Life Lines

A Shared Reading activity pack

to read wherever you are
Issue 10

For more Shared Reading, poems and texts,

email us at: coronavirus@thereader.org.uk
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 "And some one called me by my name”

The Song of Wandering Aengus, W.B. Yeats

The Reader is a charity which usually brings people together to listen

to stories, extracts and poems in free, weekly Shared Reading
groups. In these Life Lines activity packs we hope to offer everyone
the same comfort, meaning and connection through great literature
that our reading groups provide – wherever it finds you.
Now that we all have time on our hands, we face the strangely
demanding task of filling our days in a way that feels good. Each Life
Lines pack will bring you some of a story and a poem, which you can
read in your own time. Along with the reading, you’ll find a selection of
thoughts and feelings shared by other fellow readers about the
chosen pieces. We suggest that reading the poem or the story out
loud is a great way to get below the surface and make your own
connection with them. It may feel strange but it does make a
difference, so do please give it a try!

This week’s story is The Enchanted Bluff by Willa Cather, where it

is late summer as we join a group of six high school boys in the
midwestern state of Nebraska. The boys, who have made the
landscape their own over the years, are now camping out around their
last watch fire of the year. They know one another well and have their
favourite shared topics of conversation: the stars, the moon and its
legends, the mystery of the river's origin. But on this occasion one of
the group tells a story which the boys will recall for years to come,
even as each of their lives leads them away from the togetherness
that they share in this moment. Let's listen in and see if there are any
parts of the story that resonate particularly with you.

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Extract from 'The Enchanted Bluff' by Willa Cather

We began to talk about the places we wanted to go to. The Hassler

boys wanted to see the stockyards in Kansas City, and Percy wanted
to see a big store in Chicago. Arthur was interlocutor and did not
betray himself.
"Now it's your turn, Tip."
Tip rolled over on his elbow and poked the fire, and his eyes looked
shyly out of his queer, tight little face. "My place is awful far away. My
Uncle Bill told me about it."
Tip's Uncle Bill was a wanderer, bitten with mining fever, who had
drifted into Sandtown with a broken arm, and when it was well had
drifted out again.
"Where is it?"
"Aw, it's down in New Mexico somewheres. There aren't no railroads
or anything. You have to go on mules, and you run out of water before
you get there and have to drink canned tomatoes."
"Well, go on, kid. What's it like when you do get there?"
Tip sat up and excitedly began his story.
"There's a big red rock there that goes right up out of the sand for
about nine hundred feet. The country's flat all around it, and this here
rock goes up all by itself, like a monument. They call it the Enchanted
Bluff down there, because no white man has ever been on top of it.
The sides are smooth rock, and straight up, like a wall. The Indians
say that hundreds of years ago, before the Spaniards came, there was
a village away up there in the air. The tribe that lived there had some
sort of steps, made out of wood and bark, bung down over the face of
the bluff, and the braves went down to hunt and carried water up in big
jars swung on their backs. They kept a big supply of water and dried
meat up there, and never went down except to hunt. They were a
peaceful tribe that made cloth and pottery, and they went up there to
get out of the wars. You see, they could pick off any war party that
tried to get up their little steps. The Indians say they were a handsome
people, and they had some sort of queer religion. Uncle Bill thinks
they were Cliff-Dwellers who had got into trouble and left home. They
weren't fighters, anyhow.
"One time the braves were down hunting and an awful storm came

