American Literature

Semester-VII
American Literature
Short Story:
Eve's Diary
by Mark Twain
Eve's Diary (1906) is one of Twain's best stories, in which he

addresses gender equity issues, using his iconic wit and satire.
We mention this story in The Unreliable Narrator as a "Reliable
Narrator" in contrast with Extracts from Adam's Diary.
Translated from the Original.
SATURDAY.--I am almost a whole day old, now.

I arrived yesterday. That is as it seems to me.
And it must be so, for if there was a day-before-
yesterday I was not there when it happened, or I
should remember it. It could be, of course, that it
did happen, and that I was not noticing. Very
well; I will be very watchful now, and if any day-
before-yesterdays happen I will make a note of
it. It will be best to start right and not let the
record get confused, for some instinct tells me that these details are going to be
important to the historian some day. For I feel like an experiment, I feel exactly like
an experiment; it would be impossible for a person to feel more like an experiment
than I do, and so I am coming to feel convinced that that is what I AM--an
experiment; just an experiment, and nothing more.
Then if I am an experiment, am I the whole of it? No, I think not; I think the rest of
it is part of it. I am the main part of it, but I think the rest of it has its share in the
matter. Is my position assured, or do I have to watch it and take care of it? The
latter, perhaps. Some instinct tells me that eternal vigilance is the price of
supremacy. [That is a good phrase, I think, for one so young.]
Everything looks better today than it did yesterday. In the rush of finishing up
yesterday, the mountains were left in a ragged condition, and some of the plains
were so cluttered with rubbish and remnants that the aspects were quite
distressing. Noble and beautiful works of art should not be subjected to haste; and
this majestic new world is indeed a most noble and beautiful work. And certainly
marvelously near to being perfect, notwithstanding the shortness of the time. There
are too many stars in some places and not enough in others, but that can be
remedied presently, no doubt. The moon got loose last night, and slid down and
fell out of the scheme --a very great loss; it breaks my heart to think of it. There
isn't another thing among the ornaments and decorations that is comparable to it
for beauty and finish. It should have been fastened better. If we can only get it back
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Editor: Umar Farooq
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again-- But of course there is no telling where it went to. And besides, whoever
gets it will hide it; I know it because I would do it myself. I believe I can be honest
in all other matters, but I already begin to realize that the core and center of my
nature is love of the beautiful, a passion for the beautiful, and that it would not be
safe to trust me with a moon that belonged to another person and that person didn't
know I had it. I could give up a moon that I found in the daytime, because I should
be afraid some one was looking; but if I found it in the dark, I am sure I should find
some kind of an excuse for not saying anything about it. For I do love moons, they
are so pretty and so romantic. I wish we had five or six; I would never go to bed; I
should never get tired lying on the moss-bank and looking up at them.
Stars are good, too. I wish I could get some to put in my hair. But I suppose I never
can. You would be surprised to find how far off they are, for they do not look it.
When they first showed, last night, I tried to knock some down with a pole, but it
didn't reach, which astonished me; then I tried clouds till I was all tired out, but I
never got one. It was because I am left-handed and cannot throw good. Even when
I aimed at the one I wasn't after I couldn't hit the other one, though I did make some
close shots, for I saw the black blot of the cloud sail right into the midst of the golden
clusters forty or fifty times, just barely missing them, and if I could have held out a
little longer maybe I could have got one.
So I cried a little, which was natural, I suppose, for one of my age, and after I was
rested I got a basket and started for a place on the extreme rim of the circle, where
the stars were close to the ground and I could get them with my hands, which would
be better, anyway, because I could gather them tenderly then, and not break them.
But it was farther than I thought, and at last I had go give it up; I was so tired I
couldn't drag my feet another step; and besides, they were sore and hurt me very
much.
I couldn't get back home; it was too far and turning cold; but I found some tigers
and nestled in among them and was most adorably comfortable, and their breath
was sweet and pleasant, because they live on strawberries. I had never seen a
tiger before, but I knew them in a minute by the stripes. If I could have one of those
skins, it would make a lovely gown.
Today I am getting better ideas about distances. I was so eager to get hold of every
pretty thing that I giddily grabbed for it, sometimes when it was too far off, and
sometimes when it was but six inches away but seemed a foot--alas, with thorns
between! I learned a lesson; also I made an axiom, all out of my own head --my
very first one; THE SCRATCHED EXPERIMENT SHUNS THE THORN. I think it is a very
good one for one so young.
I followed the other Experiment around, yesterday afternoon, at a distance, to see

what it might be for, if I could. But I was not able to make out. I think it is a man. I
had never seen a man, but it looked like one, and I feel sure that that is what it is.
I realize that I feel more curiosity about it than about any of the other reptiles. If it
is a reptile, and I suppose it is; for it has frowzy hair and blue eyes, and looks like

Editor: Umar Farooq
a reptile. It has no hips; it tapers like a carrot; when it stands, it spreads itself apart
like a derrick; so I think it is a reptile, though it may be architecture.
I was afraid of it at first, and started to run every time it turned around, for I thought
it was going to chase me; but by and by I found it was only trying to get away, so
after that I was not timid any more, but tracked it along, several hours, about twenty
yards behind, which made it nervous and unhappy. At last it was a good deal
worried, and climbed a tree. I waited a good while, then gave it up and went home.
Today the same thing over. I've got it up the tree again.
SUNDAY.--It is up there yet. Resting, apparently. But that is a subterfuge: Sunday

