discussion

 

Save Time On Research and Writing
Hire a Pro to Write You a 100% Plagiarism-Free Paper.
Get My Paper

Your initial post is due by Thursday night, February 3, 11:59 p.m. CST.  Two responses to classmates’ initial posts are due by Sunday night, February 6, 11:59 p.m. CST.

For your initial post, thoroughly answer the following questions: (“The Man in the Well,” “Cask of Amontillado,” and “To Build a Fire”)

  1. Choose one of the three stories and discuss which themes you detected.  Use text from the story to prove your case.
  2.  Choose one of the three stories—one you did not discuss in #1.  What are your thoughts about how the story was told?

    Did it start too slow or end unresolved?
    Do you wish it had been told from a different perspective?
    Did it jump around too much or hold you in suspense?

  3. Choose one of the stories you did not discuss in #1 and #2.  What parts of the story stood out to you?  Any quotes, passages, or scenes you found compelling? Any parts you thought were unique, out-of-place, disturbing, or thought-provoking?  Be sure to list specifics from the story. 

THE CASK
OF

Save Time On Research and Writing
Hire a Pro to Write You a 100% Plagiarism-Free Paper.
Get My Paper

AMONTILLADO

BY

EDGAR ALLAN POE

77^̂WWYYSS`̀f�f�77TTaaaa]]ee��

http://www.ibiblio.org/ebooks/

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Short Story: “ The Cask of Amontill ado”
Author: Edgar All an Poe, 1809–49
First publi shed: 1846

The original short story is in the public domain in the
United States and in most, if not all , other countries as well .
Readers outside the United States should check their own
countries’ copyright laws to be certain they can legally
download this e-story. The Onli ne Books Page has an FAQ
which gives a summary of copyright durations for many
other countries, as well as li nks to more off icial sources.

This PDF ebook was
created by José Menéndez.

http://onlinebooks.library.upenn.edu/okbooks.html

http://onlinebooks.library.upenn.edu/

3

THE thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best
could; but when he ventured upon insult, I vowed revenge.
You, who so well know the nature of my soul, will not
suppose, however, that I gave utterance to a threat. At length
I would be avenged; this was a point definiti vely settled—
but the very definiti veness with which it was resolved,
precluded the idea of risk. I must not only punish, but punish
with impunity. A wrong is unredressed when retribution
overtakes its redresser. It is equally unredressed when the
avenger fail s to make himself felt as such to him who has
done the wrong.

It must be understood that neither by word nor deed had
I given Fortunato cause to doubt my good will . I continued,
as was my wont, to smile in his face, and he did not perceive
that my smile now was at the thought of his immolation.

He had a weak point—this Fortunato—although in
other regards he was a man to be respected and even feared.
He prided himself on his connoisseurship in wine. Few
Itali ans have the true virtuoso spirit. For the most part their
enthusiasm is adopted to suit the time and opportunity—to
practise imposture upon the Briti sh and Austrian
millionaires. In painting and gemmary, Fortunato, li ke his
countrymen, was a quack—but in the matter of old wines he
was sincere. In this respect I did not differ from him
materially: I was skil ful in the Itali an vintages myself, and
bought largely whenever I could.

It was about dusk, one evening during the supreme
madness of the carnival season, that I encountered my friend.
He accosted me with excessive warmth, for he had been
drinking much. The man wore motley. He had on a tight-
fitti ng parti-striped dress, and his head was surmounted by

THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO 4

the conical cap and bell s. I was so pleased to see him, that I
thought I should never have done wringing his hand.

I said to him: “ My dear Fortunato, you are luckily met.
How remarkably well you are looking to-day! But I have
received a pipe of what passes for Amontill ado, and I have
my doubts.”

“ How?” said he. “ Amontill ado? A pipe? Impossible!
And in the middle of the carnival!”

“ I have my doubts,” I repli ed; “and I was sil ly enough
to pay the full Amontil lado price without consulti ng you in
the matter. You were not to be found, and I was fearful of
losing a bargain.”

“ Amontill ado!”
“ I have my doubts.”
“ Amontill ado!”
“ And I must satisfy them.”
“ Amontill ado!”
“ As you are engaged, I am on my way to Luchesi. If

any one has a criti cal turn, it i s he. He will t ell me——”
“ Luchesi cannot tell Amontill ado from Sherry.”
“ And yet some fools will have it that his taste is a match

for your own.”
“ Come, let us go.”
“ Whither?”
“ To your vaults.”
“ My friend, no; I will not impose upon your good

nature. I perceive you have an engagement. Luchesi——”
“ I have no engagement;—come.”
“ My friend, no. It is not the engagement, but the severe

cold with which I perceive you are affli cted. The vaults are
insuff erably damp. They are encrusted with nitre.”

“ Let us go, nevertheless. The cold is merely nothing.
Amontill ado! You have been imposed upon. And as for
Luchesi, he cannot distinguish Sherry from Amontill ado.”

EDGAR ALLAN POE 5

Thus speaking, Fortunato possessed himself of my arm.
Putting on a mask of black sil k, and drawing a roquelaire
closely about my person, I suff ered him to hurry me to my
palazzo.

There were no attendants at home; they had absconded
to make merry in honor of the time. I had told them that I
should not return until the morning, and had given them
expli cit orders not to stir from the house. These orders were
suff icient, I well knew, to insure their immediate
disappearance, one and all , as soon as my back was turned.

I took from their sconces two flambeaux, and giving
one to Fortunato, bowed him through several suites of rooms
to the archway that led into the vaults. I passed down a long
and winding staircase, requesting him to be cautious as he
foll owed. We came at length to the foot of the descent, and
stood together on the damp ground of the catacombs of the
Montresors.

The gait of my friend was unsteady, and the bells upon
his cap ji ngled as he strode.

“ The pipe?” said he.
“ It is farther on,” said I; “ but observe the white web-

work which gleams from these cavern wall s.”
He turned toward me, and looked into my eyes with two

fil my orbs that distill ed the rheum of intoxication.
“ Nitre?” he asked, at length.
“ Nitre,” I repli ed. “ How long have you had that

cough?”
“ Ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh! ugh! ugh!—

ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh! ugh! ugh!”
My poor friend found it impossible to reply for many

minutes.
“ It is nothing,” he said, at last.
“ Come,” I said, with decision, “ we will go back; your

health is precious. You are rich, respected, admired, beloved;

THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO 6

you are happy, as once I was. You are a man to be missed.
For me it i s no matter. We will go back; you will be ill , and I
cannot be responsible. Besides, there is Luchesi——”

“ Enough,” he said; “ the cough is a mere nothing; it will
not kill m e. I shall not die of a cough.”

“ True—true,” I repli ed; “and, indeed, I had no intention
of alarming you unnecessarily; but you should use all proper
caution. A draught of this Medoc will defend us from the
damps.”

Here I knocked off the neck of a bottle which I drew
from a long row of its fell ows that lay upon the mould.

“ Drink,” I said, presenting him the wine.
He raised it to his li ps with a leer. He paused and

nodded to me famili arly, whil e his bell s ji ngled.
“ I drink,” he said, “ to the buried that repose around us.”
“ And I to your long li fe.”
He again took my arm, and we proceeded.
“ These vaults,” he said, “ are extensive.”
“ The Montresors,” I repli ed, “ were a great and

numerous family.”
“ I forget your arms.”
“ A huge human foot d’ or, in a field azure; the foot

crushes a serpent rampant whose fangs are imbedded in the
heel.”

