Months turned into months, year turned into years. King’s son that born from his young wife become a teenager. Her mother gave his name Aji Bonar. The young man like to play spinning top and fishing. One day he wanted to go to the country Tiangkerarasen. Because, he heard that  the king’s Tiangkerarasen son likes to play spinning top with bets. One day he could play spinning top with the king’s son. Aji Bonar won and brought the rooster bet to  the house. Aji Bonar’s win makes the king’s son getting curious. Then he bet bigger.

The bet happens over and over again. From a small bet to a large house complete with its contents. Aji Bonar even won this match. The the king’s son defeat did not make the king’s son deterrent. Instead he was more curious and determined to be able to beat Aji Bonar spinning top.

One day the king’s son gathered all the people of the country in Tiangkerarasen to the spinning top game arena. He invited the King, his father too. Once all gathered, the king’s son exclaimed:
“My people, today I bet this country and its contents to Aji Bonar. If he loses, he will return the entire victory obtained from me. If I lose then this country will give to him. He will rule the entire country. Do you agree? ”
“Agree!”, said all people that present simultaneously.
Soon after the game started. The whole crowd cheered each their choice champion. Aji Bonar spinning tops, spin fast and quickly turn off the king’s son tops. Today Aji Bonar became king of the country.

A few days later he picked up his mother with the royal troops. All the people witnessed the processions, also king’s son who lost a bet and beside him stood the King before. The King was very embarrassed, because the son who his love pawned him and discarded son being has become king. The two men watched the King Aji Bonar with infinite shame.

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Although the little girl was very pretty, she was so weak and small that they thought she could not live; but they said she should at once be christened.

So the father sent one of his sons in haste to the spring to get some water, but the other six ran with him. Each wanted to be first at drawing the water, and so they were in such a hurry that all let their pitchers fall into the well, and they stood very foolishly looking at one another, and did not know what to do, for none dared go home. In the meantime the father was uneasy, and could not tell what made the young men stay so long. ‘Surely,’ said he, ‘the whole seven must have forgotten themselves over some game of play’; and when he had waited still longer and they yet did not come, he flew into a rage and wished them all turned into ravens. Scarcely had he spoken these words when he heard a croaking over his head, and looked up and saw seven ravens as black as coal flying round and round. Sorry as he was to see his wish so fulfilled, he did not know how what was done could be undone, and comforted himself as well as he could for the loss of his seven sons with his dear little daughter, who soon became stronger and every day more beautiful.

For a long time she did not know that she had ever had any brothers; for her father and mother took care not to speak of them before her: but one day by chance she heard the people about her speak of them.

‘Yes,’ said they, ‘she is beautiful indeed, but still ’tis a pity that her brothers should have been lost for her sake.’ Then she was much grieved, and went to her father and mother, and asked if she had any brothers, and what had become of them. So they dared no longer hide the truth from her, but said it was the will of Heaven, and that her birth was only the innocent cause of it; but the little girl mourned sadly about it every day, and thought herself bound to do all she could to bring her brothers back; and she had neither rest nor ease, till at length one day she stole away, and set out into the wide world to find her brothers, wherever they might be, and free them, whatever it might cost her.

She took nothing with her but a little ring which her father and mother had given her, a loaf of bread in  case she should be hungry, a little pitcher of water in case she should be thirsty, and a little stool to rest upon when she should be weary. Thus she went on and on, and journeyed till she came to the world’s end; then she came to the sun, but the sun looked much too hot and fiery; so she ran away quickly to the moon, but the moon was cold and chilly, and said, ‘I smell flesh and blood this way!’ so she took herself away in a hurry and came to the stars, and the stars were friendly and kind to her, and each star sat upon his own little stool; but the morning star rose up and gave her a little piece of wood, and said, ‘If you have not this little piece of wood, you cannot unlock the castle that stands on the glass-mountain, and there your brothers live.’ The little girl took the piece of wood, rolled it up in a little cloth, and went on again until she came to the glass-mountain, and found the door shut.

Then she felt for the little piece of wood; but when she unwrapped the cloth it was not there, and she saw she had lost the gift of the good stars. What was to be done? She wanted to save her brothers, and had no key of the castle of the glass-mountain; so this faithful little sister took a knife out of her pocket and cut off her little finger, that was just the size of the piece of wood she had lost, and put it in the door and opened it.

