GC3DQMJ American Literature: Modernists (Unknown Cache) in Wisconsin, United States created by krymdog

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Hidden : 3/2/2012

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N 46. 0A.BCD W 091. 3E.FGH
I make my living by forcing students to analyze poems, short stories, novels, and other works of literature. Why should you people be any different?

This series concentrates solely on American Literature. American Literature can be broken down into eight unique time periods, each with its own identifying characteristics. Arranged chronologically from earliest to latest, they are:

Native Americans
Puritans
Rationalists
Romantics
Transcendentalists
Realists
Modernists
Post-Modernists

Each of the eight American Lit caches will concentrate on one of these time periods. Read the selected works and answer the questions. The correct answers will generate the correct grid coordinates.

Note: I’d do all eight caches before heading out, as all the caches are located in the same general area.

In each of the eight American Lit. mystery caches is a clue for the American Lit: Final Exam cache. I encourage you to take your time with these solves and this series—read the selections to achieve understanding rather than skimming for the answers to the questions. The answers will come with a thorough understanding of the material. Remember—sometimes it’s the journey, not the destination, that’s important.

The Modernists (1900-1940's):

If you thought the Realists were downers, you’ll love the Modernists. The eruption of technology in the 20th Century, along with the harsh reality of two World Wars, drastically affected the literature of the time period. Modernists rejected traditional narrative and poetic forms, and their stories were permeated with the despair reflected in the notion that individuals just didn’t matter, anymore. Ernest Hemingway, probably the most prolific American author EVER, expertly captures this bleakness in his novels and short stories. In between boxing, fighting in World War I, covering the Spanish American War as a journalist, chasing German U-Boats around in a rowboat, and drinking all the Cuban margaritas he could get his hands on, he took time to write short stories like “The Killers” and “Hills Like White Elephants.”

"The Killers"

by Ernest Hemingway

The door of Henry’s lunch-room opened and two men came in. They sat down at the counter.
                   ‘What’s yours?’ George asked them.
                   ‘I don’t know,’ one of the men said. ‘What do you want to eat, Al?’
                   ‘I don’t know,’ said Al. ‘I don’t know what I want to eat.’
          Outside it was getting dark. The street light came on outside the window. The two men at the counter read the menu. From the other end of the counter Nick Adams watched them. He had been talking to George when they came in.

