The first part we learn about Camelot and it’s scenic beauty. The second part we learn about the curse. In the third section we learn about Lancelot and how she falls in love with him. In the fourth section, she decides to leave the tower and search for Lancelot, which ends in the tragedy of her death. But she still gets that blessing from Lancelot in the end.

Contrasting Images

• Solitary life of the lady vs. busy life of Lancelot in Camelot. How does Tennyson describe her solitary life? How does he depict the busy life of Lancelot in Camelot?

Analysis

• Tennyson’s reflection on a broad crisis of faith in Victorian England. How does a broad crisis in faith match up with Lady Shalott?
• Tennyson longs for refuge in the past, for simpler times. (The broad crisis of faith is a conflict, and Arthurian Times seem easier, simpler).
• Portrays the “lady” as having no life inside the tower (no fulfillment, no companionship, no interaction with people), but only death outside the tower. Her existence inside the tower can be categorized as a type of living death. It’s a “No-Win” or “Catch 22″ situation.
• Idea that we can never realize our fantasies, that once possible, the allure is gone. (Think of a time that you really, really wanted something, but once you got it, it wasn’t special anymore. This is kind of the idea Tennyson is portraying here).
• Fantasies cannot be fully realized because they are always better in our minds than in reality. Perhaps the Lady’s conception of Lancelot is better than who he really is, and it was fruitless for her to try to go after him. But still, he bestows his blessing on her. How does this affect this notion of conflict–that fantasies can’t be realized because fantasies aren’t reality? She how this all works into the poem.

You can read this poem and concentrate on the surface, or literal meaning. Or you can read the poem and think about the metaphorical meaning.

On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And thro’ the field the road runs by
To many-tower’d Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Through the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four grey walls, and four grey towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.

By the margin, willow veil’d,
Slide the heavy barges trail’d
By slow horses; and unhail’d
The shallop flitteth silken-sail’d
Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?

Only reapers, reaping early,
In among the bearded barley
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly;
Down to tower’d Camelot;
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers, ” ‘Tis the fairy
Lady of Shalott.”

There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.

And moving through a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot;
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly village churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls
Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd lad,
Or long-hair’d page in crimson clad
Goes by to tower’d Camelot;
And sometimes through the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two.
She hath no loyal Knight and true,
The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror’s magic sights,
For often through the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, went to Camelot;
Or when the Moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed.
“I am half sick of shadows,” said
The Lady of Shalott.

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro’ the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight for ever kneel’d
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.

The gemmy bridle glitter’d free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle bells rang merrily
As he rode down to Camelot:
And from his blazon’d baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armor rung
Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewell’d shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burn’d like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot.
As often thro’ the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, burning bright,
Moves over still Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow’d;
On burnish’d hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow’d
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flashed into the crystal mirror,
“Tirra lirra,” by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces through the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She look’d down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack’d from side to side;
“The curse is come upon me,” cried
The Lady of Shalott.

In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining.
Heavily the low sky raining
Over tower’d Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And around about the prow she wrote
The Lady of Shalott.

And down the river’s dim expanse
Like some bold seer in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance –
With a glassy countenance
Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.

Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right –
The leaves upon her falling light –
Thro’ the noises of the night,
She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shalott.

Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darkened wholly,
Turn’d to tower’d Camelot.
For ere she reach’d upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
Dead-pale between the houses high,
Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and Burgher, Lord and Dame,
And around the prow they read her name,
The Lady of Shalott.

Who is this? And what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they crossed themselves for fear,
All the Knights at Camelot;
But Lancelot mused a little space
He said, “She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott.”

Take the quiz

Edgar Allan Poe lived during the Victorian Times, the industrial era of Enlightenment, steam engines and dirigibles. Considered the Father of Suspense, he’s one of my favorite short story authors.