isn't the day of rest; Saturday is appointed for that. It looks to me like a creature
that is more interested in resting than it anything else. It would tire me to rest so
much. It tires me just to sit around and watch the tree. I do wonder what it is for; I
never see it do anything.
They returned the moon last night, and I was SO happy! I think it is very honest of
them. It slid down and fell off again, but I was not distressed; there is no need to
worry when one has that kind of neighbors; they will fetch it back. I wish I could do
something to show my appreciation. I would like to send them some stars, for we
have more than we can use. I mean I, not we, for I can see that the reptile cares
nothing for such things.
It has low tastes, and is not kind. When I went there yesterday evening in the
gloaming it had crept down and was trying to catch the little speckled fishes that
play in the pool, and I had to clod it to make it go up the tree again and let them
alone. I wonder if THAT is what it is for? Hasn't it any heart? Hasn't it any
compassion for those little creature? Can it be that it was designed and
manufactured for such ungentle work? It has the look of it. One of the clods took it
back of the ear, and it used language. It gave me a thrill, for it was the first time I
had ever heard speech, except my own. I did not understand the words, but they
seemed expressive.
When I found it could talk I felt a new interest in it, for I love to talk; I talk, all day,
and in my sleep, too, and I am very interesting, but if I had another to talk to I could
be twice as interesting, and would never stop, if desired.
If this reptile is a man, it isn't an IT, is it? That wouldn't be grammatical, would it? I
think it would be HE. I think so. In that case one would parse it thus: nominative,
HE; dative, HIM; possessive, HIS'N. Well, I will consider it a man and call it he until
it turns out to be something else. This will be handier than having so many
uncertainties.
NEXT WEEK SUNDAY.--All the week I tagged around after him and tried to get
acquainted. I had to do the talking, because he was shy, but I didn't mind it. He
seemed pleased to have me around, and I used the sociable "we" a good deal,
because it seemed to flatter him to be included.
Editor: Umar Farooq
WEDNESDAY.--We are getting along very well indeed, now, and getting better and
better acquainted. He does not try to avoid me any more, which is a good sign, and
shows that he likes to have me with him. That pleases me, and I study to be useful
to him in every way I can, so as to increase his regard. During the last day or two I
have taken all the work of naming things off his hands, and this has been a great
relief to him, for he has no gift in that line, and is evidently very grateful. He can't
think of a rational name to save him, but I do not let him see that I am aware of his
defect. Whenever a new creature comes along I name it before he has time to
expose himself by an awkward silence. In this way I have saved him many
embarrassments. I have no defect like this. The minute I set eyes on an animal I
know what it is. I don't have to reflect a moment; the right name comes out instantly,
just as if it were an inspiration, as no doubt it is, for I am sure it wasn't in me half a
minute before. I seem to know just by the shape of the creature and the way it acts
what animal it is.
When the dodo came along he thought it was a wildcat--I saw it in his eye. But I
saved him. And I was careful not to do it in a way that could hurt his pride. I just
spoke up in a quite natural way of pleasing surprise, and not as if I was dreaming
of conveying information, and said, "Well, I do declare, if there isn't the dodo!" I
explained--without seeming to be explaining --how I know it for a dodo, and
although I thought maybe he was a little piqued that I knew the creature when he
didn't, it was quite evident that he admired me. That was very agreeable, and I
thought of it more than once with gratification before I slept. How little a thing can
make us happy when we feel that we have earned it!
THURSDAY.--my first sorrow. Yesterday he avoided me and seemed to wish I

would not talk to him. I could not believe it, and thought there was some mistake,
for I loved to be with him, and loved to hear him talk, and so how could it be that
he could feel unkind toward me when I had not done anything? But at last it seemed
true, so I went away and sat lonely in the place where I first saw him the morning
that we were made and I did not know what he was and was indifferent about him;
but now it was a mournful place, and every little thing spoke of him, and my heart
was very sore. I did not know why very clearly, for it was a new feeling; I had not
experienced it before, and it was all a mystery, and I could not make it out.
But when night came I could not bear the lonesomeness, and went to the new
shelter which he has built, to ask him what I had done that was wrong and how I
could mend it and get back his kindness again; but he put me out in the rain, and
it was my first sorrow.
SUNDAY.--It is pleasant again, now, and I am happy; but those were heavy days;
I do not think of them when I can help it.
I tried to get him some of those apples, but I cannot learn to throw straight. I failed,
but I think the good intention pleased him. They are forbidden, and he says I shall
come to harm; but so I come to harm through pleasing him, why shall I care for that
harm?

Editor: Umar Farooq
MONDAY.--This morning I told him my name, hoping it would interest him. But he
did not care for it. It is strange. If he should tell me his name, I would care. I think
it would be pleasanter in my ears than any other sound.
He talks very little. Perhaps it is because he is not bright, and is sensitive about it
and wishes to conceal it. It is such a pity that he should feel so, for brightness is
nothing; it is in the heart that the values lie. I wish I could make him understand
that a loving good heart is riches, and riches enough, and that without it intellect is
poverty.
Although he talks so little, he has quite a considerable vocabulary. This morning

he used a surprisingly good word. He evidently recognized, himself, that it was a
good one, for he worked in in twice afterward, casually. It was good casual art, still
it showed that he possesses a certain quality of perception. Without a doubt that
seed can be made to grow, if cultivated.
Where did he get that word? I do not think I have ever used it.
No, he took no interest in my name. I tried to hide my disappointment, but I suppose

I did not succeed. I went away and sat on the moss-bank with my feet in the water.
It is where I go when I hunger for companionship, some one to look at, some one
to talk to. It is not enough--that lovely white body painted there in the pool --but it
is something, and something is better than utter loneliness. It talks when I talk; it is
sad when I am sad; it comforts me with its sympathy; it says, "Do not be
downhearted, you poor friendless girl; I will be your friend." It IS a good friend to
me, and my only one; it is my sister.
That first time that she forsook me! ah, I shall never forget that --never, never. My
heart was lead in my body! I said, "She was all I had, and now she is gone!" In my
despair I said, "Break, my heart; I cannot bear my life any more!" and hid my face
in my hands, and there was no solace for me. And when I took them away, after a
little, there she was again, white and shining and beautiful, and I sprang into her
arms!
That was perfect happiness; I had known happiness before, but it was not like this,
which was ecstasy. I never doubted her afterward. Sometimes she stayed away--
maybe an hour, maybe almost the whole day, but I waited and did not doubt; I said,
"She is busy, or she is gone on a journey, but she will come." And it was so: she
always did. At night she would not come if it was dark, for she was a timid little
thing; but if there was a moon she would come. I am not afraid of the dark, but she
is younger than I am; she was born after I was. Many and many are the visits I
have paid her; she is my comfort and my refuge when my life is hard--and it is
mainly that.
TUESDAY.--All the morning I was at work improving the estate; and I purposely
kept away from him in the hope that he would get lonely and come. But he did not.