                    ‘I’ll have a roast pork tenderloin with apple sauce and mashed potatoes,' the first man said.
                    ‘It isn’t ready yet.’
                    ‘What the hell do you put it on the card for?’
                    ‘That’s the dinner,’ George explained. ‘You can get that at six o'clock.’
          George looked at the clock on the wall behind the counter.
                    ‘It’s five o'clock’
                    ‘The clock says twenty minutes past five,’ the second man said.
                    ‘It’s twenty minutes fast.’
                    ‘Oh, to hell with the clock,’ the first man said. ‘What have you got to eat?’
                    ‘I can give you any kind of sandwiches,’ George said. ‘You can have ham and eggs, bacon and eggs, liver and bacon, or a steak.’
                    ‘Give me chicken croquettes with green peas and cream sauce and mashed potatoes.’
                    ‘That’s the dinner.’
                    ‘Everything we want’s the dinner, eh? That’s the way you work it.’
                    ‘I can give you ham and eggs, bacon and eggs, liver –’
                    ‘I’ll take ham and eggs,’ the man called Al Said. He wore a derby hat and a black overcoat buttoned across the chest. His face was small and white and he had tight lips. He wore a silk muffler and gloves.
                    ‘Give me bacon and eggs,’ said the other man. He was about the same size as Al. Their faces were different, but they were dressed like twins. Both wore overcoats too tight for them. They sat leaning forward, their elbows on the counter.
                    ‘Got anything to drink?’ Al asked.
                    ‘Silver beer, bevo, ginger-ale,’ George said.
                    ‘I mean you got anything to drink?’
                    ‘Just those I said.’
                    ‘This is a hot town,’ said the other. ‘What do they call it?’
                    ‘Summit,’
                    ‘Ever hear of it?’ Al asked his friend.
                    ‘No,’ said the friend.
                    ‘What do you do here nights?’ Al asked.
                    ‘They eat the dinner,’ his friend said. ‘They all come here and eat the big dinner.’
                    ‘That’s right.’ George said.
                    ‘So you think that’s right?’ Al asked George.
                    ‘Sure.’
                    ‘You’re a pretty bright boy, aren’t you?’
                    ‘Sure,’ Said George.
                    ‘Well, you’re not,’ said the other little man. ‘Is he, Al?’
                    ‘He’s dumb,’ said Al. he turned to Nick. ‘What’s your name?’
                    ‘Adams.’
                    ‘Another Bright boy,’ Al said. ‘Ain’t he a bright boy, Max?’
                    ‘The town’s full of bright boys,’ Max said.
          George put down two platters, one of ham and eggs, the other of bacon and eggs, on the counter. He set down two side dishes of fried potatoes and closed the wicket into the kitchen.
                    ‘Which is yours?’ he asked Al.
                    ‘Don’t you remember?’
                    ‘Ham and eggs,’
                    ‘Just a bright boy,’ Max said. He leaned forward and took the ham and eggs. Both men ate with their gloves on. George watched them eat.
                    ‘What are you looking at?’ Max looked at George.
                    ‘Nothing.’
                    ‘The hell you were. You were looking at me.’
                    ‘Maybe the boy meant it for a joke, Max,’ Al said.
George laughed.
                    ‘You don’t have to laugh,’ Max said to him. ‘You don’t have to laugh at all, see?’
                    ‘All Right,’ said George.
                    ‘So he think it's all right,’ Max turned to all. ’He thinks it's all right. That’s a good one.’
                    ‘Oh, he’s a thinker,’ Al said. They went on eating.
                    ‘What’s the bright boy’s name down the counter? Al asked Max.
                    ‘Hey, bright boy,’ Max said to Nick. ‘You go around on the other side of the counter with your boy friend.’
                    ‘What’s the idea?’ Nick asked.
                    ‘You better go around, bright boy,’ Al said. Nick went around behind the counter.
                    ‘What’s the idea?’ George asked.
                    ‘None of your damn business,’ Al said. ‘Who’s out in the kitchen?’
                    ‘The nigger.’
                    ‘What do you mean the nigger?’
                    ‘The nigger that cooks.’
                    ‘Tell him to come in,’
                    ‘What’s the idea?’
                    ‘Tell him to come in,’
                    ‘Where do you think you are?’
                    ‘We know damn well where we are,’ the man called Max said. ’Do we look silly?’
