The Rocking-Horse Winner byD. H. Lawrence (1885-1930)Word Count: 6015 There was a woman who was beautiful, who started with all the advantages, yet she had no luck. She married for love, and the love turned to dust. She had bonny children, yet she felt they had been thrust upon her, and she could not love them. They looked at her coldly, as if they were finding fault with her. And hurriedly she felt she must cover up some fault in herself. Yet what it was that she must cover up she never knew. Nevertheless, when her children were present, she always felt the centre of her heart go hard. This troubled her, and in her manner she was all the more gentle and anxious for her children, as if she loved them very much. Only she herself knew that at the centre of her heart was a hard little place that could not feel love, no, not for anybody. Everybody else said of her: "She is such a good mother. She adores her children." Only she herself, and her children themselves, knew it was not so. They read it in each other's eyes.  There were a boy and two little girls. They lived in a pleasant house, with a garden, and they had discreet servants, and felt themselves superior to anyone in the neighbourhood.  Although they lived in style, they felt always an anxiety in the house. There was never enough money. The mother had a small income, and the father had a small income, but not nearly enough for the social position which they had to keep up. The father went into town to some office. But though he had good prospects, these prospects never materialised. There was always the grinding sense of the shortage of money, though the style was always kept up.  At last the mother said: "I will see if I can't make something." But she did not know where to begin. She racked her brains, and tried this thing and the other, but could not find anything successful. The failure made deep lines come into her face. Her children were growing up, they would have to go to school. There must be more money, there must be more money. The father, who was always very handsome and expensive in his tastes, seemed as if he never would be able to do anything worth doing. And the mother, who had a great belief in herself, did not succeed any better, and her tastes were just as expensive.  And so the house came to be haunted by the unspoken phrase: There must be more money! There must be more money! The children could hear it all the time though nobody said it aloud. They heard it at Christmas, when the expensive and splendid toys filled the nursery. Behind the shining modern rocking-horse, behind the smart doll's house, a voice would start whispering: "There must be more money! There must be more money!" And the children would stop playing, to listen for a moment. They would look into each other's eyes, to see if they had all heard. And each one saw in the eyes of the other two that they too had heard. "There must be more money! There must be more money!"  It came whispering from the ...

1. The Rocking-Horse Winner
byD. H. Lawrence (1885-1930)Word Count: 6015
There was a woman who was beautiful, who started with all the
advantages, yet she had no luck. She married for love, and the
love turned to dust. She had bonny children, yet she felt they
had been thrust upon her, and she could not love them. They
looked at her coldly, as if they were finding fault with her. And
hurriedly she felt she must cover up some fault in herself. Yet
what it was that she must cover up she never knew.
Nevertheless, when her children were present, she always felt
the centre of her heart go hard. This troubled her, and in her
manner she was all the more gentle and anxious for her
children, as if she loved them very much. Only she herself knew
that at the centre of her heart was a hard little place that could
not feel love, no, not for anybody. Everybody else said of her:
"She is such a good mother. She adores her children." Only she
herself, and her children themselves, knew it was not so. They
read it in each other's eyes.
There were a boy and two little girls. They lived in a pleasant
house, with a garden, and they had discreet servants, and felt
themselves superior to anyone in the neighbourhood.
Although they lived in style, they felt always an anxiety in the
house. There was never enough money. The mother had a small
income, and the father had a small income, but not nearly
enough for the social position which they had to keep up. The
father went into town to some office. But though he had good
prospects, these prospects never materialised. There was always
the grinding sense of the shortage of money, though the style
was always kept up.

2. At last the mother said: "I will see if I can't make something."
But she did not know where to begin. She racked her brains, and
tried this thing and the other, but could not find anything
successful. The failure made deep lines come into her face. Her
children were growing up, they would have to go to school.
There must be more money, there must be more money. The
father, who was always very handsome and expensive in his
tastes, seemed as if he never would be able to do anything worth
doing. And the mother, who had a great belief in herself, did not
succeed any better, and her tastes were just as expensive.
And so the house came to be haunted by the unspoken phrase:
There must be more money! There must be more money! The
children could hear it all the time though nobody said it aloud.
They heard it at Christmas, when the expensive and splendid
toys filled the nursery. Behind the shining modern rocking-
horse, behind the smart doll's house, a voice would start
whispering: "There must be more money! There must be more
money!" And the children would stop playing, to listen for a
moment. They would look into each other's eyes, to see if they
had all heard. And each one saw in the eyes of the other two
that they too had heard. "There must be more money! There
must be more money!"
It came whispering from the springs of the still-swaying
rocking-horse, and even the horse, bending his wooden,
champing head, heard it. The big doll, sitting so pink and
smirking in her new pram, could hear it quite plainly, and
seemed to be smirking all the more self-consciously because of
it. The foolish puppy, too, that took the place of the teddy-bear,
he was looking so extraordinarily foolish for no other reason
but that he heard the secret whisper all over the house: "There
must be more money!"
Yet nobody ever said it aloud. The whisper was everywhere, and
therefore no one spoke it. Just as no one ever says: "We are

3. breathing!" in spite of the fact that breath is coming and going
all the time.
"Mother," said the boy Paul one day, "why don't we keep a car
of our own? Why do we always use uncle's, or else a taxi?"
"Because we're the poor members of the family," said the
mother.
"But why are we, mother?"
"Well - I suppose," she said slowly and bitterly, "it's because
your father has no luck."
The boy was silent for some time.
"Is luck money, mother?" he asked, rather timidly.
"No, Paul. Not quite. It's what causes you to have money."
"Oh!" said Paul vaguely. "I thought when Uncle Oscar said
filthy lucker, it meant money."
"Filthy lucre does mean money," said the mother. "But it's
lucre, not luck."
"Oh!" said the boy. "Then what is luck, mother?"
"It's what causes you to have money. If you're lucky you have
money. That's why it's better to be born lucky than rich. If
you're rich, you may lose your money. But if you're lucky, you
will always get more money."
"Oh! Will you? And is father not lucky?"
"Very unlucky, I should say," she said bitterly.

4. The boy watched her with unsure eyes.
"Why?" he asked.
"I don't know. Nobody ever knows why one person is lucky and
another unlucky."
"Don't they? Nobody at all? Does nobody know?"
"Perhaps God. But He never tells."
"He ought to, then. And are'nt you lucky either, mother?"
"I can't be, it I married an unlucky husband."
"But by yourself, aren't you?"
"I used to think I was, before I married. Now I think I am very
unlucky indeed."
"Why?"
"Well - never mind! Perhaps I'm not really," she said.
The child looked at her to see if she meant it. But he saw, by
the lines of her mouth, that she was only trying to hide
something from him.
"Well, anyhow," he said stoutly, "I'm a lucky person."
"Why?" said his mother, with a sudden laugh.
He stared at her. He didn't even know why he had said it.
"God told me," he asserted, brazening it out.