Editor: Umar Farooq
At noon I stopped for the day and took my recreation by flitting all about with the
bees and the butterflies and reveling in the flowers, those beautiful creatures that
catch the smile of God out of the sky and preserve it! I gathered them, and made
them into wreaths and garlands and clothed myself in them while I ate my luncheon
--apples, of course; then I sat in the shade and wished and waited. But he did not
come.
But no matter. Nothing would have come of it, for he does not care for flowers. He
called them rubbish, and cannot tell one from another, and thinks it is superior to
feel like that. He does not care for me, he does not care for flowers, he does not
care for the painted sky at eventide--is there anything he does care for, except
building shacks to coop himself up in from the good clean rain, and thumping the
melons, and sampling the grapes, and fingering the fruit on the trees, to see how
those properties are coming along?
I laid a dry stick on the ground and tried to bore a hole in it with another one, in
order to carry out a scheme that I had, and soon I got an awful fright. A thin,
transparent bluish film rose out of the hole, and I dropped everything and ran! I
thought it was a spirit, and I WAS so frightened! But I looked back, and it was not
coming; so I leaned against a rock and rested and panted, and let my limps go on
trembling until they got steady again; then I crept warily back, alert, watching, and
ready to fly if there was occasion; and when I was come near, I parted the branches
of a rose-bush and peeped through--wishing the man was about, I was looking so
cunning and pretty--but the sprite was gone. I went there, and there was a pinch of
delicate pink dust in the hole. I put my finger in, to feel it, and said OUCH! and took
it out again. It was a cruel pain. I put my finger in my mouth; and by standing first
on one foot and then the other, and grunting, I presently eased my misery; then I
was full of interest, and began to examine.
I was curious to know what the pink dust was. Suddenly the name of it occurred to
me, though I had never heard of it before. It was FIRE! I was as certain of it as a
person could be of anything in the world. So without hesitation I named it that--fire.
I had created something that didn't exist before; I had added a new thing to the
world's uncountable properties; I realized this, and was proud of my achievement,
and was going to run and find him and tell him about it, thinking to raise myself in
his esteem --but I reflected, and did not do it. No--he would not care for it. He would
ask what it was good for, and what could I answer? for if it was not GOOD for
something, but only beautiful, merely beautiful-- So I sighed, and did not go. For it
wasn't good for anything; it could not build a shack, it could not improve melons, it
could not hurry a fruit crop; it was useless, it was a foolishness and a vanity; he
would despise it and say cutting words. But to me it was not despicable; I said,
"Oh, you fire, I love you, you dainty pink creature, for you are BEAUTIFUL--and
that is enough!" and was going to gather it to my breast. But refrained. Then I made
another maxim out of my head, though it was so nearly like the first one that I was
afraid it was only a plagiarism: "THE BURNT EXPERIMENT SHUNS THE FIRE."

Editor: Umar Farooq
I wrought again; and when I had made a good deal of fire-dust I emptied it into a
handful of dry brown grass, intending to carry it home and keep it always and play
with it; but the wind struck it and it sprayed up and spat out at me fiercely, and I
dropped it and ran. When I looked back the blue spirit was towering up and
stretching and rolling away like a cloud, and instantly I thought of the name of it--
SMOKE!--though, upon my word, I had never heard of smoke before.
Soon brilliant yellow and red flares shot up through the smoke, and I named them
in an instant--FLAMES--and I was right, too, though these were the very first flames
that had ever been in the world. They climbed the trees, then flashed splendidly in
and out of the vast and increasing volume of tumbling smoke, and I had to clap my
hands and laugh and dance in my rapture, it was so new and strange and so
wonderful and so beautiful!
He came running, and stopped and gazed, and said not a word for many minutes.
Then he asked what it was. Ah, it was too bad that he should ask such a direct
question. I had to answer it, of course, and I did. I said it was fire. If it annoyed him
that I should know and he must ask; that was not my fault; I had no desire to annoy
him. After a pause he asked:
"How did it come?"
Another direct question, and it also had to have a direct answer.
"I made it."
The fire was traveling farther and farther off. He went to the edge of the burned
place and stood looking down, and said:
"What are these?"
"Fire-coals."
He picked up one to examine it, but changed his mind and put it down again. Then
he went away. NOTHING interests him.
But I was interested. There were ashes, gray and soft and delicate and pretty--I
knew what they were at once. And the embers; I knew the embers, too. I found my
apples, and raked them out, and was glad; for I am very young and my appetite is
active. But I was disappointed; they were all burst open and spoiled. Spoiled
apparently; but it was not so; they were better than raw ones. Fire is beautiful;
some day it will be useful, I think.
FRIDAY.--I saw him again, for a moment, last Monday at nightfall, but only for a
moment. I was hoping he would praise me for trying to improve the estate, for I had
meant well and had worked hard. But he was not pleased, and turned away and
left me. He was also displeased on another account: I tried once more to persuade
him to stop going over the Falls. That was because the fire had revealed to me a
Editor: Umar Farooq
new passion--quite new, and distinctly different from love, grief, and those others
which I had already discovered--FEAR. And it is horrible!--I wish I had never
discovered it; it gives me dark moments, it spoils my happiness, it makes me shiver
and tremble and shudder. But I could not persuade him, for he has not discovered
fear yet, and so he could not understand me.
Extract from Adam's Diary
Perhaps I ought to remember that she is very young, a mere girl and make allowances. She
is all interest, eagerness, vivacity, the world is to her a charm, a wonder, a mystery, a joy; she
can't speak for delight when she finds a new flower, she must pet it and caress it and smell it
and talk to it, and pour out endearing names upon it. And she is color-mad: brown rocks, yellow
sand, gray moss, green foliage, blue sky; the pearl of the dawn, the purple shadows on the
mountains, the golden islands floating in crimson seas at sunset, the pallid moon sailing
through the shredded cloud-rack, the star-jewels glittering in the wastes of space--none of
them is of any practical value, so far as I can see, but because they have color and majesty,
that is enough for her, and she loses her mind over them. If she could quiet down and keep
still a couple minutes at a time, it would be a reposeful spectacle. In that case I think I could
enjoy looking at her; indeed I am sure I could, for I am coming to realize that she is a quite
remarkably comely creature --lithe, slender, trim, rounded, shapely, nimble, graceful; and once
when she was standing marble-white and sun-drenched on a boulder, with her young head
tilted back and her hand shading her eyes, watching the flight of a bird in the sky, I recognized
that she was beautiful.
MONDAY NOON.--If there is anything on the planet that she is not interested in it is not in my
list. There are animals that I am indifferent to, but it is not so with her. She has no
discrimination, she takes to all of them, she thinks they are all treasures, every new one is
welcome.
When the mighty brontosaurus came striding into camp, she regarded it as an acquisition, I
considered it a calamity; that is a good sample of the lack of harmony that prevails in our views
of things. She wanted to domesticate it, I wanted to make it a present of the homestead and
move out. She believed it could be tamed by kind treatment and would be a good pet; I said a
pet twenty-one feet high and eighty-four feet long would be no proper thing to have about the
place, because, even with the best intentions and without meaning any harm, it could sit down
on the house and mash it, for any one could see by the look of its eye that it was absent-
minded.
Still, her heart was set upon having that monster, and she couldn't give it up. She thought we
could start a dairy with it, and wanted me to help milk it; but I wouldn't; it was too risky. The
sex wasn't right, and we hadn't any ladder anyway. Then she wanted to ride it, and look at the
scenery. Thirty or forty feet of its tail was lying on the ground, like a fallen tree, and she thought
she could climb it, but she was mistaken; when she got to the steep place it was too slick and
down she came, and would have hurt herself but for me.
Was she satisfied now? No. Nothing ever satisfies her but demonstration; untested theories
are not in her line, and she won't have them. It is the right spirit, I concede it; it attracts me; I
feel the influence of it; if I were with her more I think I should take it up myself. Well, she had
one theory remaining about this colossus: she thought that if we could tame it and make him
friendly we could stand in the river and use him for a bridge. It turned out that he was already
plenty tame enough--at least as far as she was concerned --so she tried her theory, but it
failed: every time she got him properly placed in the river and went ashore to cross over him,