“ And the motto?”
“ Nemo me impune lacessit.”
“ Good!” he said.
The wine sparkled in his eyes and the bell s ji ngled. My

own fancy grew warm with the Medoc. We had passed
through wall s of pil ed bones, with casks and puncheons
intermingli ng, into the inmost recesses of the catacombs. I
paused again, and this time I made bold to seize Fortunato by
an arm above the elbow.

EDGAR ALLAN POE 7

“ The nitre!” I said; “ see, it i ncreases. It hangs li ke moss
upon the vaults. We are below the river’ s bed. The drops of
moisture trickle among the bones. Come, we wil l go back ere
it i s too late. Your cough——”

“ It is nothing,” he said; “ let us go on. But first, another
draught of the Medoc.”

I broke and reached him a flagon of De Grâve. He
emptied it at a breath. His eyes flashed with a fierce li ght. He
laughed and threw the bottle upward with a gesticulation I
did not understand.

I looked at him in surprise. He repeated the
movement—a grotesque one.

“ You do not comprehend?” he said.
“ Not I,” I repli ed.
“ Then you are not of the brotherhood.”
“ How?”
“ You are not of the masons.”
“ Yes, yes,” I said; “ yes, yes.”
“ You? Impossible! A mason?”
“ A mason,” I repli ed.
“ A sign,” he said.
“ It is this,” I answered, producing a trowel from beneath

the folds of my roquelaire.
“ You jest,” he exclaimed, recoili ng a few paces. “ But

let us proceed to the Amontill ado.”
“ Be it so,” I said, replacing the tool beneath the cloak,

and again offering him my arm. He leaned upon it heavily.
We continued our route in search of the Amontill ado. We
passed through a range of low arches, descended, passed on,
and descending again, arrived at a deep crypt, in which the
foulness of the air caused our flambeaux rather to glow than
flame.

At the most remote end of the crypt there appeared
another less spacious. Its wall s had been li ned with human

THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO 8

remains, pil ed to the vault overhead, in the fashion of the
great catacombs of Paris. Three sides of this interior crypt
were stil l ornamented in this manner. From the fourth the
bones had been thrown down, and lay promiscuously upon
the earth, forming at one point a mound of some size. Within
the wall t hus exposed by the displacing of the bones, we
perceived a still i nterior recess, in depth about four feet, in
width three, in height six or seven. It seemed to have been
constructed for no especial use within itself, but formed
merely the interval between two of the colossal supports of
the roof of the catacombs, and was backed by one of their
circumscribing wall s of soli d granite.

It was in vain that Fortunato, upli fting his dull t orch,
endeavored to pry into the depth of the recess. Its termination
the feeble light did not enable us to see.

“ Proceed,” I said; “ herein is the Amontill ado. As for
Luchesi——”

“ He is an ignoramus,” interrupted my friend, as he
stepped unsteadily forward, whil e I foll owed immediately at
his heels. In an instant he had reached the extremity of the
niche, and finding his progress arrested by the rock, stood
stupidly bewil dered. A moment more and I had fettered him
to the granite. In its surface were two iron staples, distant
from each other about two feet, horizontally. From one of
these depended a short chain, from the other a padlock.
Throwing the li nks about his waist, it was but the work of a
few seconds to secure it. He was too much astounded to
resist. Withdrawing the key I stepped back from the recess.

“ Pass your hand,” I said, “ over the wall; you cannot
help feeli ng the nitre. Indeed it i s very damp. Once more let
me implore you to return. No? Then I must positively leave
you. But I must first render you all t he littl e attentions in my
power.”

EDGAR ALLAN POE 9

“ The Amontill ado!” ejaculated my friend, not yet
recovered from his astonishment.

“ True,” I repli ed; “ the Amontill ado.”
As I said these words I busied myself among the pil e of

bones of which I have before spoken. Throwing them aside, I
soon uncovered a quantity of buil ding stone and mortar.
With these materials and with the aid of my trowel, I began
vigorously to wall up the entrance of the niche.

I had scarcely laid the first tier of the masonry when I
discovered that the intoxication of Fortunato had in a great
measure worn off . The earli est indication I had of this was a
low moaning cry from the depth of the recess. It was not the
cry of a drunken man. There was then a long and obstinate
sil ence. I laid the second tier, and the third, and the fourth;
and then I heard the furious vibrations of the chain. The
noise lasted for several minutes, during which, that I might
hearken to it with the more satisfaction, I ceased my labors
and sat down upon the bones. When at last the clanking
subsided, I resumed the trowel, and finished without
interruption the fifth, the sixth, and the seventh tier. The wall
was now nearly upon a level with my breast. I again paused,
and holding the flambeaux over the mason-work, threw a
few feeble rays upon the figure within.

A succession of loud and shrill screams, bursting
suddenly from the throat of the chained form, seemed to
thrust me violently back. For a brief moment I hesitated—I
trembled. Unsheathing my rapier, I began to grope with it
about the recess; but the thought of an instant reassured me. I
placed my hand upon the soli d fabric of the catacombs, and
felt satisfied. I reapproached the wall . I repli ed to the yell s of
him who clamored. I re-echoed—I aided—I surpassed them
in volume and in strength. I did this, and the clamorer grew
still .

THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO 10

It was now midnight, and my task was drawing to a
close. I had completed the eighth, the ninth, and the tenth
tier. I had finished a portion of the last and the eleventh;
there remained but a single stone to be fitted and plastered
in. I struggled with its weight; I placed it partially in its
destined positi on. But now there came from out the niche a
low laugh that erected the hairs upon my head. It was
succeeded by a sad voice, which I had diff iculty in
recognizing as that of the noble Fortunato. The voice said—

“ Ha! ha! ha!—he! he!—a very good joke indeed—an
excell ent jest. We will have many a rich laugh about it at the
palazzo—he! he! he!—over our wine—he! he! he!”

“ The Amontill ado!” I said.
“ He! he! he!—he! he! he!—yes, the Amontill ado. But is

it not getting late? Will not they be awaiti ng us at the
palazzo, the Lady Fortunato and the rest? Let us be gone.”

“ Yes,” I said, “ let us be gone.”
“ For the love of God, Montresor!”
“ Yes,” I said, “ for the love of God!”
But to these words I hearkened in vain for a reply. I

grew impatient. I call ed aloud:
“ Fortunato!”
No answer. I call ed again:
“ Fortunato!”
No answer still . I thrust a torch through the remaining

aperture and let it fall within. There came forth in reply only
a ji ngli ng of the bell s. My heart grew sick—on account of
the dampness of the catacombs. I hastened to make an end of
my labor. I forced the last stone into its position; I plastered
it up. Against the new masonry I re-erected the old rampart
of bones. For the half of a century no mortal has disturbed
them. In pace requiescat!

Name: Class:

“Abandoned Well” by Bertalan Szürös is licensed under CC BY-NC-
ND

2

.0

  • The Man in the Well
  • By Ira Sher

    1

    9

    9

    5

    Ira Sher is a contemporary author who writes short fiction. In this chilling short story, a group of children
    discovers a man trapped in a well.

    I was nine when I discovered the man in the well
    in an abandoned farm-lot near my home. I was
    with a group of friends, playing hide and go seek
    or something when I found the well, and then I
    heard the voice of the man in the well calling out
    for help.

    I think it’s important that we decided not to help
    him. Everyone, like myself, was probably on the
    verge of fetching a rope, or asking where we
    could find a ladder, but then we looked around at
    each other and it was decided. I don’t remember
    if we told ourselves a reason why we couldn’t
    help him, but we had decided then. Because of
    this, I never went very close to the lip of the well,
    or I only came up on my hands and knees, so that
    he couldn’t see me; and just as we wouldn’t allow
    him to see us, I know that none of us ever saw
    the man in the well — the well was too dark for
    that, too deep, even when the sun was high up,
    angling light down the stone sides like golden
    hair.