As she went in, a little dwarf came up to her, and said, ‘What are you seeking for?’ ‘I seek for my brothers, the seven ravens,’ answered she. Then the dwarf said, ‘My masters are not at home; but if you will wait till they come, pray step in.’ Now the little dwarf was getting their dinner ready, and he brought their food upon seven little plates, and their drink in seven little glasses, and set them upon the table, and out of each little plate their sister ate a small piece, and out of each little glass she drank a small drop; but she let the ring that she had brought with her fall into the last glass.

On a sudden she heard a fluttering and croaking in the air, and the dwarf said, ‘Here come my masters.’ When they came in, they wanted to eat and drink, and looked for their little plates and glasses. Then said one after the other, ‘Who has eaten from my little plate? And who has been drinking out of my little glass?’

‘Caw! Caw! well I ween Mortal lips have this way been.’

When the seventh came to the bottom of his glass, and found there the ring, he looked at it, and knew that it was his father’s and mother’s, and said, ‘O that our little sister would but come! then we should be free.’ When the little girl heard this (for she stood behind the door all the time and listened), she ran forward, and in an instant all the ravens took their right form again; and all hugged and kissed each other, and went merrily home.

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• March 19, 2009 -- Introductory Note (35)
• April 16, 2009 -- 5. The Black Cat (22)
• January 21, 2010 -- THE PERICOS (21)
• August 29, 2009 -- 1. Left Alone In The Little Hut (15)
• April 16, 2009 -- 4. Boat to Beirut (10)

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She dearly loved fat, delicious worms and felt they were absolutely necessary to the health of her children. As often as she found a worm she would call “Chuck-chuck-chuck!” to her chickies.

When they were gathered about her, she would distribute choice morsels
of her tid-bit. A busy little body was she!

A cat usually napped lazily in the barn door, not even bothering herself to scare the rat who ran here and there as he pleased. And as for the pig who lived in the sty–he did not care what happened so long as he could eat and grow fat.

One day the Little Red Hen found a Seed. It was a Wheat Seed, but the Little Red Hen was so accustomed to bugs and worms that she supposed this to be some new and perhaps very delicious kind of meat. She bit it gently and found that it resembled a worm in no way whatsoever as to taste although because it was long and slender, a Little Red Hen might easily be fooled by its appearance.

Carrying it about, she made many inquiries as to what it might be. She found it was a Wheat Seed and that, if planted, it would grow up and when ripe it could be made into flour and then into bread.

When she discovered that, she knew it ought to be planted. She was so busy hunting food for herself and her family that, naturally, she thought she ought not to take time to plant it.

So she thought of the Pig–upon whom time must hang heavily and of the Cat who had nothing to do, and of the great fat Rat with his idle hours, and she called loudly:

“Who will plant the Seed?”

But the Pig said, “Not I,” and the Cat said, “Not I,” and the Rat said, “Not I.”

“Well, then,” said the Little Red Hen, “I will.”

And she did.

Then she went on with her daily duties through the long summer days, scratching for worms and feeding her chicks, while the Pig grew fat, and the Cat grew fat, and the Rat grew fat, and the Wheat grew tall and ready for harvest.

So one day the Little Red Hen chanced to notice how large the Wheat was and that the grain was ripe, so she ran about calling briskly:
“Who will cut the Wheat?”

The Pig said, “Not I,” the Cat said, “Not I,” and the Rat said, “Not I.”

“Well, then,” said the Little Red Hen, “I will.”

And she did.

She got the sickle from among the farmer’s tools in the barn and proceeded to cut off all of the big plant of Wheat.

On the ground lay the nicely cut Wheat, ready to be gathered and threshed, but the newest and yellowest and downiest of Mrs. Hen’s chicks set up a “peep-peep-peeping” in their most vigorous fashion, proclaiming to the world at large, but most particularly to their mother, that she was neglecting them.

Poor Little Red Hen! She felt quite bewildered and hardly knew where to turn.

Her attention was sorely divided between her duty to her children and her duty to the Wheat, for which she felt responsible.

So, again, in a very hopeful tone, she called out, “Who will thresh the Wheat?”

But the Pig, with a grunt, said, “Not I,” and the Cat, with a meow, said, “Not I,” and the Rat, with a squeak, said, “Not I.”