Editor: Umar Farooq
he came out and followed her around like a pet mountain. Like the other animals. They all do
that.
FRIDAY.--Tuesday--Wednesday--Thursday--and today: all without seeing him. It

is a long time to be alone; still, it is better to be alone than unwelcome.
I HAD to have company--I was made for it, I think--so I made friends with the
animals. They are just charming, and they have the kindest disposition and the
politest ways; they never look sour, they never let you feel that you are intruding,
they smile at you and wag their tail, if they've got one, and they are always ready
for a romp or an excursion or anything you want to propose. I think they are perfect
gentlemen. All these days we have had such good times, and it hasn't been
lonesome for me, ever. Lonesome! No, I should say not. Why, there's always a
swarm of them around --sometimes as much as four or five acres--you can't count
them; and when you stand on a rock in the midst and look out over the furry
expanse it is so mottled and splashed and gay with color and frisking sheen and
sun-flash, and so rippled with stripes, that you might think it was a lake, only you
know it isn't; and there's storms of sociable birds, and hurricanes of whirring wings;
and when the sun strikes all that feathery commotion, you have a blazing up of all
the colors you can think of, enough to put your eyes out.
We have made long excursions, and I have seen a great deal of the world; almost
all of it, I think; and so I am the first traveler, and the only one. When we are on the
march, it is an imposing sight --there's nothing like it anywhere. For comfort I ride
a tiger or a leopard, because it is soft and has a round back that fits me, and
because they are such pretty animals; but for long distance or for scenery I ride the
elephant. He hoists me up with his trunk, but I can get off myself; when we are
ready to camp, he sits and I slide down the back way.
The birds and animals are all friendly to each other, and there are no disputes
about anything. They all talk, and they all talk to me, but it must be a foreign
language, for I cannot make out a word they say; yet they often understand me
when I talk back, particularly the dog and the elephant. It makes me ashamed. It
shows that they are brighter than I am, for I want to be the principal Experiment
myself--and I intend to be, too.
I have learned a number of things, and am educated, now, but I wasn't at first. I
was ignorant at first. At first it used to vex me because, with all my watching, I was
never smart enough to be around when the water was running uphill; but now I do
not mind it. I have experimented and experimented until now I know it never does
run uphill, except in the dark. I know it does in the dark, because the pool never
goes dry, which it would, of course, if the water didn't come back in the night. It is
best to prove things by actual experiment; then you KNOW; whereas if you depend
on guessing and supposing and conjecturing, you never get educated.
Some things you CAN'T find out; but you will never know you can't by guessing
and supposing: no, you have to be patient and go on experimenting until you find
out that you can't find out. And it is delightful to have it that way, it makes the world
Editor: Umar Farooq
so interesting. If there wasn't anything to find out, it would be dull. Even trying to
find out and not finding out is just as interesting as trying to find out and finding out,
and I don't know but more so. The secret of the water was a treasure until I GOT
it; then the excitement all went away, and I recognized a sense of loss.
By experiment I know that wood swims, and dry leaves, and feathers, and plenty
of other things; therefore by all that cumulative evidence you know that a rock will
swim; but you have to put up with simply knowing it, for there isn't any way to prove
it--up to now. But I shall find a way--then THAT excitement will go. Such things
make me sad; because by and by when I have found out everything there won't be
any more excitements, and I do love excitements so! The other night I couldn't
sleep for thinking about it.
At first I couldn't make out what I was made for, but now I think it was to search out
the secrets of this wonderful world and be happy and thank the Giver of it all for
devising it. I think there are many things to learn yet--I hope so; and by economizing
and not hurrying too fast I think they will last weeks and weeks. I hope so. When
you cast up a feather it sails away on the air and goes out of sight; then you throw
up a clod and it doesn't. It comes down, every time. I have tried it and tried it, and
it is always so. I wonder why it is? Of course it DOESN'T come down, but why
should it SEEM to? I suppose it is an optical illusion. I mean, one of them is. I don't
know which one. It may be the feather, it may be the clod; I can't prove which it is,
I can only demonstrate that one or the other is a fake, and let a person take his
choice.
By watching, I know that the stars are not going to last. I have seen some of the
best ones melt and run down the sky. Since one can melt, they can all melt; since
they can all melt, they can all melt the same night. That sorrow will come--I know
it. I mean to sit up every night and look at them as long as I can keep awake; and
I will impress those sparkling fields on my memory, so that by and by when they
are taken away I can by my fancy restore those lovely myriads to the black sky and
make them sparkle again, and double them by the blur of my tears.
After the Fall
When I look back, the Garden is a dream to me. It was beautiful, surpassingly
beautiful, enchantingly beautiful; and now it is lost, and I shall not see it any more.
The Garden is lost, but I have found HIM, and am content. He loves me as well as
he can; I love him with all the strength of my passionate nature, and this, I think, is
proper to my youth and sex. If I ask myself why I love him, I find I do not know, and
do not really much care to know; so I suppose that this kind of love is not a product
of reasoning and statistics, like one's love for other reptiles and animals. I think that
this must be so. I love certain birds because of their song; but I do not love Adam
on account of his singing--no, it is not that; the more he sings the more I do not get
reconciled to it. Yet I ask him to sing, because I wish to learn to like everything he
is interested in. I am sure I can learn, because at first I could not stand it, but now
I can. It sours the milk, but it doesn't matter; I can get used to that kind of milk.
Editor: Umar Farooq
Visit YouTube Channel: https://www.youtube.com/@umarfarooqthegraphicsdesigner 10 | P a g e
It is not on account of his brightness that I love him-
-no, it is not that. He is not to blame for his
brightness, such as it is, for he did not make it
himself; he is as God make him, and that is
sufficient. There was a wise purpose in it, THAT I
know. In time it will develop, though I think it will not
be sudden; and besides, there is no hurry; he is well
enough just as he is.
It is not on account of his gracious and considerate

ways and his delicacy that I love him. No, he has
lacks in this regard, but he is well enough just so,
and is improving.
It is not on account of his industry that I love him--