    I remember that we were still full of games and
    laughter when we called down to him. He had
    heard us shouting while we were playing, and he
    had been hollering for us to come; he was so
    relieved at that moment.

    “God, get me out. I’ve been here for days.” He must have known we were children, because he
    immediately instructed us to “go get a ladder, get help.”

    At first afraid to disobey the voice from the man in the well, we turned around and actually began to
    walk toward the nearest house, which was Arthur’s. But along the way we slowed down, and then we
    stopped, and after waiting what seemed like a good while, we quietly came back to the well.

    We stood or lay around the lip, listening for maybe half an hour, and then Arthur, after some
    hesitation, called down, “What’s your name?” This, after all, seemed like the most natural question.

    [1]

    [5]

    1

    https://www.flickr.com/photos/szb

    7

    8

    /5827875

    6

    7

    3

    The man answered back immediately, “Do you have the ladder?”

    We all looked at Arthur, and he called back down, “No, we couldn’t find one.”

    Now that we had established some sort of a dialogue, everyone had questions he or she wanted to ask
    the man in the well, but the man wouldn’t stop speaking:

    “Go tell your parents there’s someone in this well. If they have a rope or a ladder…” he trailed off. His
    voice was raw and sometimes he would cough. “Just tell your parents.”

    We were quiet, but this time no one stood up or moved. Someone, I think little Jason, called down,
    “Hello. Is it dark?” and then, after a moment, “Can you see the sky?”

    He didn’t answer but instead told us to go again.

    When we were quiet for a bit, he called to see if we had gone.

    After a pause, Wendy crawled right to the edge so that her hair lifted slightly in the updraft.1 “Is there
    any water down there?”

    “Have they gone for help?” he asked.

    She looked around at us, and then she called down, “Yes, they’re all gone now. Isn’t there any water
    down there?” I don’t think anyone smiled at how easy it was to deceive him — this was too important.
    “Isn’t there?” she said again.

    “No,” he said. “It’s very dry.” He cleared his throat. “Do you think it will rain?”

    She stood up and took in the whole sky with her blue eyes, making sure. “No, I don’t think so.” We
    heard him coughing in the well, and we waited for a while, thinking about him waiting in the well.

    Resting on the grass and cement by the well, I tried to picture him. I tried to imagine the gesture of his
    hand reaching to cover his mouth, each time he coughed. Or perhaps he was too tired to make that
    gesture, each time. After an hour, he began calling again, but for some reason we didn’t want to
    answer. We got up and began running, filling up with panic as we moved, until we were racing across
    the ruts of the old field. I kept turning, stumbling as I looked behind. Perhaps he had heard us getting
    up and running away from the well. Only Wendy stayed by the well for a while, watching us run as his
    calling grew louder and wilder, until finally she ran, too, and then we were all far away.

    ***

    The next morning we came back, most of us carrying bread or fruit or something to eat in our pockets.
    Arthur brought a canvas bag from his house and a plastic jug of water.

    When we got to the well we stood around quietly for a moment listening for him. “Maybe he’s asleep,”
    Wendy said.

    [10]

    [15]

    [20]

    1. a wind moving upward

    2

    We sat down around the mouth of the well on the old concrete slab, warming in the sun and coursing
    with ants and tiny insects. Aaron called down then, when everyone was comfortable, and the man
    answered right away, as if he had been listening to us the whole time.

    “Did your parents get help?”

    Arthur kneeled at the edge of the well and called “Watch out,” and then he let the bag fall after holding
    it out for a moment, maybe for the man to see. It hit the ground more quickly than I had expected;
    that, combined with a feeling that he could hear everything we said, made him suddenly closer, as if he
    might be able to see us. I wanted to be very quiet, so that if he heard or saw anyone, he would not
    notice me. The man in the well started coughing, and Arthur volunteered, “There’s some water in the
    bag. We all brought something.”

    We could hear him moving around down there. After a few minutes, he asked us, “When are they
    coming? What did your parents say?”

    We all looked at each other, aware that he couldn’t address anyone in particular. He must have
    understood this, because he called out in his thin, groping voice, “What are your names?”

    No one answered until Aaron, who was the oldest, said, “My father said he’s coming, with the police.
    And he knows what to do.” We admired Aaron very much for coming up with this, on the spot.

    “Are they on their way?” the man in the well asked. We could hear that he was eating.

    “My father said don’t worry, because he’s coming with the police.”

    Little Jason came up next to Aaron, and asked, “What’s your name?” because we still didn’t know what
    to call him. When we talked among our selves, he had simply become “the man.”

    He didn’t answer, so Jason asked him how old he was, and then Grace came up too and asked him
    something, I don’t remember. We all asked such stupid questions, and he wouldn’t answer anyone.
    Finally, we all stopped talking, and we lay down on the cement.

    It was a hot day, so after a while, Grace got up, and then Little Jason and another young boy, Robert I
    think, and went to town to sit in the cool movie theater. That was what we did most afternoons back
    then. After an hour everyone had left except Wendy and myself, and I was beginning to think I would
    go, too.

    He called up to us all of a sudden. “Are they coming now?”

    “Yes,” Wendy said, looking at me, and I nodded my head. She sounded certain: “I think they’re almost
    here. Aaron said his dad is almost here.”

    As soon as she said it she was sorry, because she’d broken one of the rules. I could see it on her face,
    eyes filling with space as she moved back from the well. Now he had one of our names. She said
    “They’re going to come” to cover up the mistake, but there it was, and there was nothing to do about it.

    [25]

    [30]

    [35]

    3

    The man in the well didn’t say anything for a few minutes. Then he surprised us again by asking, “Is it
    going to rain?”

    Wendy stood up and turned around like she had done the other day, but the sky was clear. “No,” she
    said.

    Then he asked again, “They’re coming, you said. Aaron’s dad,” and he shouted, “Right?” so that we
    jumped, and stood up, and began running away, just as we had the day before. We could hear him
    shouting for a while, and we were afraid someone might hear. I thought that toward the end maybe he
    had said he was sorry. But I never asked Wendy what she thought he’d said.

    ***

    Everyone was there again on the following morning. It was all I could think about during supper the
    night before, and then the anticipation in the morning over breakfast. My mother was very upset with
    something at the time. I could hear her weeping at night in her room downstairs, and the stubborn
    murmur of my father. There was a feeling to those days, months actually, that I can’t describe without
    resorting2 to the man in the well, as if through a great whispering, like a gathering of clouds, or the
    long sound, the turbulent wreck of the ocean.

    At the well we put together the things to eat we had smuggled out, but we hadn’t even gotten them all
    in the bag when the voice of the man in the well soared out sharply, “They’re on their way, now?”

    We stood very still, so that he couldn’t hear us, but I knew what was coming and I couldn’t do anything
    to soften or blur the words of the voice.

    “Aaron,” he pronounced, and I had imagined him practicing that voice all night long, and holding it in
    his mouth so that he wouldn’t let it slip away in his sleep. Aaron lost all the color in his face, and he
    looked at us with suspicion, as if we had somehow taken on a part of the man in the well. I didn’t even
    glance at Wendy. We were both too embarrassed — neither of us said anything; we were all quiet then.

    Arthur finished assembling the bag, and we could see his hands shaking as he dropped it into the well.
    We heard the man in the well moving around.

    After ten minutes or so, Grace called down to him, “What’s your name?” but someone pulled her back
    from the well, and we became silent again. Today the question humiliated3 us with its simplicity.

