Now, the VOA Special English Program, AMERICAN STORIES.
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Our story today is called \"The Law of Life.\" It was written by Jack London.Here is Shep O\'Neal with the story.
SHEP O\'NEAL: The old Indian was sitting on the snow.It was Koskoosh, former chief of his tribe.Now, all he could do was sit and listen to the others.His eyes were old.He could not see, but his ears were wide open to every sound.
\"Aha.\" That was the sound of his daughter, Sit-cum-to-ha.She was beating the dogs, trying to make them stand in front of the snow sleds.He was forgotten by her, and by the others, too.They had to look for new hunting grounds.The long, snowy ride waited.The days of the northlands were growing short.The tribe could not wait for death.Koskoosh was dying.
The stiff, crackling noises of frozen animal skins told him that the chief\'s tent was being torn down.The chief was a mighty hunter.He was his son, the son of Koskoosh.Koskoosh was being left to die.
As the women worked, old Koskoosh could hear his son\'s voice drive them to work faster.He listened harder.It was the last time he would hear that voice.A child cried, and a woman sang softly to quiet it.The child was Koo-tee, the old man thought, a sickly child.It would die soon, and they would burn a hole in the frozen ground to bury it.They would cover its small body with stones to keep the wolves away.
\"Well, what of it? A few years, and in the end, death.Death waited ever hungry.Death had the hungriest stomach of all.\"
Koskoosh listened to other sounds he would hear no more: the men tying strong leather rope around the sleds to hold their belongings; the sharp sounds of leather whips, ordering the dogs to move and pull the sleds.
\"Listen to the dogs cry.How they hated the work.\"
They were off.Sled after sled moved slowly away into the silence.They had paed out of his life.He must meet his last hour alone.
\"But what was that?\" The snow packed down hard under someone\'s shoes.A man stood beside him, and placed a hand gently on his old head.His son was good to do this.He remembered other old men whose sons had not done this, who had left without a goodbye.
His mind traveled into the past until his son\'s voice brought him back.\"It is well with you?\" his son asked.And the old man answered, \"It is well.\"
\"There is wood next to you and the fire burns bright,\" the son said.\"The morning is gray and the cold is here.It will snow soon.Even now it is snowing.Ahh, even now it is snowing.
\"The tribesmen hurry.Their loads are heavy and their stomachs flat from little food.The way is long and they travel fast.I go now.All is well?\"
\"It is well.I am as last year\'s leaf that sticks to the tree.The first breath that blows will knock me to the ground.My voice is like an old woman\'s.My eyes no longer show me the way my feet go.I am tired and all is well.\"
He lowered his head to his chest and listened to the snow as his son rode away.He
felt the sticks of wood next to him again.One by one, the fire would eat them.And step by step, death would cover him.When the last stick was gone, the cold would come.First, his feet would freeze.Then, his hands.The cold would travel slowly from the outside to the inside of him, and he would rest.It was easy...all men must die.
He felt sorrow, but he did not think of his sorrow.It was the way of life.He had lived close to the earth, and the law was not new to him.It was the law of the body.Nature was not kind to the body.She was not thoughtful of the person alone.She was interested only in the group, the race, the species.
This was a deep thought for old Koskoosh.He had seen examples of it in all his life.The tree sap in early spring; the new-born green leaf, soft and fresh as skin; the fall of the yellowed, dry leaf.In this alone was all history.
He placed another stick on the fire and began to remember his past.He had been a great chief, too.He had seen days of much food and laughter; fat stomachs when food was left to rot and spoil; times when they left animals alone, unkilled; days when women had many children.And he had seen days of no food and empty stomachs, days when the fish did not come, and the animals were hard to find.
For seven years the animals did not come.Then, he remembered when as a small boy how he watched the wolves kill a moose.He was with his friend Zing-ha, who was killed later in the Yukon River.
Ah, but the moose.Zing-ha and he had gone out to play that day.Down by the river they saw fresh steps of a big, heavy moose.\"He\'s an old one,\" Zing-ha had said.\"He cannot run like the others.He has fallen behind.The wolves have separated him from the others.They will never leave him.\"
And so it was.By day and night, never stopping, biting at his nose, biting at his feet, the wolves stayed with him until the end.