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up - a kind of waterspout - and when they got back to their rock they
found their little staircase had been all broken to pieces, and only a
few steps were left hanging away up in the air. While they were
camped at the foot of the rock, wondering what to do, a war party from
the north came along and massacred 'em to a man, with all the old
folks and women looking on from the rock. Then the war party went on
south and left the village to get down the best way they could. Of
course they never got down. They starved to death up there, and when
the war party came back on their way north, they could hear the
children crying from the edge of the bluff where they had crawled out,
but they didn't see a sign of a grown Indian, and nobody has ever been
up there since."
We exclaimed at this dolorous legend and sat up.
"There couldn't have been many people up there," Percy demurred.
"How big is the top, Tip?"
"Oh, pretty big. Big enough so that the rock doesn't look nearly as tall
as it is. The top's bigger than the base. The bluff is sort of worn away
for several hundred feet up. That's one reason it's so hard to climb."
I asked how the Indians got up, in the first place.
"Nobody knows how they got up or when. A hunting party came along
once and saw that there was a town up there, and that was all."
Otto rubbed his chin and looked thoughtful. "Of course there must be
some way to get up there. Couldn't people get a rope over someway
and pull a ladder up?"
Tip's little eyes were shining with excitement. "I know a way. Me and
Uncle Bill talked it over. There's a kind of rocket that would take a rope
over - lifesavers use 'em - and then you could hoist a rope ladder and
peg it down at the bottom and make it tight with guy ropes on the other
side. I'm going to climb that there bluff, and I've got it all planned out."
Fritz asked what he expected to find when he got up there.
"Bones, maybe, or the ruins of their town, or pottery, or some of their
idols. There might be 'most anything up there. Anyhow, I want to see."
"Sure nobody else has been up there, Tip?" Arthur asked.
"Dead sure. Hardly anybody ever goes down there. Some hunters
tried to cut steps in the rock once, but they didn't get higher than a
man can reach. The Bluff's all red granite, and Uncle Bill thinks it's a
boulder the glaciers left. It's a queer place, anyhow. Nothing but cactus
and desert for hundreds of miles, and yet right under the Bluff there's
good water and plenty of grass. That's why the bison used to go down
there."
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Suddenly we heard a scream above our fire, and jumped up to see a
dark, slim bird floating southward far above us - a whooping crane, we
knew by her cry and her long neck. We ran to the edge of the island,
hoping we might see her alight, but she wavered southward along the
rivercourse until we lost her. The Hassler boys declared that by the
look of the heavens it must be after midnight, so we threw more wood
on our fire, put on our jackets, and curled down in the warm sand.
Several of us pretended to doze, but I fancy we were really thinking
about Tip's Bluff and the extinct people. Over in the wood the ring
doves were calling mournfully to one another, and once we heard a
dog bark, far away. "Somebody getting into old Tommy's melon patch,"
Fritz murmured sleepily, but nobody answered him. By and by Percy
spoke out of the shadows.
"Say, Tip, when you go down there will you take me with you?"
"Maybe."
"Suppose one of us beats you down there, Tip?"
"Whoever gets to the Bluff first has got to promise to tell the rest of us
exactly what he finds," remarked one of the Hassler boys, and to this
we all readily assented.
Somewhat reassured, I dropped off to sleep. I must have dreamed
about a race for the Bluff, for I awoke in a kind of fear that other people
were getting ahead of me and that I was losing my chance. I sat up in
my damp clothes and looked at the other boys, who lay tumbled in
uneasy attitudes about the dead fire. It was still dark, but the sky was
blue with the last wonderful azure of night. The stars glistened like
crystal globes, and trembled as if they shone through a depth of clear
water. Even as I watched, they began to pale and the sky brightened.
Day came suddenly, almost instantaneously. I turned for another look
at the blue night, and it was gone. Everywhere the birds began to call,
and all manner of little insects began to chirp and hop about in the
willows. A breeze sprang up from the west and brought the heavy
smell of ripened corn. The boys rolled over and shook themselves. We
stripped and plunged into the river just as the sun came up over the
windy bluffs.
…………
When I came home to Sandtown at Christmas time, we skated out to
our island and talked over the whole project of the Enchanted Bluff,
renewing our resolution to find it.

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 …………
Although that was twenty years ago, none of us have ever climbed the
Enchanted Bluff. Percy Pound is a stockbroker in Kansas City and will
go nowhere that his red touring car cannot carry him. Otto Hassler
went on the railroad and lost his foot braking; after which he and Fritz
succeeded their father as the town tailors.
Arthur sat about the sleepy little town all his life - he died before he
was twenty-five. The last time I saw him, when I was home on one of
my college vacations, he was sitting in a steamer chair under a
cottonwood tree in the little yard behind one of the two Sandtown
saloons. He was very untidy and his hand was not steady, but when he
rose, unabashed, to greet me, his eyes were as clear and warm as
ever. When I had talked with him for an hour and heard him laugh
again, I wondered how it was that when Nature had taken such pains
with a man, from his hands to the arch of his long foot, she had ever
lost him in Sandtown. He joked about Tip Smith's Bluff, and declared
he was going down there just as soon as the weather got cooler; he
thought the Grand Canyon might be worth while, too.
I was perfectly sure when I left him that he would never get beyond the
high plank fence and the comfortable shade of the cottonwood. And,
indeed, it was under that very tree that he died one summer morning.
Tip Smith still talks about going to New Mexico. He married a
slatternly, unthrifty country girl, has been much tied to a perambulator,
and has grown stooped and grey from irregular meals and broken
sleep. But the worst of his difficulties are now over, and he has, as he
says, come into easy water. When I was last in Sandtown I walked
home with him late one moonlight night, after he had balanced his
cash and shut up his store. We took the long way around and sat
down on the schoolhouse steps, and between us we quite revived the
romance of the lone red rock and the extinct people. Tip insists that he
still means to go down there, but he thinks now he will wait until his
boy Bert is old enough to go with him. Bert has been let into the story,
and thinks of nothing but the Enchanted Bluff.