    There was no sound for a while from the well, except for the cloth noises and the scraping the man in
    the well made as he moved around. Then he called out, in a pleasant voice, “Aaron, what do you think
    my name is?”

    Aaron, who had been very still this whole time, looked around at all of us again. We knew he was
    afraid; his fingers were pulling with a separate life at the collar of his shirt, and maybe because she felt
    badly for him, Wendy answered instead: “Is your name Charles?” It sounded inane,

    4

    but the man in the
    well answered.

    [40]

    [45]

    2. Resort (verb): to do or use something because one has no other choice
    3. Humiliate (verb): to make someone feel ashamed or foolish
    4. Inane (adjective): silly and pointless

    4

    “No,” the man said.

    She thought for a moment. “Edgar.”

    “No, no.”

    Little Jason called out, “David?”

    “No,” the man in the well said.

    Then Aaron, who had been absolutely quiet, said “Arthur” in a small, clear voice, and we all started. I
    could see Arthur was furious, but Aaron was older and bigger than he was, and nothing could be said
    or done without giving himself, his name, away; we knew the man in the well was listening for the
    changes in our breath, anything. Aaron didn’t look at Arthur, or anyone, and then he began giving all of
    our names, one at a time. We all watched him, trembling, our faces the faces I had seen pasted on the
    spectators in the freak tent when the circus had come to town. We were watching such a deformity
    take place before our eyes; and I remember the spasm of anger when he said my name, and felt the
    man in the well soak it up — because the man in the well understood. The man in the well didn’t say
    anything, now.

    When Aaron was done, we all waited for the man in the well to speak up. I stood on one leg, then the
    other, and eventually I sat down. We had to wait for an hour, and today no one wanted to leave to lie in
    the shade or hide in the velvet movie seats.

    At last, the man in the well said, “All right, then. Arthur. What do you think I look like?” We heard him
    cough a couple of times, and then a sound like the smacking of lips. Arthur, who was sitting on the
    ground with his chin propped on his fists, didn’t say anything. How could he — I knew I couldn’t
    answer, myself, if the man in the well called me by name. He called a few of us, and I watched the
    shudder5 move from face to face.

    Then he was quiet for a while. It was afternoon now, and the light was changing, withdrawing from the
    well. It was as if the well was filling up with earth. The man in the well moved around a bit, and then he
    called Jason. He asked, “How old do you think I am, Jason?” He didn’t seem to care that no one would
    answer, or he seemed to expect that no one would. He said, “Wendy. Are they coming now? Is Aaron’s
    dad coming now?” He walked around a bit, we heard him rummage6 in the bag of food, and he said,
    “All right. What’s my name?” He used everyone’s name; he asked every one. When he said my name, I
    felt the water clouding my eyes, and I wanted to throw stones, dirt down the well to crush out his voice.
    But we couldn’t do anything, none of us did because then he would know.

    In the evening we could tell he was getting tired. He wasn’t saying much, and seemed to have lost
    interest in us. Before we left that day, as we were rising quietly and looking at the dark shadows of the
    trees we had to move through to reach our homes, he said, “Why didn’t you tell anyone?” He coughed.
    “Didn’t you want to tell anyone?” Perhaps he heard the hesitation in our breaths, but he wasn’t going to
    help us now. It was almost night then, and we were spared the detail of having to see and read each
    other’s faces.

    [50]

    [55]

    5. Shudder (noun): a sudden shiver caused by fear
    6. Rummage (verb): to search by moving, turning, or looking through the contents of a container

    5

    “The Man in the Well” by Ira Sher. Copyright © 1995 by Ira Sher. Reprinted with permission, all rights reserved.

    That night it rained, and I listened to the rain on the roof and my mother sobbing, downstairs, until I
    fell asleep. After that we didn’t play by the well anymore; even when we were much older, we didn’t go
    back. I will never go back.

    6

    Text-Dependent Questions
    Directions: For the following questions, choose the best answer or respond in complete sentences.

    1. Which of the following best describes a main theme of the text?
    A. Children help others only when they feel fear or embarrassment.
    B. People can act in cruel ways when they hold power over others.
    C. Anyone can be a hero, but it is a choice people have to make.
    D. Distrust of strangers has caused modern society to become less caring.

    2. How does the narrator’s point of view influence how the events are described in the
    passage?

    A. The narrator is ashamed of what happened and portrays the others as more
    deserving of blame.

    B. The narrator is no longer ashamed of what happened and recounts the events
    with confidence.

    C. The narrator feels shame about what happened but still tries to tell the story in
    a truthful way.

    D. The narrator is an adult now and does not remember all of the details of what
    happened years ago.

    3. PART A: How do the children respond to the man’s initial cry for help?
    A. Some of the children want to play tricks on the man, and the others go along

    with it.
    B. They make their decision without talking, but why they choose not to help the

    man is left unclear.
    C. They are unable to come to an agreement about how to help, so they decide not

    to help at all.
    D. They want to help him, but so much time passes that they fear he will punish

    them if he ever gets out.

    4. PART B: Which of the following quotes best supports the answer to Part A?
    A. “Everyone, like myself, was probably on the verge of fetching a rope, or asking

    where we could find a ladder, but then we looked around at each other and it
    was decided.” (Paragraph 2)

    B. “I remember that we were still full of games and laughter when we called down
    to him. He heard us shouting while we were playing” (Paragraph 3)

    C. “At first afraid to disobey the voice from the man in the well, we turned around
    and actually began to walk toward the nearest house, which was Arthur’s. But
    along the way we slowed down” (Paragraph 5)

    D. “As we were rising quietly and looking at the dark shadows of the trees we had
    to move through to reach our homes, he said, ‘Why didn’t you tell anyone?’ He
    coughed. ‘Didn’t you want to tell anyone?’” (Paragraph 56)

    7

    5. Which statement best describes the relationship between the children and the man in the
    well at the end of the story?

    A. The children hoped that the man would be honest with them.
    B. The children were embarrassed that they had treated the man poorly.
    C. The children were sad they never got to know the man before he died.
    D. The children became annoyed with the man when he started to question their

    actions.

    6. How do the children’s interactions with the man in the well reveal the theme of the text?
    Use at least two pieces of evidence in your response.

    8

    Discussion Questions
    Directions: Brainstorm your answers to the following questions in the space provided. Be prepared to
    share your original ideas in a class discussion.

    1. Are the children’s actions in this story cruel? Based on your own experiences, do you believe
    children can often be cruel to others? Explain your answer.

    2. Why do you think Aaron is upset that the man in the well knows his name? How do you
    think you would have reacted if you were one of the children in the story and the man
    found out your name? Explain your answer.

    3. Consider the actions and motivations of the children in the story. Why do people do bad
    things? Cite evidence from this text, your own experience, and other literature, art, or
    history in your answer.

    4. In the context of this story, how does power corrupt? How does the balance of power
    between the children and the man change throughout the story?

    9

      The Man in the Well
      By Ira Sher
      1995
      Text-Dependent Questions
      Discussion Questions

    T o B u i l d a F i r e

    AY HAD DAWNED COLD AND GRAY WHEN

    the man turned aside from the main Yukon trail. He climbed the high

    earth-bank where a little-traveled trail led east through the pine for-

    est. It was a high bank, and he paused to breathe at the top. He excused

    the act to himself by looking at his watch. It was nine o’clock in the

    morning. There was no sun or promise of sun, although there was not

    a cloud in the sky. It was a clear day. However, there seemed to be an

    indescribable darkness over the face of things. That was because the sun

    was absent from the sky. This fact did not worry the man. He was not

    alarmed by the lack of sun. It had been days since he had seen the sun.