Previewing and Predicting:

Take a look at these pictures and predict what might happen in this story:

Edgar Allen Poe had a rough life and this is why he wrote such dark stories. He was born in 1809 and died in 1849. His father left him and his mother died when Poe was only 2 years old. He was adopted by a wealthy family and was given a fantastic education which helped him to get published with two books of poetry before he was 20 years old. However, his life wasn’t easy. For some reason we don’t know about, he broke ties with his adoptive father, which alienated him from his adopted family. He married but his wife died shortly afterward. Poe himself was always on the brink of disaster and he died young and completely penniless. He’s famous for tales of horror and mystery and is considered the father of the modern suspense story.

Setting the Foundation: Who’s Telling This Tale?

Narrator is first person.

• Ask yourself this as you are reading the story–what is the narrator’s motivation? Why is he/she telling this story?
• Is this person reliable? Can you trust him/her?

Up Close with Our Narrarator

Read the following first two paragraphs from The Tell-Tale Heart:

TRUE!–nervous–very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses–not destroyed–not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily–how calmly I can tell you the whole story.

It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! yes, it was this! He had the eye of a vulture–a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees–very gradually–I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye forever.

• Ask yourself–why is he/she telling us this? Is it a confession? To whom? To us?
• Are they trying to justify their actions? Or are they just telling the story of what happened?
• Concentrate on what the narrator reveals by the way he/she talks. The narrator’s words reveal a lot, but so does the way in which the narrator talks.

Okay, here is the rest of the story: (If you want to hear it read aloud by a narrator, click here):

Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded–with what caution–with what foresight–with what dissimulation I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night, about midnight, I turned the latch of his door and opened it–oh so gently! And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern, all closed, closed, that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly–very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man’s sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon his bed. Ha! would a madman have been so wise as this. And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid the lantern cautiously-oh, so cautiously –cautiously (for the hinges creaked) –I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights–every night just at midnight–but I found the eye always closed; and so it was impossible to do the work; for it was not the old man who vexed me, but his Evil Eye. And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into the chamber, and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and inquiring how he has passed the night. So you see he would have been a very profound old man, indeed, to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept.

Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. A watch’s minute hand moves more quickly than did mine. Never before that night had I felt the extent of my own powers –of my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To think that there I was, opening the door, little by little, and he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea; and perhaps he heard me; for he moved on the bed suddenly, as if startled. Now you may think that I drew back –but no. His room was as black as pitch with the thick darkness, (for the shutters were close fastened, through fear of robbers,) and so I knew that he could not see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily.

I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old man sprang up in bed, crying out –”Who’s there?”

I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down. He was still sitting up in the bed listening; –just as I have done, night after night, hearkening to the death watches in the wall.

Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief –oh, no! –it was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night, just at midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled up from my own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terrors that distracted me. I say I knew it well. I knew what the old man felt, and pitied him, although I chuckled at heart. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise, when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could not. He had been saying to himself –”It is nothing but the wind in the chimney –it is only a mouse crossing the floor,” or “It is merely a cricket which has made a single chirp.” Yes, he had been trying to comfort himself with these suppositions: but he had found all in vain. All in vain; because Death, in approaching him had stalked with his black shadow before him, and enveloped the victim. And it was the mournful influence of the unperceived shadow that caused him to feel –although he neither saw nor heard –to feel the presence of my head within the room.

When I had waited a long time, very patiently, without hearing him lie down, I resolved to open a little –a very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it –you cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily –until, at length a simple dim ray, like the thread of the spider, shot from out the crevice and fell full upon the vulture eye.

It was open –wide, wide open –and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it with perfect distinctness –all a dull blue, with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones; but I could see nothing else of the old man’s face or person: for I had directed the ray as if by instinct, precisely upon the damned spot.

And have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over-acuteness of the sense? –now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well, too. It was the beating of the old man’s heart. It increased my fury, as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage.

But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eve. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder every instant. The old man’s terror must have been extreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment! –do you mark me well I have told you that I am nervous: so I am. And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst. And now a new anxiety seized me –the sound would be heard by a neighbour! The old man’s hour had come! With a loud yell, I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked once –once only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gaily, to find the deed so far done. But, for many minutes, the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eye would trouble me no more.