So the Little Red Hen, looking, it must be admitted, rather discouraged, said, “Well, I will, then.”

And she did.

Of course, she had to feed her babies first, though, and when she had gotten them all to sleep for their afternoon nap, she went out and threshed the Wheat. Then she called out: “Who will carry the Wheat to the mill to be ground?”

Turning their backs with snippy glee, that Pig said, “Not I,” and that Cat said, “Not I,” and that Rat said, “Not I.”

So the good Little Red Hen could do nothing but say, “I will then.”

And she did.

Carrying the sack of Wheat, she trudged off to the distant mill. There she ordered the Wheat ground into beautiful white flour. When the miller brought her the flour she walked slowly back all the way to her own barnyard in her own picketty-pecketty fashion.

She even managed, in spite of her load, to catch a nice juicy worm now and then and had one left for the babies when she reached them. Those cunning little fluff-balls were _so_ glad to see their mother. For the first time, they really appreciated her.

After this really strenuous day Mrs. Hen retired to her slumbers earlier than usual–indeed, before the colors came into the sky to herald the setting of the sun, her usual bedtime hour.

She would have liked to sleep late in the morning, but her chicks, joining in the morning chorus of the hen yard, drove away all hopes of such a luxury.

Even as she sleepily half opened one eye, the thought came to her that to-day that Wheat must, somehow, be made into bread.

She was not in the habit of making bread, although, of course, anyone can make it if he or she follows the recipe with care, and she knew perfectly well that she could do it if necessary.

So after her children were fed and made sweet and fresh for the day, she hunted up the Pig, the Cat and the Rat.

Still confident that they would surely help her some day she sang out, “Who will make the bread?”

Alas for the Little Red Hen! Once more her hopes were dashed! For the Pig said, “Not I,” the Cat said, “Not I,” and the Rat said, “Not I.”

So the Little Red Hen said once more, “I will then,” and she did.

Feeling that she might have known all the time that she would have to do it all herself, she went and put on a fresh apron and spotless cook’s cap. First of all she set the dough, as was proper. When it was time she brought out the moulding board and the baking tins, molded the bread, divided it into loaves, and put them into the oven to bake.
All the while the Cat sat lazily by, giggling and chuckling.

And close at hand the vain Rat powdered his nose and admired himself in a mirror.

In the distance could be heard the long-drawn snores of the dozing Pig.

At last the great moment arrived. A delicious odor was wafted upon the autumn breeze. Everywhere the barnyard citizens sniffed the air with delight.

The Red Hen ambled in her picketty-pecketty way toward the source of all this excitement.

Although she appeared to be perfectly calm, in reality she could only with difficulty restrain an impulse to dance and sing, for had she not done all the work on this wonderful bread?

Small wonder that she was the most excited person in the barnyard!

She did not know whether the bread would be fit to eat, but–joy of joys! –when the lovely brown loaves came out of the oven, they were done to perfection.

Then, probably because she had acquired the habit, the Red Hen called:
“Who will eat the Bread?”

All the animals in the barnyard were watching hungrily and smacking their lips in anticipation, and the Pig said, “I will,” the Cat said, “I will,” the Rat said, “I will.”

But the Little Red Hen said, “No, you won’t. I will.”

And she did.

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• November 19, 2009 -- Legend of Sand Lake (0)

–”My father is a mirror in which I can only hope to catch a reflection of myself. He is the one I strive to model myself after.”–

“Where would we be right now if I did not have the restaurant? How else would I be able to provide for our family? Who would give me, a man without an education, a job?” My father would say these things whenever we had a father-to-son conversation. We would usually have these talks on car rise to the stores that supply our restaurant.

I would look at my father, a clean-shaven man with short curly hair, with the greatest admiration. He’s a tall man with a strong chest sticking out, like the super heroes I used to watch on the Saturday morning cartoons. He would tell me stories of long, hard hours spent working in the hot kitchen and helping all the customers. Now I stay up late on weekends to welcome him when he comes home. I sit with him, and hope that he will tell me something wise. He always knows how to inspire me. i could never understand how he grew to be so wise without even having the opportunity to complete high school.

My father would tell me how hard his life was and how he continues to work so I will never see such day. He would say how few men would put in the hours he has. I know that he does not say these things for special recognition but to scare me away from a future of manual labor.