no, it is not that. I think he has it in him, and I do not
know why he conceals it from me. It is my only pain.
Otherwise he is frank and open with me, now. I am
sure he keeps nothing from me but this. It grieves
me that he should have a secret from me, and sometimes it spoils my sleep,
thinking of it, but I will put it out of my mind; it shall not trouble my happiness, which
is otherwise full to overflowing.
It is not on account of his education that I love him--no, it is not that. He is self-
educated, and does really know a multitude of things, but they are not so.
It is not on account of his chivalry that I love him--no, it is not that. He told on me,
but I do not blame him; it is a peculiarity of sex, I think, and he did not make his
sex. Of course I would not have told on him, I would have perished first; but that is
a peculiarity of sex, too, and I do not take credit for it, for I did not make my sex.
Then why is it that I love him? MERELY BECAUSE HE IS MASCULINE, I think.
At bottom he is good, and I love him for that, but I could love him without it. If he
should beat me and abuse me, I should go on loving him. I know it. It is a matter of
sex, I think.
He is strong and handsome, and I love him for that, and I admire him and am proud
of him, but I could love him without those qualities. He he were plain, I should love
him; if he were a wreck, I should love him; and I would work for him, and slave over
him, and pray for him, and watch by his bedside until I died.
Yes, I think I love him merely because he is MINE and is MASCULINE. There is
no other reason, I suppose. And so I think it is as I first said: that this kind of love
is not a product of reasonings and statistics. It just COMES--none knows whence-
-and cannot explain itself. And doesn't need to.

Editor: Umar Farooq
It is what I think. But I am only a girl, the first that has examined this matter, and it
may turn out that in my ignorance and inexperience I have not got it right.
Forty Years Later
It is my prayer, it is my longing, that we may pass from this life together--a longing
which shall never perish from the earth, but shall have place in the heart of every
wife that loves, until the end of time; and it shall be called by my name.
But if one of us must go first, it is my prayer that it shall be I; for he is strong, I am

weak, I am not so necessary to him as he is to me--life without him would not be
life; now could I endure it? This prayer is also immortal, and will not cease from
being offered up while my race continues. I am the first wife; and in the last wife I
shall be repeated.
At Eve's Grave
ADAM: Wheresoever she was, THERE was Eden.
Eve's Diary was featured as The Short Story of the Day on Fri, Feb 18, 2022

Editor: Umar Farooq
Short Story:
A Dark Brown Dog
by Stephen Crane
A Dark Brown Dog and the accompanying illustrations were published in Cosmopolitan, March 1901. The
story was probably written in the summer of 1893, an allegory about the Jim Crow South during
Reconstruction. The dog represents emancipated slaves. Students and teachers, check out our useful A
Dark Brown Dog Study Guide to break-down the allegory. This story is featured in our collection of Dog
Stories.
A Child was standing on a street-corner. He leaned with one

shoulder against a high board-fence and swayed the other to
and fro, the while kicking carelessly at the gravel.
Sunshine beat upon the cobbles, and a lazy summer wind raised
yellow dust which trailed in clouds down the avenue. Clattering
trucks moved with indistinctness through it. The child stood
dreamily gazing.
After a time, a little dark-brown dog came trotting with an intent

air down the sidewalk. A short rope was dragging from his neck.
Occasionally he trod upon the end of it and stumbled.
He stopped opposite the child, and the two regarded each other. The dog hesitated
for a moment, but presently he made some little advances with his tail. The child
put out his hand and called him. In an apologetic manner the dog came close, and
the two had an interchange of friendly pattings and waggles. The dog became more
enthusiastic with each moment of the interview, until with his gleeful caperings he
threatened to overturn the child. Whereupon the child lifted his hand and struck the
dog a blow upon the head.
This thing seemed to overpower and astonish the little dark-brown dog, and
wounded him to the heart. He sank down in despair at the child's feet. When the
blow was repeated, together with an admonition in childish sentences, he turned
over upon his back, and held his paws in a peculiar manner. At the same time with
his ears and his eyes he offered a small prayer to the child.
He looked so comical on his back, and holding his paws peculiarly, that the child
was greatly amused and gave him little taps repeatedly, to keep him so. But the
little dark-brown dog took this chastisement in the most serious way, and no doubt
considered that he had committed some grave crime, for he wriggled contritely and
showed his repentance in every way that was in his power. He pleaded with the
child and petitioned him, and offered more prayers.

Editor: Umar Farooq
At last the child grew weary of this amusement and turned toward
home. The dog was praying at the time. He lay on his back and turned
his eyes upon the retreating form.
Presently he struggled to his feet and started after the child. The latter
wandered in a perfunctory way toward his home, stopping at times to
investigate various matters. During one of these pauses he discovered
the little dark-brown dog who was following him with the air of a
footpad.
The child beat his pursuer with a small stick he had found. The dog
lay down and prayed until the child had finished, and resumed his
journey. Then he scrambled erect and took up the pursuit again.
On the way to his home the child turned many times and beat the dog,
proclaiming with childish gestures that he held him in contempt as an
unimportant dog, with no value save for a moment. For being this
quality of animal the dog apologized and eloquently expressed regret,
but he continued stealthily to follow the child. His manner grew so very
guilty that he slunk like an assassin.
When the child reached his door-step, the dog was industriously ambling a few
yards in the rear. He became so agitated with shame when he again confronted
the child that he forgot the dragging rope. He tripped upon it and fell forward.
The child sat down on the step and the two had another interview.
During it the dog greatly exerted himself to please the child. He
performed a few gambols with such abandon that the child suddenly
saw him to be a valuable thing. He made a swift, avaricious charge and
seized the rope.
He dragged his captive into a hall and up many long stairways in a dark
tenement. The dog made willing efforts, but he could not hobble very
skillfully up the stairs because he was very small and soft, and at last
the pace of the engrossed child grew so energetic that the dog became
panic-stricken. In his mind he was being dragged toward a grim
unknown. His eyes grew wild with the terror of it. He began to wiggle
his head frantically and to brace his legs.
The child redoubled his exertions. They had a battle on the stairs. The child was
victorious because he was completely absorbed in his purpose, and because the
dog was very small. He dragged his acquirement to the door of his home, and
finally with triumph across the threshold.
No one was in. The child sat down on the floor and made overtures to the dog.
These the dog instantly accepted. He beamed with affection upon his new friend.
In a short time they were firm and abiding comrades.