5. "I hope He did, dear!", she said, again with a laugh, but rather
bitter.
"He did, mother!"
"Excellent!" said the mother, using one of her husband's
exclamations.
The boy saw she did not believe him; or rather, that she paid no
attention to his assertion. This angered him somewhere, and
made him want to compel her attention.
He went off by himself, vaguely, in a childish way, seeking for
the clue to 'luck'. Absorbed, taking no heed of other people, he
went about with a sort of stealth, seeking inwardly for luck. He
wanted luck, he wanted it, he wanted it. When the two girls
were playing dolls in the nursery, he would sit on his big
rocking-horse, charging madly into space, with a frenzy that
made the little girls peer at him uneasily. Wildly the horse
careered, the waving dark hair of the boy tossed, his eyes had a
strange glare in them. The little girls dared not speak to him.
When he had ridden to the end of his mad little journey, he
climbed down and stood in front of his rocking-horse, staring
fixedly into its lowered face. Its red mouth was slightly open,
its big eye was wide and glassy-bright.
"Now!" he would silently command the snorting steed. "Now
take me to where there is luck! Now take me!"
And he would slash the horse on the neck with the little whip he
had asked Uncle Oscar for. He knew the horse could take him to
where there was luck, if only he forced it. So he would mount
again and start on his furious ride, hoping at last to get there.

6. "You'll break your horse, Paul!" said the nurse.
"He's always riding like that! I wish he'd leave off!" said his
elder sister Joan.
But he only glared down on them in silence. Nurse gave him up.
She could make nothing of him. Anyhow, he was growing
beyond her.
One day his mother and his Uncle Oscar came in when he was
on one of his furious rides. He did not speak to them.
"Hallo, you young jockey! Riding a winner?" said his uncle.
"Aren't you growing too big for a rocking-horse? You're not a
very little boy any longer, you know," said his mother.
But Paul only gave a blue glare from his big, rather close-set
eyes. He would speak to nobody when he was in full tilt. His
mother watched him with an anxious expression on her face.
At last he suddenly stopped forcing his horse into the
mechanical gallop and slid down.
"Well, I got there!" he announced fiercely, his blue eyes still
flaring, and his sturdy long legs straddling apart.
"Where did you get to?" asked his mother.
"Where I wanted to go," he flared back at her.
"That's right, son!" said Uncle Oscar. "Don't you stop till you
get there. What's the horse's name?"
"He doesn't have a name," said the boy.

7. "Get's on without all right?" asked the uncle.
"Well, he has different names. He was called Sansovino last
week."
"Sansovino, eh? Won the Ascot. How did you know this
name?"
"He always talks about horse-races with Bassett," said Joan.
The uncle was delighted to find that his small nephew was
posted with all the racing news. Bassett, the young gardener,
who had been wounded in the left foot in the war and had got
his present job through Oscar Cresswell, whose batman he had
been, was a perfect blade of the 'turf'. He lived in the racing
events, and the small boy lived with him.
Oscar Cresswell got it all from Bassett.
"Master Paul comes and asks me, so I can't do more than tell
him, sir," said Bassett, his face terribly serious, as if he were
speaking of religious matters.
"And does he ever put anything on a horse he fancies?"
"Well - I don't want to give him away - he's a young sport, a
fine sport, sir. Would you mind asking him himself? He sort of
takes a pleasure in it, and perhaps he'd feel I was giving him
away, sir, if you don't mind.
Bassett was serious as a church.
The uncle went back to his nephew and took him off for a ride
in the car.
"Say, Paul, old man, do you ever put anything on a horse?" the

8. uncle asked.
The boy watched the handsome man closely.
"Why, do you think I oughtn't to?" he parried.
"Not a bit of it! I thought perhaps you might give me a tip for
the Lincoln."
The car sped on into the country, going down to Uncle Oscar's
place in Hampshire.
"Honour bright?" said the nephew.
"Honour bright, son!" said the uncle.
"Well, then, Daffodil."
"Daffodil! I doubt it, sonny. What about Mirza?"
"I only know the winner," said the boy. "That's Daffodil."
"Daffodil, eh?"
There was a pause. Daffodil was an obscure horse
comparatively.
"Uncle!"
"Yes, son?"
"You won't let it go any further, will you? I promised Bassett."
"Bassett be damned, old man! What's he got to do with it?"
"We're partners. We've been partners from the first. Uncle, he

9. lent me my first five shillings, which I lost. I promised him,
honour bright, it was only between me and him; only you gave
me that ten-shilling note I started winning with, so I thought
you were lucky. You won't let it go any further, will you?"
The boy gazed at his uncle from those big, hot, blue eyes, set
rather close together. The uncle stirred and laughed uneasily.
"Right you are, son! I'll keep your tip private. How much are
you putting on him?"
"All except twenty pounds," said the boy. "I keep that in
reserve."
The uncle thought it a good joke.
"You keep twenty pounds in reserve, do you, you young
romancer? What are you betting, then?"
"I'm betting three hundred," said the boy gravely. "But it's
between you and me, Uncle Oscar! Honour bright?"
"It's between you and me all right, you young Nat Gould," he
said, laughing. "But where's your three hundred?"
"Bassett keeps it for me. We're partner's."
"You are, are you! And what is Bassett putting on Daffodil?"
"He won't go quite as high as I do, I expect. Perhaps he'll go a
hundred and fifty."
"What, pennies?" laughed the uncle.
"Pounds," said the child, with a surprised look at his uncle.
"Bassett keeps a bigger reserve than I do."

