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

look
Do you like surprise endings?
Enjoy asking “what if”?
Read on for twists, turns, and the
unexpected! The selections in this
unit will challenge you with the
weird and the unusual ... and in
some cases, you may find you
don’t have all the answers!

Dorothy Livesay
When I was a child,
Lying in bed on a summer evening,
The wind was a tall sweet woman
Standing beside my window.
She came whenever my mind was quiet.
But on other nights
I was tossed about in fear and agony
Because of goblins poking at the blind,
And fearful faces underneath my bed.
We played a horrible game of hide-and-seek
With Sleep the far-off, treacherous goal.
And even now, stumbling about in the dark,
I wonder, Who was it that touched me?—
What thing laughed?
Activities
Focus Your Learning
Reading this poem will help
you:
n use visuals to extend
your understanding and
explore the mood of a
poem
n explain and experiment
with techniques
1. Create a three-panel illustration of this poem, with
one panel per stanza. Try to capture the mood of each
stanza in your illustrations.
2. How do the italics contribute to the effect of the
last line? Discuss with a partner and experiment
with different ways of reading the line. Share your
interpretation with the class.
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Knife SARAH ELLIS
Focus Your Learning
Reading this short story will help you:
n interpret choices and motives of
characters
n create a dramatic monologue
n explain events from a different
point of view
n identify flashback and explain
what effect it has on a story
Nobody pays much attention to new people at
our school. We have the highest turn-over rate
of any high school in the city. Families move here, live in
an apartment for a while, then move out to the burbs so
they can have a carport and a lawn and a golden
retriever. The kids learn English and figure out locker
culture and then they’re ready to move on as well. We’re
a kind of boot camp for the guerrilla warfare that is real
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high school. Mrs. Fitzgerald, who teaches urban geography, calls us a
high-density transitional area.
In our graduating class there are only three people who have
been here since grade eight. Hester Tsao, Don Apple, and me. Mrs.
Fitzgerald calls us the core community. I call us stuck.
So, anyway, it wasn’t much of a deal when the principal
interrupted history last week to introduce a new student. Ron
something-or-other with a lot of syllables.
Ron was big. Not tall so much as wide. A red baseball cap shaded
his eyes. Mrs. Fitzgerald put him in the desk in front of me, recently
vacated by Maddy Harris. Maddy with the clicking beads in her hair.
The back of Ron’s head was not going to be as interesting, especially
when Mrs. Fitzgerald made him turn his baseball cap around.
“I have no objection to hats,” she said, “but I need to check
your eyes for vital signs.” Mrs. F. has used this joke before, but in this
school she gets a fresh audience frequently. Hester and Don and I
don’t mind.
Ron sat down without a word. He shifted uncomfortably, like
maybe the desk was too small for him. Then the weirdest thing
happened. I felt this damp chill, like when someone comes in from
the cold in winter. But we’re talking a sunny afternoon in May here.
I thought I also caught a faint whiff of sea salt.
Mrs. F. came down the aisle to bring Ron his textbook. She was
wearing a sleeveless dress. I didn’t see any goose bumps. Meanwhile,
I was beginning to shiver, and I pulled my hands up into my jacket
sleeves.
Maybe I was getting sick. Maybe I was getting the flu. I leaned
my forehead on my hand. Fever? I stuck out my tongue and rolled my
eyes down to see if it was coated. I couldn’t see my tongue, but my
eyes were definitely starting to hurt. And what was that tingling in my
right elbow? Wasn’t that one of the first symptoms of the flesh-eating
disease?
That was it. I certainly couldn’t go to my father’s for dinner next
week in that condition. Especially not with Stevie there. It would be
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completely irresponsible to expose a five-year-old boy to my rare,
highly infectious virus.
To understand why I would rather have the flesh-eating disease
than dinner with my father, you have to know that I haven’t seen him
in six years. He took off the summer I was eleven. For the longest time
I was sure he was coming home again and that everything was going
to be the same, that our family was just in some temporary alternate
reality that we would flip out of at any minute. When the truth finally
bored itself into my mind, I made the decision to hate him.
I took good care of my hating. I watered it and weeded it and
pruned it. I backed it up to disc. I carried it with me all the time. It
was always there, handy, if I wanted to take it out.
And now he was back. Of all the transitions in our transitional
area, this is the one I never expected. I thought he was in the Middle
East for good, around the curve of the world, out of the picture, part
of a new family and nothing to do with me.
Mum says I have to go to visit him, even just once.
“It’s all water under the bridge, Curt. And he has been good about
child support all these years, that’s one thing. Who knows, maybe you’ll
get to know each other again.”
Yeah. Right. How about not.
“Curtis?”
There was something anticipatory in Mrs. F.’s tone, a question in
the air. I did a quick survey of the blackboard. William Lyon Mackenzie.
The Family Compact. Not much help there.
And then the bell rang.
Mrs. F. grinned. I knew she would say it. “Saved by the bell once
again, Curtis. Have a pleasant weekend, ladies and gentlemen. Buy
low, sell high, and don’t forget the quiz on Monday.”
Then it happened. In the dull roar of Friday-afternoon liberation,
Ron turned around slowly. The desk shifted with him. And he looked
at me. His eyes were dark brown like a beer bottle. Pale eyelashes. His
eyes locked with mine and I couldn’t look away. My breath stopped in
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my throat. It seemed like he was looking at me forever, but it couldn’t
have been because the desks were still closing, the chairs still scraping,
far, far away.
He put his hand on my desk. I tore my gaze away and looked
down. His hand was closed into a fist. He spread out his fingers and I
heard a small clunk. His hand was big and pale, and the webs between
his fingers went halfway up to the first knuckle. I felt his eyes on me.
When he lifted his hand, still spread out and tense, a knife lay
on my desk. A red Swiss army knife.
And the six years vaporized into nothing, and I was eleven years
old again. I was in a rowboat and everything about that bad summer
became enclosed in one moment, when I threw the knife. The summer
of being eleven.
That summer we rented a cabin up the coast. It was going to be
so good. There was a tree house and a rowboat and Dad would come
up every weekend. I slept in a room with bunk beds and a door
covered in glued-on seashells and driftwood.
The first morning I woke up early. The birds were loud. I got up
quietly and pulled on some clothes and went down to the beach. The
rowboat was right there, waiting for me. I rowed around for a while,
getting the feel of the oars. There was a thin mist on the surface of the
water. And then, as I was lazily drifting in on the tide, there was the
sound of a small splash, and a shiny black cannonball head popped
out of the mist.
A seal. He stared right at me, friendly but quizzical, as if to say,
“What kind of a strange seal are you?” He had huge, shiny brown eyes
and grandfather whiskers. He swam right around the boat once. Then
he slipped under the glassy surface and disappeared.
To let out a little happiness I rowed around the cove like a maniac,
like it was some Rowboat Indy 500. When I got back to the cabin Mum
was just getting up. We had hot dogs for breakfast.
That first week I saw the seal every morning. He glided past the
boat underwater, on his side or even upside-down, fat and sleek. He
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started to come so close I could almost touch him. He liked to hide in
the seaweed. I decided his name was Rollo, because he was so good at
rolling over.
“My dad’s coming Friday after work,” I told Rollo. “And guess
what? Friday is my birthday. I’m not going to tell him about you. On
Saturday morning I’ll surprise him. We’ll come out in the boat. We’ll
be pretty early. My dad is an early riser. So am I. I inherited it.”
Dad was late that Friday. We waited and waited. Mum walked up
to the phone booth at the corner where the dirt road met the highway.
When she came back, her face was like concrete.
But then he came. He arrived at the door holding my cake with
the candles already lit. He had parked the car around the curve of the
road and snuck up to the house. “Happy birthday, birthday boy!”
The cake was chocolate with blue icing. The decoration in the
middle was a little wooden dog on a stand. In the candlelight he looked
like a miniature real dog who was all set to bark and jump up and give
me a tiny lick.
I made a wish. I don’t remember what it was. What did I wish
for before I started to wish for the same thing over and over? I blew
out the candles and pulled the dog out of the icing. I pushed the
button on the bottom of the stand and he collapsed. I let it go and
he jumped back into shape.
“Present time,” said Dad, and he set something on the table
beside my plate. It was a bright red Swiss army knife.
I picked it up. It was smooth and solid and heavy. I pulled out
one stiff shining blade.
“Jerry, don’t you think that’s a bit dangerous?” said Mum.
“He’ll be careful, won’t you, pal?” said Dad.
Dad and I looked at all the parts of the knife, the blades and
scissors, the corkscrew and screwdriver, the tweezers and toothpick, the
tool for taking stones out of horses’ hooves. Dad made jokes about me
opening bottles of wine and learning to whittle and helping out horses
in distress. He got louder and louder and jokier. Mum stopped talking.
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When I went to bed I put the knife under my pillow. Later I woke
up and heard Mum and Dad arguing. There was yelling and crying.
Anger seeped through the wooden wall beside me. I grabbed the knife
and put the pillow over my head.
I woke up early the next morning and jumped into my shorts. I put
my knife in my pocket. I peeked into Mum and Dad’s room. Mum was
asleep, huddled in a ball. Dad wasn’t there. I ran outside, up the road,
around the curve. The car was gone. The dust was soft around my feet.
He didn’t say goodbye. He didn’t come out in the boat with me.
He didn’t meet Rollo.
I spent most of that day in the treehouse thinking and gouging
the wooden planks with the biggest blade of the knife. And I figured it
out. They were fighting about the knife. I would just hide it away and
then they would forget about it and it would be okay again.
Dad didn’t come the next weekend or once again that summer. But
still I kept my knife hidden in my pocket, next to the collapsing dog.
Until the day I went out in the rowboat with Laurel.
How did I end up in the rowboat with Laurel? It can’t have been
my idea.
Mum must have arranged it. Laurel and her family had the next
cabin but one. Mum spent a lot of time sitting on their deck, drinking
coffee and smoking and talking to Laurel’s mother. Mum said how nice
it was that Laurel was just my age so that I could have a friend because
it must be a bit lonely for me. It wasn’t nice at all. I hated Laurel. She
looked like a weasel and talked like a grown-up. Besides, I already had
a friend, Rollo. I avoided Laurel.
But I guess I got trapped that day.
I don’t remember why we were in the boat. But I remember
absolutely clearly what happened. I can rerun that movie any time.
We’re floating around in the middle of the cove. I’m letting Laurel
row because she has a way of getting what she wants. And I take out
my knife and she grabs it. She pops the scissors in and out in a way I
know is going to break them. She removes the tweezers and starts
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tweezing my leg with them and I lunge for them and she throws them
back at me and they disappear over the side of the boat. I see them
sinking, a little silver light, and then they disappear into the murk.
I want to scream and cry and hurt Laurel. But I don’t. I hold out
my hand for the knife and she gives it to me, slapping it down on my
palm. “Here’s your stupid old knife.”
I run my thumb over the hole where the tweezers should be. I pull
out the biggest blade and push its point into the side of the rowboat,
seeing how hard I can push before it starts to enter the wood. Laurel
starts to row again, out towards the mouth of the cove. She doesn’t
look at me.
“I hear your father’s got a new girlfriend.” She acts like she’s
talking to air.
I don’t say anything.
“I heard your mum talking to my mum. He’s got a new girlfriend.
Her name’s Carmelle. She’s going to have a baby.”
“That’s not true.” I knew it was true. Things added up. The little
collapsing dog jumped into shape.
“Oh, grow up,” said Laurel. “Just wait. They’ll take you aside and
say ‘we’ve grown apart but this isn’t your fault.’”
I stuck the knife into the gunwale of the boat.
“They read it in books, you know. How to tell your kids about
divorce.” She made her voice as deep as a dad’s. “‘We can’t live
together but we both still love you.’” And then she laughed her
weasel laugh.
I didn’t think about what I did next. I could not have stopped
my hand that grabbed the knife and pitched it through the air toward
Laurel. It missed her by a mile and then everything slowed right
down. The knife turned in the blue air and Rollo raised his little cat
face above the water. Why was he there? He was never there in the
middle of the day. He was only there in the early morning. The knife
flew toward that head, oh, so slowly. And then they joined. I saw the
red knife sway once in the seal’s head just before he dived.
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I’ve told this part like a story. But as I sat at my desk staring at
that knife, it didn’t come back as a story, but as one moment of feeling,
with blue sky and Laurel laughing and the obscenity of that red knife
sticking out of the side of that gentle seal head.