    The man looked along the way he had come. The Yukon lay a

    mile wide and hidden under three feet of ice. On top of this ice were

    as many feet of snow. It was all pure white. North and south, as far as

    D

    p

    J a c k L o n d o n

    64

    his eye could see, it was unbroken white. The one thing that relieved
    the whiteness was a thin dark line that curved from the pine-covered
    island to the south. It curved into the north, where it disappeared
    be hind another pine-covered island. This dark line was the trail—the
    main trail. It led south 500 miles to the Chilcoot Pass, and salt water.
    It led north

    75

    miles to Dawson, and still farther on to the north a
    thousand miles to Nulato, and finally to St. Michael, on Bering Sea,
    a thousand miles and half a thousand more.

    But all this—the distant trail, no sun in the sky, the great cold,
    and the strangeness of it all—had no effect on the man. It was not
    be cause he was long familiar with it. He was a newcomer in the land, and
    this was his first winter.

    The trouble with him was that he was not able to imagine. He
    was quick and ready in the things of life, but only in the things, and not
    in their meanings. Fifty degrees below zero meant 80 degrees of frost.
    Such facts told him that it was cold and uncomfortable, and that was
    all. It did not lead him to consider his weaknesses as a creature affected
    by temperature. Nor did he think about man’s general weakness, able
    to live only within narrow limits of heat and cold. From there, it did
    not lead him to thoughts of heaven and the meaning of a man’s life.
    50 degrees below zero meant a bite of frost that hurt and that must be
    guarded against by the use of mittens, ear coverings, warm moccasins,
    and thick socks. 50 degrees below zero was to him nothing more than
    50 degrees below zero. That it should be more important than that was
    a thought that never entered his head.

    As he turned to go, he forced some water from his mouth as an
    experiment. There was a sudden noise that surprised him. He tried it
    again. And again, in the air, before they could fall to the snow, the
    drops of water became ice that broke with a noise. He knew that at 50
    below zero water from the mouth made a noise when it hit the snow.
    But this had done that in the air. Undoubtedly it was colder than 50
    below. But exactly how much colder he did not know. But the tem-
    perature did not matter.

    He was headed for the old camp on Henderson Creek, where the

    T o B u i l d a F i r e

    65

    boys were already. They had come across the mountain from the Indian
    Creek country. He had taken the long trail to look at the possibility of
    floating logs from the islands in the Yukon down the river when the
    ice melted. He would be in camp by six o’clock that evening. It would
    be a little after dark, but the boys would be there, a fire would be burn-
    ing, and a hot supper would be ready. As he thought of lunch, he pressed
    his hand against the package under his jacket. It was also under his
    shirt, wrapped in a handkerchief, and lying for warmth against the
    naked skin. Otherwise, the bread would freeze. He smiled contentedly
    to himself as he thought of those pieces of bread, each of which
    enclosed a generous portion of cooked meat.

    He plunged among the big pine trees. The trail was not well
    marked here. Several inches of snow had fallen since the last sled had
    passed. He was glad he was without a sled. Actually, he carried noth-
    ing but the lunch wrapped in the handkerchief. He was surprised, how-
    ever, at the cold. It certainly was cold, he decided, as he rubbed his
    nose and face with his mittened hand. He had a good growth of hair
    on his face, but that did not protect his nose or the upper part of his
    face from the frosty air.

    Following at the man’s heels was a big native dog. It was a wolf
    dog, gray-coated and not noticeably different from its brother, the wild
    wolf. The animal was worried by the great cold. It knew that this was
    no time for traveling. Its own feeling was closer to the truth than the
    man’s judgment. In reality, it was not merely colder than 50 below
    zero; it was colder than 60 below, than

    70

    below. It was 75 below zero.
    Because the freezing point is 32 above zero, it meant that there were
    107 degrees of frost.

    The dog did not know anything about temperatures. Possibly in
    its brain there was no understanding of a condition of very cold, such
    as was in the man’s brain. But the animal sensed the danger. Its fear
    made it question eagerly every movement of the man as if expecting
    him to go into camp or to seek shelter somewhere and build a fire. The
    dog had learned about fire, and it wanted fire. Otherwise, it would dig
    itself into the snow and find shelter from the cold air.

    J a c k L o n d o n

    66

    The frozen moistness of its breathing had settled on its fur in a
    fine powder of frost. The hair on the man’s face was similarly frosted,
    but more solidly. It took the form of ice and increased with every warm,
    moist breath from his mouth. Also, the man had tobacco in his mouth.
    The ice held his lips so tightly together that he could not empty the
    juice from his mouth. The result was a long piece of yellow ice hang-
    ing from his lips. If he fell down it would break, like glass, into many
    pieces. He expected the ice formed by the tobacco juice, having been
    out twice before when it was very cold. But it had not been as cold as
    this, he knew.

    He continued through the level forest for several miles. Then he
    went down a bank to the frozen path of a small stream. This was Hen-
    derson Creek and he knew he was ten miles from where the stream
    divided. He looked at his watch. It was ten o’clock. He was traveling
    at the rate of four miles an hour. Thus, he figured that he would arrive
    where the stream divided at half-past twelve. He decided he would eat
    his lunch when he arrived there.

    The dog followed again at his heels, with its tail hanging low, as
    the man started to walk along the frozen stream. The old sled trail could
    be seen, but a dozen inches of snow covered the marks of the last sleds.
    In a month no man had traveled up or down that silent creek. The man
    went steadily ahead. He was not much of a thinker. At that moment he
    had nothing to think about except that he would eat lunch at the
    stream’s divide and that at six o’clock he would be in camp with the
    boys. There was nobody to talk to; and, had there been, speech would
    not have been possible because of the ice around his mouth.

    Once in a while the thought repeated itself that it was very cold
    and that he had never experienced such cold. As he walked along he
    rubbed his face and nose with the back of his mittened hand. He did
    this without thinking, frequently changing hands. But, with all his
    rubbing, the instant he stopped, his face and nose became numb. His
    face would surely be frozen. He knew that and he was sorry that he had
    not worn the sort of nose guard Bud wore when it was cold. Such a
    guard passed across the nose and covered the entire face. But it did not

    T o B u i l d a F i r e

    67

    matter much, he decided. What was a little frost? A bit painful, that
    was all. It was never serious.

    Empty as the man’s mind was of thoughts, he was most observant.
    He noticed the changes in the creek, the curves and the bends. And
    always he noted where he placed his feet. Once, coming around a
    bend, he moved suddenly to the side, like a frightened horse. He curved
    away from the place where he had been walking and retraced his steps
    several feet along the trail. He knew the creek was frozen to the bot-
    tom. No creek could contain water in that winter. But he knew also
    that there were streams of water that came out from the hillsides and
    ran along under the snow and on top of the ice of the creek. He knew
    that even in the coldest weather these streams were never frozen, and
    he also knew their danger. They hid pools of water under the snow
    that might be three inches deep, or three feet. Sometimes a skin of ice
    half an inch thick covered them, and in turn was covered by the snow.
    Sometimes there was both water and thin ice, and when a man broke
    through he could get very wet.

    That was why he had jumped away so suddenly. He had felt the
    ice move under his feet. He had also heard the noise of the snow-cov-
    ered ice skin breaking. And to get his feet wet in such a temperature
    meant trouble and danger. At the very least it meant delay, because he
    would be forced to stop and build a fire. Only under its protection
    could he bare his feet while he dried his socks and moccasins.