10. Between wonder and amusement Uncle Oscar was silent. He
pursued the matter no further, but he determined to take his
nephew with him to the Lincoln races.
"Now, son," he said, "I'm putting twenty on Mirza, and I'll put
five on for you on any horse you fancy. What's your pick?"
"Daffodil, uncle."
"No, not the fiver on Daffodil!"
"I should if it was my own fiver," said the child.
"Good! Good! Right you are! A fiver for me and a fiver for you
on Daffodil."
The child had never been to a race-meeting before, and his eyes
were blue fire. He pursed his mouth tight and watched. A
Frenchman just in front had put his money on Lancelot. Wild
with excitement, he flayed his arms up and down, yelling
"Lancelot!, Lancelot!" in his French accent.
Daffodil came in first, Lancelot second, Mirza third. The child,
flushed and with eyes blazing, was curiously serene. His uncle
brought him four five-pound notes, four to one.
"What am I to do with these?" he cried, waving them before the
boys eyes.
"I suppose we'll talk to Bassett," said the boy. "I expect I have
fifteen hundred now; and twenty in reserve; and this twenty."
His uncle studied him for some moments.
"Look here, son!" he said. "You're not serious about Bassett and

11. that fifteen hundred, are you?"
"Yes, I am. But it's between you and me, uncle. Honour
bright?"
"Honour bright all right, son! But I must talk to Bassett."
"If you'd like to be a partner, uncle, with Bassett and me, we
could all be partners. Only, you'd have to promise, honour
bright, uncle, not to let it go beyond us three. Bassett and I are
lucky, and you must be lucky, because it was your ten shillings
I started winning with ..."
Uncle Oscar took both Bassett and Paul into Richmond Park for
an afternoon, and there they talked.
"It's like this, you see, sir," Bassett said. "Master Paul would
get me talking about racing events, spinning yarns, you know,
sir. And he was always keen on knowing if I'd made or if I'd
lost. It's about a year since, now, that I put five shillings on
Blush of Dawn for him: and we lost. Then the luck turned, with
that ten shillings he had from you: that we put on Singhalese.
And since that time, it's been pretty steady, all things
considering. What do you say, Master Paul?"
"We're all right when we're sure," said Paul. "It's when we're
not quite sure that we go down."
"Oh, but we're careful then," said Bassett.
"But when are you sure?" smiled Uncle Oscar.
"It's Master Paul, sir," said Bassett in a secret, religious voice.
"It's as if he had it from heaven. Like Daffodil, now, for the
Lincoln. That was as sure as eggs."

12. "Did you put anything on Daffodil?" asked Oscar Cresswell.
"Yes, sir, I made my bit."
"And my nephew?"
Bassett was obstinately silent, looking at Paul.
"I made twelve hundred, didn't I, Bassett? I told uncle I was
putting three hundred on Daffodil."
"That's right," said Bassett, nodding.
"But where's the money?" asked the uncle.
"I keep it safe locked up, sir. Master Paul he can have it any
minute he likes to ask for it."
"What, fifteen hundred pounds?"
"And twenty! And forty, that is, with the twenty he made on the
course."
"It's amazing!" said the uncle.
"If Master Paul offers you to be partners, sir, I would, if I were
you: if you'll excuse me," said Bassett.
Oscar Cresswell thought about it.
"I'll see the money," he said.
They drove home again, and, sure enough, Bassett came round
to the garden-house with fifteen hundred pounds in notes. The
twenty pounds reserve was left with Joe Glee, in the Turf
Commission deposit.

13. "You see, it's all right, uncle, when I'm sure! Then we go
strong, for all we're worth, don't we, Bassett?"
"We do that, Master Paul."
"And when are you sure?" said the uncle, laughing.
"Oh, well, sometimes I'm absolutely sure, like about Daffodil,"
said the boy; "and sometimes I have an idea; and sometimes I
haven't even an idea, have I, Bassett? Then we're careful,
because we mostly go down."
"You do, do you! And when you're sure, like about Daffodil,
what makes you sure, sonny?"
"Oh, well, I don't know," said the boy uneasily. "I'm sure, you
know, uncle; that's all."
"It's as if he had it from heaven, sir," Bassett reiterated.
"I should say so!" said the uncle.
But he became a partner. And when the Leger was coming on
Paul was 'sure' about Lively Spark, which was a quite
inconsiderable horse. The boy insisted on putting a thousand on
the horse, Bassett went for five hundred, and Oscar Cresswell
two hundred. Lively Spark came in first, and the betting had
been ten to one against him. Paul had made ten thousand.
"You see," he said. "I was absolutely sure of him."
Even Oscar Cresswell had cleared two thousand.
"Look here, son," he said, "this sort of thing makes me
nervous."

14. "It needn't, uncle! Perhaps I shan't be sure again for a long
time."
"But what are you going to do with your money?" asked the
uncle.
"Of course," said the boy, "I started it for mother. She said she
had no luck, because father is unlucky, so I thought if I was
lucky, it might stop whispering."
"What might stop whispering?"
"Our house. I hate our house for whispering."
"What does it whisper?"
"Why - why" - the boy fidgeted - "why, I don't know. But it's
always short of money, you know, uncle."
"I know it, son, I know it."
"You know people send mother writs, don't you, uncle?"
"I'm afraid I do," said the uncle.
"And then the house whispers, like people laughing at you
behind your back. It's awful, that is! I thought if I was lucky -"
"You might stop it," added the uncle.
The boy watched him with big blue eyes, that had an uncanny
cold fire in them, and he said never a word.
"Well, then!" said the uncle. "What are we doing?"

15. "I shouldn't like mother to know I was lucky," said the boy.
"Why not, son?"
"She'd stop me."
"I don't think she would."
"Oh!" - and the boy writhed in an odd way - "I don't want her to
know, uncle."
"All right, son! We'll manage it without her knowing."
They managed it very easily. Paul, at the other's suggestion,
handed over five thousand pounds to his uncle, who deposited it
with the family lawyer, who was then to inform Paul's mother
that a relative had put five thousand pounds into his hands,
which sum was to be paid out a thousand pounds at a time, on
the mother's birthday, for the next five years.
"So she'll have a birthday present of a thousand pounds for five
successive years," said Uncle Oscar. "I hope it won't make it all
the harder for her later."
Paul's mother had her birthday in November. The house had
been 'whispering' worse than ever lately, and, even in spite of
his luck, Paul could not bear up against it. He was very anxious
to see the effect of the birthday letter, telling his mother about
the thousand pounds.
When there were no visitors, Paul now took his meals with his
parents, as he was beyond the nursery control. His mother went
into town nearly every day. She had discovered that she had an
odd knack of sketching furs and dress materials, so she worked
secretly in the studio of a friend who was the chief 'artist' for
the leading drapers. She drew the figures of ladies in furs and

16. ladies in silk and sequins for the newspaper advertisements.
This young woman artist earned several thousand pounds a year,
but Paul's mother only made several hundreds, and she was
again dissatisfied. She so wanted to be first in something, and
she did not succeed, even in making sketches for drapery
advertisements.
She was down to breakfast on the morning of her birthday. Paul
watched her face as she read her letters. He knew the lawyer's
letter. As his mother read it, her face hardened and became
more expressionless. Then a cold, determined look came on her
mouth. She hid the letter under the pile of others, and said not a
word about it.
"Didn't you have anything nice in the post for your birthday,
mother?" said Paul.
"Quite moderately nice," she said, her voice cold and hard and
absent.
She went away to town without saying more.
But in the afternoon Uncle Oscar appeared. He said Paul's
mother had had a long interview with the lawyer, asking if the
whole five thousand could not be advanced at once, as she was
in debt.
"What do you think, uncle?" said the boy.
"I leave it to you, son."
"Oh, let her have it, then! We can get some more with the
other," said the boy.
"A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, laddie!" said
Uncle Oscar.

