need help with stories

need to do reading log for each story and i need it to be done as soon as possible

!”#$%&

Sometimes he would walk for hours and
miles and return only at midnight to his house. And
on his way he would see the cottages and homes with
their dark windows, and it was not unequal to
walking through a graveyard where only the faintest
glimmers of firefly light appeared in flickers behind
the windows. Sudden gray phantoms seemed to
manifest upon inner room walls where a curtain was
still undrawn against the night, or there were
whisperings and murmurs where a window in a tomb-
like building was still open.

Mr. Leonard Mead would pause, cock his
head, listen, look, and march on, his feet making no
noise on the lumpy walk. For long ago he had wisely
changed to sneakers when strolling at night, because
the dogs in intermittent squads would parallel his
journey with barkings if he wore hard heels, and
lights might click on and faces appear and an entire
street be startled by the passing of a lone figure,
himself, in the early November evening.

On this particular evening he began his
journey in a westerly direction, toward the hidden
sea. There was a good crystal frost in the air; it cut the
nose and made the lungs blaze like a Christmas tree
inside; you could feel the cold light going on and off,
all the branches filled with invisible snow. He
listened to the faint push of his soft shoes through
autumn leaves with satisfaction, and whistled a cold
quiet whistle between his teeth, occasionally picking
up a leaf as he passed, examining its skeletal pattern
in the infrequent lamplights as he went on, smelling
its rusty smell.

“Hello, in there,” he whispered to every
house on every side as he moved. “What’s up tonight
on Channel 4, Channel 7, Channel 9? Where are the
cowboys rushing, and do I see the United States
Cavalry over the next hill to the rescue?”

The street was silent and long and empty,
with only his shadow moving like the shadow of a
hawk in midcountry. If he closed his eyes and stood
very still, frozen, he could imagine himself upon the

center of a plain, a wintry, windless Arizona desert
with no house in a thousand miles, and only dry river
beds, the streets, for company.

“What is it now?” he asked the houses,
noticing his wrist watch. “Eight-thirty P.M.? Time for
a dozen assorted murders? A quiz? A revue? A
comedian falling off the stage?”

Was that a murmur of laughter from within a
moon-white house? He hesitated, but went on when
nothing more happened. He stumbled over a
particularly uneven section of sidewalk. The cement
was vanishing under flowers and grass. In ten years
of walking by night or day, for thousands of miles, he
had never met another person walking, not once in all
that time.

He came to a cloverleaf intersection which
stood silent where two main highways crossed the
town. During the day it was a thunderous surge of
cars, the gas stations open, a great insect rustling and
a ceaseless jockeying for position as the scarab-
beetles, a faint incense puttering from their exhausts,
skimmed homeward to the far directions. But now
these highways, too, were like streams in a dry
season, all stone and bed and moon radiance.

He turned back on a side street, circling
around toward his home. He was within a block of his
destination when the lone car turned a corner quite
suddenly and flashed a fierce white cone of light
upon him. He stood entranced, not unlike a night
moth, stunned by the illumination, and then drawn
toward it.
A metallic voice called to him:
“Stand still. Stay where you are! Don’t
move!”
He halted.
“Put up your hands!”
“But-” he said.
“Your hands up! Or we’ll Shoot!”
The police, of course, but what a rare,
incredible thing; in a city of three million, there was
only one police car left, wasn’t that correct? Ever
since a year ago, 2052, the election year, the force
had been cut down from three cars to one. Crime was
ebbing; there was no need now for the police, save for
this one lone car wandering and wandering the empty
streets.
“Your name?” said the police car in a
metallic whisper. He couldn’t see the men in it for the
bright light in his eyes.
“Leonard Mead,” he said.
“Speak up!”
“Leonard Mead!”
“Business or profession?”
“I guess you’d call me a writer.”
“No profession,” said the police car, as if

!”#$%&

“I protest!”
“Mr. Mead.”
He walked like a man suddenly drunk. As he
passed the front window of the car he looked in. As
he had expected, there was no one in the front seat, no
one in the car at all.
“Get in.”
He put his hand to the door and peered into
the back seat, which was a little cell, a little black jail
with bars. It smelled of riveted steel. It smelled of
harsh antiseptic; it smelled too clean and hard and
metallic. There was nothing soft there.
“Now if you had a wife to give you an alibi,”
said the iron voice. “But-”
“Where are you taking me?”
The car hesitated, or rather gave a faint
whirring click, as if information, somewhere, was
dropping card by punch-slotted card under electric
eyes. “To the Psychiatric Center for Research on
Regressive Tendencies.”
He got in. The door shut with a soft thud.
The police car rolled through the night avenues,
flashing its dim lights ahead.
They passed one house on one street a
moment later, one house in an entire city of houses
that were dark, but this one particular house had all of
its electric lights brightly lit, every window a loud
yellow illumination, square and warm in the cool
darkness.
“That’s my house,” said Leonard Mead.
No one answered him.
The car moved down the empty river-bed
streets and off away, leaving the empty streets with
the empty side-walks, and no sound and no motion all
the rest of the chill November night.