                    ‘You talk silly,’ Al said to him. ‘What the hell do you argue with this kid for? Listen,’ he said to George, ‘tell the nigger to come out here.’
                    ‘What are you going to do to him?’
                    ‘Nothing. Use your head, bright boy. What would we do to a nigger?’
          George opened the slip that opened back into the kitchen. ‘Sam,’ he called. ‘Come in here a minute.’
         The door of the kitchen opened and the nigger came in. ‘What was it?’ he asked. The two men at the counter took a look at him.
                    ‘All right, nigger. You stand right there,’ Al said.
          Sam, the nigger, standing in his apron, looked at the two men sitting at the counter. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said. Al got down from his stool.
                    ‘I’m going back to the kitchen with the nigger and bright boy,’ he said. ‘Go back to the kitchen, nigger. You go with him, bright boy.’ The little man walked after Nick and Sam, the cook, back into the kitchen. The door shut after them. The man called Max sat at the counter opposite George. He didn’t look at George but looked in the mirror that ran along back of the counter. Henry’s had been made over from a saloon into a lunch-counter.
                    ‘Well, bright boy,’ Max said, looking into the mirror, ‘why don’t you say something?’
                    ‘What’s it all about?’
                    ‘Hey, Al,’ Max Called, ‘bright boy wants to know what it’s all about.’
                    ‘Why don’t you tell him?’ Al’s Voice came from the kitchen.
                    ‘What do you think it’s all about?’
                    ‘I don’t know.’
                    ‘What do you think?’
          Max looked into the mirror all the time he was talking.
                    ‘I wouldn’t say.’
                    ‘Hey Al, bright boy says he wouldn’t say what he thinks it’s all about.’
                    ‘I can hear you, all right,’ Al said from the kitchen. He had propped open the slit that dishes passed through into the kitchen with a catsup bottle. ’Listen, bright boy,’ he said from the kitchen to George. ‘Stand a little further along the bar. You move a little to the left, Max.’ He was like a photographer arranging for a group picture.
                    ‘Talk to me, bright boy,’ Max said. ‘What do you think’s going to happen?’
         George did not say anything.
                    ‘I'll tell you,’ Max Said. ‘We’re going to kill a Swede. Do you know a big Swede named Ole Anderson?
                    ‘Yes.’
                    ‘He comes in here to eat every night, don't he?’
                    ‘Sometimes he comes here.’
                    ‘He comes here at six o’clock, don’t he?
                    ‘If he comes.’
                    ‘We know all that, bright boy,’ Max said. ‘Talk about something else. Ever go to the movies?’
                    ‘Once in a while.’
                    ‘You ought to go to the movies more. The movies are fine for a bright boy like you.’
                    ‘What are you going to kill Ole Anderson for? What did he ever do to you?’
                    ‘He never had a chance to do anything to us. He never even seen us.’
                    ‘And he’s only going to kill him for, then?’ George asked.
                    ‘We’re killing him for a friend. Just to oblige a friend, bright boy.’
                    ‘Shut up,’ said Al from the kitchen. ‘You talk too god-dam much.’
                    ‘Well, I got to keep bright boy amused. Don’t I, bright boy?’
                    ‘You talk too damn much,’ Al said ‘The nigger and my bright boy are amused by themselves. I got them tied up like a couple of girl friends in the convent.’
                    ‘I suppose you were in a convent.’
                    ‘You never know.’
                    ‘You were in a kosher convent. That’s where you were.’
          George looked up at the clock.
                    ‘If anybody comes in you tell them the cook is off, and if they keep after it, you tell them you’ll go back and cook yourself. Do you get that, bright boy?’
                    ‘Al right,’ George said. ‘What you going to do with us afterwards?’
                    ‘That’ll depend,’ Max said. ‘That’s one of those thing you never know at the time.’
          George looked up at the clock. It was a quarter past six. The door from the street opened. A street-car motorman came in.
                    ‘Hello, George,’ he said. ‘Can I get supper?’
                    ‘Sam’s gone out,’ George said. ‘He’ll be back in about half an hour.’
                    ‘I’d better go up the street,’ the motorman said. George looked at the clock. It was twenty minutes past six.
                    ‘That was nice, bright boy,’ Max said ‘You’re a regular little gentleman.’
                    ‘He knew I’d blow his head off,’ Al said from the kitchen.