Editor: Umar Farooq
When the child's family appeared, they made a great row. The dog
was examined and commented upon and called names. Scorn
was leveled at him from all eyes, so that he became much
embarrassed and drooped like a scorched plant. But the child
went sturdily to the center of the floor, and, at the top of his voice,
championed the dog. It happened that he was roaring
protestations, with his arms clasped about the dog's neck, when
the father of the family came in from work.
The parent demanded to know what the blazes they were making the kid howl for.
It was explained in many words that the infernal kid wanted to introduce a
disreputable dog into the family.
A family council was held. On this depended the dog's fate, but he in no way
heeded, being busily engaged in chewing the end of the child's dress.
The affair was quickly ended. The father of the family, it appears, was in a
particularly savage temper that evening, and when he perceived that it would
amaze and anger everybody if such a dog were allowed to remain, he decided that
it should be so. The child, crying softly, took his friend off to a retired part of the
room to hobnob with him, while the father quelled a fierce rebellion of his wife. So
it came to pass that the dog was a member of the household.
He and the child were associated together at all times save when the child slept.
The child became a guardian and a friend. If the large folk kicked the dog and threw
things at him, the child made loud and violent objections. Once when the child had
run, protesting loudly, with tears raining down his face and his arms outstretched,
to protect his friend, he had been struck in the head with a very large saucepan
from the hand of his father, enraged at some seeming lack of courtesy in the dog.
Ever after, the family were careful how they threw things at the dog. Moreover, the
latter grew very skilful in avoiding missiles and feet. In a small room containing a
stove, a table, a bureau and some chairs, he would display strategic ability of a
high order, dodging, feinting and scuttling about among the furniture. He could
force three or four people armed with brooms, sticks and handfuls of coal, to use
all their ingenuity to get in a blow. And even when they did, it was seldom that they
could do him a serious injury or leave any imprint.
But when the child was present, these scenes did not occur. It came to be
recognized that if the dog was molested, the child would burst into sobs, and as
the child, when started, was very riotous and practically unquenchable, the dog
had therein a safeguard.
However, the child could not always be near. At night, when he was asleep, his
dark-brown friend would raise from some black corner a wild, wailful cry, a song of
infinite lowliness and despair, that would go shuddering and sobbing among the
buildings of the block and cause people to swear. At these times the singer would
often be chased all over the kitchen and hit with a great variety of articles.

Editor: Umar Farooq
Sometimes, too, the child himself used to beat the dog, although it is not known
that he ever had what could be truly called a just cause. The dog always accepted
these thrashings with an air of admitted guilt. He was too much of a dog to try to
look to be a martyr or to plot revenge. He received the blows with deep humility,
and furthermore he forgave his friend the moment the child had finished, and was
ready to caress the child's hand with his little red tongue.
When misfortune came upon the child, and his troubles overwhelmed him, he
would often crawl under the table and lay his small distressed head on the dog's
back. The dog was ever sympathetic. It is not to be supposed that at such times
he took occasion to refer to the unjust beatings his friend, when provoked, had
administered to him.
He did not achieve any notable degree of intimacy with the other members of the
family. He had no confidence in them, and the fear that he would express at their
casual approach often exasperated them exceedingly. They used to gain a certain
satisfaction in underfeeding him, but finally his friend the child grew to watch the
matter with some care, and when he forgot it, the dog was often successful in
secret for himself.
So the dog prospered. He developed a large bark, which came wondrously from
such a small rug of a dog. He ceased to howl persistently at night. Sometimes,
indeed, in his sleep, he would utter little yells, as from pain, but that occurred, no
doubt, when in his dreams he encountered huge flaming dogs who threatened him
direfully.
His devotion to the child grew until it was a sublime thing. He wagged at his
approach; he sank down in despair at his departure. He could detect the sound of
the child's step among all the noises of the neighborhood. It was like a calling voice
to him.
The scene of their companionship was a kingdom governed by this terrible

potentate, the child; but neither criticism nor rebellion ever lived for an instant in
the heart of the one subject. Down in the mystic, hidden fields of his little dog-soul
bloomed flowers of love and fidelity and perfect faith.
The child was in the habit of going on many expeditions to observe strange things
in the vicinity. On these occasions his friend usually jogged aimfully along behind.
Perhaps, though, he went ahead. This necessitated his turning around every
quarter-minute to make sure the child was coming. He was filled with a large idea
of the importance of these journeys. He would carry himself with such an air! He
was proud to be the retainer of so great a monarch.
One day, however, the father of the family got quite exceptionally drunk. He came
home and held carnival with the cooking utensils, the furniture and his wife. He was
in the midst of this recreation when the child, followed by the dark-brown dog,
entered the room. They were returning from their voyages.

Editor: Umar Farooq
The child's practised eye instantly noted his father's state. He dived under the table,
where experience had taught him was a rather safe place. The dog, lacking skill in
such matters, was, of course, unaware of the true condition of affairs. He looked
with interested eyes at his friend's sudden dive. He interpreted it to mean: Joyous
gambol. He started to patter across the floor to join him. He was the picture of a
little dark-brown dog en route to a friend.
The head of the family saw him at this moment. He gave a huge howl of joy, and
knocked the dog down with a heavy coffee-pot. The dog, yelling in supreme
astonishment and fear, writhed to his feet and ran for cover. The man kicked out
with a ponderous foot. It caused the dog to swerve as if caught in a tide. A second
blow of the coffee-pot laid him upon the floor.
Here the child, uttering loud cries, came valiantly forth like a knight. The father of
the family paid no attention to these calls of the child, but advanced with glee upon
the dog. Upon being knocked down twice in swift succession, the latter apparently
gave up all hope of escape. He rolled over on his back and held his paws in a
peculiar manner. At the same time with his eyes and his ears he offered up a small
prayer.
But the father was in a mood for having fun, and it occurred to him that it would be
a fine thing to throw the dog out of the window. So he reached down and grabbing
the animal by a leg, lifted him, squirming, up. He swung him two or three times
hilariously about his head, and then flung him with great accuracy through the
window.
The soaring dog created a surprise in the block. A woman watering plants in an
opposite window gave an involuntary shout and dropped a flower-pot. A man in
another window leaned perilously out to watch the flight of the dog. A woman, who
had been hanging out clothes in a yard, began to caper wildly. Her mouth was filled
with clothes-pins, but her arms gave vent to a sort of exclamation. In appearance
she was like a gagged prisoner. Children ran whooping.
The dark-brown body crashed in a heap on the roof of a shed five stories below.
From thence it rolled to the pavement of an alleyway.
The child in the room far above burst into a long, dirgelike cry, and toddled hastily
out of the room. It took him a long time to reach the alley, because his size
compelled him to go downstairs backward, one step at a time, and holding with
both hands to the step above.
When they came for him later, they found him seated by
the body of his dark-brown friend.
A Dark Brown Dog was featured as The Short Story of the Day on Sun, Nov 01, 2020

Editor: Umar Farooq
Poet: WALT WHITMAN
Song of Myself (1892 version)
BY W A L T W H I TM A N
Section 1
I celebrate myself, and sing myself,

And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.
I loafe and invite my soul,