The moment came and went as Ron looked at me. I picked up the
knife and ran my thumb over where the tweezers would have been. It
wasn’t as heavy as I remembered. It wasn’t as heavy as the memory of
that moment.
When I looked up, Ron had walked away. He was standing at
the front of the room and everyone was jostling by him. Hester had
Don in a hammerlock and was escorting him out the door. I started
to stand up, but I seemed to have collapsing-dog legs. Ron turned
back to look at me and slowly took off his cap. His hair was black,
thick and very short. And just above his temple there was a white
line. Some guys do that. They shave patterns into their hair. Then he
smiled at me, friendly and quizzical as if to say, “What kind of weird
seal are you?” And something inside me, something hard and heavy,
went fuzzy at the edges and started to melt away. He turned and
walked out the door.
Ron wasn’t in school on Monday. Or Tuesday. I asked Mrs. F.
about him. She consulted her much-erased class register. “He
transferred out,” she said. “A single day’s attendance. That’s the
record, the shortest stay I’ve ever had from a student. I guess he
didn’t like your face, Curtis.” She smiled, and the members of the
core community snorted and made rude noises. I thought about
what it must be like to push through air on two legs, air heavy with
gravity, when your body remembers sliding and diving and rolling
through the slippery sea.
The knife. I think I’ll give it to Stevie when I see him tonight.
Dad dropped by on the weekend. He has a beard now. We had a
careful conversation. He talked about Stevie. He told me that the
little guy is nervous about starting kindergarten. Apparently Carmelle
asked him if he was looking forward to school and he said, “No, I’m
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looking sideways.” Dad said Stevie talks about me all the time and
really wants to meet me.
So I’ll go. And I’ll give Stevie the knife. He could probably use
a present, a heavy present to keep in his pocket. Sometimes it’s good
to have something to hang onto. And sometimes it’s good to give
things away.
Activities
1. Why does Curtis decide to give the knife to Stevie? Why does he
decide that “sometimes it’s good to give things away”? In a group
of three, discuss your opinions. Then, on your own, prepare a oneminute
monologue in which Curtis explains his motives.
2. What really happened in the classroom on the day Ron came to
school? What does Curtis believe? Could the events be explained in
any other way? Explain the events from Ron’s point of view. You can
make the story as eerie or as “down to earth” as you choose.
3. A “flashback” occurs when a character, through some event in
the story, goes back to an earlier time and relives previous events.
Identify the flashback in this story. How does the writing style
change in the flashback? Why do you think the writer chooses
to use the technique of flashback?
4. Look for some other examples of flashback, either in books or
in films. Ask your classmates to make some suggestions. Why is
flashback used in the example you find, and what effect does
it have?
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Old Men of Magic
Focus Your Learning
Studying this poem will help you:
n focus on details
n identify the mood of the poem
n read aloud
n write a diary entry
Dionne Brand
Old men of magic
with beards long and aged,
speak tales on evenings,
tales so entrancing,
we sit and listen,
to whispery secrets
about the earth and the heavens.
And late at night,
after sundown they speak
of spirits that live
in silk cotton trees,
of frightening shadows
that sneak through the dark,
and bright balls of fire
that fly in night air,
of shapes unimaginable,
we gasp and we gape,
then just as we’re scared
old men of magic
wave hands rough and wrinkled
and all trace of fear disappears.
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Activities
1. Old people are often thought of as being wise. With
a partner, make a list of characteristics that you
think wise old men should possess. Reread the
poem and check the characteristics on your list that
are included. For each characteristic evident in the
poem, record the appropriate words or phrases.
2. What feelings do you experience as you read
this poem? What mood does it create? Think of a
personal experience—perhaps at a camp, cottage,
or sleepover—that created a similar mood. Relate
the story of that experience to your partner or
group.
3. With a partner or in a small group, practise reading
the poem aloud. Together, discuss which sounds
and images create the overall mood of the poem.
4. Imagine that you are one of the children in this
poem, listening to the “men of magic.” Write a diary
entry describing what you have heard and what you
felt. Emphasize the mood of the evening through
your choice of words.
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The Wretched Stone
Excerpts from the Log of the Rita Anne
CHRIS VAN ALLSBURG
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Focus Your Learning
Reading this story will help
you:
n identify and interpret a
metaphor
n organize information
n examine images
May 8
We finished bringing supplies aboard early
this morning. At midday we left on the tide
and found a fresh breeze just outside the
harbour. It is a good omen that our voyage
has begun with fair winds and a clear sky.
May 9
The first mate, Mr. Howard, has brought together a fine crew.
These men are not only good sailors, they are accomplished in
other ways.
Many read and have borrowed books from my small library.
Some play musical instruments, and there are a few good
storytellers among them.
May 17
Our passage is going well. The usual boredom that comes
with many days at sea is not present on this ship. When the
members of this clever crew are not on duty, I find them
singing and dancing or amusing each other with tales of
past adventure.
June 5
Land ho! Slightly before sunset we spotted an island. I have
consulted my charts, but do not see it recorded. This is odd,
since ships have sailed through these waters for years.
Apparently they have all missed this small place. We are low
on water and would be happy to find fresh fruit growing here.
Tomorrow I will take some men ashore and look about.
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June 6
I have just returned from the island. It is strange indeed. The
vegetation is lush, but not a single plant bears fruit. The air has
an odour that at first seems sweet and pleasant, then becomes
an overpowering stink. I saw no sign of animal life, not even
an insect. We found a spring that had water too bitter to drink.
We also discovered something quite extraordinary, which I
have brought aboard.
It is a rock, approximately two feet across. It is roughly
textured, gray in colour, but a portion of it is as flat and smooth
as glass. From this surface comes a glowing light that is quite
beautiful and pleasing to look at. The thing is unbelievably
heavy, requiring six strong men to lift it. With great effort we
were able to get it aboard and into the forward hold. We have
set sail and are under way again.
June 10
The crew is fascinated by the rock. When not needed on deck,
they are down below, gazing in silence at the peculiar light it
gives off. I miss the music and storytelling that had become part
of our ship’s life. The last few days have passed quite slowly.
The men, however, seem perfectly content. I am sure their
interest in the stone will fade away soon.
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June 13
Something is wrong with the crew. They rarely speak, and
though they swing through the rigging more quickly than ever,
they walk the decks in a clumsy, stooped-over fashion. Last
night I heard shrieks coming from the forward hold. I believe
they have contracted some kind of fever that came on board
with the stone. I told Mr. Howard that tomorrow I will have
the thing thrown overboard.
June 14
This morning I awoke to find the deck deserted. The wheel
was tied steady with a rope. I believe Mr. Howard, who spent
some time around the rock, told the men about my plan to get
rid of it. They have now locked themselves in the forward
hold. They apparently believe, in their feverish state, that I can
sail this boat alone while they sit around that wretched stone.
June 15
We are in grave danger. A powerful storm is headed this way.
All morning long the wind has grown steadily stronger; the sky
is filled with dark clouds. I am unable to shorten the sails by
myself. With this much canvas up, we will surely be blown
over and sink when the full force of the storm arrives. I am
going forward again to try to get the crew to work. All our lives
depend on it.
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This is, I am sure, my last entry. What I have just seen is so
horrifying I barely have the strength to write it down. After I
pounded at the door to the forward hatch, it finally swung
open. But it was not a man who opened the door, it was an
ape. The whole crew has turned into hairy beasts. They just
sat there, grinning at that terrible rock. They don’t understand
a word I say. We are doomed.
June 16
The storm has passed. The Rita Anne is still afloat, but both
masts and rudder are lost. The stone has gone dark. We were
struck by lightning twice during the storm. I believe that was
the cause. Unfortunately, the crew is unchanged. They are still
beasts, but seem sad and lost without the glowing rock. I have
moved them back to their quarters. We have food for two
weeks. I am hopeful of a rescue.
June 19
I have made an encouraging discovery. I am playing the violin
and reading to the crew. It is having a positive effect. They are
walking upright and have an alert look in their eyes.
June 24
I was in the forward hold today. A dull glow was coming from
the stone. I have covered it and will keep the compartment
locked.
June 28
I am happy to report that the men have returned to normal. It
seems that those who knew how to read recovered most quickly.
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June 30
We are saved! A ship has been spotted off our starboard side. I
have decided to scuttle the Rita Anne. There is only one place
for the wretched stone. Before we abandon ship, I will set a fire
that will send this vessel and her cargo to the bottom of the sea.
July 12
Our rescuers have left us in the harbour town of Santa Pango.
One by one the crew should be able to sign on to ships passing
through and work their way home. We have made an agreement
not to talk about the strange events that took place aboard the
Rita Anne. The men appear to have recovered completely,
though some show an unnatural appetite for the fruit that is
available here.
Activities
1. Reread the description of the
stone. Make a sketch based on
the description. A metaphor is a
type of comparison where one
object is likened very directly to
another. For what might the
wretched stone be a metaphor?
Support your view with details
from the text.
2. Make a “Before and After” chart
describing how the behaviour of
the crew members changed as a
result of the stone. In what way
might the description be a
comment on our society? Discuss
your ideas with other members of
the class.
3. Study the visual of the apes
watching the stone. Working in
groups of three, discuss:
n the content of the picture
n the message the picture gives
n the mood Van Allsburg has
created in the picture
n the technique used to create
the mood
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One Who Lives Under the Water
Blake Debassige
Courtesy of the Royal Ontario Museum, © ROM
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Focus Your Learning
Looking at this painting will help you:
n tell a story from different points of view
n use visual clues to understand the painting
n create your own artwork on a similar theme
Activities
1. Many paintings tell a story in visual form. What is the
story of this painting? Retell the story orally from one of
three perspectives: as the creature, as a survivor from one
of the canoes, or as an Aboriginal elder looking back on
the event.
2. Describe some of the physical characteristics of the
creature. Write a short-answer response explaining how
its appearance adds to the power of the illustration.
3. Using a similar style of art, create an illustration depicting
the cause of any natural phenomenon.
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The
White
Owl
HAZEL BOSWELL
Focus Your Learning
Reading this folk tale will
help you:
n conduct an interview
n identify foreshadowing
and explain its effect
n create stories from other
points of view
Taken from The Basketball Player © 1996 Sheldon Cohen: illustrations published by Tundra Books
It was a still day late in September. The maples
were glowing scarlet and gold; the plowing had
been done, and the fields lay bare and brown under the
silver-grey sky. Madame Blais sat on an upturned box on the
narrow gallery that ran the length of the summer kitchen.
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She was plaiting long strings of red onions
to hang in the attic for the winter. The
little gallery was heaped with vegetables:
great golden-yellow squashes, green
pumpkins, creamy brown turnips, and
great piles of green cabbages and glossy
red carrots.
It was a good day for work. Her
husband and Joseph, her eldest boy,
together with their neighbour, Exdras
Boulay, had gone off to repair the old
sugar cabane. Her sister’s fiancé, Felix
Leroy, who had come up from the States
for a holiday, had gone with them. Not
to work. He despised that sort of work,
for he was a factory hand in the United
States and, as he said, “made more
money in a week than he would make in
a month working on the land.” The older
children were off at school; the little
ones, Gaetané, Jean-Paul, and Marie-
Ange, were playing happily with old
“Puppay.” Me’Mère was spinning in the
kitchen, keeping an eye on P’tit Charles
who was sleeping peacefully in his
cradle. Madame worked happily. She
didn’t often get such a good day for
work. Her mind was turning in a placid, peaceful circle, “Que tous
s’adonne bien aujourd-hui.”
Suddenly the peace was broken. Puppay had begun to bark
furiously; then the barking changed to joyful yapping. The children
were shouting too. Madame turned on her box and looked out to
where they had been playing, but they had left their game and were
Look 27