                    ‘No.’ said Max. ‘It ain’t that. Bright boy is nice. He’s a nice boy. I like him.’
          At six-fifty-five George said: ‘He’s not coming.’
          Two other people had been in the lunch-room. Once George had gone out to the kitchen and made a ham-and-eggs sandwich ‘to go’ that a man wanted to take with him. Inside the kitchen he saw Al, his derby hat tilted back, sitting on a stool beside the wicket with the muzzle of a sawed-off shotgun resting on the ledge. Nick and the cook were back to back in the corner, a towel tied in each of their mouths. George had cooked the sandwich, wrapped it up in oiled paper, put it in a bag, brought it in, and the man had paid for it and gone out.
                    ‘Bright boy can do everything,’ Max said. ‘He can cook and everything. You’d make some girl a nice wife, bright boy.’
                    ‘Yes?’ George said. ‘Your friend. Ole Anderson, isn’t going to come.’
                    ‘We’ll give him ten minutes,’ Max said.
          Max watched the mirror and the clock. The hands of the clock marked seven o’clock, and then five minutes past seven.
                    ‘Come on, Al,’ said Max. ‘We better go. He's not coming.’
                    ‘Better give him five minutes,’ Al said from the kitchen.
          In the five minutes a man came in, and George explained that the cook was sick.
                    ‘Why the hell don’t you get another cook?’ the man asked. ‘Aren’t you running a lunch-counter?’ He went out.
                    ‘Come on Al,’ Max Said.
                    ‘What about the two bright boys and the nigger?’
                    ‘They’re all right.’
                    ‘You think so?’
                    ‘Sure. We’re through with it.’
                    ‘I don’t like it,’ said Al. ‘It’s sloppy. You talk too much.’
                    ‘Oh, what the hell,’ said Max. ‘We got to keep amused, haven’t we?’
                    ‘You talk too much, all the same,’ Al said. He came out from the kitchen. The cut-off barrels of the shotgun made a slight bulge under the waist of his too tight-fitting overcoat. He straightened his coat with his gloved hands.
                    ‘So long, bright boy,’ he said to George. ‘You got a lot of luck.’
                    ‘That’s the truth,’ Max said. ‘You ought to play the races, bright boy.’
          The two of them went out of the door. George watched them, through the window; pass under the arc-light, and cross the street. In their overcoats and derby hats they looked like a vaudeville team. George went back through the swinging-door into the kitchen and untied Nick and the cook.
                    ‘I don’t want any more of that,’ said Sam, the cook. ‘I don’t want any more of that.’
          Nick stood up. He had never had a towel in his mouth before.
                    ‘Say,’ he said. ‘What the hell?’ He was trying to swagger it off.
                    ‘They were going to kill Ole Anderson,’ George said. ‘They were going to shoot him when he came in to eat.’
                    ‘Ole Anderson?’
                    ‘Sure.’
          The cook felt the corners of his mouth with his thumbs.
                    ‘They all gone?’ he asked.
                    ‘Yeah,’ said George. ‘They’re gone now.’
                    ‘I don’t like it,’ said the cook. ‘I don’t like any of it at all.’
                    ‘Listen,’ George said to nick. ‘You better go see Ole Anderson.’
                    ‘All right.’
                    ‘You better not have anything to do with it at all,’ Sam, the cook, said. ‘You better stay way it at all,’ Sam, the cook, said. ‘You better stay way out of it.’
                    ‘Don’t go if you don’t want to,’ George said.
                    ‘Mixing up in this ain’t going to get you anywhere,’ the cook said. ‘You stay out of it.’
                    ‘I’ll go see him,’ Nick said to George. ‘Where does he live?’
          The cook turned away.
                    ‘Little boys always know what they want to do,’ he said.
                    ‘He lives up at Hirsch’s rooming-house,’ George aid to Nick.
                    ‘I’ll go up there.’
          Outside, the arc-light shone through the bare branches of a tree. Nick walked up the street beside the car-tracks and turned at the next arc-light down a side-street. Three houses up the street was Hirsch’s rooming-house. Nick walked up the two steps and pushed the bell. A woman came to the door.
                    ‘Is Ole Anderson here?’
                    ‘Do you want to see him?’
                    ‘Yes, if he’s in,’
          Nick followed the woman up a flight of stairs and back to the end of the corridor. She knocked on the door.
                    ‘Who is it?’
                    ‘It's Nick Adams.’
                    ‘Come In.’