    He stood and studied the creek bottom and its banks. He decided
    that the flowing stream of water came from the right side. He thought
    a while, rubbing his nose and face. Then he walked to the left. He
    stepped carefully and tested the ice at each step. Once away from the
    danger, he continued at his four-mile pace.

    During the next two hours he came to several similar dangers.
    Usually the snow above the pools had a sunken appearance. However,
    once again he came near to falling through the ice. Once, sensing dan-
    ger, he made the dog go ahead. The dog did not want to go. It hesitated
    until the man pushed it forward. Then it went quickly across the white,
    unbroken surface. Suddenly it fell through the ice, but climbed out on

    J a c k L o n d o n

    68

    the other side, which was firm. It had wet its feet and legs. Almost
    immediately the water on them turned to ice. The dog made quick
    efforts to get the ice off its legs. Then it lay down in the snow and began
    to bite out the ice that had formed between the toes. The animal knew
    enough to do this. To permit the ice to remain would mean sore feet. It
    did not know this. It merely obeyed the commands that arose from the
    deepest part of its being.

    But the man knew these things, having learned them from expe-
    rience. He removed the mitten from his right hand and helped the dog
    tear out the pieces of ice. He did not bare his fingers more than a minute,
    and was surprised to find that they were numb. It certainly was cold.
    He pulled on the mitten quickly and beat the hand across his breast.

    At twelve o’clock the day was at its brightest. Yet the sun did not
    appear in the sky. At half-past twelve, on the minute, he arrived at the
    divide of the creek. He was pleased at his rate of speed. If he contin-
    ued, he would certainly be with the boys by six o’clock that evening.

    He unbuttoned his jacket and shirt and pulled forth his lunch.
    The action took no more than a quarter of a minute, yet in that brief
    moment the numbness touched his bare fingers. He did not put the
    mitten on, but instead, struck the fingers against his leg. Then he sat
    down on a snow-covered log to eat. The pain that followed the strik-
    ing of his fingers against his leg ceased so quickly that he was fright-
    ened. He had not had time to take a bite of his lunch. He struck the
    fingers repeatedly and returned them to the mitten. Then he bared the
    other hand for the purpose of eating. He tried to take a mouthful, but
    the ice around his mouth prevented him.

    Then he knew what was wrong. He had forgotten to build a fire
    and warm himself. He laughed at his own foolishness. As he laughed,
    he noted the numbness in his bare fingers. Also, he noted that the
    feeling which had first come to his toes when he sat down was already
    passing away. He wondered whether the toes were warm or whether
    they were numb. He moved them inside the moccasins and decided
    that they were numb.

    He pulled the mitten on hurriedly and stood up. He was some-

    T o B u i l d a F i r e

    69

    what frightened. He stamped forcefully until the feeling returned to his
    feet. It certainly was cold, was his thought. That man from Sulphur
    Creek had spoken the truth when telling how cold it sometimes got in
    this country. And he had laughed at him at the time! That showed one
    must not be too sure of things. There was no mistake about it, it was
    cold. He walked a few steps, stamping his feet and waving his arms,
    until reassured by the returning warmth. Then he took some matches
    and proceeded to make a fire. In the bushes, the high water had left a
    supply of sticks. From here he got wood for his fire. Working carefully
    from a small beginning, he soon had a roaring fire.

    Bending over the fire, he first melted the ice from his face. With
    the protection of the fire’s warmth he ate his lunch. For the moment,
    the cold had been forced away. The dog took comfort in the fire, lying
    at full length close enough for warmth and far enough away to escape
    being burned. When the man had finished eating, he filled his pipe
    with tobacco and had a comfortable time with a smoke. Then he pulled
    on his mittens, settled his cap firmly about his ears, and started along
    the creek trail toward the left.

    The dog was sorry to leave and looked toward the fire. This man
    did not know cold. Possibly none of his ancestors had known cold, real
    cold. But the dog knew and all of its family knew. And it knew that it
    was not good to walk outside in such fearful cold. It was the time to lie
    in a hole in the snow and to wait for this awful cold to stop. There was
    no real bond between the dog and the man. The one was the slave of
    the other. The dog made no effort to indicate its fears to the man. It
    was not concerned with the well-being of the man. It was for its own
    sake that it looked toward the fire. But the man whistled, and spoke to
    it with the sound of the whip in his voice. So the dog started walking
    close to the man’s heels and followed him along the trail.

    The man put more tobacco in his mouth and started a new growth
    of yellow ice on his face. Again his moist breath quickly powdered the
    hair on his face with white. He looked around him. There did not
    seem to be so many pools of water under the snow on the left side of
    Henderson Creek, and for half an hour the man saw no signs of any.

    J a c k L o n d o n
    70

    And then it happened. At a place where there were no signs, the man
    broke through. It was not deep. He was wet to the knees before he got
    out of the water to the firm snow.

    He was angry and cursed his luck aloud. He had hoped to get into
    camp with the boys at six o’clock, and this would delay him an hour.
    Now he would have to build a fire and dry his moccasins and socks.
    This was most important at that low temperature. He knew that much.

    So he turned aside to the bank, which he climbed. On top, under
    several small pine trees, he found some firewood which had been car-
    ried there by the high water of last year. There were some sticks, but also
    larger branches, and some dry grasses. He threw several large branches
    on top of the snow. This served for a foundation and prevented the
    young flame from dying in the wet snow. He made a flame by touch-
    ing a match to a small piece of tree bark that he took from his pocket.
    This burned even better than paper. Placing it on the foundation, he
    fed the young flame with pieces of dry grass and with the smallest dry
    sticks.

    He worked slowly and carefully, realizing his danger. Gradually,
    as the flame grew stronger, he increased the size of the sticks with which
    he fed it. He sat in the snow, pulling the sticks from the bushes under
    the trees and feeding them directly to the flame. He knew he must not
    fail. When it is 75 below zero, a man must not fail in his first attempt
    to build a fire. This is especially true if his feet are wet. If his feet are
    dry, and he fails, he can run along the trail for half a mile to keep his
    blood moving. But the blood in wet and freezing feet cannot be kept
    moving by running when it is 75 degrees below. No matter how fast he
    runs, the wet feet will freeze even harder.

    All this the man knew. The old man on Sulphur Creek had told
    him about it, and now he was grateful for the advice. Already all feel-
    ing had gone from his feet. To build the fire he had been forced to
    remove his mittens, and the fingers had quickly become numb. His
    pace of four miles an hour had kept his heart pushing the blood to all
    parts of his body. But the instant he stopped, the action of the heart
    slowed down. He now received the full force of the cold. The blood of

    T o B u i l d a F i r e

    71

    his body drew back from it. The blood was alive, like the dog. Like the
    dog, it wanted to hide and seek cover, away from the fearful cold. As
    long as he walked four miles an hour, the blood rose to the surface. But
    now it sank down into the lowest depths of his body. His feet and
    hands were the first to feel its absence. His wet feet froze first. His bare
    fingers were numb, although they had not yet begun to freeze. Nose
    and face were already freezing, while the skin of all his body became
    cold as it lost its blood.

    But he was safe. Toes and nose and face would be only touched by
    the frost, because the fire was beginning to burn with strength. He was
    feeding it with sticks the size of his finger. In another minute he would
    be able to feed it with larger branches. Then he could remove his wet
    moccasins and socks. While they dried, he could keep his naked feet
    warm by the fire, rubbing them first with snow. The fire was a success.
    He was safe.