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

and then sat down by the stove, and began to feed him. The men came
in too and sat around in the kitchen.
“Do you think Felix will have the sense to come home?” asked
Madame.
Joseph shook his head and spat skillfully into the brown
earthenware spittoon. “No fear,” he answered. “He says in the States
they have more sense than to believe all those old stories.”
“If Felix stays on in the woods, harm will certainly come to him,”
said Me’Mère. “I tell you Le Hibou Blanc always brings disaster.”
“Why don’t you go and speak to the curé?” said Madame Blais.
“He’s away at Rimouski for a retreat,” answered Exdras. “I saw his
housekeeper, Philomène, yesterday, and she told me. They had sent for
him to bring the last rites to old Audet Lemay who was dying, but he
was away and they had to send for the curé of St. Anselem instead.”
“Well, it’s time to get the cows,” said Monsieur Blais. “Go along
and get them, Joseph.”
Joseph got up and went out. The children and Puppay joined him.
Me’Mère went back to her spinning. Madame Blais put P’tit
Charles back in his cradle, then went off to milk the cows. There were
ten cows to milk. Her husband and Joseph did the milking with her
and up to a year before Me’Mère had always helped too. The autumn
evenings close in quickly in the north. By the time the cows were
milked and supper finished, the clear cold green evening had swept
up over the sky; the stars were out, and the little silver crescent of the
moon had risen over the maple wood. Joseph was sitting out on the
step of the little gallery, his eyes fastened on the break in the maple
wood that marked the road leading to the sugar cabane. Every now
and then his father went out and joined him. They were both
watching for Felix.
As the kitchen clock began to strike eight Madame put down her
work. “It’s time for the rosary,” she said. “Tell Joseph to come in.” Her
husband opened the door and called to Joseph. He came in, followed
by Puppay.
Look 29

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

puddles along the track were frozen solid. The men walked in
silence. A secret fear gripped each one of them that they might
suddenly see Le Hibou Blanc perched on some old stump, or one of
the snow-covered hummocks. A few hundred metres from the sugar
cabane they found Felix. He was lying on his back. His red shirt
looked at first like a patch of maple leaves lying in the hoarfrost. A
great birch had fallen across his chest, pinning him to the ground.
One of his hands was grasping a curl of the bark–his last mad effort
to try and free himself.
The men stood round staring down at him, the immense silence of
the woods surrounding them. Then from far away in the distance came
a thin whinnying note, the shrill triumphant cry of Le Hibou Blanc.
Activities
1. a) Interview classmates or family members about superstitions
they have or know about. How does superstition affect the way
they or other people behave?
b) Choose one superstition and speculate on how it might have
originated. Share your conclusions with the class. Discuss why
superstition can sometimes be a powerful force in people’s lives.
Support your views with evidence from your interviews and from
the story.
2. “Foreshadowing” is the prediction or suggestion of ominous events
that are going to happen in a story. List all the references in this
story that foreshadow tragic events. Write a short paragraph
explaining what effect the foreshadowing has on your reading of
the text.
3. This tale is written in the third-person narrative form. Retell the
story from the perspective of one of the characters, as a first-person
narrative. In which form is the narrator more detached from the
events of the story? Explain. Why do you think the author of this
story chooses to use the third-person narrative form?
Look 31

Artisan Entertainment Inc.
Create a movie poster that depicts the first
human contact with alien life.
Predict the storyline and tone of the movie
from the poster. Create a chart of your
predictions, making specific references to
aspects of the image.
What’s the purpose
of using babies in
space in a
commercial product
such as this one?
32 Look

How do the visuals support
the promise that your
adventure will be surreal?
What visuals could change
places without changing the
primary message of this
cartoon? What does this tell
us about the power of visuals
in comparison to language?
ZIGGY © 1992 ZIGGY AND FRIENDS, INC. Reprinted with permission
of UNIVERSAL PRESS SYNDICATE. All rights reserved.
Look 33

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

The country is India. A colonial official and his wife are
giving a large dinner party. They are seated with their
guests—army officers and government attachés and their wives, and
a visiting American naturalist—in their spacious dining room, which
has a bare marble floor, open rafters, and wide glass doors opening
onto a veranda.
A spirited discussion springs up between a young girl who insists
that women have outgrown the jumping-on-a-chair-at-the-sight-of-amouse
era and a colonel who says that they haven’t.
“A woman’s unfailing reaction in any crisis,” the colonel says,
“is to scream. And while a man may feel like it, he has that ounce
more of nerve control than a woman has. And that last ounce is
what counts.”
The American does not join in the argument but watches the
other guests. As he looks, he sees a strange expression come over
the face of the hostess. She is staring straight ahead, her muscles
contracting slightly. With a slight gesture she summons the servant
standing behind her chair and whispers to him. The servant’s eyes
widen, and he quickly leaves the room.
Of the guests, none except the American notices this or sees the
servant place a bowl of milk on the veranda just outside the open doors.
The American comes to with a start. In India, milk in a bowl
means only one thing—bait for a snake. He realizes there must be a
cobra in the room. He looks up at the rafters—the likeliest place—but
they are bare. Three corners of the room are empty, and in the fourth
the servants are waiting to serve the next course. There is only one
place left—under the table.
His first impulse is to jump back and warn the others, but he
knows the commotion would frighten the cobra into striking. He speaks
quickly, the tone of his voice so arresting that it sobers everyone.
Look 35