“Make sure you get a job where you have to wear a tie!” he’d always say with a smile. They were liek a paintbrush that began painting this beautiful picture in my head that I have entitled my goal in life.

My father has worked day in and day out, with few days off, for 20 years, never complaining. He would explain how this is what he had to do to make my future better. My father worked so I could go to the best schools. He worked to supply me with opportunities that would provide a job where I had to wear a tie.

My father is a mirror in which I can only hope to catch a reflection of myself. He is the one I strive to model myself after. One day, when I make a great name for myself as a doctor, someone will ask, “Where did you get such a great work ethic?”

“My father!” I’ll say, adjusting my tie. And I’ll smile.

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Edward Wellman bade goodbye to his family in the old country headed for a better life in America. Papa handed him the family’s savings hidden in a leather satchel. “Times are desperate here,” he said, hugging his son goodbye. “You are our hope.”

Edward boarded the Atlantic freighter offering free transport to young men willing to shovel coal in return for the month-long journey. If Edward struck gold in the Colorado Rockies, the rest of the family could eventually join him.

For months, Edward worked his claim tirelessly, and the small vein of gold provided a moderate but steady income. At the end of each day, as he walked through the door of his two-room cabin, he yearned for the woman he loved to greet him. Leaving Ingrid behind before he could officially court her had been his only regret in accepting this American adventure. Their families had been friends for years and for as long as he could remember, he had secretly hoped to make Ingrid his wife. Her long, flowing hair and radiant smile made her the most beautiful of the Henderson sisters. He had just begun sitting by her at church picnics and making up silly reasons to stop by her house, just so he could see her. As he went to sleep in his cabin each night, Edward longed to stroke her hair and hold her in his arms. Finally, he wrote to Papa, asking him to help make his dream come true.

After nearly a year, a telegraph came with a plan to make his life complete. Mr. Henderson had agreed to send his daughter to Edward in America. Because she was a hardworking young woman with a good mind for business, she would work alongside Edward for a year to help the mining business grow. By then both families could afford to come to America for their wedding.

Edward’s heart soared with joy as he spent the next month trying to make the cabin into a home. He bought a cot for him to sleep on in the living area and tried to make his former bedroom suitable for a woman. Floral cloth from flour sacks replaced the burlap-bag curtains covering the dirty window. He arranged dried sage from the meadow into a tin can on the nightstand.

At last, the day he had been waiting for his whole life arrived. With a bouquet of fresh-picked daisies in hand, he left for the train depot. Steam billowed and wheels screeched as the train crawled to a stop. Edward scanned every window looking for Ingrid’s glowing hair and smile.

His heart beat with eager anticipation, then stopped with a sinking thud. Not Ingrid, but her older sister Marta, stepped down from the train. She stood shyly before him, her eyes cast down.

Edward only stared-dumbfounded. Then with shaking hands he offered Marta the bouquet. “Welcome,” he whispered, his eyes burning. A smile etched across her plain face.

“I was pleased when Papa said you sent for me,” Marta said, looking into his eyes briefly, before dropping her head again.

“I’ll get your bags,” Edward said with a fake smile. Together they headed for the buggy.

Mr. Henderson and Papa were right. Marta did have a great grasp of business. While Edward worked the mine, she worked the office. From her makeshift desk in one corner of the living area, she kept detailed records of all claim activity. Within six months, their assets doubled.
Her delicious meals and quiet smile graced the cabin with a wonderful woman’s touch. But the wrong woman, Edward mourned as he collapsed onto his cot each night. Why did they send Marta? Would he ever see Ingrid again? Was his lifelong dream to have her as his wife forsaken?

For a year, Marta and Edward worked and played and laughed, but never loved.Once, Marta had kissed Edward on the cheek before retiring to her room. He only smiled awkwardly. From then on, she seemed content with their exhilarating hikes in the mountains and long talks on the porch after suppers.

One spring afternoon, torrential rains washed down the hillside, eroding the entrance to their mine. Furiously, Edward filled sand bags and stacked them in the water’s path. Soaked and exhausted, his frantic efforts seemed futile. Suddenly there was Marta at his side holding the next burlap bag open. Edward shoveled sand inside, then with the strength of any man, Marta hurled it onto the pile and opened another bag… For hours they worked, knee-deep in mud, until the rains diminished.

Hand in hand, they walked back to the cabin. Over warm soup Edward sighed, “I never could have saved the mine without you. Thank you, Marta.”