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Food for Thought...
How are we left feeling at the end of the story there? We are brought
down with quite a bump perhaps, when we find out what happened to
the youthful boys in their later years. But are we surprised? And is the
person who is telling us the story surprised himself?
Tip is the boy who provides us with the story of the Bluff to begin with,
and although his excitement quickly becomes apparent, he is quite shy
about it to begin with. Maybe this tells us something about how important
this story is to him. Have you ever noticed a reluctance in someone to
tell you about something that actually means a lot to them? Perhaps this
is even more common when you're speaking with a child or young
person?
There is an enticing mystery about Tip's story, but he also draws us in
with the certainty that he has arrived at in his own mind:
'I'm going to climb that there bluff, and I've got it all planned out.'
It's fascinating that Tip has developed such a detailed idea of what the
place is like, and what he might find there, while only having heard of it
second hand from his uncle. His imagination has created a kind of reality
for us here, one that he is inviting us into. But what has allowed Tip to go
this far, and could he have taken this on so wholeheartedly at another
stage in his life, we might wonder?
It is late at night and the boys seem to have lost track of time.
Sometimes when we reach this point in the night it can feel as though it
will go on forever, and yet the morning arrives with a suddenness:
'I turned for another look at the blue night, and it was gone.'
What is the feeling here, and why might we want to hold onto the
moment just as we feel it slipping away?
The story ends with a summary of what happened to each of the boys
afterwards. Suddenly our sense of the possibilities open to them feels
drastically altered, as if the path each of them has found is deciding their
own futures for them. Do you recognise this change at all, either in your
own life, or that of other people you know? How do we come to terms
with this change, do you think, and is there any way of carrying forward
what might have been lost?
...he thinks now he will wait until his boy Bert is old enough to go
with him. Bert has been let into the story, and thinks of nothing but
the Enchanted Bluff.

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Time to pause with a poem ….

We’ll pick up with another story in our next issue, but now a pause for
some poetry. Poetry isn’t always easy for everyone to get going with. In
our Shared Reading groups we read a poem out loud a few times, to
give ourselves a bit of time to hear it aloud. Give this a go yourself and
see if it helps you to feel comfortable with the words, even if you’re still
not sure what it’s all about!

We aren’t looking to find an answer here, or what the person writing it

might have meant when they wrote it. We’re just looking to see if any
feelings or ideas come up when we read it – and often we find that the
more time you allow yourself to simply be with the poem, the more
thoughts and feelings will come through.

One of the keys is to enjoy yourself: take your time, read it out loud, have
a think about any bits you like, or that puzzle you, then… have another
read!

This week's Featured Poem is called The Song of Wandering Aengus

by W.B. Yeats. Uncle Bill is described is a wanderer, although we don't
hear an awful lot about him and he sounds like someone who is little
known beyond the bare facts of his life. But this poem brings us right into
the company of someone who initially seems alone. Have a read and
see where it takes you. Is there room for another imaginative journey
here?

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The Song of Wandering Aengus by W.B. Yeats

I went out to the hazel wood, Though I am old with wandering,

Because a fire was in my head, Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand, I will find out where she has gone,
And hooked a berry to a thread; And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And walk among long dappled grass,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
And pluck till time and times are done
I dropped the berry in a stream
The silver apples of the moon,
And caught a little silver trout.
The golden apples of the sun.
When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire aflame,
But something rustled on the floor
And some one called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.

Well, what do make of this person Aengus? It feels like he is telling

us his own story here, but the song-like form certainly feels different
from Willa Cather's story, and rather elusive. What notes can you hear
in his song? And what can you see as you listen to it?

Each verse seems to give us a different part of this story. We hear

Aengus say at the beginning that 'a fire was in my head'. What do you
think he means by that? Have you ever found yourself in that state?

In the second verse a 'something' becomes a 'someone' who appears

as 'a glimmering girl'. What does this visitor give Aengus, do you
think?

The last verse transports us into a kind of timeless zone. What do you
imagine it might mean to pluck 'till time and times are done' these
silver and golden apples?

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We’ve left this page blank for you to make notes, draw a picture, have a
go at writing yourself or jot down something you’d like to tell us…

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As well as reading materials, we’ve also included a word search for you
to have a go at while you’re having a cuppa.

The pieces in this issue give us some wonderful landscapes to explore.

Here is a small list of writers who each recreate in their novels images of
the vast and varied American landscape. See how many you can find in
the word search below.

American Writers

F M J M K N P J E I X E
P S C V U M G S I X V N
R P F Z B S W T U B Q G
F E D I L A X E P Z M Y
R W H U T D P I V R X X
A L I T A Z B N O P H B
D A I G A X G B V Z K K
X E H Y L C I E X G Q G
F E L A I N W C R H H P
S L H C S U E K W A U S
Z H H O K M T Q K P L R
R E N K L U A F W P R D

FSFITZGERALD
HLEE
JSTEINBECK
MROBINSON
WCATHER
WFAULKNER

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