“I want to know just what control everyone at this table has. I
will count three hundred—that’s five minutes—and not one of you is
to move a muscle. Those who move will forfeit fifty rupees. Ready!”
The twenty people sit like stone images while he counts. He is
saying “… two hundred and eighty …” when, out of the corner of his
eye, he sees the cobra emerge and make for the bowl of milk. Screams
ring out as he jumps to slam the veranda doors safely shut.
“You were right, Colonel!” the host exclaims. “A man has just
shown us an example of perfect control.”
“Just a minute,” the American says, turning to his hostess. “Mrs.
Wynnes, how did you know that cobra was in the room?”
A faint smile lights up the woman’s face as she replies: “Because
it was crawling across my foot.”
Activities
1. “Setting” can refer to both time and place. Do some research to
find out more about the setting of this story. Write a short essay
explaining how the setting contributes to the story’s plot and theme.
2. Write an interior monologue, recording the thoughts of the hostess
through the events described in the story. What does she think
about the other characters as well as the problem she faces?
3. Irony can refer to a set of events that is the opposite of what might
be expected in the circumstances. In a group, present this scene in a
“frozen moment” tableau. Try to demonstrate the irony in the story.
36 Look

The
Revenge
of the
Blood
Thirsty
Giant
A Tlingit Legend
C. J. TAYLOR
This nineteenth
century “dancing headdress frontlet” comes
from the same Tlingit tradition as the following story.
Focus Your Learning
Reading this Tlingit legend will
help you:
n use role playing to extend the
story
n illustrate key events of a story
n investigate some of the
characteristics of a legend
n write a legend or fable
The people were frightened. High in the
Rocky Mountains where they lived, an evil
giant roamed, killing anyone he found. The people were
afraid to leave the village. A hunting party had gone out
and aimed arrows at the giant’s heart. But nothing could
stop him.
From The Monster from the Swamp: Native Legends of Monsters, Demons and Other Creatures © 1995
C. J. Taylor, published by Tundra Books.
Look 37

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

Red Bird hid behind the door and waited. As soon as the giant
stooped to enter and put his left foot inside, Red Bird drove the knife
into the giant’s heel and through his heart. The giant fell, mortally
wounded. As he was dying he uttered a last threat: “Even though you
kill me, I will continue to feed on human blood until the end of time.”
“No, you won’t,” said Red Bird. He made a fire and threw the
body of the giant into it. Then he took the ashes and scattered them to
the wind. They rose in a cloud. It turned into a swarm of mosquitoes
that came back to attack Red Bird. One landed on his nose and bit him.
Red Bird wiped the mosquito away. “What a nuisance,” he
thought. Then he saw the little stain of blood on his hand. “Maybe
you will keep biting us. Maybe you’ll get a drop of blood now and
then. But at least you’re not killing anyone anymore.”
Activities
1. In a small group, predict the response of the chief’s people when
he returns to tell them he has killed the giant, but they will be
plagued forever by small insects that draw blood. Prepare a role
play in which the chief explains what has happened and the
people respond.
2. Prepare a visual representation of this story. Divide the story into
scenes and represent it either in a series of paintings or drawings,
or as a comic strip.
3. A fable is a legend that carries a lesson or moral. Read one of
Aesop’s fables, and identify the moral of the story. Then write a
moral that could emerge from “The Revenge of the Blood Thirsty
Giant.”
4. List three similarities between one of Aesop’s fables and “The
Revenge of the Blood Thirsty Giant.” Using what you have
discovered to be common elements, write your own legend or fable
to explain the origin of any insect or pest for an audience of young
children.
Look 39

The Phantom Dog Team
HARRY PADDON
Focus Your Learning
Reading this story will help you:
n identify the central conflict in a story
n design a film poster
n choose music to match scenes within the story
n write a persuasive response
All sparsely populated back country
areas have their ghosts and Labrador,
like the rest, has its share. The nice thing
about the ghosts of Labrador is that they
have kept the qualities of the old-timers of
the era in which they entered the spirit
world. They are a friendly, helpful group of
spirits with more constructive things to do
than merely to haunt the living as their
more highly civilized counterparts seem to
do. Instead, they appear to have a protective
attitude toward their still living neighbours
and descendants.
Such a one is the “Smoker” who, many
times, has stuck his ethereal nose into the
battering blasts of a Labrador blizzard to
rescue a careless or unlucky traveller who
should have known better.
How the Smoker got his name I couldn’t
say unless it derives from his ability to
appear and vanish like a puff of smoke,
or possibly it came from the fact that his
appearance always occurred on a night of
smoking thick drift on the barren lands he
ranged. There is no question that the many
to whom he appeared, including a newlyarrived
and hard-boiled Hudson’s Bay man
40 Look

who had never heard of him, firmly believe
that he did indeed come to their aid and
that without his help they would surely
have perished. The particular incident I
wish to relate occurred some 50 years ago
and, since the people involved were friends
of my family, I shall take a few liberties
with their names though the story shall
remain theirs as they told it.
Bill and Jane Gordon’s winter home lay
several miles inland from their summer
fishing place at Bluff Head. Chosen for the
generous area of woods that had furnished
logs for the comfortable house and now
sheltered it from the savage winds off the
rocky barrens, the winter place was an
isolated spot. The nearest neighbours were
two families at Rocky Cove, fifteen miles
across the barren, rocky neck, and it was
nearly forty miles to the trading post at
Rigolet. The Neck was something to be
treated with respect by winter travellers, for
the way across the bare, windswept ridges
was unmarked and to go astray in one of
the frequent winter gales was to risk death
by freezing on its pitiless miles of
shelterless rocks and ice, or by plunging
storm-blinded from one of its many cliffs.
A few days before Christmas Bill and
Jane left home to go to Rigolet to trade their
furs and bring home a few extras from the
store. The two children, twelve-year-old Joe
and little Janet, ten, were undismayed at
the prospect of being left to fend for
themselves for a night or two. Joe had
considered himself a man for quite some
time, for he could do a man’s work in the
woods or the fish stage, and he had been
hunting and trapping alone for a couple of
winters. Janet reckoned she could look after
the house as well as any woman. Joe, as he
helped his father harness the dogs that
morning, was rather looking forward to
being the boss for a while, and it was with
quite a holiday feeling that the youngsters
watched the team fade into the distance as
they speculated on what wonders its load
might contain when it again came over
the hill in two or three days.
A couple of hours on the easy going of
the firm, wind-packed snow of the ridges
brought Bill and Jane to Rocky Cove where
they stopped briefly for a cup of tea and a
yarn with the first of their neighbours that
they had not seen for two months. From
Rocky Cove the way lay mostly on the ice
Look 41

Halfway across the neck the
first few snowflakes began to fall
to Rigolet and their arrival there was before
sundown. Putting up at the Hudson’s Bay
Company’s kitchen, where open house was
kept for travellers, they spent the evening
visiting the few households of the tiny
village and the next day settled to their
trading. By the time this was finished it was
too late to leave Rigolet and a second night
was spent in the cheery company of friends
who had not been seen for months and
might not again be seen for many more. It
was in the graying dawn of their third day
from home that Bill lashed up his load and
harnessed his team for the return trip.
When the red rim of the sun turned
the sea ice to a crimson plain at the purpleshadowed
feet of the hills they were five or
six miles on their way. The day promised
to be fair as the frosty vapour from the
panting breaths of the dogs hung in the still
air. They stopped again for a brief warm-up
and a snack at Rocky Cove before starting
the last fifteen miles across the neck to
home. It was with a slight feeling of unease
that Bill noticed the beginning of a wispy
cloud formation to the eastward as they
pulled away from Rocky Cove and began
the ascent to the ridges. The evening was
calm and fine, however, and he reckoned
that the two-hour run to home would be
safely done long before any bad weather
moved in.
The only worrisome thing was that his
was a young team and the year-old pup he
was training to be a leader seemed to have
little sense. The old leader that had died
last fall could have been trusted to take
them home no matter how thick the
weather, without deviating a whisker’s
length from the trail. Bill didn’t quite
know if he could trust the pup who always
seemed to want to be told where to go. It
was clouding in rapidly now and though
still calm the very stillness held the menace
of something waiting to pounce.
Halfway across the neck the first few
snowflakes began to fall, and as darkness
curtained the rocky slopes the first searching
fingers of icy wind stirred the gathering
powder into feathery swirls and dragged
them, rustling, across the tops of the drifts.
In the space of a quarter of an hour it was
blowing a gale and in the black of the night
the thickening snow blotted everything from
sight in a weaving wall of wind and pelting
icy particles. The team faltered, slowed
and stopped. The young leader had no
confidence in his ability to stay on the trail,
42 Look

and his mates shared his uncertainty.
Unable to see more than a few yards, Bill
began to consider the advisability of finding
a hollow sheltered enough to burrow into
the snow for the night. Though this would
mean a risk of freezing, it might present a
better chance of survival than would be
offered by blundering blindly on with a
very good chance of plunging over a cliff.
Already the biting wind was beginning to
leave little spots of frost bite on any exposed
skin and it wouldn’t be too long before Bill
and Jane began to freeze quite badly.
Bill knew that they were still on the trail,
for just there by his leader a pyramid-shaped
cairn of rocks marked where the Big Brook
trail came in from the north to join their
own. He walked out through the team and
stood by the cairn, recalling to mind the
various folds in the nearby land that might
offer shelter enough to permit them to get
through this night. As he stood, the voice of
another driver reached his ears, the voice of
a man urging his team onward, and, as he
looked, a team surged out of the swirling
darkness. Nine black and white dogs trotted
by almost near enough to touch. On the
komatik behind them knelt a lone man who
gestured urgently at Bill to follow before he
turned again to face his team. Bill’s own
Look 43