Bradbury, Ray (1920- ), is an American
author best known for his fantasy stories and science
fiction. Bradbury’s best writing effectively combines
a lively imagination with a poetic style.

Collections of Bradbury’s stories include
The Martian Chronicles (1950), The Illustrated Man
(1951), The October Country (1955), I Sing the Body
Electric! (1969), Quicker Than the Eye (1996), and
One More for the Road (2002). His novel Fahrenheit
451 (1953) describes a society that bans the
ownership of books. His other novels include
Dandelion Wine (1957), a poetic story of a boy’s
summer in an Illinois town in 1928; and Something
Wicked This Way Comes (1962), a suspenseful
fantasy about a black magic carnival that comes to a
small Midwestern town. He has also written poetry,
screenplays, and stage plays.

$()*+,-.%/01203
45%6,5%7*,’48*5

To enter out into that silence that was the
city at eight o’clock of a misty evening in November,
to put your feet upon that buckling concrete walk, to
step over grassy seams and make your way, hands in
pockets, through the silences, that was what Mr.
Leonard Mead most dearly loved to do. He would
stand upon the corner of an intersection and peer
down long moonlit avenues of sidewalk in four
directions, deciding which way to go, but it really
made no difference; he was alone in this world of
A.D. 2053, or as good as alone, and with a final
decision made, a path selected, he would stride off,
sending patterns of frosty air before him like the
smoke of a cigar.
Sometimes he would walk for hours and
miles and return only at midnight to his house. And
on his way he would see the cottages and homes with
their dark windows, and it was not unequal to
walking through a graveyard where only the faintest
glimmers of firefly light appeared in flickers behind
the windows. Sudden gray phantoms seemed to
manifest upon inner room walls where a curtain was
still undrawn against the night, or there were
whisperings and murmurs where a window in a tomb-
like building was still open.
Mr. Leonard Mead would pause, cock his
head, listen, look, and march on, his feet making no
noise on the lumpy walk. For long ago he had wisely
changed to sneakers when strolling at night, because
the dogs in intermittent squads would parallel his
journey with barkings if he wore hard heels, and
lights might click on and faces appear and an entire
street be startled by the passing of a lone figure,
himself, in the early November evening.
On this particular evening he began his
journey in a westerly direction, toward the hidden
sea. There was a good crystal frost in the air; it cut the
nose and made the lungs blaze like a Christmas tree
inside; you could feel the cold light going on and off,
all the branches filled with invisible snow. He
listened to the faint push of his soft shoes through
autumn leaves with satisfaction, and whistled a cold
quiet whistle between his teeth, occasionally picking
up a leaf as he passed, examining its skeletal pattern
in the infrequent lamplights as he went on, smelling
its rusty smell.
“Hello, in there,” he whispered to every
house on every side as he moved. “What’s up tonight
on Channel 4, Channel 7, Channel 9? Where are the
cowboys rushing, and do I see the United States
Cavalry over the next hill to the rescue?”
The street was silent and long and empty,
with only his shadow moving like the shadow of a
hawk in midcountry. If he closed his eyes and stood
very still, frozen, he could imagine himself upon the
center of a plain, a wintry, windless Arizona desert
with no house in a thousand miles, and only dry river
beds, the streets, for company.
“What is it now?” he asked the houses,
noticing his wrist watch. “Eight-thirty P.M.? Time for
a dozen assorted murders? A quiz? A revue? A
comedian falling off the stage?”
Was that a murmur of laughter from within a
moon-white house? He hesitated, but went on when
nothing more happened. He stumbled over a
particularly uneven section of sidewalk. The cement
was vanishing under flowers and grass. In ten years
of walking by night or day, for thousands of miles, he
had never met another person walking, not once in all
that time.
He came to a cloverleaf intersection which
stood silent where two main highways crossed the
town. During the day it was a thunderous surge of
cars, the gas stations open, a great insect rustling and
a ceaseless jockeying for position as the scarab-
beetles, a faint incense puttering from their exhausts,
skimmed homeward to the far directions. But now
these highways, too, were like streams in a dry
season, all stone and bed and moon radiance.
He turned back on a side street, circling
around toward his home. He was within a block of his
destination when the lone car turned a corner quite
suddenly and flashed a fierce white cone of light
upon him. He stood entranced, not unlike a night
moth, stunned by the illumination, and then drawn
toward it.
A metallic voice called to him:
“Stand still. Stay where you are! Don’t
move!”
He halted.
“Put up your hands!”
“But-” he said.
“Your hands up! Or we’ll Shoot!”
The police, of course, but what a rare,
incredible thing; in a city of three million, there was
only one police car left, wasn’t that correct? Ever
since a year ago, 2052, the election year, the force
had been cut down from three cars to one. Crime was
ebbing; there was no need now for the police, save for
this one lone car wandering and wandering the empty
streets.
“Your name?” said the police car in a
metallic whisper. He couldn’t see the men in it for the
bright light in his eyes.
“Leonard Mead,” he said.
“Speak up!”
“Leonard Mead!”
“Business or profession?”
“I guess you’d call me a writer.”
“No profession,” said the police car, as if