Zing-ha and he had felt the blood quicken in their bodies.The end would be a sight to see.
They had followed the steps of the moose and the wolves.Each step told a different story.They could see the tragedy as it happened: here was the place the moose stopped to fight.The snow was packed down for many feet.One wolf had been caught by the heavy feet of the moose and kicked to death.Further on, they saw how the moose had struggled to escape up a hill.But the wolves had attacked from behind.The moose had fallen down and crushed two wolves.Yet, it was clear the end was near.
The snow was red ahead of them.Then they heard the sounds of battle.He and Zing-ha moved closer, on their stomachs, so the wolves would not see them.They saw the end.The picture was so strong it had stayed with him all his life.His dull, blind eyes saw the end again as they had in the far off past.
For long, his mind saw his past.The fire began to die out, and the cold entered his body.He placed two more sticks on it, just two more left.This would be how long he would live.
It was very lonely.He placed one of the last pieces of wood on the fire.Listen, what a strange noise for wood to make in the fire. No, it wasn\'t wood.His body shook as he recognized the sound...wolves.
The cry of a wolf brought the picture of the old moose back to him again.He saw the body torn to pieces, with fresh blood running on the snow.He saw the clean bones lying gray against the frozen blood.He saw the rushing forms of the gray
wolves, their shinning eyes, their long wet tongues and sharp teeth.And he saw them form a circle and move ever slowly closer and closer.
A cold, wet nose touched his face.At the touch, his soul jumped forward to awaken him.His hand went to the fire and he pulled a burning stick from it.The wolf saw the fire, but was not afraid.It turned and howled into the air to his brother wolves.They answered with hunger in their throats, and came running.
The old Indian listened to the hungry wolves.He heard them form a circle around him and his small fire.He waved his burning stick at them, but they did not move away.Now, one of them moved closer, slowly, as if to test the old man\'s strength.Another and another followed.The circle grew smaller and smaller.Not one wolf stayed behind.
Why should he fight? Why cling to life? And he dropped his stick with the fire on the end of it.It fell in the snow and the light went out.
The circle of wolves moved closer.Once again the old Indian saw the picture of the moose as it struggled before the end came.He dropped his head to his knees.What did it matter after all? Isn\'t this the law of life?
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FAITH LAPIDUS: You have just heard the American story \"The Law of Life.\" It was written by Jack London.Your storyteller was Shep O\'Neal.Listen again next week for another American story in V.O.A.Special English.I\'m Faith Lapidus.Now, the weekly Special English program, AMERICAN STORIES.
(MUSIC) Our story today is called \"To Build a Fire.\" It was written by Jack London.Here is Harry Monroe with the story.(MUSIC) HARRY MONROE: The man walked down the trail on a cold, gray day.Pure white snow and ice covered the Earth for as far as he could see.This was his first winter in Alaska.He was wearing heavy clothes and fur boots.But he still felt cold and uncomfortable.The man was on his way to a camp near Henderson Creek.His friends were already there.He expected to reach Henderson Creek by six o\'clock that evening.It would be dark by then.His friends would have a fire and hot food ready for him.A dog walked behind the man.It was a big gray animal, half dog and half wolf.The dog did not like the extreme cold.It knew the weather was too cold to travel.The man continued to walk down the trail.He came to a frozen stream called Indian Creek.He began to walk on the snow-covered ice.It was a trail that would lead him straight to Henderson Creek and his friends.As he walked, he looked carefully at the ice in front of him.Once, he stopped suddenly, and then walked around a part of the frozen stream.He saw that an underground spring flowed under the ice at that spot.It made the ice thin.If he stepped there, he might break through the ice into a pool of water.To get his boots wet in such cold weather might kill him.His feet would turn to ice quickly.He could freeze to death.At about twelve o\'clock, the man decided to stop to eat his lunch.He took off the glove on his right hand.He opened his jacket and shirt, and pulled out his bread and meat.This took le than twenty seconds.Yet, his fingers began to freeze.