dogs, crazy with excitement, were already
lunging into their traces and as the komatik
slid by him he dropped to his seat on the
load. Though the other team was a strange
one to him the driver seemed to know
where he was going, for he drove with the
assurance of a man whose leader had been
over the road before.
For an hour the two teams trotted
steadily through the swirling blackness,
Bill’s young team straining against their
heavy load to let the young leader keep
his nose almost touching the stern of the
leading komatik. On some of the steeper
grades where the weight of their load
threatened to cause them to fall behind,
the black team slowed a little to let them
keep up. Bill marvelled at the control the
stranger had over his team, for he was
travelling light and could easily run them
out of sight in no time. It wasn’t till a faint
spark of light through the storm showed
where the house lay ahead that the strange
team drew ahead in a burst of speed.
Back at the house the youngsters had
been having a grand time. Joe had had
one day hunting ptarmigan on the ridges
above the house. The second day he had
harnessed up his own team of pups and
gone out to the summer place, where a day
on the ice foot by the open sea had yielded
some of the big eider ducks that make a
fine Christmas dinner. Both days, with her
housework done, Janet had spent some
hours fishing through the ice at the mouth
of the brook, and several dozen trout and
a few hundred smelt had been added to
the stock of frozen fish in the bins of the
storehouse. The third day they both stayed
close to home, and from noon on many
were the glances they took at the trail from
the hills where their parents’ team should
appear any time now. The first twinges of
anxiety began as the weather worsened at
dusk. The coming of full darkness brought
with it a wind that roared off the hills and
drove icy scuds of drift rattling across the
window panes. The youngsters were
silently thoughtful as they sat down to
supper. Both hoped that the storm had
struck on the other side of the neck early
enough to cause their parents to stay the
night at Rocky Cove.
Supper was barely over when a chorus
of welcoming yelps and howls from Joe’s
pups brought them to their feet to stare
through the windows. A team, not their
father’s, but a team of nine big black and
white dogs, drew up to the door and
stopped at a low-voiced command from
the driver. Joe hastily pulled on his jacket
and cap to go out and welcome the stranger
and Janet watched as the dogs, in the usual
fashion of a team glad to have reached the
end of a hard day, rolled and rubbed their
faces in the snow to rid their eyes of the
accumulation of frost from their breaths.
The driver stood for a moment by his
44 Look

komatik and coiled up his long whip as he
waited for some sign from within.
As Janet watched, Joe appeared from the
lean-to porch and walked into the square of
lamplight from the window. The leader, a
huge, powerful-looking beast, gambolled
playfully toward him and Joe stooped to
pull its harness off. As he reached for the
leader Joe stopped and gazed unbelieving
at his hands, for there was nothing between
them. There on the wind-swept deck he
was alone, more alone than he had ever
been in his life, for nine big dogs with their
driver and the big tripping komatik had
vanished. Joe turned and started back to
the door, worried by what little Janet,
watching from the window, might be
making of this. As he reached for the latchstring
an uproar of welcome again broke
from his team of pups tethered in the edge
of the woods. This time, as he turned to
face whatever might be coming, it was his
father’s familiar team that trotted jauntily
on to the lamp-lit deck.
The dogs crowded around Joe, rubbing
their bodies against his legs, each frantic
to draw his attention and be the next
unharnessed. It wasn’t till Joe had sorted
out and coiled up the mass of sealskin
traces that he approached the komatik to
help his father unleash and carry in the
load. As he straightened from his bent
position to coil the long lash-line Bill
asked, “What became of the team that
came in ahead of us?”
Joe hoisted a heavy sack to his shoulder
and turned toward the house. “There was
no team,” he answered quietly.
Activities
1. Most stories are structured around
conflicts. Determine the central conflict
in this story. Design a poster for a feature
film version of the story, illustrating this
conflict.
2. If this story were to be made into a film,
what sort of music would accompany the
action? Choose one section of the story
and find a piece of music that, to you,
captures the mood. Present it to the class
with an explanation of why you have
chosen this piece of music.
3. Most ghost stories are frightening.
In this story, we know from the
introduction that the ghost is likely to
be a “friendly, helpful” spirit. Write a
persuasive response arguing either that
the introduction spoils the impact of
the story, or that the story maintains
suspense despite the information in the
introduction. Support your argument
with details from the text.
Look 45

Metamorphosis III
M. C. Escher
© 1998 Cordon Art B.V. - Holland. All rights reserved.
46 Look

Focus Your Learning
Viewing this visual will help you:
n examine visual techniques
n create an illustration with interesting visual
effects
Activities
1. In a short written response, explain
why the title “Metamorphosis III”
is used for this piece of art. Include
specific references to the visual. In
what way does the use of colour add
impact to the visual?
2. Create your own illustration, either
in colour or black and white, that
creates interesting visual effects.
Give your work a title that
communicates your intention.
Look 47

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

Enjoy Our Blue Plate Special
by Jessie Hartland
father, rising from his chair, lifted the thimble and disclosed a small
pill of concentrated nourishment on the chip before him. Christmas
turkey, cranberry sauce, plum pudding, mince pie—it was all there, all
jammed into that little pill and only waiting to expand. Then the father
with deep reverence, and a devout eye alternating between the pill and
heaven, lifted his voice in a benediction.
At this moment there was an agonized cry from the mother.
“Oh, Henry, quick! Baby has snatched the pill!” It was too true. Dear
little Gustavus Adolphus, the golden-haired baby boy, had grabbed
the whole Christmas dinner off the poker chip and bolted it. Three
hundred and fifty pounds of concentrated nourishment passed the
esophagus of the unthinking child.
“Clap him on the back!” cried the distracted mother. “Give him
water!”
The idea was fatal. The water striking the pill caused it to
expand. There was a dull rumbling sound and then, with an awful
bang, Gustavus Adolphus exploded into fragments!
And when they gathered the little corpse together, the baby lips
were parted in a lingering smile that could only be worn by a child
who had eaten thirteen Christmas dinners.
Activities
1. This essay was written in 1910. It is a humorous piece, but it has a
serious message. With a partner, discuss what you think Leacock was
saying about technology at the time. Then create a web diagram, at
the centre of which is a current form of technology. In the web, record
possible implications of this technology. Find a way to code your web
so that it is clear to viewers whether you consider a particular
implication to be positive, negative, or neutral.
2. Conduct a class debate on the following topic: Leacock’s message
about technology is as true today as it was in 1910. Evaluate the
arguments and choose a winning side.
Look 49

Zoo
EDWARD D. HOCH
The children were always good during the month
of August, especially when it began to get near the
Focus Your Learning
Reading this short science
fiction story will help you:
n respond to the imagery
in a text
n examine the effect of a
surprise ending
n role-play an interview
n see your world from an
unusual viewpoint
twenty-third. It was on this day that the great silver spaceship
carrying Professor Hugo’s Interplanetary Zoo settled down for its
annual six-hour visit to the Chicago area.
Before daybreak the crowds would form, long lines of
children and adults both, each one clutching his or her dollar,
and waiting with wonderment to see what race of strange
creatures the Professor had brought this year.
In the past they had sometimes been treated to three-legged
creatures from Venus, or tall, thin men from Mars, or even
snake-like horrors from somewhere more distant. This year, as
the great round ship settled slowly to earth in the huge tri-city
parking area just outside of Chicago, they watched with awe as
the sides slowly slid up to reveal the familiar barred cages. In
50 Look

them were some wild breed of nightmare—small, horse-like animals
that moved with quick, jerking motions and constantly chattered in a
high-pitched tongue. The citizens of Earth clustered around as
Professor Hugo’s crew quickly collected the waiting dollars, and soon
the good Professor himself made an appearance, wearing his manycoloured
rainbow cape and top hat. “Peoples of Earth,” he called into
his microphone.
The crowd’s noise died down and he continued. “Peoples of
Earth, this year you see a real treat for your single dollar—the littleknown
horse-spider people of Kaan—brought to you across a million
miles of space at great expense. Gather around, see them, study them,
listen to them, tell your friends about them. But hurry! My ship can
remain here only six hours!”
And the crowds slowly filed by, at once horrified and fascinated
by these strange creatures that looked like horses but ran up the walls
of their cages like spiders. “This is certainly worth a dollar,” one man
remarked, hurrying away. “I’m going home to get the wife.”
All day long it went like that, until ten thousand people had
filed by the barred cages set into the side of the spaceship. Then, as
the six-hour limit ran out, Professor Hugo once more took the
microphone in hand. “We must go now, but we will return next year
on this date. And if you enjoyed our zoo this year, telephone your
friends in other cities about it. We will land in New York tomorrow,
and next week on to London, Paris, Rome, Hong Kong, and Tokyo.
Then on to other worlds!”
He waved farewell to them, and as the ship rose from the ground,
the Earth peoples agreed that this had been the very best Zoo yet….
Some two months and three planets later, the silver ship of Professor
Hugo settled at last onto the familiar jagged rocks of Kaan, and the
queer horse-spider creatures filed quickly out of their cages.
Professor Hugo was there to say a few parting words, and then they
scurried away in a hundred different directions, seeking their homes
among the rocks.
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In one house, the she-creature was happy to see the return of
her mate and offspring. She babbled a greeting in the strange tongue
and hurried to embrace them. “It was a long time you were gone.
Was it good?”
And the he-creature nodded. “The little one enjoyed it especially.
We visited eight worlds and saw many things.”
The little one ran up the wall of the cave. “On the place called
Earth it was the best. The creatures there wear garments over their
skins, and they walk on two legs.”
“But isn’t it dangerous?” asked the she-creature.
“No,” her mate answered. “There are bars to protect us from
them. We remain right in the ship. Next time you must come with us.
It is well worth the nineteen commocs it costs.”
And the little one nodded. “It was the very best Zoo ever….”
Activities
1. Imagine that you have been to see Professor Hugo’s zoo. In a journal
entry, describe your reaction to the strange horse-spider people.
2. What is the effect of the surprise ending? In what way is this story
ironic?
3. Work with a partner. Assume that a journalist, through the services
of an interpreter, has the opportunity to interview a horse-spider
person. Prepare the interview, with the journalist asking questions
and the horse-spider person providing answers and comments.
Role-play the interview for the class.
4. Professor Hugo is preparing the next trip of his Interplanetary Zoo.
Write the advertisement he will display to attract visitors to Earth.
Include details about the exotic and unusual sights the visitors
will see.
52 Look