          Nick opened the door and went into the room. Ole Anderson was lying on the bed with all his clothes on. He had been a heavyweight prize-fighter and he was too long for the bed. He lay with his head on two pillows. He did not look at Nick.
                    ‘What was it?’
                    ‘I was up at Henry’s,’ Nick said, ’and two fellows came in and tied up me and the cook, and they said they were going to kill you.’
          It sounded silly when he said it. Ole Anderson said nothing.
                    ‘They put us out in the kitchen,’ Nick went on. ‘They were going to shoot you when you came in to supper.’
         Ole Anderson looked at the wall and did not say anything.
                    ‘George thought I’d better come and tell you about it.’
                    ‘There isn’t anything I can do about it,’ Ole Anderson said.
                    ‘I’ll tell you what they were like.’
                    ‘I don’t want to know what they were like,’ Ole Anderson said. He looked at the wall. ‘Thanks for coming to tell me about it.’
                    ‘That’s all right.’
          Nick looked at the big man lying on the bed.
                    ‘Don’t you want me to go and see the police?’
                    ‘No,’ Ole Anderson said. ‘That wouldn’t do any good.’
                    ‘Isn’t there something I could do?’
                    ‘No. There ain’t anything to do.’
                    ‘Maybe it was just a bluff.’
                    ‘No, it ain’t just a bluff.’
          Ole Anderson rolled over towards the wall.
                    ‘The only thing is,’ he said, talking towards the wall, ‘I just can’t make up my mind to go out. I been in here all day.’
                    ‘Couldn’t you get out of town?’
                    ‘No,’ Ole Anderson said. ‘I’m through with all that running around.’
          He looked at the wall.
                    ‘There ain’t anything to do now.’
                    ‘Couldn’t you fix it up some way?'
                    ‘No. I got in wrong.’ He talked in the same flat voice. ‘There ain’t anything to do. After a while I’ll make up my mind to go out.’
                    ‘I better go back and see George,’ Nick said.
                    ‘So long,’ said Ole Anderson. He did not look towards Nick. ‘Thanks for coming around.’
          Nick went out. As he shut the door he saw Ole Anderson with all his clothes on, lying on the bed looking at the wall.
                    ‘He’s been in his room all day,’ the landlady said downstairs. ‘I guess he don’t feel well. I said to him: ‘‘Mr. Anderson, You ought to go out and take a walk on a nice fall day like this,’’ but he didn’t feel like it.’
                    ‘He doesn’t want to go out.’
                    ‘I’m sorry he don’t feel well,’ the woman said. ’He’s an awfully nice man. He was in the ring, you know.’
                    ‘I know it.’
                    ‘You’d never know it expect from the way his face is,’ the woman said. They stood talking just inside the street door. ‘He’s just as gentle.’
                    ‘Well, good-night, Mrs. Hirsch,’ Nick Said.
                    ‘I’m not Mrs. Hirsch’ the woman said. ‘She owns the place. I just look after it for her, I’m Mrs. Bell.’
                    ‘Well, Good-night, Mrs. Bell,’ Nick said.
                    ‘Good-night,’ the woman said.
          Nick walked up the dark street to the corner under the arc-light, and then along the car-tracks to Henry’s eating-house. George was inside, back of the counter.
                    ‘Did you see Ole?
                    ‘Yes,’ Said Nick. ‘He’s in his room and he won’t go out.’
          The cook opened the door from the kitchen when he heard Nick’s voice.
                    ‘I don’t even listen to it,’ he said and shut the door.
                    ‘Did you tell him about it?’ George asked.
                    ‘Sure. I told him, but he knows what it’s all about.’
                    ‘What’s he going to do?’
                    ‘Nothing.’
                    ‘They’ll kill him.’
                    ‘I guess they will.’
                    ‘He must have got mixed up in something in Chicago.’
                    ‘I guess so,’ said Nick.
                    ‘It’s a hell of a thing.’
                    ‘It’s an awful thing,’ Nick said.
          They did not say anything. George reached down for a towel and wiped the counter.
                    ‘I wonder what he did?’ Nick said.
                    ‘Double-crossed somebody. That’s what they kill them for.’
                    ‘I’m going to get out of his town,’ Nick said.
                    ‘Yes,’ said George. ‘That’s a good thing to do.’
                    ‘I can’t stand to think about him waiting in the room and knowing he’s going to get it. It’s too damned awful.’