“You’re welcome,” she answered with her usual smile, then went quietly to her room.

A few days later, a telegraph came announcing the arrival of the Henderson and Wellman families next week. As much as he tried to stifle it, the thought of seeing Ingrid again started Edward’s heart beating in the old familiar way.

Together, he and Marta went to the train station. They watched as their families exited the train at the far end of the platform. When Ingrid appeared, Marta turned to Edward. “Go to her,” she said.

Astonished, Edward stammered, “What do you mean?”
“Edward, I have always known I was not the Henderson girl you intended to send for. I had watched you flirt with Ingrid at the church picnics.” She nodded toward her sister descending the train steps. “I know it is she, not me, you desire for your wife.” “But…”
Marta placed her fingers over his lips. “Shh,” she hushed him. “I do love you, Edward. I always have. And because of that, all I really want is your happiness. Go to her.”

He took her hand from his face and held it. As she gazed up at him, he saw for the first time how beautiful she was. He recalled their walks in the meadows, their quiet evenings before the fire, her working beside him with the sandbags. It was then he realized what he had known for months.

“No, Marta. It is you I want.” Sweeping her into his arms, he kissed her with all the love bursting inside him. Their families gathered around them chorusing, “We are here for the wedding!”

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Ronald Jager

–Year after year, it bears the fruit of blind faith…

That June evening I was about ten. As I stood on our front porch, my eye caught an unusual plant, not more than five inches high. It was the merest seedling, but my father identified it as a young apple tree. Immediately I adopted it. I would transplant it, care for it as my own, and it would thrive. When I was a man and farmed this land, it would bear good apples for me.

Dad proposed a spot between the driveway and garden, and that evening he dug up the sod for me. I planted my little tree there. In my innocence about fruit trees, I did not know that apple trees grown from seeds-rather than grafts like the trees in our orchard-are often barren or bear only inferior fruit. If my father knew it, he chose not to disturb my optimism.

I took a boy’s cre of my tree, alternately negligent and tenderly attentive. I cheered it on as it slowly prospered in the face of weeds and the regular predations of our workhorse Pearl, who was partial to its taste and tried to snatch a branch whenever she could.

Came the years when my tree had a few blossoms but no fruit. Later I read disquieting news in a high-school textbook: apple seed trees often produce a prehistoric crabbed and wizened apple. Had I only known. Still, it was a nice tree and I was fond of it, so I pruned it by the book. At least it would look good. Then I went off to college and forgot about my tree.

My back was hardly turned when it began to bear-slowly at first, then generously, then extravagantly-tasty and versatile apples. They were good for eating and for sauce, superb for drying, and more free of insects and disease than those from our orchard trees.

For 35 years now, my tree has poured forth its nearly flawless bounty. Twenty bushels is nothing for that tree. Every autumn, relatives and neighbors come to shake the branches and bear the surplus fruit away.

I had foreseen it all. This perfectual bounty is what i fully expected all those years when I didn’t know what I was doing. With even a little learning in these matters, I would not have bothered to transplant or tend the tree. it was nurtured on blind faith, and the harvest that was all but impossible becomes now all but inevitable.

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As I stared vacantly at the disappearing Atlanta lights, I realized I was different from the fun-loving youngster who had reversed this route a year earlier. Thanks to an unrelenting tropical sun, my skin was darker. And I was more subdued- a hair-raising episode or two had impressed on me the merits of a low profile. Finally, baby fat had given way to a leaner body.

This trip had been the focus of my life for the past year. Like every soldier in every war, those of us in Vietnam had but one overpowering desire: to go home. We spoke of home in reverent terms and built it up to mythical proportions. We called it The World.

The World was a place where people slept in real beds, took hot showeres every day and didn’t have to keep their stell helmet, flak vest and M-16 rifle within lunging distance. In The World, buddies had nothing better to do than pack sandwiches and go hunting together, and all the pretty girls smelled nice and wore dresses.

For a year we dreamed, discussed and planned on going home. To start a conversation all you had to do was ask, “Hey, what are you gonna do when you get back to The World?”

If you’ve never come from a war, picture it like this: all your life you’ve dreamed of being rich. Of course, you knew there was not much chance of its actually happening, but it was fun to daydream. Then, out of nowhere, a huge inheritance and your dream comes true. But after you’ve concentrated on the dream so long, to separate it from the reality is tough- and disorienting. That’s what coming home from a war is like.