I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.
My tongue, every atom of my blood, form’d from this soil, this air,
Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same,
I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death.
Creeds and schools in abeyance,

Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten,
I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,
Nature without check with original energy.
Section 2
Houses and rooms are full of perfumes, the shelves are crowded with perfumes,
I breathe the fragrance myself and know it and like it,
The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it.
The atmosphere is not a perfume, it has no taste of the distillation, it is odorless,

It is for my mouth forever, I am in love with it,
I will go to the bank by the wood and become undisguised and naked,
I am mad for it to be in contact with me.
The smoke of my own breath,

Echoes, ripples, buzz’d whispers, love-root, silk-thread, crotch and vine,
My respiration and inspiration, the beating of my heart, the passing of blood and air
through my lungs,
The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore and dark-color’d sea-rocks,
and of hay in the barn,
The sound of the belch’d words of my voice loos’d to the eddies of the wind,
A few light kisses, a few embraces, a reaching around of arms,
Editor: Umar Farooq
The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs wag,
The delight alone or in the rush of the streets, or along the fields and hill-sides,
The feeling of health, the full-noon trill, the song of me rising from bed and meeting
the sun.
Have you reckon’d a thousand acres much? have you reckon’d the earth much?
Have you practis’d so long to learn to read?
Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?
Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of all poems,
You shall possess the good of the earth and sun, (there are millions of suns left,)
You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look through the eyes of
the dead, nor feed on the spectres in books,
You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me,
You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self.
Section 6
A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands;

How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he.
I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven.
Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,

A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt,
Bearing the owner’s name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark, and
say Whose?
Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the vegetation.
Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,

And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones,
Growing among black folks as among white,
Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I receive them the
same.
And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.
Tenderly will I use you curling grass,

It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men,
It may be if I had known them I would have loved them,
It may be you are from old people, or from offspring taken soon out of their
mothers’ laps,

Editor: Umar Farooq
And here you are the mothers’ laps.
This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers,
Darker than the colorless beards of old men,
Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.
O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues,

And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for nothing.
I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and women,
And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken soon out of their
laps.
What do you think has become of the young and old men?
And what do you think has become of the women and children?
They are alive and well somewhere,

The smallest sprout shows there is really no death,
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it,
And ceas’d the moment life appear’d.
All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,

And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.
Section 20
Who goes there? hankering, gross, mystical, nude;

How is it I extract strength from the beef I eat?
What is a man anyhow? what am I? what are you?
All I mark as my own you shall offset it with your own,

Else it were time lost listening to me.
I do not snivel that snivel the world over,

That months are vacuums and the ground but wallow and filth.
Whimpering and truckling fold with powders for invalids, conformity goes to the
fourth-remov’d,
I wear my hat as I please indoors or out.
Why should I pray? why should I venerate and be ceremonious?

Editor: Umar Farooq
Having pried through the strata, analyzed to a hair, counsel’d with doctors and
calculated close,
I find no sweeter fat than sticks to my own bones.
In all people I see myself, none more and not one a barley-corn less,
And the good or bad I say of myself I say of them.
I know I am solid and sound,

To me the converging objects of the universe perpetually flow,
All are written to me, and I must get what the writing means.
I know I am deathless,
I know this orbit of mine cannot be swept by a carpenter’s compass,
I know I shall not pass like a child’s carlacue cut with a burnt stick at night.
I know I am august,
I do not trouble my spirit to vindicate itself or be understood,
I see that the elementary laws never apologize,
(I reckon I behave no prouder than the level I plant my house by, after all.)
I exist as I am, that is enough,

If no other in the world be aware I sit content,
And if each and all be aware I sit content.
One world is aware and by far the largest to me, and that is myself,
And whether I come to my own to-day or in ten thousand or ten million years,
I can cheerfully take it now, or with equal cheerfulness I can wait.
My foothold is tenon’d and mortis’d in granite,

I laugh at what you call dissolution,
And I know the amplitude of time.
Section 21
I am the poet of the Body and I am the poet of the Soul,

The pleasures of heaven are with me and the pains of hell are with me,
The first I graft and increase upon myself, the latter I translate into a new tongue.
I am the poet of the woman the same as the man,

And I say it is as great to be a woman as to be a man,
And I say there is nothing greater than the mother of men.
I chant the chant of dilation or pride,

Editor: Umar Farooq
We have had ducking and deprecating about enough,
I show that size is only development.
Have you outstript the rest? are you the President?

It is a trifle, they will more than arrive there every one, and still pass on.
I am he that walks with the tender and growing night,

I call to the earth and sea half-held by the night.
Press close bare-bosom’d night—press close magnetic nourishing night!

Night of south winds—night of the large few stars!
Still nodding night—mad naked summer night.
Smile O voluptuous cool-breath’d earth!

Earth of the slumbering and liquid trees!
Earth of departed sunset—earth of the mountains misty-topt!
Earth of the vitreous pour of the full moon just tinged with blue!
Earth of shine and dark mottling the tide of the river!
Earth of the limpid gray of clouds brighter and clearer for my sake!
Far-swooping elbow’d earth—rich apple-blossom’d earth!
Smile, for your lover comes.
Prodigal, you have given me love—therefore I to you give love!

O unspeakable passionate love.
Section 32
I think I could turn and live with animals, they are so placid and self-contain’d,
I stand and look at them long and long.
They do not sweat and whine about their condition,

They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins,
They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God,
Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented with the mania of owning things,
Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived thousands of years ago,
Not one is respectable or unhappy over the whole earth.
So they show their relations to me and I accept them,

They bring me tokens of myself, they evince them plainly in their possession.
I wonder where they get those tokens,

Did I pass that way huge times ago and negligently drop them?

Editor: Umar Farooq
Myself moving forward then and now and forever,
Gathering and showing more always and with velocity,
Infinite and omnigenous, and the like of these among them,
Not too exclusive toward the reachers of my remembrancers,
Picking out here one that I love, and now go with him on brotherly terms.
A gigantic beauty of a stallion, fresh and responsive to my caresses,

Head high in the forehead, wide between the ears,
Limbs glossy and supple, tail dusting the ground,
Eyes full of sparkling wickedness, ears finely cut, flexibly moving.
His nostrils dilate as my heels embrace him,

His well-built limbs tremble with pleasure as we race around and return.
I but use you a minute, then I resign you, stallion,

Why do I need your paces when I myself out-gallop them?
Even as I stand or sit passing faster than you.
Section 48
I have said that the soul is not more than the body,
And I have said that the body is not more than the soul,
And nothing, not God, is greater to one than one’s self is,
And whoever walks a furlong without sympathy walks to his own funeral drest in his
shroud,
And I or you pocketless of a dime may purchase the pick of the earth,
And to glance with an eye or show a bean in its pod confounds the learning of all
times,
And there is no trade or employment but the young man following it may become a
hero,
And there is no object so soft but it makes a hub for the wheel’d universe,
And I say to any man or woman, Let your soul stand cool and composed before a
million universes.
And I say to mankind, Be not curious about God,

For I who am curious about each am not curious about God,
(No array of terms can say how much I am at peace about God and about death.)
I hear and behold God in every object, yet understand God not in the least,
Nor do I understand who there can be more wonderful than myself.
Why should I wish to see God better than this day?