The outer space intelligence
who hovered over my desk,
a glowing vibrating sphere,
one foot in diameter,
asked me endless questions, for instance:
“What were you doing before I appeared?”
and “Why?” and “For what reason?”
to which I replied I was reading the newspaper
to be informed about what was going on
Focus Your Learning
Reading this poem will
help you:
n focus on how the poet
develops the
characters in the poem
n write a dialogue
n consider ways of
describing objects and
events that are often
taken for granted
n prepare a script and
video recording
in the world, and explained the nature
of money and economics and capitalism and communism
and inflation and crises and wars and nations
and borders and territorial expansion and history—
Then he asked me what the other creature
(my two-year-old daughter) was doing.
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I said she was playing on the broadloom,
talking to her dolls and herself—
Well, this outer space intelligence rather disappointed me,
for after my succinct answers
he asked such a stupid question
that I suspected he hadn’t understood anything at all,
the question being: “How many years does it take
for a wrinkled, wrought-up human baby
like you behind a desk, to shrink into a happy,
light-hearted being like the one on the rug?”
Activities
1. Contrast the descriptions of the three characters in this poem.
Consider the number of lines given to each, the images
created, and the kinds of words used. What is the overall
effect?
2. Write a short dialogue in which the poet answers the final
question of this poem, and the outer-space intelligence
responds by explaining why he believed the baby to be more
mature than the poet.
3. Prepare a guided tour of your bedroom or any other room of
your home or school for a visiting alien. You must assume that
the alien has no comprehension of how you live or what you do.
You must explain items in the room and your activities very
carefully. Write the script for your guided tour. If possible, make
a video recording of the tour presentation.
54 Look

The
Rabbit
R. P. MACINTYRE
You have a dog named Rusty … you had a dog
named Rusty. This is not so much a story about
Focus Your Learning
Reading this story will
help you:
n focus on how a
narrator’s voice can
reveal feelings
n build an argument
Rusty as it is about your parents, of which you still have two.
That’s because nobody’s shot them, yet. You have this theory
that parents are very stupid people, especially after you get to
know them for awhile. You’ve known yours fourteen years.
Fifteen, actually. The first year doesn’t count.
If your dad was an animal, which you occasionally
think he is, he’d be a bird. He’d be one that’s nearly extinct,
because it forgot how to fly. So he just flaps his wings and
jumps instead, jumps to conclusions.
And your mom is like a pair of eyes that glow on the side
of the road at night. You can’t make out what they belong to,
you just hope they don’t spring across in front of the car. But
one of these days, you know it’s going to happen.
The thing is, you’d probably never notice how weird your
parents are if you didn’t have neighbours or other people to
Look 55

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

One weekend the Unruhs go away. They have asked your dad
to keep an eye on their house. No problem. Three days. He can
handle that.
It’s evening of the second day, Saturday. You go to the video store to
rent a movie. Nobody can agree on what movie to get so you get three.
On the way home, you stop at the store for popcorn and coke. It’s going
to be fun, a family evening fighting over which movie to watch first.
But when you get home, driving into the driveway, black smoke
belching from the Ford, you lurch to a halt and freeze. Your dad turns
off the ignition. The exhaust settles like an air of doom. You know
there is going to be trouble because the gate is open.
Rusty is gone.
You call, “Rusty, Rusty,” you hope the dog remembers his name.
He does. He appears, wagging his tail. He is wearing a foolish grin on
his face.
Rusty has returned from the neighbours’ yard. The Unruhs’.
You go into their yard, and there, lying almost neatly on the
compost pile, is a dead rabbit, a dirty dead pet bunny rabbit. You
know now that Rusty is a killer. Your dad says if this is what Rusty
will do to a rabbit, what might Rusty do to small children?
But Rusty is still standing there with that grin on his face, still
wagging his tail. It’s clear that Rusty is denying everything. He seems
to be saying, “Is there a problem here?” Yes Rusty, there is a problem.
Mentally, you can see your dad lining up the telescopic cross-hairs
between Rusty’s loving stupid eyes and shooting him. Except he can’t.
This is where the story gets ugly.
Your dad puts Rusty in the car. Rusty thinks he’s going for a car
ride. He is. To the vet, who will do what your dad can’t. You wave goodbye
to Rusty. You thought he was such a good dog. Stupid, but good.
Meanwhile, your mom springs into action. Her eyes are like
headlights, her face a grill. She takes the dead rabbit into the kitchen.
She washes it in the sink, then takes her hair drier and blow dries the
dead rabbit’s fur. She fluffs it up. It looks almost as good as new. It
really does.
Look 57

By this time, your dad has returned from the vet. Your whole
family is silent. Your dad takes the dead rabbit and puts it back into
its cage. He props it up. He gives it a carrot. It looks like the dead
rabbit is eating the carrot. You go home. You do not watch movies.
You go to bed.
The next day the Unruhs return. Your dad gives them time to be
home for awhile. Time to unpack the Volvo and put things away. There
is no eye contact in your house. Your mom is trying to thaw a loaf of
zucchini bread.
Your dad goes into the back yard and starts scooping up dog turds.
You join him, holding a plastic garbage bag. Dr. Unruh is in his back
yard digging a hole. You hear your dad ask, in a friendly neighbourly
sort of way, how their trip was. Dr. Unruh answers, it was fine, the trip
was fine, but that something really strange had happened here, here in
the back yard.
Your dad fakes great interest.
Dr. Unruh says that someone dug up their pet rabbit and put it
back into its cage.
Your dad’s voice breaks. “Dug it up?”
“Yes,” says Dr. Unruh. “It died last Thursday.”
You look at your dad. He flaps his wings like he’s trying to fly.
“I didn’t know,” he says to you. “I didn’t know.”
Activities
1. The narrator does not describe his reaction to events in this story.
List the phrases that reveal what he is feeling. At whom are his
feelings directed, and why?
2. You have been entrusted to serve as Rusty’s advocate. Build a
case for his defence, citing circumstantial evidence. Work in groups
to share your completed cases and to select the best one in each
group. These defences will be read aloud to the class, and a vote
taken on the final defence to be adopted on behalf of Rusty.
58 Look

The Necklace GUY DE MAUPASSANT
The Boulevards 1899 by Pierre Bonnard
Focus Your Learning
Reading this tale will help you:
n focus on a character’s view
of herself
n create a collage
n write a character sketch
n revise and edit your work
n express personal
understanding in a debate
She was one of those pretty and charming girls,
born, as if by an accident of fate, into a family
of clerks. With no dowry, no prospects, no way of any kind
of being met, understood, loved, and married by a man both
prosperous and famous, she was finally married to a minor
clerk in the Ministry of Education.
She dressed plainly because she could not afford fine
clothes, but was as unhappy as a woman who has come
Look 59