17. "But I'm sure to know for the Grand National; or the
Lincolnshire; or else the Derby. I'm sure to know for one of
them," said Paul.
So Uncle Oscar signed the agreement, and Paul's mother
touched the whole five thousand. Then something very curious
happened. The voices in the house suddenly went mad, like a
chorus of frogs on a spring evening. There were certain new
furnishings, and Paul had a tutor. He was really going to Eton,
his father's school, in the following autumn. There were flowers
in the winter, and a blossoming of the luxury Paul's mother had
been used to. And yet the voices in the house, behind the sprays
of mimosa and almond-blossom, and from under the piles of
iridescent cushions, simply trilled and screamed in a sort of
ecstasy: "There must be more money! Oh-h-h; there must be
more money. Oh, now, now-w! Now-w-w - there must be more
money! - more than ever! More than ever!"
It frightened Paul terribly. He studied away at his Latin and
Greek with his tutor. But his intense hours were spent with
Bassett. The Grand National had gone by: he had not 'known',
and had lost a hundred pounds. Summer was at hand. He was in
agony for the Lincoln. But even for the Lincoln he didn't
'know', and he lost fifty pounds. He became wild-eyed and
strange, as if something were going to explode in him.
"Let it alone, son! Don't you bother about it!" urged Uncle
Oscar. But it was as if the boy couldn't really hear what his
uncle was saying.
"I've got to know for the Derby! I've got to know for the
Derby!" the child reiterated, his big blue eyes blazing with a
sort of madness.
His mother noticed how overwrought he was.

18. "You'd better go to the seaside. Wouldn't you like to go now to
the seaside, instead of waiting? I think you'd better," she said,
looking down at him anxiously, her heart curiously heavy
because of him.
But the child lifted his uncanny blue eyes.
"I couldn't possibly go before the Derby, mother!" he said. "I
couldn't possibly!"
"Why not?" she said, her voice becoming heavy when she was
opposed. "Why not? You can still go from the seaside to see the
Derby with your Uncle Oscar, if that that's what you wish. No
need for you to wait here. Besides, I think you care too much
about these races. It's a bad sign. My family has been a
gambling family, and you won't know till you grow up how
much damage it has done. But it has done damage. I shall have
to send Bassett away, and ask Uncle Oscar not to talk racing to
you, unless you promise to be reasonable about it: go away to
the seaside and forget it. You're all nerves!"
"I'll do what you like, mother, so long as you don't send me
away till after the Derby," the boy said.
"Send you away from where? Just from this house?"
"Yes," he said, gazing at her.
"Why, you curious child, what makes you care about this house
so much, suddenly? I never knew you loved it."
He gazed at her without speaking. He had a secret within a
secret, something he had not divulged, even to Bassett or to his
Uncle Oscar.

19. But his mother, after standing undecided and a little bit sullen
for some moments, said: "Very well, then! Don't go to the
seaside till after the Derby, if you don't wish it. But promise me
you won't think so much about horse-racing and events as you
call them!"
"Oh no," said the boy casually. "I won't think much about them,
mother. You needn't worry. I wouldn't worry, mother, if I were
you."
"If you were me and I were you," said his mother, "I wonder
what we should do!"
"But you know you needn't worry, mother, don't you?" the boy
repeated.
"I should be awfully glad to know it," she said wearily.
"Oh, well, you can, you know. I mean, you ought to know you
needn't worry," he insisted.
"Ought I? Then I'll see about it," she said.
Paul's secret of secrets was his wooden horse, that which had no
name. Since he was emancipated from a nurse and a nursery-
governess, he had had his rocking-horse removed to his own
bedroom at the top of the house.
"Surely you're too big for a rocking-horse!" his mother had
remonstrated.
"Well, you see, mother, till I can have a real horse, I like to
have some sort of animal about," had been his quaint answer.
"Do you feel he keeps you company?" she laughed.

20. "Oh yes! He's very good, he always keeps me company, when
I'm there," said Paul.
So the horse, rather shabby, stood in an arrested prance in the
boy's bedroom.
The Derby was drawing near, and the boy grew more and more
tense. He hardly heard what was spoken to him, he was very
frail, and his eyes were really uncanny. His mother had sudden
strange seizures of uneasiness about him. Sometimes, for half
an hour, she would feel a sudden anxiety about him that was
almost anguish. She wanted to rush to him at once, and know he
was safe.
Two nights before the Derby, she was at a big party in town,
when one of her rushes of anxiety about her boy, her first-born,
gripped her heart till she could hardly speak. She fought with
the feeling, might and main, for she believed in common sense.
But it was too strong. She had to leave the dance and go
downstairs to telephone to the country. The children's nursery-
governess was terribly surprised and startled at being rung up in
the night.
"Are the children all right, Miss Wilmot?"
"Oh yes, they are quite all right."
"Master Paul? Is he all right?"
"He went to bed as right as a trivet. Shall I run up and look at
him?"
"No," said Paul's mother reluctantly. "No! Don't trouble. It's all
right. Don't sit up. We shall be home fairly soon." She did not
want her son's privacy intruded upon.

21. "Very good," said the governess.
It was about one o'clock when Paul's mother and father drove up
to their house. All was still. Paul's mother went to her room and
slipped off her white fur cloak. She had told her maid not to
wait up for her. She heard her husband downstairs, mixing a
whisky and soda.
And then, because of the strange anxiety at her heart, she stole
upstairs to her son's room. Noiselessly she went along the upper
corridor. Was there a faint noise? What was it?
She stood, with arrested muscles, outside his door, listening.
There was a strange, heavy, and yet not loud noise. Her heart
stood still. It was a soundless noise, yet rushing and powerful.
Something huge, in violent, hushed motion. What was it? What
in God's name was it? She ought to know. She felt that she
knew the noise. She knew what it was.
Yet she could not place it. She couldn't say what it was. And on
and on it went, like a madness.
Softly, frozen with anxiety and fear, she turned the door-
handle.
The room was dark. Yet in the space near the window, she heard
and saw something plunging to and fro. She gazed in fear and
amazement.
Then suddenly she switched on the light, and saw her son, in his
green pyjamas, madly surging on the rocking-horse. The blaze
of light suddenly lit him up, as he urged the wooden horse, and
lit her up, as she stood, blonde, in her dress of pale green and
crystal, in the doorway.
"Paul!" she cried. "Whatever are you doing?"