I see something of God each hour of the twenty-four, and each moment then,

Editor: Umar Farooq
In the faces of men and women I see God, and in my own face in the glass,
I find letters from God dropt in the street, and every one is sign’d by God’s name,
And I leave them where they are, for I know that wheresoe’er I go,
Others will punctually come for ever and ever.
Section 52
The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me, he complains of my gab and my
loitering.
I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,

I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.
The last scud of day holds back for me,

It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the shadow’d wilds,
It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.
I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,

I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.
I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,

If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.
You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,

But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.
Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,

Missing me one place search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you.
Poet: ROBERT FROST

01. The Road Not Taken
BY ROBERT FROST
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Editor: Umar Farooq
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
02. Mending Wall

BY R O B E R T FR O S T
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,

That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun;
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbor know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
‘Stay where you are until our backs are turned!’
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of out-door game,
Editor: Umar Farooq
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, ‘Good fences make good neighbors.’
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
‘Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it
Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I'd ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offense.
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That wants it down.’ I could say ‘Elves’ to him,
But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather
He said it for himself. I see him there
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me,
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father's saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, ‘Good fences make good neighbors.’
03. After Apple-Picking

My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree

Toward heaven still,
And there's a barrel that I didn't fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didn't pick upon some bough.
But I am done with apple-picking now.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.
I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight
I got from looking through a pane of glass
I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough
And held against the world of hoary grass.
It melted, and I let it fall and break.
But I was well
Editor: Umar Farooq
Upon my way to sleep before it fell,
And I could tell
What form my dreaming was about to take.
Magnified apples appear and disappear,
Stem end and blossom end,
And every fleck of russet showing clear.
My instep arch not only keeps the ache,
It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.
I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.
And I keep hearing from the cellar bin
The rumbling sound
Of load on load of apples coming in.
For I have had too much
Of apple-picking: I am overtired
Of the great harvest I myself desired.
There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.
For all
That struck the earth,
No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,
Went surely to the cider-apple heap
As of no worth.
One can see what will trouble
This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.
Were he not gone,
The woodchuck could say whether it's like his
Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,
Or just some human sleep.
04. Stopping by Woods on a Snowy

Evening
Whose woods these are I think I know.

His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer

To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
Editor: Umar Farooq
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,

But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Poet: EDGAR ALLAN POE

01. The Raven
BY E D G A R A LLA N P O E
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
Only this and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
“’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
This it is and nothing more.”
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—
Editor: Umar Farooq
Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
’Tis the wind and nothing more!”
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as “Nevermore.”
But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”

Editor: Umar Farooq
Then the bird said “Nevermore.”
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”
But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!

By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”

Editor: Umar Farooq
“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted—nevermore!
02. Annabel Lee

It was many and many a year ago,

In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.
Iwas a child and she was a child,

In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love—
I and my Annabel Lee—
With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven
Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago,

In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsmen came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.
Editor: Umar Farooq
The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,
Went envying her and me—
Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love

Of those who were older than we—
Of many far wiser than we—
And neither the angels in Heaven above
Nor the demons down under the sea
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams

And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,
In her sepulchre there by the sea—
In her tomb by the sounding sea.
03. A Dream Within a Dream

Take this kiss upon the brow!

And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow —
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.
I stand amid the roar

Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Editor: Umar Farooq
Grains of the golden sand —
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep — while I weep!
O God! Can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?

Editor: Umar Farooq

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Semester-VII

Eve's Diary (1906) is one of Twain's best stories, in which he

SATURDAY.--I am almost a whole day old, now.

I followed the other Experiment around, yesterday afternoon, at a distance, to see

Course Instructor: Muhammad Abdullah

SUNDAY.--It is up there yet. Resting, apparently. But that is a subterfuge: Sunday

THURSDAY.--my first sorrow. Yesterday he avoided me and seemed to wish I

Course Instructor: Muhammad Abdullah

Although he talks so little, he has quite a considerable vocabulary. This morning

No, he took no interest in my name. I tried to hide my disappointment, but I suppose

Course Instructor: Muhammad Abdullah

Course Instructor: Muhammad Abdullah

"How did it come?"

Another direct question, and it also had to have a direct answer.

"I made it."

"What are these?"

Extract from Adam's Diary

Course Instructor: Muhammad Abdullah

FRIDAY.--Tuesday--Wednesday--Thursday--and today: all without seeing him. It

After the Fall

It is not on account of his gracious and considerate

It is not on account of his industry that I love him--

Then why is it that I love him? MERELY BECAUSE HE IS MASCULINE, I think.

Course Instructor: Muhammad Abdullah

Forty Years Later

But if one of us must go first, it is my prayer that it shall be I; for he is strong, I am

ADAM: Wheresoever she was, THERE was Eden.

Course Instructor: Muhammad Abdullah

A Child was standing on a street-corner. He leaned with one

After a time, a little dark-brown dog came trotting with an intent

Course Instructor: Muhammad Abdullah

Course Instructor: Muhammad Abdullah

Course Instructor: Muhammad Abdullah

The scene of their companionship was a kingdom governed by this terrible

Course Instructor: Muhammad Abdullah

Course Instructor: Muhammad Abdullah

I celebrate myself, and sing myself,

I loafe and invite my soul,

Creeds and schools in abeyance,

The atmosphere is not a perfume, it has no taste of the distillation, it is odorless,

The smoke of my own breath,

A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands;

Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,

Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,

And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.

Tenderly will I use you curling grass,

Course Instructor: Muhammad Abdullah

O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues,

They are alive and well somewhere,

All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,

Who goes there? hankering, gross, mystical, nude;

What is a man anyhow? what am I? what are you?

All I mark as my own you shall offset it with your own,

I do not snivel that snivel the world over,

Why should I pray? why should I venerate and be ceremonious?

Course Instructor: Muhammad Abdullah

I know I am solid and sound,

I exist as I am, that is enough,

My foothold is tenon’d and mortis’d in granite,

I am the poet of the Body and I am the poet of the Soul,

I am the poet of the woman the same as the man,

I chant the chant of dilation or pride,

Course Instructor: Muhammad Abdullah

Have you outstript the rest? are you the President?