down in the world; for women have no family rank or social class.
With them, beauty, grace, and charm take the place of birth and
breeding. Their natural poise, their instinctive good taste, and their
mental cleverness are the sole guiding principles which make
daughters of the common people the equals of ladies in high society.
She grieved incessantly, feeling that she had been born for all the
little niceties and luxuries of living. She grieved over the shabbiness of
her apartment, the dinginess of the walls, the worn-out appearance of
the chairs, the ugliness of the draperies. All these things, which another
woman of her class would not even have noticed, gnawed at her and
made her furious. The sight of the little Breton girl who did her humble
housework roused in her disconsolate regrets and wild daydreams. She
would dream of silent chambers, draped with Oriental tapestries and
lighted by tall bronze floor lamps, and of two handsome butlers in knee
breeches, who, drowsy from the heavy warmth cast by the central
stove, dozed in large overstuffed armchairs.
She would dream of great reception halls hung with old silks, of
fine furniture filled with priceless curios, and of small, stylish, scented
sitting rooms just right for the four o’clock chat with intimate friends,
with distinguished and sought-after men whose attention every
woman envies and longs to attract.
When dining at the round table, covered for the third day with
the same cloth, opposite her husband, who would raise the cover of
the soup tureen, declaring delightedly, “Ah! A good stew! There’s
nothing I like better …” she would dream of fashionable dinner
parties, of gleaming silverware, of tapestries making the walls alive
with characters out of history and strange birds in a fairyland forest;
she would dream of delicious dishes served on wonderful china, of
gallant compliments whispered and listened to with a sphinxlike smile
as one eats the rosy flesh of a trout or nibbles at the wings of a grouse.
She had no evening clothes, no jewels, nothing. But those were
the things she wanted; she felt that was the kind of life for her. She so
much longed to please, be envied, be fascinating and sought after.
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She had a well-to-do friend, a classmate of convent-school days
whom she would no longer go to see, simply because she would feel
so distressed on returning home. And she would weep for days on end
from vexation, regret, despair, and anguish.
Then one evening, her husband came home proudly holding out
a large envelope.
“Look,” he said, “I’ve got something for you.”
She excitedly tore open the envelope and pulled out a printed
card bearing these words:
“The Minister of Education and Mme. Georges Ramponneau beg
M. and Mme. Loisel to do them the honor of attending an evening
reception at the Ministerial Mansion on Friday, January 18.”
Instead of being delighted, as her husband had hoped, she
scornfully tossed the invitation on the table, murmuring, “What good
is that to me?”
“But, my dear, I thought you’d be thrilled to death. You never get
a chance to go out, and this is a real affair, a wonderful one! I had an
awful time getting a card. Everybody wants one; it’s much sought
after, and not many clerks have a chance at one. You’ll see all the most
important people there.”
She gave him an irritated glance and burst out impatiently, “What
do you think I have to go in?”
He hadn’t given that a thought. He stammered, “Why, the dress
you wear when we go to the theatre. That looks quite nice, I think.”
He stopped talking, dazed and distracted to see his wife burst out
weeping. Two large tears slowly rolled from the corners of her eyes to
the corners of her mouth; he gasped, “Why, what’s the matter? What’s
the trouble?”
By sheer will power she overcame her outburst and answered in a
calm voice while wiping the tears from her wet cheeks:
“Oh, nothing. Only I don’t have an evening dress and therefore I
can’t go to that affair. Give the card to some friend at the office whose
wife can dress better than I can.”
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He was stunned. He resumed, “Let’s see, Mathilde. How much
would a suitable outfit cost—one you could wear for other affairs
too—something very simple?”
She thought it over for several seconds, going over her
allowance and thinking also of the amount she could ask for without
bringing an immediate refusal and an exclamation of dismay from
the thrifty clerk.
Finally, she answered hesitatingly, “I’m not sure exactly, but I
think with four hundred francs I could manage it.”
He turned a bit pale, for he had set aside just that amount to buy
a rifle so that, the following summer, he could join some friends who
were getting up a group to shoot larks on the plain near Nanterre.
However, he said, “All right. I’ll give you four hundred francs. But
try to get a nice dress.”
As the day of the party approached, Mme. Loisel seemed sad, moody,
and ill at ease. Her outfit was ready, however. Her husband said to
her one evening, “What’s the matter? You’ve been all out of sorts for
three days.”
And she answered, “It’s embarrassing not to have a jewel or a
gem—nothing to wear on my dress. I’ll look like a pauper: I’d almost
rather not go to that party.”
He answered, “Why not wear some flowers? They’re very
fashionable this season. For ten francs you can get two or three
gorgeous roses.”
She wasn’t at all convinced. “No…. There’s nothing more
humiliating than to look poor among a lot of rich women.”
But her husband exclaimed, “My, but you’re silly! Go see your
friend Mme. Forestier and ask her to lend you some jewelry. You and
she know each other well enough for you to do that.”
She gave a cry of joy, “Why, that’s so! I hadn’t thought of it.”
The next day she paid her friend a visit and told her of her
predicament.
62 Look

Mme. Forestier went toward a large closet with mirrored doors,
took out a large jewel box, brought it over, opened it, and said to
Mme. Loisel: “Pick something out, my dear.”
At first her eyes noted some bracelets, then a pearl necklace, then
a Venetian cross, gold and gems, of marvelous workmanship. She tried
on these adornments in front of the mirror, but hesitated, unable to
decide which to part with and put back. She kept on asking, “Haven’t
you something else?”
“Oh, yes, keep on looking. I don’t know just what you’d like.”
All at once she found, in a black satin box, a superb diamond
necklace; and her pulse beat faster with longing. Her hands trembled as
she took it up. Clasping it around her throat, outside her high-necked
dress, she stood in ecstasy looking at her reflection.
Then she asked, hesitatingly, pleading, “Could I borrow that, just
that and nothing else?”
“Why, of course.”
She threw her arms around her friend, kissed her warmly, and
fled with her treasure.
The day of the party arrived. Mme. Loisel was a sensation. She
was the prettiest one there, fashionable, gracious, smiling, and wild
with joy. All the men turned to look at her, asked who she was,
begged to be introduced. All the Cabinet officials wanted to waltz
with her. The minister took notice of her.
She danced madly, wildly, drunk with pleasure, giving no thought
to anything in the triumph of her beauty, the pride of her success, in a
kind of happy cloud composed of all the adulation, of all the admiring
glances, of all the awakened longings, of a sense of complete victory
that is so sweet to a woman’s heart.
She left around four o’clock in the morning. Her husband, since
midnight, had been dozing in a small empty sitting room with three
other gentlemen whose wives were having too good a time.
He threw over her shoulders the wraps he had brought for going
home, modest garments of everyday life whose shabbiness clashed with
Look 63

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

“I’ll retrace our steps on foot,” he said, “to see if I can find it.”
And he went out. She remained in her evening clothes, without
the strength to go to bed, slumped in a chair in the unheated room,
her mind a blank.
Her husband came in about seven o’clock. He had had no luck.
He went to the police station, to the newspapers to post a reward,
to the cab companies, everywhere the slightest hope drove him.
That evening Loisel returned, pale, his face lined; still he had
learned nothing.
“We’ll have to write your friend,” he said, “to tell her you have
broken the catch and are having it repaired. That will give us a little
time to turn around.”
She wrote to his dictation.
At the end of the week, they had given up all hope.
And Loisel, looking five years older, declared, “We must take
steps to replace that piece of jewelry.”
The next day they took the case to the jeweler whose name they
found inside. He consulted his records. “I didn’t sell that necklace,
madame,” he said. “l only supplied the case.”
Then they went from one jeweler to another hunting for a similar
necklace, going over their recollections, both sick with despair and
anxiety.
They found, in a shop in Palais Royal, a string of diamonds which
seemed exactly like the one they were seeking. It was priced at forty
thousand francs. They could get it for thirty-six.
They asked the jeweler to hold it for them for three days. And
they reached an agreement that he would take it back for thirty-four
thousand if the lost one was found before the end of February.
Loisel had eighteen thousand francs he had inherited from his
father. He would borrow the rest.
He went about raising the money, asking a thousand francs from
one, four hundred from another, a hundred here, sixty there. He signed
notes, made ruinous deals, did business with loan sharks, ran the
Look 65

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

Mme. Loisel appeared an old woman, now. She became heavy,
rough, harsh, like one of the poor. Her hair untended, her skirts
askew, her hands red, her voice shrill, she even slopped water on
her floors and scrubbed them herself. But, sometimes, while her
husband was at work, she would sit near the window and think of
that long-ago evening when, at the dance, she had been so beautiful
and admired.
What would have happened if she had not lost that necklace?
Who knows? Who can say? How strange and unpredictable life is!
How little there is between happiness and misery!
Then one Sunday when she had gone for a walk on the Champs Élysées
to relax a bit from the week’s labours, she suddenly noticed a woman
strolling with a child. It was Mme. Forestier, still young-looking; still
beautiful, still charming.
Mme. Loisel felt a rush of emotion. Should she speak to her? Of
course. And now that everything was paid off, she would tell her the
whole story. Why not?
She went toward her. “Hello, Jeanne.”
The other, not recognizing her, showed astonishment at being
spoken to so familiarly by this common person. She stammered, “But
… madame … I don’t recognize … You must be mistaken.”
“No, I’m Mathilde Loisel.”
Her friend gave a cry, “Oh, my poor Mathilde, how you’ve
changed!”
“Yes, I’ve had a hard time since last seeing you. And plenty of
misfortunes—and all on account of you!”
“Of me … How do you mean?”
“Do you remember that diamond necklace you loaned me to wear
to the dance at the Ministry?”
“Yes, but what about it?”
“Well, I lost it.”
“You lost it! But you returned it.”
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“I brought you another just like it. And we’ve been paying for it
for ten years now. You can imagine that wasn’t easy for us who had
nothing. Well, it’s over now, and I am glad of it.”
Mme. Forestier stopped short. “You mean to say you bought a
diamond necklace to replace mine?”
“Yes. You never noticed, then? They were quite alike.”
And she smiled with proud and simple joy.
Mme. Forestier, quite overcome, clasped her by the hands. “Oh,
my poor Mathilde. But mine was only paste. Why, at most it was worth
only five hundred francs!”
Activities
1. What qualities does Mathilde possess that convince her she has been
born into the “wrong class”? Discuss this question in class.
2. Create a two-panel collage. On the left show Mathilde’s life as it is.
On the right show Mathilde’s life as she’d like it to be.
3. Write a character sketch of Mathilde’s husband. Include a paragraph
of support for every characteristic that you identify. Trade your first
draft with a partner, and use an editing checklist to review it. Pay
particular attention to paragraphing and descriptive writing. Then
prepare a final draft of your character sketch.
4. Do you think that Mathilde is the instrument of her own downfall, or
is she the hapless victim of a rigid social class? Prepare for a class
debate on this topic. Be prepared to argue either side, as instructed
by your teacher.
68 Look