If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence. First of all I dismembered the corpse. I cut off the head and the arms and the legs.

I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber, and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye –not even his –could have detected any thing wrong. There was nothing to wash out –no stain of any kind –no blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for that. A tub had caught all –ha! ha!

When I had made an end of these labors, it was four o’clock –still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart, –for what had I now to fear? There entered three men, who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbour during the night; suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been lodged at the police office, and they (the officers) had been deputed to search the premises.

I smiled, –for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search –search well. I led them, at length, to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim.

The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. They sat, and while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears: but still they sat and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct: –It continued and became more distinct: I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: but it continued and gained definiteness –until, at length, I found that the noise was not within my ears.

No doubt I now grew very pale; –but I talked more fluently, and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased –and what could I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound –much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I gasped for breath –and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly –more vehemently; but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise steadily increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men –but the noise steadily increased. Oh God! what could I do? I foamed –I raved –I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder –louder –louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly, and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God! –no, no! They heard! –they suspected! –they knew! –they were making a mockery of my horror!-this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! and now –again! –hark! louder! louder! louder! louder!

“Villains!” I shrieked, “dissemble no more! I admit the deed! –tear up the planks! here, here! –It is the beating of his hideous heart!”

The End

About the author, Frank Stockton: Born 1834; died 1902. He wrote fairy tales and stories for both adults and children. He used pseudo-historical details to make his fiction realistic and bring it to life, (similar to Steampunk. I’ve got Steampunk on the brain!). In the following story he describes a civilization that is a lot like ancient Rome. There is a Colosseum. We’ve got gladiators, and there’s a blood-thirsty audience watching these things. This is the setting for The Lady or The Tiger.

As you read, keep in mind that this story has more than one type of conflict. There are layers of conflict in this one. See if it’s mostly:

• character vs. character
• character vs. self
• character vs. nature/physical environment
• character vs. society.

The more you do this with each story you read, the easier it will get to identify these conflicts as they crop up. As you recognize each conflict, think of how different the story would have been if one of the conflicts wasn’t there. (Note: I took the liberty of breaking up the paragraphs to make reading easier. I also added a comment or two in order to help  explain some of the passages).

The Lady or The Tiger

By Frank Stockton

In the very olden time there lived a semi-barbaric king, whose ideas, though somewhat polished and sharpened by the progressiveness of distant Latin neighbors, were still large, florid, and untrammeled, as became the half of him which was barbaric.

He was a man of exuberant fancy, and, withal, of an authority so irresistible that, at his will, he turned his varied fancies into facts. He was greatly given to self-communing, and, when he and himself agreed upon anything, the thing was done. [In other words, he didn't ask anyone else's opinion; he just did whatever he pleased]. When every member of his domestic and political systems moved smoothly in its appointed course, his nature was bland and genial; but, whenever there was a little hitch, and some of his orbs got out of their orbits, he was blander and more genial still, for nothing pleased him so much as to make the crooked straight and crush down uneven places.

Among the borrowed notions by which his barbarism had become semified was that of the public arena, in which, by exhibitions of manly and beastly valor, the minds of his subjects were refined and cultured.

But even here the exuberant and barbaric fancy asserted itself. The arena of the king was built, not to give the people an opportunity of hearing the rhapsodies of dying gladiators, nor to enable them to view the inevitable conclusion of a conflict between religious opinions and hungry jaws, but for purposes far better adapted to widen and develop the mental energies of the people.

This vast amphitheater, with its encircling galleries, its mysterious vaults, and its unseen passages, was an agent of poetic justice, in which crime was punished, or virtue rewarded, by the decrees of an impartial and incorruptible chance.