22. "It's Malabar!" he screamed in a powerful, strange voice. "It's
Malabar!"
His eyes blazed at her for one strange and senseless second, as
he ceased urging his wooden horse. Then he fell with a crash to
the ground, and she, all her tormented motherhood flooding
upon her, rushed to gather him up.
But he was unconscious, and unconscious he remained, with
some brain-fever. He talked and tossed, and his mother sat
stonily by his side.
"Malabar! It's Malabar! Bassett, Bassett, I know! It's Malabar!"
So the child cried, trying to get up and urge the rocking-horse
that gave him his inspiration.
"What does he mean by Malabar?" asked the heart-frozen
mother.
"I don't know," said the father stonily.
"What does he mean by Malabar?" she asked her brother Oscar.
"It's one of the horses running for the Derby," was the answer.
And, in spite of himself, Oscar Cresswell spoke to Bassett, and
himself put a thousand on Malabar: at fourteen to one.
The third day of the illness was critical: they were waiting for a
change. The boy, with his rather long, curly hair, was tossing
ceaselessly on the pillow. He neither slept nor regained
consciousness, and his eyes were like blue stones. His mother
sat, feeling her heart had gone, turned actually into a stone.

23. In the evening Oscar Cresswell did not come, but Bassett sent a
message, saying could he come up for one moment, just one
moment? Paul's mother was very angry at the intrusion, but on
second thoughts she agreed. The boy was the same. Perhaps
Bassett might bring him to consciousness.
The gardener, a shortish fellow with a little brown moustache
and sharp little brown eyes, tiptoed into the room, touched his
imaginary cap to Paul's mother, and stole to the bedside, staring
with glittering, smallish eyes at the tossing, dying child.
"Master Paul!" he whispered. "Master Paul! Malabar came in
first all right, a clean win. I did as you told me. You've made
over seventy thousand pounds, you have; you've got over eighty
thousand. Malabar came in all right, Master Paul."
"Malabar! Malabar! Did I say Malabar, mother? Did I say
Malabar? Do you think I'm lucky, mother? I knew Malabar,
didn't I? Over eighty thousand pounds! I call that lucky, don't
you, mother? Over eighty thousand pounds! I knew, didn't I
know I knew? Malabar came in all right. If I ride my horse till
I'm sure, then I tell you, Bassett, you can go as high as you like.
Did you go for all you were worth, Bassett?"
"I went a thousand on it, Master Paul."
"I never told you, mother, that if I can ride my horse, and get
there, then I'm absolutely sure - oh, absolutely! Mother, did I
ever tell you? I am lucky!"
"No, you never did," said his mother.
But the boy died in the night.
And even as he lay dead, his mother heard her brother's voice
saying to her, "My God, Hester, you're eighty-odd thousand to

24. the good, and a poor devil of a son to the bad. But, poor devil,
poor devil, he's best gone out of a life where he rides his
rocking-horse to find a winner."
The Lottery--Shirley Jackson
"The Lottery" (1948)
by Shirley Jackson
The morning of June 27th was clear and sunny, with the fresh
warmth of a full-summer day; the flowers
were blossoming profusely and the grass was richly green. The
people of the village began to gather in
the square, between the post office and the bank, around ten
o'clock; in some towns there were so many
people that the lottery took two days and had to be started on
June 2th. but in this village, where there
were only about three hundred people, the whole lottery took
less than two hours, so it could begin at ten
o'clock in the morning and still be through in time to allow the
villagers to get home for noon dinner.
The children assembled first, of course. School was recently
over for the summer, and the feeling of
liberty sat uneasily on most of them; they tended to gather
together quietly for a while before they broke
into boisterous play. and their talk was still of the classroom
and the teacher, of books and reprimands.
Bobby Martin had already stuffed his pockets full of stones, and
the other boys soon followed his
example, selecting the smoothest and roundest stones; Bobby
and Harry Jones and Dickie Delacroix-- the
villagers pronounced this name "Dellacroy"--eventually made a

25. great pile of stones in one corner of the
square and guarded it against the raids of the other boys. The
girls stood aside, talking among themselves,
looking over their shoulders at rolled in the dust or clung to the
hands of their older brothers or sisters.
Soon the men began to gather. surveying their own children,
speaking of planting and rain, tractors and
taxes. They stood together, away from the pile of stones in the
corner, and their jokes were quiet and they
smiled rather than laughed. The women, wearing faded house
dresses and sweaters, came shortly after
their menfolk. They greeted one another and exchanged bits of
gossip as they went to join their husbands.
Soon the women, standing by their husbands, began to call to
their children, and the children came
reluctantly, having to be called four or five times. Bobby Martin
ducked under his mother's grasping hand
and ran, laughing, back to the pile of stones. His father spoke
up sharply, and Bobby came quickly and
took his place between his father and his oldest brother.
The lottery was conducted--as were the square dances, the teen
club, the Halloween program--by Mr.
Summers. who had time and energy to devote to civic activities.
He was a round-faced, jovial man and he
ran the coal business, and people were sorry for him. because he
had no children and his wife was a
scold. When he arrived in the square, carrying the black wooden
box, there was a murmur of
conversation among the villagers, and he waved and called.
"Little late today, folks." The postmaster, Mr.
Graves, followed him, carrying a three- legged stool, and the
stool was put in the center of the square and
Mr. Summers set the black box down on it. The villagers kept
their distance, leaving a space between

26. themselves and the stool. and when Mr. Summers said, "Some
of you fellows want to give me a hand?"
there was a hesitation before two men. Mr. Martin and his
oldest son, Baxter. came forward to hold the
box steady on the stool while Mr. Summers stirred up the papers
inside it.
The original paraphernalia for the lottery had been lost long
ago, and the black box now resting on the
stool had been put into use even before Old Man Warner, the
oldest man in town, was born. Mr.
Summers spoke frequently to the villagers about making a new
box, but no one liked to upset even as
much tradition as was represented by the black box. There was a
story that the present box had been
made with some pieces of the box that had preceded it, the one
that had been constructed when the first
people settled down to make a village here. Every year, after the
lottery, Mr. Summers began talking
again about a new box, but every year the subject was allowed
to fade off without anything's being done.
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The Lottery--Shirley Jackson
The black box grew shabbier each year: by now it was no longer
completely black but splintered badly
along one side to show the original wood color, and in some
places faded or stained.
Mr. Martin and his oldest son, Baxter, held the black box
securely on the stool until Mr. Summers had