!”#$%&$’$()*+,-.%/01203
45%6,5%7*,’48*5
talking to itself. The light held him fixed, like a
museum specimen, needle thrust through chest.
“You might say that, ” said Mr. Mead. He
hadn’t written in years. Magazines and books didn’t
sell any more. Everything went on in the tomblike
houses at night now, he thought, continuing his fancy.
The tombs, ill-lit by television light, where the people
sat like the dead, the gray or multicolored lights
touching their faces, but never really touching them.
“No profession,” said the phonograph voice,
hissing. “What are you doing out?”
“Walking,” said Leonard Mead.
“Walking!”
“Just walking,” he said simply, but his face
felt cold.
“Walking, just walking, walking?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Walking where? For what?”
“Walking for air. Walking to see.”
“Your address!”
“Eleven South Saint James Street.”
“And there is air in your house, you have an
air conditioner, Mr. Mead?”
“Yes.”
“And you have a viewing screen in your
house to see with?”
“No.”
“No?” There was a crackling quiet that in
itself was an accusation.
“Are you married, Mr. Mead?”
“No.”
“Not married,” said the police voice behind
the fiery beam, The moon was high and clear among
the stars and the houses were gray and silent.
“Nobody wanted me,” said Leonard Mead
with a smile.
“Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to!”
Leonard Mead waited in the cold night.
“Just walking, Mr. Mead?”
“Yes.”
“But you haven’t explained for what
purpose.”
“I explained; for air, and to see, and just to
walk.”
“Have you done this often?”
“Every night for years.”
The police car sat in the center of the street
with its radio throat faintly humming.
“Well, Mr. Mead,” it said.
“Is that all?” he asked politely.
“Yes,” said the voice. “Here.” There was a
sigh, a pop. The back door of the police car sprang
wide. “Get in.”
“Wait a minute, I haven’t done anything!”
“Get in.”
“I protest!”
“Mr. Mead.”
He walked like a man suddenly drunk. As he
passed the front window of the car he looked in. As
he had expected, there was no one in the front seat, no
one in the car at all.
“Get in.”
He put his hand to the door and peered into
the back seat, which was a little cell, a little black jail
with bars. It smelled of riveted steel. It smelled of
harsh antiseptic; it smelled too clean and hard and
metallic. There was nothing soft there.
“Now if you had a wife to give you an alibi,”
said the iron voice. “But-”
“Where are you taking me?”
The car hesitated, or rather gave a faint
whirring click, as if information, somewhere, was
dropping card by punch-slotted card under electric
eyes. “To the Psychiatric Center for Research on
Regressive Tendencies.”
He got in. The door shut with a soft thud.
The police car rolled through the night avenues,
flashing its dim lights ahead.
They passed one house on one street a
moment later, one house in an entire city of houses
that were dark, but this one particular house had all of
its electric lights brightly lit, every window a loud
yellow illumination, square and warm in the cool
darkness.
“That’s my house,” said Leonard Mead.
No one answered him.
The car moved down the empty river-bed
streets and off away, leaving the empty streets with
the empty side-walks, and no sound and no motion all
the rest of the chill November night.
Bradbury, Ray (1920- ), is an American
author best known for his fantasy stories and science
fiction. Bradbury’s best writing effectively combines
a lively imagination with a poetic style.
Collections of Bradbury’s stories include
The Martian Chronicles (1950), The Illustrated Man
(1951), The October Country (1955), I Sing the Body
Electric! (1969), Quicker Than the Eye (1996), and
One More for the Road (2002). His novel Fahrenheit
451 (1953) describes a society that bans the
ownership of books. His other novels include
Dandelion Wine (1957), a poetic story of a boy’s
summer in an Illinois town in 1928; and Something
Wicked This Way Comes (1962), a suspenseful
fantasy about a black magic carnival that comes to a
small Midwestern town. He has also written poetry,
screenplays, and stage plays.