When a subject was accused of a crime of sufficient importance to interest the king, public notice was given that on an appointed day the fate of the accused person would be decided in the king’s arena, a structure which well deserved its name. For, although its form and plan were borrowed from afar, its purpose emanated solely from the brain of this man, who, every barleycorn a king, knew no tradition to which he owed more allegiance than pleased his fancy, and who ingrafted on every adopted form of human thought and action the rich growth of his barbaric idealism. [The king didn't owe anybody a thing. He only had to be true to himself, and he loved to be barbaric; leave everything to chance]

When all the people had assembled in the galleries, and the king, surrounded by his court, sat high up on his throne of royal state on one side of the arena, he gave a signal, a door beneath him opened, and the accused subject stepped out into the amphitheater.

Directly opposite him, on the other side of the enclosed space, were two doors, exactly alike and side by side. It was the duty and the privilege of the person on trial to walk directly to these doors and open one of them. He could open either door he pleased; he was subject to no guidance or influence but that of the aforementioned impartial and incorruptible chance.

If he opened the one, there came out of it a hungry tiger, the fiercest and most cruel that could be procured, [or bought]which immediately sprang upon him and tore him to pieces as a punishment for his guilt. The moment that the case of the criminal was thus decided, doleful [or sad sounding] iron bells were clanged, great wails went up from the hired mourners posted on the outer rim of the arena, and the vast audience, with bowed heads and downcast hearts, wended slowly their homeward way, mourning greatly that one so young and fair, or so old and respected, should have merited so dire a fate. [merited means deserved]

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Listen to the story.

This story was written by O. Henry, who lived during the Victorian era, (a perfect time for Steampunk, btw!). O. Henry’s birth name was William Sydney Porter. He was born in 1862 and died in 1910, only 48 years old. He was a journalist and an author, but was best known for his short stories with twists at the end.

Before you read, look at the title, and predict what the conflict will be. Do you think the central conflict will be:

• character vs. character
• character vs. self
• character vs. nature/physical environment
• character vs. society

Based on the fact that “ransom” means the red chief was kidnapped and someone wants money for the Red Chief’s return, it’s safe to assume it’s character vs. character. Of course, there will probably be internal conflict as well, which is character vs. self. But we have no inkling of what the character will be struggling with inside his heart. And there is definitely a twist or two to the plot that I think you’ll really enjoy!!!

So here is the story:

The Ransom Of Red Chief

IT LOOKED like a good thing: but wait till I tell you. We were down South, in Alabama — Bill Driscoll and myself — when this kidnapping idea struck us. It was, as Bill afterward expressed it, “during a moment of temporary mental apparition”; but we didn’t find that out till later.

There was a town down there, as flat as a flannel-cake, and called Summit, of course. It contained inhabitants Of as undeleterious and self-satisfied a class of peasantry as ever clustered around a Maypole.

Bill and me had a joint capital of about six hundred dollars, and we needed just two thousand dollars more to pull off a fraudulent town-lot scheme in Western Illinois with. We talked it over on the front steps of the hotel. Philoprogenitiveness, says we, is strong in semi-rural communities; therefore and for other reasons, a kidnapping project ought to do better there than in the radius of newspapers that send reporters out in plain clothes to stir up talk about such things. We knew that Summit couldn’t get after us with anything stronger than constables and maybe some lackadaisical bloodhounds and a diatribe or two in the Weekly Farmers’ Budget. So, it looked good.

We selected for our victim the only child of a prominent citizen named Ebenezer Dorset. The father was respectable and tight, a mortgage fancier and a stern, upright collection-plate passer and forecloser. The kid was a boy of ten, with bas-relief freckles, and hair the colour of the cover of the magazine you buy at the news-stand when you want to catch a train. Bill and me figured that Ebenezer would melt down for a ransom of two thousand dollars to a cent. But wait till I tell you.

About two miles from Summit was a little mountain, covered with a dense cedar brake. On the rear elevation of this mountain was a cave. There we stored provisions. One evening after sundown, we drove in a buggy past old Dorset’s house. The kid was in the street, throwing rocks at a kitten on the opposite fence.

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

The boy catches Bill neatly in the eye with a piece of brick.

“That will cost the old man an extra five hundred dollars,” says Bill, climbing over the wheel.
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