27. stirred the papers thoroughly with his hand. Because so much of
the ritual had been forgotten or
discarded, Mr. Summers had been successful in having slips of
paper substituted for the chips of wood
that had been used for generations. Chips of wood, Mr.
Summers had argued. had been all very well
when the village was tiny, but now that the population was more
than three hundred and likely to keep on
growing, it was necessary to use something that would fit more
easily into he black box. The night before
the lottery, Mr. Summers and Mr. Graves made up the slips of
paper and put them in the box, and it was
then taken to the safe of Mr. Summers' coal company and locked
up until Mr. Summers was ready to take
it to the square next morning. The rest of the year, the box was
put way, sometimes one place, sometimes
another; it had spent one year in Mr. Graves's barn and another
year underfoot in the post office. and
sometimes it was set on a shelf in the Martin grocery and left
there.
There was a great deal of fussing to be done before Mr.
Summers declared the lottery open. There were
the lists to make up--of heads of families. heads of households
in each family. members of each
household in each family. There was the proper swearing-in of
Mr. Summers by the postmaster, as the
official of the lottery; at one time, some people remembered,
there had been a recital of some sort,
performed by the official of the lottery, a perfunctory. tuneless
chant that had been rattled off duly each
year; some people believed that the official of the lottery used
to stand just so when he said or sang it,
others believed that he was supposed to walk among the people,
but years and years ago this p3rt of the
ritual had been allowed to lapse. There had been, also, a ritual

28. salute, which the official of the lottery had
had to use in addressing each person who came up to draw from
the box, but this also had changed with
time, until now it was felt necessary only for the official to
speak to each person approaching. Mr.
Summers was very good at all this; in his clean white shirt and
blue jeans. with one hand resting
carelessly on the black box. he seemed very proper and
important as he talked interminably to Mr. Graves
and the Martins.
Just as Mr. Summers finally left off talking and turned to the
assembled villagers, Mrs. Hutchinson came
hurriedly along the path to the square, her sweater thrown over
her shoulders, and slid into place in the
back of the crowd. "Clean forgot what day it was," she said to
Mrs. Delacroix, who stood next to her, and
they both laughed softly. "Thought my old man was out back
stacking wood," Mrs. Hutchinson went on.
"and then I looked out the window and the kids was gone, and
then I remembered it was the twenty-
seventh and came a-running." She dried her hands on her apron,
and Mrs. Delacroix said, "You're in time,
though. They're still talking away up there."
Mrs. Hutchinson craned her neck to see through the crowd and
found her husband and children standing
near the front. She tapped Mrs. Delacroix on the arm as a
farewell and began to make her way through
the crowd. The people separated good-humoredly to let her
through: two or three people said. in voices
just loud enough to be heard across the crowd, "Here comes
your, Missus, Hutchinson," and "Bill, she
made it after all." Mrs. Hutchinson reached her husband, and
Mr. Summers, who had been waiting, said
cheerfully. "Thought we were going to have to get on without

29. you, Tessie." Mrs. Hutchinson said.
grinning, "Wouldn't have me leave m'dishes in the sink, now,
would you. Joe?," and soft laughter ran
through the crowd as the people stirred back into position after
Mrs. Hutchinson's arrival.
"Well, now." Mr. Summers said soberly, "guess we better get
started, get this over with, so's we can go
back to work. Anybody ain't here?"
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The Lottery--Shirley Jackson
"Dunbar." several people said. "Dunbar. Dunbar."
Mr. Summers consulted his list. "Clyde Dunbar." he said.
"That's right. He's broke his leg, hasn't he?
Who's drawing for him?"
"Me. I guess," a woman said. and Mr. Summers turned to look
at her. "Wife draws for her husband." Mr.
Summers said. "Don't you have a grown boy to do it for you,
Janey?" Although Mr. Summers and
everyone else in the village knew the answer perfectly well, it
was the business of the official of the
lottery to ask such questions formally. Mr. Summers waited
with an expression of polite interest while
Mrs. Dunbar answered.
"Horace's not but sixteen vet." Mrs. Dunbar said regretfully.
"Guess I gotta fill in for the old man this
year."

30. "Right." Sr. Summers said. He made a note on the list he was
holding. Then he asked, "Watson boy
drawing this year?"
A tall boy in the crowd raised his hand. "Here," he said. "I'm
drawing for my mother and me." He blinked
his eyes nervously and ducked his head as several voices in the
crowd said thin#s like "Good fellow,
lack." and "Glad to see your mother's got a man to do it."
"Well," Mr. Summers said, "guess that's everyone. Old Man
Warner make it?"
"Here," a voice said. and Mr. Summers nodded.
A sudden hush fell on the crowd as Mr. Summers cleared his
throat and looked at the list. "All ready?" he
called. "Now, I'll read the names--heads of families first--and
the men come up and take a paper out of
the box. Keep the paper folded in your hand without looking at
it until everyone has had a turn.
Everything clear?"
The people had done it so many times that they only half
listened to the directions: most of them were
quiet. wetting their lips. not looking around. Then Mr. Summers
raised one hand high and said, "Adams."
A man disengaged himself from the crowd and came forward.
"Hi. Steve." Mr. Summers said. and Mr.
Adams said. "Hi. Joe." They grinned at one another humorlessly
and nervously. Then Mr. Adams reached
into the black box and took out a folded paper. He held it firmly
by one corner as he turned and went
hastily back to his place in the crowd. where he stood a little
apart from his family. not looking down at

31. his hand.
"Allen." Mr. Summers said. "Anderson.... Bentham."
"Seems like there's no time at all between lotteries any more."
Mrs. Delacroix said to Mrs. Graves in the
back row.
"Seems like we got through with the last one only last week."
"Time sure goes fast.-- Mrs. Graves said.
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The Lottery--Shirley Jackson
"Clark.... Delacroix"
"There goes my old man." Mrs. Delacroix said. She held her
breath while her husband went forward.
"Dunbar," Mr. Summers said, and Mrs. Dunbar went steadily to
the box while one of the women said.
"Go on. Janey," and another said, "There she goes."
"We're next." Mrs. Graves said. She watched while Mr. Graves
came around from the side of the box,
greeted Mr. Summers gravely and selected a slip of paper from
the box. By now, all through the crowd
there were men holding the small folded papers in their large
hand. turning them over and over nervously
Mrs. Dunbar and her two sons stood together, Mrs. Dunbar
holding the slip of paper.