    He remembered the advice of the old man on Sulphur Creek, and
    smiled. The man had been very serious when he said that no man should
    travel alone in that country after 50 below zero. Well, here he was; he
    had had the accident; he was alone; and he had saved himself. Those
    old men were rather womanish, he thought. All a man must do was to
    keep his head, and he was all right. Any man who was a man could
    travel alone. But it was surprising, the rapidity with which his face and
    nose were freezing. And he had not thought his fingers could lose their
    feeling in so short a time. Without feeling they were, because he found
    it very difficult to make them move together to grasp a stick. They
    seemed far from his body and from him. When he touched a stick, he
    had to look to see whether or not he was holding it.

    All of which mattered little. There was the fire, promising life
    with every dancing flame. He started to untie his moccasins. They were
    coated with ice. The thick socks were like iron almost to the knees. The
    moccasin’s strings were like ropes of steel. For a moment he pulled
    them with his unfeeling fingers. Then, realizing the foolishness of it, he
    grasped his knife.

    But before he could cut the strings, it happened. It was his own

    J a c k L o n d o n

    72

    fault, or instead, his mistake. He should not have built the fire under the
    pine tree. He should have built it in an open space. But it had been eas-
    ier to pull the sticks from the bushes and drop them directly on the fire.

    Now the tree under which he had done this carried a weight of
    snow on its branches. No wind had been blowing for weeks and each
    branch was heavy with snow. Each time he pulled a stick he shook the
    tree slightly. There had been just enough movement to cause the awful
    thing to happen. High up in the tree one branch dropped its load of
    snow. This fell on the branches beneath. This process continued, spread-
    ing through the whole tree. The snow fell without warning upon the
    man and the fire, and the fire was dead. Where it had burned was a pile
    of fresh snow.

    The man was shocked. It was like hearing his own judgment of
    death. For a moment he sat and stared at the spot where the fire had
    been. Then he grew very calm. Perhaps the old man on Sulphur Creek
    was right. If he had a companion on the trail he would be in no danger
    now. The companion could have built the fire. Now, he must build the
    fire again, and this second time he must not fail. Even if he succeeded,
    he would be likely to lose some toes. His feet must be badly frozen by
    now, and there would be some time before the second fire was ready.

    Such were his thoughts, but he did not sit and think them. He
    was busy all the time they were passing through his mind. He made a
    new foundation for a fire, this time in the open space, where no tree
    would be above it. Next, he gathered dry grasses and tiny sticks. He
    could not bring his fingers together to pull them out of the ground, but
    he was able to gather them by the handful. In this way he also got
    many pieces that were undesirable, but it was the best he could do. He
    worked carefully, even collecting an armful of the larger branches to be
    used later when the fire gathered strength. And all the while the dog
    sat and watched him. There was an anxious look in its eyes, because it
    depended upon him as the fire provider, and the fire was slow in coming.

    When all was ready, the man reached in his pocket for the sec-
    ond piece of tree bark. He knew the bark was there, although he could
    not feel it with his fingers. He tried again and again, but he could not

    T o B u i l d a F i r e

    73

    grasp it. And all the time, in his mind, he knew that each instant his
    feet were freezing. This thought alarmed him, but he fought against it
    and kept calm.

    He pulled on his mittens with his teeth, and began swinging his
    arms. Then he beat his hands with all his strength against his sides. He
    did this while he was sitting down. Then he stood up to do it. All the
    while the dog sat in the snow, its tail curled warmly over its feet and
    its sharp wolf ears bent forward as it looked at the man. And the man,
    as he waved his arms and hands, looked with longing at the creature
    that was warm and secure in the covering provided by nature.

    After a time, he began to notice some feeling in his beaten fin-
    gers. The feeling grew stronger until it became very painful, but the
    man welcomed the pain. He pulled the mitten from his right hand and
    grasped the tree bark from his pocket. The bare fingers were quickly
    numb again. Next, he brought out his pack of matches. But the awful
    cold had already driven the life out of his fingers. In his effort to sepa-
    rate one match from the others, the whole pack fell in the snow. He
    tried to pick it out of the snow, but failed. The dead fingers could nei-
    ther touch nor hold.

    Now he was very careful. He drove the thought of his freezing
    feet, and nose, and face, from his mind. He devoted his whole soul to
    picking up the matches. He followed the movement of his fingers with
    his eyes, using his sense of sight instead of that of touch. When he saw
    his fingers on each side of the pack, he closed them. That is, he willed
    to close them, because the fingers did not obey. He put the mitten on
    the right hand again, and beat it fiercely against his knee. Then, with
    both mittened hands, he lifted up the pack of matches, along with
    much snow, to the front of his jacket. But he had gained nothing.

    After some struggling he managed to get the pack between his mit-
    tened hands. In this manner he carried it to his mouth. The ice broke as
    he opened his mouth with a fierce effort. He used his upper teeth to rub
    across the pack in order to separate a single match. He succeeded
    in getting one, which he dropped on his jacket. His condition was no
    better. He could not pick up the match. Then he thought how he might

    J a c k L o n d o n

    74

    do it. He picked up the match in his teeth and drew it across his leg.
    Twenty times he did this before he succeeded in lighting it. As it flamed
    he held it with his teeth to the tree bark. But the burning smell went
    up his nose, causing him to cough. The match fell into the snow and
    the flame died.

    The old man on Sulphur Creek was right, he thought in the
    mo ment of controlled despair that followed. After 50 below zero, a man
    should travel with a companion. He beat his hands, but failed to pro-
    duce any feeling in them. Suddenly he bared both hands, removing the
    mittens with his teeth. He caught the whole pack of matches between
    his hands. His arm muscles were not frozen and he was able to press the
    hands tightly against the matches. Then he drew the whole pack along
    his leg. It burst into flame, 70 matches at once!

    There was no wind to blow them out. He kept his head to one side
    to escape the burning smell, and held the flaming pack to the tree bark.
    As he so held it, he noticed some feeling in his hand. His flesh was
    burning. He could smell it. The feeling developed into pain. He con-
    tinued to endure it. He held the flame of the matches to the bark that
    would not light readily because his own burning hands were taking
    most of the flame.

    Finally, when he could endure no more, he pulled his hands apart.
    The flaming matches fell into the snow, but the tree bark was burning.
    He began laying dry grasses and the tiniest sticks on the flame. He
    could not choose carefully because they must be pieces that could be
    lifted between his hands. Small pieces of green grass stayed on the sticks,
    and he bit them off as well as he could with his teeth. He treated the
    flame carefully. It meant life, and it must not cease.

    The blood had left the surface of his body and he now began to
    shake from the cold. A large piece of a wet plant fell on the little fire.
    He tried to push it out with his fingers. His shaking body made him push
    it too far and he scattered the little fire over a wide space. He tried to
    push the burning grasses and sticks together again. Even with the strong
    effort that he made, his trembling fingers would not obey and the sticks
    were hopelessly scattered. Each stick smoked a little and died. The fire

    T o B u i l d a F i r e
    75

    provider had failed. As he looked about him, his eyes noticed the dog
    sitting across the ruins of the fire from him. It was making uneasy move-
    ments, slightly lifting one foot and then the other.

    The sight of the dog put a wild idea into his head. He remembered
    the story of the man, caught in a storm, who killed an animal and shel-
    tered himself inside the dead body and thus was saved. He would kill
    the dog and bury his hands in the warm body until feeling returned to
    them. Then he could build another fire.

    He spoke to the dog, calling it to him. But in his voice was a
    strange note of fear that frightened the animal. It had never known the
    man to speak in such a tone before. Something was wrong and it sensed
    danger. It knew not what danger, but somewhere in its brain arose a
    fear of the man. It flattened its ears at the sound of the man’s voice; its
    uneasy movements and the liftings of its feet became more noticeable.
    But it would not come to the man. He got down on his hands and knees
    and went toward the dog. But this unusual position again excited fear
    and the animal moved away.