There had already been one culture shock. That morning, while I was passing through San Francisco International Airport, it struck me that nobody had a gun. It would be a piece of cake for a few Viet Cong to slip up to the terminal doors, blow them and enter unopposed.

I sat nervously, eyes glued to the door, and worked out what I’d do if they showed up before I could get out. I knew i was being silly. But my eyes never left the door. Yeah, you could call me disoriented.

It was 10:30pm when the plane finally touched down in my hometown of Columbia, S.C. Sometime during the long glide in, I had started crying softly. Here was this infantry officer, his chest covered with combat and service-award ribbons, crying. Fortunately, nobody was watching.

As we pulled to a stop, I regained control. I walked to the front of the plane and peered out. Behind the security barricades stood a small group of people staring at us.

With a deep breath, I stood straight and stepped onto the stairway. The five people behind the barricades went nuts. I froze momentarily, then groped my way down the stairs and began to recognize faces. There was Mom, scanning me as she went through the age-old checklist: two eyes, two arms, two legs, no scars or wounds.

Dad stood beside her, arm around her waist. His expression said, He looks fine, but I wonder… From experience in World War II, he knew there was more to homecomings than meets the eye.

My two rotten little brothers were the most animated. But somehow they seemed less rotten, and certainly less little.

Next to them was the stuff of every soldier’s dreams. She was wearing a red-plaid skirt and waving wildly. I was tired, but I wasn’t dead- now that was something.

Then it hit me. Every soldier who had viewed The World as some thing or place was wrong. It never was hot showers, soft beds or hunting trips.

The World was the people –our loved ones- who wrote us, prayed for us and waited for us. They were what was important. And my world was standing behind the barricade 25 yards away.

With that understanding came the end to a long year. I was with the people I cared for and, once again, everything was as it should be. My war was finally over.

Other post

• March 19, 2009 -- Introductory Note (35)
• April 16, 2009 -- 5. The Black Cat (22)
• January 21, 2010 -- THE PERICOS (21)
• August 29, 2009 -- 1. Left Alone In The Little Hut (15)
• April 16, 2009 -- 4. Boat to Beirut (10)

Knowing that Mrs. Mallard was afflicted with a heart trouble, great care was taken to break to her as gently as possible the news of her husband’s death.

It was her sister Josephine who told her, in broken sentences; veiled hints that revealed in half concealing. Her husband’s friend Richards was there, too, near her. It was he who had been in the newspaper office when intelligence of the railroad disaster was received, with Brently Mallard’s name leading the list of “killed.” He had only taken the time to assure himself of its truth by a second telegram, and had hastened to forestall any less careful, less tender friend in bearing the sad message.

She did not hear the story as many women have heard the same, with a paralyzed inability to accept its significance. She wept at once, with sudden, wild abandonment, in her sister’s arms. When the storm of grief had spent itself she went away to her room alone. She would have no one follow her.

There stood, facing the open window, a comfortable, roomy armchair. Into this she sank, pressed down by a physical exhaustion that haunted her body and seemed to reach into her soul.

She could see in the open square before her house the tops of trees that were all a quiver with the new spring life. The delicious breath of rain was in the air. In the street below a peddler was crying his wares. The notes of a distant song which some one was singing reached her faintly, and countless sparrows were twittering in the eaves.

There were patches of blue sky showing here and there through the clouds that had met and piled one above the other in the west facing her window.

She sat with her head thrown back upon the cushion of the chair, quite motionless, except when a sob came up into her throat and shook her, as a child who has cried itself to sleep continues to sob in its dreams.

She was young, with a fair, calm face, whose lines bespoke repression and even a certain strength. But now there was a dull stare in her eyes, whose gaze was fixed away off yonder on one of those patches of blue sky. It was not a glance of reflection, but rather indicated a suspension of intelligent thought.

There was something coming to her and she was waiting for it, fearfully. What was it? She did not know; it was too subtle and elusive to name. But she felt it, creeping out of the sky, reaching toward her through the sounds, the scents, the color that filled the air.