32. "Harburt.... Hutchinson."
"Get up there, Bill," Mrs. Hutchinson said. and the people near
her laughed.
"Jones."
"They do say," Mr. Adams said to Old Man Warner, who stood
next to him, "that over in the north
village they're talking of giving up the lottery."
Old Man Warner snorted. "Pack of crazy fools," he said.
"Listening to the young folks, nothing's good
enough for them. Next thing you know, they'll be wanting to go
back to living in caves, nobody work any
more, live hat way for a while. Used to be a saying about
'Lottery in June, corn be heavy soon.' First thing
you know, we'd all be eating stewed chickweed and acorns.
There's always been a lottery," he added
petulantly. "Bad enough to see young Joe Summers up there
joking with everybody."
"Some places have already quit lotteries." Mrs. Adams said.
"Nothing but trouble in that," Old Man Warner said stoutly.
"Pack of young fools."
"Martin." And Bobby Martin watched his father go forward.
"Overdyke.... Percy."
"I wish they'd hurry," Mrs. Dunbar said to her older son. "I wish
they'd hurry."
"They're almost through," her son said.

33. "You get ready to run tell Dad," Mrs. Dunbar said.
Mr. Summers called his own name and then stepped forward
precisely and selected a slip from the box.
Then he called, "Warner."
"Seventy-seventh year I been in the lottery," Old Man Warner
said as he went through the crowd.
"Seventy-seventh time."
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The Lottery--Shirley Jackson
"Watson" The tall boy came awkwardly through the crowd.
Someone said, "Don't be nervous, Jack," and
Mr. Summers said, "Take your time, son."
"Zanini."
After that, there was a long pause, a breathless pause, until Mr.
Summers. holding his slip of paper in the
air, said, "All right, fellows." For a minute, no one moved, and
then all the slips of paper were opened.
Suddenly, all the women began to speak at once, saving. "Who
is it?," "Who's got it?," "Is it the
Dunbars?," "Is it the Watsons?" Then the voices began to say,
"It's Hutchinson. It's Bill," "Bill
Hutchinson's got it."
"Go tell your father," Mrs. Dunbar said to her older son.
People began to look around to see the Hutchinsons. Bill

34. Hutchinson was standing quiet, staring down at
the paper in his hand. Suddenly. Tessie Hutchinson shouted to
Mr. Summers. "You didn't give him time
enough to take any paper he wanted. I saw you. It wasn't fair!"
"Be a good sport, Tessie." Mrs. Delacroix called, and Mrs.
Graves said, "All of us took the same chance."
"Shut up, Tessie," Bill Hutchinson said.
"Well, everyone," Mr. Summers said, "that was done pretty fast,
and now we've got to be hurrying a little
more to get done in time." He consulted his next list. "Bill," he
said, "you draw for the Hutchinson
family. You got any other households in the Hutchinsons?"
"There's Don and Eva," Mrs. Hutchinson yelled. "Make them
take their chance!"
"Daughters draw with their husbands' families, Tessie," Mr.
Summers said gently. "You know that as
well as anyone else."
"It wasn't fair," Tessie said.
"I guess not, Joe." Bill Hutchinson said regretfully. "My
daughter draws with her husband's family; that's
only fair. And I've got no other family except the kids."
"Then, as far as drawing for families is concerned, it's you," Mr.
Summers said in explanation, "and as far
as drawing for households is concerned, that's you, too. Right?"
"Right," Bill Hutchinson said.
"How many kids, Bill?" Mr. Summers asked formally.

35. "Three," Bill Hutchinson said.
"There's Bill, Jr., and Nancy, and little Dave. And Tessie and
me."
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The Lottery--Shirley Jackson
"All right, then," Mr. Summers said. "Harry, you got their
tickets back?"
Mr. Graves nodded and held up the slips of paper. "Put them in
the box, then," Mr. Summers directed.
"Take Bill's and put it in."
"I think we ought to start over," Mrs. Hutchinson said, as
quietly as she could. "I tell you it wasn't fair.
You didn't give him time enough to choose. Everybody saw
that."
Mr. Graves had selected the five slips and put them in the box.
and he dropped all the papers but those
onto the ground. where the breeze caught them and lifted them
off.
"Listen, everybody," Mrs. Hutchinson was saying to the people
around her.
"Ready, Bill?" Mr. Summers asked. and Bill Hutchinson, with
one quick glance around at his wife and
children. nodded.

36. "Remember," Mr. Summers said. "take the slips and keep them
folded until each person has taken one.
Harry, you help little Dave." Mr. Graves took the hand of the
little boy, who came willingly with him up
to the box. "Take a paper out of the box, Davy." Mr. Summers
said. Davy put his hand into the box and
laughed. "Take just one paper." Mr. Summers said. "Harry, you
hold it for him." Mr. Graves took the
child's hand and removed the folded paper from the tight fist
and held it while little Dave stood next to
him and looked up at him wonderingly.
"Nancy next," Mr. Summers said. Nancy was twelve, and her
school friends breathed heavily as she went
forward switching her skirt, and took a slip daintily from the
box "Bill, Jr.," Mr. Summers said, and Billy,
his face red and his feet overlarge, near knocked the box over as
he got a paper out. "Tessie," Mr.
Summers said. She hesitated for a minute, looking around
defiantly. and then set her lips and went up to
the box. She snatched a paper out and held it behind her.
"Bill," Mr. Summers said, and Bill Hutchinson reached into the
box and felt around, bringing his hand
out at last with the slip of paper in it.
The crowd was quiet. A girl whispered, "I hope it's not Nancy,"
and the sound of the whisper reached the
edges of the crowd.
"It's not the way it used to be." Old Man Warner said clearly.
"People ain't the way they used to be."
"All right," Mr. Summers said. "Open the papers. Harry, you
open little Dave's."