    The man sat in the snow for a moment and struggled for calmness.
    Then he pulled on his mittens, using his teeth, and then stood on his
    feet. He glanced down to assure himself that he was really standing,
    because lack of feeling in his feet gave him no relation to the earth.
    His position, however, removed the fear from the dog’s mind.

    When he commanded the dog with his usual voice, the dog obeyed
    and came to him. As it came within his reach, the man lost control.
    His arms stretched out to hold the dog and he experienced real surprise
    when he discovered that his hands could not grasp. There was neither
    bend nor feeling in the fingers. He had forgotten for the moment that
    they were frozen and that they were freezing more and more. All this
    happened quickly and before the animal could escape, he encircled its
    body with his arms. He sat down in the snow, and in this fashion held
    the dog, while it barked and struggled.

    But it was all he could do: hold its body encircled in his arms and
    sit there. He realized that he could not kill the dog. There was no way
    to do it. With his frozen hands he could neither draw nor hold his

    J a c k L o n d o n

    76

    knife. Nor could he grasp the dog around the throat. He freed it and it
    dashed wildly away, still barking. It stopped 40 feet away and observed
    him curiously, with ears sharply bent forward.

    The man looked down at his hands to locate them and found
    them hanging on the ends of his arms. He thought it curious that it was
    necessary to use his eyes to discover where his hands were. He began
    waving his arms, beating the mittened hands against his sides. He did
    this for five minutes. His heart produced enough blood to stop his shak-
    ing. But no feeling was created in his hands.

    A certain fear of death came upon him. He realized that it was
    no longer a mere problem of freezing his fingers and toes, or of losing
    his hands and feet. Now it was a problem of life and death with the cir-
    cumstances against him. The fear made him lose control of himself and
    he turned and ran along the creek bed on the old trail. The dog joined
    him and followed closely behind. The man ran blindly in fear such as
    he had never known in his life. Slowly, as he struggled through the
    snow, he began to see things again—the banks of the creek, the bare
    trees, and the sky.

    The running made him feel better. He did not shake any more.
    Maybe, if he continued to run, his feet would stop freezing. Maybe if he
    ran far enough, he would find the camp and the boys. Without doubt,
    he would lose some fingers and toes and some of his face. But the boys
    would take care of him and save the rest of him when he got there.
    And at the same time, there was another thought in his mind that said
    he would never get to the camp and the boys. It told him that it was
    too many miles away, that the freezing had too great a start and that
    he would soon be dead. He pushed this thought to the back of his mind
    and refused to consider it. Sometimes it came forward and demanded
    to be heard. But he pushed it away and tried to think of other things.

    It seemed strange to him that he could run on feet so frozen that
    he could not feel them when they struck the earth and took the weight
    of his body. He seemed to be flying along above the surface and to have
    no connection with the earth.

    His idea of running until he arrived at the camp and the boys pre-

    T o B u i l d a F i r e

    77

    sented one problem: he lacked the endurance. Several times he caught
    himself as he was falling. Finally, he dropped to the ground, unable to
    stop his fall. When he tried to rise, he failed. He must sit and rest, he
    decided. Next time he would merely walk and keep going.

    As he sat and regained his breath, he noted that he was feeling
    warm and comfortable. He was not shaking, and it even seemed that a
    warm glow had come to his body. And yet, when he touched his nose
    or face, there was no feeling. Running would not bring life to them. Nor
    would it help his hands and feet. Then the thought came to him that
    the frozen portions of his body must be increasing. He tried to keep this
    thought out of his mind and to forget it. He knew that such thoughts
    caused a feeling of fright in him and he was afraid of such feelings. But
    the thought returned and continued, until he could picture his body
    totally frozen. This was too much, and again he ran wildly along the
    trail. Once he slowed to a walk, but the thought that the freezing of
    his body was increasing made him run again.

    And all the time the dog ran with him, at his heels. When he fell
    a second time, the dog curled its tail over its feet and sat in front of
    him, facing him, curiously eager. The warmth and security of the ani-
    mal angered him. He cursed it until it flattened its ears. This time the
    shaking because of the cold began more quickly. He was losing his bat-
    tle with the frost. It was moving into his body from all sides. This
    thought drove him forward. But he ran no more than 100 feet, when
    he fell head first.

    It was his last moment of fear. When he had recovered his breath
    and his control, he sat and thought about meeting death with dignity.
    However, the idea did not come to him in exactly this manner. His idea
    was that he had been acting like a fool. He had been running around
    like a chicken with its head cut off. He was certain to freeze in his pre-
    sent circumstances, and he should accept it calmly. With this newfound
    peace of mind came the first sleepiness. A good idea, he thought, to
    sleep his way to death. Freezing was not as bad as people thought. There
    were many worse ways to die.

    He pictured the boys finding his body the next day. Suddenly he

    J a c k L o n d o n

    78

    saw himself with them, coming along the trail and looking for himself.
    And, still with them, he came around a turn in the trail and found him-
    self lying in the snow. He did not belong with himself any more. Even
    then he was outside of himself, standing with the boys and looking at
    himself in the snow. It certainly was cold, was his thought. When he
    returned to the United States he could tell the folks what real cold was.

    His mind went from this to the thought of the old man of Sulphur
    Creek. He could see him quite clearly, warm and comfortable, and smok-
    ing a pipe.

    “You were right, old fellow. You were right,” he murmured to the
    old man of Sulphur Creek.

    Then the man dropped into what seemed to him the most com-
    fortable and satisfying sleep he had ever known. The dog sat facing him
    and waiting. The brief day ended in a long evening. There were no signs
    of a fire to be made. Never in the dog’s experience had it known a man
    to sit like that in the snow and make no fire. As the evening grew
    darker, its eager longing for the fire mastered it. With much lifting of
    its feet, it cried softly. Then it flattened its ears, expecting the man’s
    curse. But the man remained silent. Later, the dog howled loudly. And
    still later it moved close to the man and caught the smell of death.
    This made the animal back away. A little longer it delayed, howling
    under the stars that leaped and danced and shone brightly in the cold
    sky. Then it turned and ran along the trail toward the camp it knew,
    where there were the other food providers and fire providers.

    T o B u i l d a F i r e

    79

    • To_Build_a_Fire_Ch1_064-079_Part1
    • To_Build_a_Fire_Ch1_064-079_Part2
    • To_Build_a_Fire_Ch1_064-079_Part3
    • To_Build_a_Fire_Ch1_064-079_Part4
    • To_Build_a_Fire_Ch1_064-079_Part5
    • To_Build_a_Fire_Ch1_064-079_Part6
    • To_Build_a_Fire_Ch1_064-079_Part7
    • To_Build_a_Fire_Ch1_064-079_Part8
    • To_Build_a_Fire_Ch1_064-079_Part9
    • To_Build_a_Fire_Ch1_064-079_Part10
    • To_Build_a_Fire_Ch1_064-079_Part11
    • To_Build_a_Fire_Ch1_064-079_Part12
    • To_Build_a_Fire_Ch1_064-079_Part13
    • To_Build_a_Fire_Ch1_064-079_Part14
    • To_Build_a_Fire_Ch1_064-079_Part15
    • To_Build_a_Fire_Ch1_064-079_Part16

    Order a unique copy of this paper

    600 words
    We'll send you the first draft for approval by September 11, 2018 at 10:52 AM
    Total price:
    $26
    Top Academic Writers Ready to Help
    with Your Research Proposal

    Order your essay today and save 25% with the discount code GREEN