Now her bosom rose and fell tumultuously. She was beginning to recognize this thing that was approaching to possess her, and she was striving to beat it back with her will–as powerless as her two white slender hands would have been. When she abandoned herself a little whispered word escaped her slightly parted lips. She said it over and over under the breath: “free, free, free!” The vacant stare and the look of terror that had followed it went from her eyes. They stayed keen and bright. Her pulses beat fast, and the coursing blood warmed and relaxed every inch of her body.

She did not stop to ask if it were or were not a monstrous joy that held her. A clear and exalted perception enabled her to dismiss the suggestion as trivial. She knew that she would weep again when she saw the kind, tender hands folded in death; the face that had never looked save with love upon her, fixed and gray and dead. But she saw beyond that bitter moment a long procession of years to come that would belong to her absolutely. And she opened and spread her arms out to them in welcome.

There would be no one to live for during those coming years; she would live for herself. There would be no powerful will bending hers in that blind persistence with which men and women believe they ahve a right to impose a private will upon a fellow-creature. A kind intention or a cruel intention made the act seem no less a crime as she looked upon it in that brief moment of illumination.

And yet she had loved him–sometimes. Often she had not. What did it matter! What could love, the unsolved mystery, count for in the face of this possession of self-assertion which she suddenly recognized as the strongest impulse of her being!

“Free! Body and soul free!” she kept whispering.

Josephine was kneeling before the closed door with her lips to the keyhole, imploring for admission. “Louise, open the door! I beg; open the door–you will make yourself ill. What are you doing, Louise? For heaven’s sake open the door.”

“Go away. I am not making myself ill.” No; she was drinking in a very elixir of life through that open window.

Her fancy was running riot along those days ahead of her. Spring days, and summer days, and all sorts of days that would be her own. She breathed a quick prayer that life might be long. It was only yesterday she had thought with a shudder that life might be long.

She arose at length and opened the door to her sister’s importunity. There was a feverish triumph in her eyes, and she carried herself unwittingly like a goddess of Victory. She clasped her sister’s waist, and together they descended the stairs. Richards stood waiting for them at the bottom.

Some one was opening the front door with a latchkey. It was Brently Mallard who entered, a little travel-stained, composedly carrying his grip-sack and umbrella. He had been far from the scene of the accident, and did not even know there had been one. He stood amazed at Josephine’s piercing cry; at Richards’ quick motion to screen him from the view of his wife.

When the doctors came they said she had died of heart disease–of the joy that kills.

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They introduce them self each other and Mary ask him to make a tourniquet for stop her blood. The conflict happened when Mary wants to touch Joe, and Joe avoid from her then he wants to leave her alone. Mary said that Joe is the one who can help her with the tourniquet.

The climax happened when suddenly the tourniquet which is already done by Joe apart from Mary’s arm. She is starting bleeding to death again. Then Mary extends her arm to Joe. Joe looks very surprised when he noticed it.

He feels disappointed because he did not success to help Mary with the tourniquet which is already done by him for a while before. Mary call Joe more than three times and hope he would tie the tourniquet again. She was loosing too much blood. Then about the falling action when Mary lost her consciousness and Joe did not know about it. He still continue make a tourniquet then suddenly he saw Mary was lost her consciousness, Joe made the tourniquet very quickly and expertly. But although the tourniquet is tied Mary is not responding. And the last about the resolution when Joe thinks about giving her mouth to mouth to save Mary and then the police officer comes to them. Finally Joe and Mary get a slice of pie and they enjoy it.

In the beginning of the story, when we read this story we find each character in the play. The old lady in the story above describable arrogant, conceited and did not care with the other people who need her help. Besides there are two man. Man in the suit and the police officer. Man in the suit in this story describe that he is a drunkard, he was in confusion and he tried to help the old lady across the street. Police officer is a man who wants to arrest Mary, and in the last of the story the police officer came to arrest Joe because he think that Joe has already hurt Mary when Mary lost her conciseness. And the last person is Joe a man who has one leg and one arm and help Mary to make a tourniquet. He save this woman.

The essence or the message from the play, Mary is a symbol of society condition that need our sympathetic and our help, but sometimes we are not able to help the people that have a difficulty condition and need our help. In the final of the story there is a man his name Joe. Joe has a physical defect or handicap, and we can see with the bad condition he is able to be a good person who help Mary who is suffer from illness.

Besides, the story wants to remember us and notice ourselves that the social condition like above is a general fact that we meet everyday in every places.

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