$()*+,-.%/01203
45%6,5%7*,’48*5

talking to itself. The light held him fixed, like a
museum specimen, needle thrust through chest.
“You might say that, ” said Mr. Mead. He
hadn’t written in years. Magazines and books didn’t
sell any more. Everything went on in the tomblike
houses at night now, he thought, continuing his fancy.
The tombs, ill-lit by television light, where the people
sat like the dead, the gray or multicolored lights
touching their faces, but never really touching them.
“No profession,” said the phonograph voice,
hissing. “What are you doing out?”
“Walking,” said Leonard Mead.
“Walking!”
“Just walking,” he said simply, but his face
felt cold.
“Walking, just walking, walking?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Walking where? For what?”
“Walking for air. Walking to see.”
“Your address!”
“Eleven South Saint James Street.”
“And there is air in your house, you have an
air conditioner, Mr. Mead?”
“Yes.”
“And you have a viewing screen in your
house to see with?”
“No.”
“No?” There was a crackling quiet that in
itself was an accusation.
“Are you married, Mr. Mead?”
“No.”
“Not married,” said the police voice behind
the fiery beam, The moon was high and clear among
the stars and the houses were gray and silent.
“Nobody wanted me,” said Leonard Mead
with a smile.
“Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to!”
Leonard Mead waited in the cold night.
“Just walking, Mr. Mead?”
“Yes.”
“But you haven’t explained for what
purpose.”
“I explained; for air, and to see, and just to
walk.”
“Have you done this often?”
“Every night for years.”
The police car sat in the center of the street
with its radio throat faintly humming.
“Well, Mr. Mead,” it said.
“Is that all?” he asked politely.
“Yes,” said the voice. “Here.” There was a
sigh, a pop. The back door of the police car sprang
wide. “Get in.”
“Wait a minute, I haven’t done anything!”
“Get in.”
“I protest!”
“Mr. Mead.”
He walked like a man suddenly drunk. As he
passed the front window of the car he looked in. As
he had expected, there was no one in the front seat, no
one in the car at all.
“Get in.”
He put his hand to the door and peered into
the back seat, which was a little cell, a little black jail
with bars. It smelled of riveted steel. It smelled of
harsh antiseptic; it smelled too clean and hard and
metallic. There was nothing soft there.
“Now if you had a wife to give you an alibi,”
said the iron voice. “But-”
“Where are you taking me?”
The car hesitated, or rather gave a faint
whirring click, as if information, somewhere, was
dropping card by punch-slotted card under electric
eyes. “To the Psychiatric Center for Research on
Regressive Tendencies.”
He got in. The door shut with a soft thud.
The police car rolled through the night avenues,
flashing its dim lights ahead.
They passed one house on one street a
moment later, one house in an entire city of houses
that were dark, but this one particular house had all of
its electric lights brightly lit, every window a loud
yellow illumination, square and warm in the cool
darkness.
“That’s my house,” said Leonard Mead.
No one answered him.
The car moved down the empty river-bed
streets and off away, leaving the empty streets with
the empty side-walks, and no sound and no motion all
the rest of the chill November night.
Bradbury, Ray (1920- ), is an American
author best known for his fantasy stories and science
fiction. Bradbury’s best writing effectively combines
a lively imagination with a poetic style.
Collections of Bradbury’s stories include
The Martian Chronicles (1950), The Illustrated Man
(1951), The October Country (1955), I Sing the Body
Electric! (1969), Quicker Than the Eye (1996), and
One More for the Road (2002). His novel Fahrenheit
451 (1953) describes a society that bans the
ownership of books. His other novels include
Dandelion Wine (1957), a poetic story of a boy’s
summer in an Illinois town in 1928; and Something
Wicked This Way Comes (1962), a suspenseful
fantasy about a black magic carnival that comes to a
small Midwestern town. He has also written poetry,
screenplays, and stage plays.