Clever
Manka
ETHEL JOHNSTON
PHELPS
Focus Your Learning
Reading this folk tale will
help you:
n identify the oral elements
of folk tales
n examine the use of
dialogue
There once was a rich farmer who was as grasping
and mean as he was rich. He was always driving a
hard bargain and always getting the better of his poor neighbours.
One of these neighbours was a humble shepherd to whom the
farmer owed payment of a calf. When the time of payment came,
the farmer refused to give the shepherd the calf, forcing the
shepherd to bring the matter to the mayor of the village.
The mayor was a young man who was not very
experienced. He listened to both sides, and when he had
thought a bit, he said, “Instead of making a decision on this
case, I will put a riddle to you both, and the man who makes
the best answer shall have the calf. Are you agreed?”
The farmer and the shepherd accepted this proposal, and
the mayor said, “Well then, here is my riddle: What is the
swiftest thing in the world? What is the sweetest thing? What is
the richest? Think out your answers and bring them to me at
this same time tomorrow.”
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The farmer went home in a temper.
“What kind of a mayor is this young fellow!”
he growled. “If he had let me keep the calf,
I’d have sent him a bushel of pears. Now I
may lose the calf, for I can’t think of an
answer to his foolish riddle.”
“What is the riddle?” asked his wife.
“Perhaps I can help you.” The farmer told her
the riddle, and his wife said that of course she
knew the answers.
“Our grey mare must be the swiftest
thing in the world,” said she. “You know that
nothing ever passes us on the road. As for the
sweetest, did you ever taste any honey
sweeter than ours? And I’m sure there’s
nothing richer than our chest of golden ducats
that we’ve saved up over the years.”
The farmer was delighted. “You’re right!
Now we will be able to keep the calf!”
Meanwhile, when the shepherd got
home, he was very downcast and sad. His
daughter, a clever girl named Manka, asked
what troubled him.
The shepherd sighed. “I’m afraid I’ve
lost the calf. The mayor gave us a riddle to
solve, and I know I shall never guess it.”
“What is the riddle? Perhaps I can help
you,” said Manka.
The shepherd told her the riddle, and the
next day, as he was setting out for the
mayor’s, Manka told him the answers.
When the shepherd reached the mayor’s
house, the farmer was already there. The
mayor repeated the riddle and then asked the
farmer his answers.
The farmer said with a pompous air:
“The swiftest thing in the world? Why that’s
my grey mare, of course, for no other horse
ever passes us on the road. The sweetest?
Honey from my beehives. The richest? What
can be richer than my chest of gold pieces?”
“Hmmm,” said the mayor. “And what
answers does the shepherd make?”
“The swiftest thing in the world,” said
the shepherd, “is thought, for thought can run
any distance in the twinkling of an eye. The
sweetest thing of all is sleep, for when a
person is tired and sad, what can be sweeter?
The richest thing is the earth, for out of the
earth come all the riches of the world.”
“Good!” cried the mayor. “The calf goes
to the shepherd.”
Later the mayor said to the shepherd,
“Tell me now, who gave you those answers?
I’m sure you never thought of them yourself.”
The shepherd was unwilling to tell, but
finally he confessed that the answers came
from his daughter Manka. The mayor became
very interested in the cleverness of Manka,
and he sent his housekeeper for ten eggs and
gave them to the shepherd.
“Take these eggs to Manka and tell her
to have them hatched by tomorrow and bring
me the chicks,” said he.
The shepherd went home and gave
Manka the eggs and the message. Manka
laughed and said, “Take a handful of corn and
bring it back to the mayor with this message,
‘My daughter says if you plant this corn, grow
it, and have it harvested by tomorrow, she
will bring you the ten chicks to feed on your
ripe grain.’”
When the mayor heard this answer, he
laughed heartily. “That’s a very clever
daughter you have! I’d like to meet her. Tell
her to come to see me, but she must come
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neither by day nor by night, neither riding nor
walking, neither dressed nor undressed.”
Manka smiled when she received this
message. The next dawn, when night was
gone and day not yet arrived, she set out. She
had wrapped herself in a fishnet, and
throwing one leg over a goat’s back and
keeping one foot on the ground, she went to
the mayor’s house.
Now I ask you, did she go dressed? No,
she wasn’t dressed, for a fishnet isn’t
clothing. Did she go undressed? Of course
not, for wasn’t she covered with a fishnet?
Did she walk to the mayor’s? No, she didn’t
walk, for she went with one leg thrown over a
goat. Then did she ride? Of course she didn’t
ride, for wasn’t she walking on one foot?
When she reached the mayor’s house,
she called out, “Here I am, and I’ve come
neither by day nor by night, neither riding nor
walking, neither dressed nor undressed.”
The young mayor was so delighted with
Manka’s cleverness that he proposed to her,
and in a short time they were married.
“But understand, my dear Manka,” he
said, “you are not to use your cleverness at
my expense. You must not interfere in any of
my cases. If you give advice to those who
come to me for judgment, I’ll send you home
to your father!”
“Very well,” said Manka. “I agree not to
give advice in your cases unless you ask for
it.”
All went well for a time. Manka was
busy and was careful not to interfere in any of
the mayor’s cases.
Then one day two farmers came to the
mayor to have a dispute settled. One of the
farmers owned a mare which had foaled in
the marketplace. The colt had run under the
wagon of the other farmer, and the owner of
the wagon claimed the colt as his property.
The mayor was thinking of something
else while the case was being argued, and he
said carelessly, “The man who found the colt
under his wagon is the owner of the colt.”
The farmer who owned the mare met
Manka as he was leaving the house, and
stopped to tell her about the case. Manka was
ashamed that her husband had made so
foolish a decision. She said to the farmer,
“Come back this afternoon with a fishing net
and stretch it across the dusty road. When the
mayor sees you, he will come out and ask
what you are doing. Tell him you are catching
fish. When he asks how you can expect to
catch fish in a dusty road, tell him it’s just as
easy to catch fish in a dusty road as it is for a
wagon to foal a colt.... He’ll see the injustice
of his decision and have the colt returned to
you. But remember one thing—you must not
let him know that I told you to do this.”
That afternoon when the mayor looked
out of his window, he saw a man stretching a
fishnet across the dusty road. He went out
and asked, “What are you doing?”
“Fishing.”
“Fishing in a dusty road? Are you
crazy?”
“Well,” said the man, “it’s just as easy
for me to catch fish in a dusty road as it is for
a wagon to foal.”
Then the mayor realized he had made a
careless and unjust decision. “Of course, the
colt belongs to your mare and it must be
returned to you,” he said. “But tell me, who
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put you up to this? You didn’t think of it
yourself!”
The farmer tried not to tell, but the
mayor persisted and when he found out that
Manka was at the bottom of it, he became
very angry. He rushed into the house and
called his wife.
“Manka,” he said, “I told you what
would happen if you interfered in any of my
cases! I won’t hear any excuses. Home you go
this very day, and you may take with you the
one thing you like best in the house.”
Manka did not argue. “Very well, my
dear husband. I shall go home to my father’s
cottage and take with me the one thing I like
best in the house. But I will not go until after
supper. We have been very happy together,
and I should like to eat one last meal with
you. Let us have no more angry words, but be
kind to each other as we’ve always been, and
then part as friends.”
The mayor agreed to this, and Manka
prepared a fine supper of all the dishes her
husband particularly liked. The mayor opened
his choicest wine and pledged Manka’s
health. Then he set to eat, and the supper
was so good that he ate and ate and ate. And
the more he ate, the more he drank, until at
last he grew drowsy and fell sound asleep in
his chair. Then, without awakening him,
Manka had him carried out to the wagon that
was waiting to take her home to her father.
The next morning when the mayor
opened his eyes, he found himself lying in the
shepherd’s cottage.
“What does this mean?” he roared.
“Nothing, dear husband,” said Manka.
“You know you told me I might take with me
the one thing I liked best in your house, so of
course I took you! That’s all.”
The mayor stared at her in amazement.
Then he laughed loud and heartily to think
how Manka had outwitted him.
“Manka,” he said, “you’re too clever for
me. Come, my dear, let’s go home.”
So they climbed back into the wagon
and drove home.
The mayor never again scolded his wife,
but after that, whenever a very difficult case
came up, he always said, “I think we had
better consult my wife. You know she’s a very
clever woman.”
Activities
1. List the oral elements of Clever Manka.
How do these elements contribute to the
story? Discuss as a class.
2. This folk tale has two major scenes. In
each, Manka helps someone, then
outsmarts the mayor. Examine the use of
dialogue. How does the repetition of
riddles create suspense? Write a short
explanation, including specific references.
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End-of-unit Activities
1. Many of the selections in this unit
involve tales of the unexplainable. In
small groups, use a graphic organizer to
compare the plot, setting, characters,
and theme of at least four different
selections. Then compile a list of
characteristics they share.
2. View a TV show or film that deals with
unexplainable events. Write a review
of the show or film, assessing its
effectiveness based on the characteristics
you identified in Activity 1. Remember that
sometimes a work can be more effective,
rather than less effective, when it departs
from expected characteristics.
3. Compare one of the poems with one of
the stories in this unit. How effective is
each text as an example of a tale of the
unexplainable? Share your conclusions
with the class, giving detailed examples
from the texts you have chosen.
4. In the selections “Zoo” and “A Strange
Visitor,” extraterrestrial life is presented in
a positive rather than negative light. How
would the selections be different if the
aliens were presented in a negative way?
Retell the story, changing the ending.
5. In “The Rabbit” and “The Necklace,”
the protagonists come face to face
with an unjust fate. Which story do you
think best exemplifies that life isn’t fair?
Choose a side, prepare your argument,
and engage in a debate with other
members of your class.
6. Many of the selections in this unit finish
with a surprise ending. Choose two
selections, one with a surprise ending
that is especially good, and one with a
surprise ending that you think is not very
effective. Compare the strengths and
weaknesses of the two endings. Rewrite
the surprise ending for the story you feel
has the less effective ending.
7. Identify selections in this unit in which
humour is used to communicate a point
of view. Draw a comic strip or cartoon
capturing the humour in one of these
selections.
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