37. Mr. Graves opened the slip of paper and there was a general
sigh through the crowd as he held it up and
everyone could see that it was blank. Nancy and Bill. Jr..
opened theirs at the same time. and both
beamed and laughed. turning around to the crowd and holding
their slips of paper above their heads.
"Tessie," Mr. Summers said. There was a pause, and then Mr.
Summers looked at Bill Hutchinson, and
Bill unfolded his paper and showed it. It was blank.
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The Lottery--Shirley Jackson
"It's Tessie," Mr. Summers said, and his voice was hushed.
"Show us her paper. Bill."
Bill Hutchinson went over to his wife and forced the slip of
paper out of her hand. It had a black spot on
it, the black spot Mr. Summers had made the night before with
the heavy pencil in the coal company
office. Bill Hutchinson held it up, and there was a stir in the
crowd.
"All right, folks." Mr. Summers said. "Let's finish quickly."
Although the villagers had forgotten the ritual and lost the
original black box, they still remembered to
use stones. The pile of stones the boys had made earlier was
ready; there were stones on the ground with
the blowing scraps of paper that had come out of the box

38. Delacroix selected a stone so large she had to
pick it up with both hands and turned to Mrs. Dunbar. "Come
on," she said. "Hurry up."
Mr. Dunbar had small stones in both hands, and she said.
gasping for breath. "I can't run at all. You'll
have to go ahead and I'll catch up with you."
The children had stones already. And someone gave little Davy
Hutchinson few pebbles.
Tessie Hutchinson was in the center of a cleared space by now,
and she held her hands out desperately as
the villagers moved in on her. "It isn't fair," she said. A stone
hit her on the side of the head. Old Man
Warner was saying, "Come on, come on, everyone." Steve
Adams was in the front of the crowd of
villagers, with Mrs. Graves beside him.
"It isn't fair, it isn't right," Mrs. Hutchinson screamed, and then
they were upon her.
•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
Discussion Questions:
1. Were you surprised by the ending of the story? If not, at what
point did you know what was going to happen? How does
Jackson start to foreshadow the ending in paragraphs 2 and 3?
Conversely, how does Jackson lull us into thinking that this is
just an ordinary story with an ordinary town?
2. Where does the story take place? In what way does the
setting affect the story? Does it make you more or less likely to
anticipate the ending?
3. In what ways are the characters differentiated from one
another? Looking back at the story, can you see why Tessie

39. Hutchinson is singled out as the "winner"?
4. What are some examples of irony in this story? For example,
why might the title, "The Lottery," or the opening description
in paragraph one, be considered ironic?
5. Jackson gives interesting names to a number of her
characters. Explain the possible allusions, irony or symbolism
of some
of these:
● Delacroix
● Graves
● Summers
● Bentham
● Hutchinson
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The Lottery--Shirley Jackson
● Warner
● Martin
7. Take a close look at Jackson's description of the black
wooden box (paragraph 5) and of the black spot on the fatal slip
of
paper (paragraph 72). What do these objects suggest to you?
Why is the black box described as "battered"? Are there any
other
symbols in the story?
8. What do you understand to be the writer's own attitude

40. toward the lottery and the stoning? Exactly what in the story
makes
her attitude clear to us?
9. This story satirizes a number of social issues, including the
reluctance of people to reject outdated traditions, ideas, rules,
laws, and practices. What kinds of traditions, practices, laws,
etc. might "The Lottery" represent?
10. This story was published in 1948, just after World War II.
What other cultural or historical events, attitudes, institutions,
or
rituals might Jackson be satirizing in this story?
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Local DiskThe Lottery--Shirley Jackson
ENGL 102
Fiction Essay Instructions
In Module/Week 3, you will write a 750-word (about 3–4-pages)
essay that compares and contrasts 2 stories from the Fiction
Unit. Before you begin writing the essay, carefully read the
guidelines for developing your paper topic that are given below.
Review the Fiction Essay Grading Rubric to see how your
submission will be graded. Gather all of your information, plan
the direction of your essay, and organize your ideas by
developing a 1-page thesis statement and outline for your essay.
Format the thesis statement and the outline in a single Word
document using current MLA, APA, or Turabian style
(whichever corresponds to your degree program).
Guidelines for Developing Your Paper Topic
Chapter 39 in your textbook provides some helpful pointers for

41. reading actively, taking notes, brainstorming, developing a
clearly-defined thesis statement, preparing an outline, and
writing a cogent fiction essay. Be sure that you have read the
chapter before doing any further work for this assignment.
Choose 2 of the following short stories to compare and contrast
in your essay:
· “The Lottery” by Shirley Jackson
· “The Destructors” by Graham Greene
· “The Rocking-Horse Winner” by D.H. Lawrence
· “Young Goodman Brown” by Nathaniel Hawthorne
· “The Child by Tiger” by Thomas Wolfe
· “The Most Dangerous Game” by Richard Connell
Also, make at least 1 of these elements of fiction the focus of
your essay:
· Conflict/Plot/Structure
· Characterization
· Setting
· Theme/Authors’ Purposes
· Point of View
· Tone/Style/Irony/Symbol/Imagery
If you need help focusing your essay, ask yourself questions
that correspond to your chosen element(s).
Conflict/Plot/Structure (This is not a summary of the stories)
· What are the basic conflicts, and how do these build tension,

42. leading to major complicated incidents and climactic
moment(s)?
· What are the ways in which each major character experiences
conflict (either with self, with other characters, or with the
social and/or physical environment)?
· How are the conflicts resolved? Do the protagonists succeed in
achieving their goals?
· Who receives your deepest sympathy and why?
Characterization
· Who are the main characters in the stories?
· What are their outstanding qualities? Does the author give any
indication as to how or why the character developed these
qualities?
· What are the characters’ emotions, attitudes, and behaviors?
What do these indicate to the reader about the character?
· Can the characters’ motivations be determined from the text?
Setting
· Where and when do the stories take place (remember to
include such details as geographic location, time of year, time
period, if the setting is rural or urban, etc.)?
· Do the settings make the stories believable or credible? How
does setting impact the plot of the story, and how would the plot
be affected if the story took place in another setting?
· Are the characters influenced by their setting? How might they
behave if they were in a different setting?
· What atmosphere or mood does the setting create (for
example, darkness may create a mood of fear or unhappiness
while light or bright colors may create one of happiness)?

43. · Is the setting or any aspect of it a symbol or does the setting
express particular ideas?
· Does setting create expectations that are the opposite of what
occurs?
Theme/Authors’ Purposes
· What is the major theme (or themes) of each story?
· Are the themes of the stories similar or different?
· How does the author convey the theme (or themes) to the
reader?
· How do the stories’ themes relate to the authors’ purposes
(some examples of author purposes are to entertain, to satirize,
to realistically portray life’s problems, to analyze emotions and
responses, and/or to communicate a moral message)?
· What unique style, techniques, or devices do the writers use to
communicate their themes?
Tone/Style/Irony/Symbol
· How would you describe the tone of the piece?
· Does the tone correspond with the action occurring in the
plot?
· What style does the author use (for example, one way an
author might satirize is by including a lot of ironies, hyperbole,
and unrealistic scenarios)?
· How might the story be different if the tone or style is
changed?
· Does the writer use irony or symbols to communicate the
message?

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