$()*+,-.%/01203
45%6,5%7*,’48*5

Name of story: _

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Author and important information about him/her: ___________________________________________________

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Time period/era: _____________________________________________________________________________

Setting: ____________________________________________________________________________________

Characters: major (name and briefly describe: round/dynamic? Flat/static?) ______________________________

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Minor (name and identify): _____________________________________________________________________

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Theme: _____________________________________________________________________________________

___________________________________________________________________________________________Plot: _______________________________________________________________________________________

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Point of view (type of narrator): _________________________________________________________________

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Conflict(s): _________________________________________________________________________________

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________Questions for discussion: ______________________________________________________________________

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Likes: ______________________________________________________________________________________

___________________________________________________________________________________________Dislikes: ____________________________________________________________________________________

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New words: _________________________________________________________________________________

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“Joy” (

883) (also called “Rapture”) by Anton Chekhov (1860-1904)

Anton Chekhov

, translated by

Constance Garnett

Published in The Schoolmaster and Other Stories,1921

IT was twelve o’clock at night.

Mitya Kuldarov, with excited face and ruffled hair, flew into his parents’ flat, and hurriedly ran through all the rooms. His parents had already gone to bed. His sister was in bed, finishing the last page of a novel. His schoolboy brothers were asleep.

“Where have you come from?” cried his parents in amazement. “What is the matter with you?

“Oh, don’t ask! I never expected it; no, I never expected it! It’s . . . it’s positively incredible!”

Mitya laughed and sank into an armchair, so overcome by happiness that he could not stand on his legs.

“It’s incredible! You can’t imagine! Look!”

His sister jumped out of bed and, throwing a quilt round her, went in to her brother. The schoolboys woke up.

“What’s the matter? You don’t look like yourself!”

“It’s because I am so delighted, Mamma! Do you know, now all Russia knows of me! All Russia! Till now only you knew that there was a registration clerk called Dmitry Kuldarov, and now all Russia knows it! Mamma! Oh, Lord!” Mitya jumped up, ran up and down all the rooms, and then sat down again.

“Why, what has happened? Tell us sensibly!”

“You live like wild beasts, you don’t read the newspapers and take no notice of what’s published, and there’s so much that is interesting in the papers. If anything happens it’s all known at once, nothing is hidden! How happy I am! Oh, Lord! You know it’s only celebrated people whose names are published in the papers, and now they have gone and published mine!”

“What do you mean? Where?”

The papa turned pale. The mamma glanced at the holy image and crossed herself. The schoolboys jumped out of bed and, just as they were, in short nightshirts, went up to their brother.

“Yes! My name has been published! Now all Russia knows of me! Keep the paper, mamma, in memory of it! We will read it sometimes! Look!”

Mitya pulled out of his pocket a copy of the paper, gave it to his father, and pointed with his finger to a passage marked with blue pencil.

“Read it!”

The father put on his spectacles.

“Do read it!”

The mamma glanced at the holy image and crossed herself. The papa cleared his throat and began to read: “At eleven o’clock on the evening of the 29th of December, a registration clerk of the name of Dmitry Kuldarov . . .”

“You see, you see! Go on!”

“. . . a registration clerk of the name of Dmitry Kuldarov, coming from the beershop in Kozihin’s buildings in Little Bronnaia in an intoxicated condition. . .”

“That’s me and Semyon Petrovitch. . . . It’s all described exactly! Go on! Listen!”

“. . . intoxicated condition, slipped and fell under a horse belonging to a sledge-driver, a peasant of the village of Durikino in the Yuhnovsky district, called Ivan Drotov. The frightened horse, stepping over Kuldarov and drawing the sledge over him, together with a Moscow merchant of the second guild called Stepan Lukov, who was in it, dashed along the street and was caught by some house-porters. Kuldarov, at first in an unconscious condition, was taken to the police station and there examined by the doctor. The blow he had received on the back of his head. . .”

“It was from the shaft, papa. Go on! Read the rest!”

“. . . he had received on the back of his head turned out not to be serious. The incident was duly reported. Medical aid was given to the injured man. . . .”

“They told me to foment the back of my head with cold water. You have read it now? Ah! So you see. Now it’s all over Russia! Give it here!”

Mitya seized the paper, folded it up and put it into his pocket.

“I’ll run round to the Makarovs and show it to them. . . . I must show it to the Ivanitskys too, Natasya Ivanovna, and Anisim Vassilyitch. . . . I’ll run! Good-bye!”

Mitya put on his cap with its cockade and, joyful and triumphant, ran into the street.

[The end]
Anton Chekhov’s short story: “Joy”

________________________________________________

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