He hit his hand against his leg several times until he felt a sharp pain.Then he quickly put his glove on his hand.He made a fire, beginning with small pieces of wood and adding larger ones.He sat on a snow-covered log and ate his lunch.He enjoyed the warm fire for a few minutes.Then he stood up and started walking on the frozen stream again.A half hour later, it happened.At a place where the snow seemed very solid, the ice broke.The man\'s feet sank into the water.It was not deep, but his legs got wet to the knees.The man was angry.The accident would delay his arrival at the camp.He would have to build a fire now to dry his clothes and boots.He walked over to some small trees.They were covered with snow.In their branches were pieces of dry gra and wood left by flood waters earlier in the year.He put several large pieces of wood on the snow, under one of the trees.On top of the wood, he put some gra and dry branches.He pulled off his gloves, took out his matches, and lighted the fire.He fed the young flame with more wood.As the fire grew stronger, he gave it larger pieces of wood.He worked slowly and carefully.At sixty degrees below zero, a man with wet feet must not fail in his first attempt to build a fire.While he was walking, his blood had kept all parts of his body warm.Now that he had stopped, cold was forcing his blood to withdraw deeper into his body.His wet feet had frozen.He could not feel his fingers.His nose was frozen, too.The skin all over his body felt cold.Now, however, his fire was beginning to burn more strongly.He was safe.He sat under the tree and thought of the old men in Fairbanks.The old men had told him that no man should travel alone in the Yukon when the temperature is sixty degrees below zero.Yet here he was.He had had an accident.He was alone.And he had saved himself.He had built a fire.Those old men were weak, he thought.A real man could travel alone.If a man stayed calm, he would be all right.The man\'s boots were covered with ice.The
strings on his boots were as hard as steel.He would have to cut them with his knife.He leaned back against the tree to take out his knife.Suddenly, without warning, a heavy ma of snow dropped down.His movement had shaken the young tree only a tiny bit.But it was enough to cause the branches of the tree to drop their heavy load.The man was shocked.He sat and looked at the place where the fire had been.The old men had been right, he thought.If he had another man with him, he would not be in any danger now.The other man could build the fire.Well, it was up to him to build the fire again.This time, he must not fail.The man collected more wood.He reached into his pocket for the matches.But his fingers were frozen.He could not hold them.He began to hit his hands with all his force against his legs.After a while, feeling came back to his fingers.The man reached again into his pocket for the matches.But the tremendous cold quickly drove the life out of his fingers.All the matches fell onto the snow.He tried to pick one up, but failed.The man pulled on his glove and again beat his hand against his leg.Then he took the gloves off both hands and picked up all the matches.He gathered them together.Holding them with both hands, he scratched the matches along his leg.They immediately caught fire.He held the blazing matches to a piece of wood.After a while, he became aware that he could smell his hands burning.Then he began to feel the pain.He opened his hands, and the blazing matches fell on to the snow.The flame went out in a puff of gray smoke.The man looked up.The dog was still watching him.The man got an idea.He would kill the dog and bury his hands inside its warm body.When the feeling came back to
his fingers, he could build another fire.He called to the dog.The dog heard danger in the man\'s voice.It backed away.The man called again.This time the dog came closer.The man reached for his knife.But he had forgotten that he could not bend his fingers.He could not kill the dog, because he could not hold his knife.The fear of death came over the man.He jumped up and began to run.The running began to make him feel better.Maybe running would make his feet warm.If he ran far enough, he would reach his friends at Henderson Creek.They would take care of him.It felt strange to run and not feel his feet when they hit the ground.He fell several times.He decided to rest a while.As he lay in the snow, he noticed that he was not shaking.He could not feel his nose or fingers or feet.Yet, he was feeling quite warm and comfortable.He realized he was going to die.Well, he decided, he might as well take it like a man.There were worse ways to die.The man closed his eyes and floated into the most comfortable sleep he had ever known.The dog sat facing him, waiting.Finally, the dog moved closer to the man and caught the smell of death.The animal threw back its head.It let out a long, soft cry to the cold stars in the black sky.And then it tuned and ran toward Henderson Creek...where it knew there was food and a fire.(MUSIC)
SHEP O\'NEAL: You have just heard the AMERICAN STORY called \"To Build a Fire.\" It was written by Jack London and adapted for Special English by Dona de Sanctis.Your storyteller was Harry Monroe.For VOA Special English, this is Shep O\'Neal.