A. What does the term “bright boy” mean?
   3. That the person is very intelligent
   1. That the person is NOT very intelligent
   0. That the person is very fair complected
   2. That the person is young

B. What do Nick and George think Anderson did to merit the price on his head?
   0. Stole something
   6. Double-crossed someone
   1. Killed someone
   5. Fixed a boxing match

C. What is ironic about Ole Anderson’s personality?
   3. He’s a likeable guy, but has a fiery temper
   8. He’s a former fighter, but he’s clearly given up
   4. He’s a killer, but he’s also God-fearing
   1. He’s a hired goon, but he’s clearly very well read

"HILLS LIKE WHITE ELEPHANTS"

The hills across the valley of the Ebro' were long and white. On this side there was no shade and no trees and the station was between two lines of rails in the sun. Close against the side of the station there was the warm shadow of the building and a curtain, made of strings of bamboo beads, hung across the open door into the bar, to keep out flies.

The American and the girl with him sat at a table in the shade, outside the building. It was very hot and the express from Barcelona would come in forty minutes. It stopped at this junction for two minutes and went on to Madrid.

"What should we drink?" the girl asked. She had taken off her hat and put it on the table.

"It's pretty hot," the man said.

"Let's drink beer."

"Dos cervezas," the man said into the curtain.

"Big ones?" a woman asked from the doorway.

"Yes. Two big ones."

The woman brought two glasses of beer and two felt pads. She put the
felt pads and the beer glasses on the table and looked at the man and the girl. The girl was looking off at the line of hills. They were white in the sun and the country was brown and dry.

"They look like white elephants," she said.

"I've never seen one," the man drank his beer.

"No, you wouldn't have."

"I might have," the man said. "Just because you say I wouldn't have
doesn't prove anything."

The girl looked at the bead curtain.

“They've painted something on it," she said. "What does it say?"

"Anis del Toro. It's a drink."

"Could we try it?"

The man called "Listen" through the curtain. The woman came out
from the bar.

"Four reales."

"We want two Anis del Toro."

"With water?"

"Do you want it with water?"

" I don't know," the girl said. "Is it good with water?"

"It's all right."

"You want them with water?" asked the woman.

"Yes, with water."

"It tastes like licorice," the girl said and put the glass down.

"That's the way with everything."

"Yes," said the girl. "Everything tastes of licorice. Especially all the
things you've waited so long for, like absinthe."

"Oh, cut it out."

"You started it," the girl said. "I was being amused. I was having a fine time."

"Well, let's try and have a fine time."

"All right. I was trying. I said the mountains looked like white elephants. Wasn't that bright?"

"That was bright."

"I wanted to try this new drink. That's all we do, isn't it—look at things and try new drinks?"
"I guess so." The girl looked across at the hills. "They're lovely hills," she said. "They don't really look like white elephants. I just meant the coloring of their skin through the trees."

"Should we have another drink?"

"All right." The warm wind blew the bead curtain against the table. "The beer's nice and cool," the man said.

"It's lovely," the girl said.

"It's really an awfully simple operation, Jig," the man said. "It's not
really an operation at all."

The girl looked at the ground the table legs rested on.

"I know you wouldn't mind it, Jig. It's really not anything. It's just to let
the air in."

The girl did not say anything.

"I'll go with you and I'll stay with you all the time. They just let the air in
and then it's all perfectly natural."

"Then what will we do afterward?"

"We'll be fine afterward. Just like we were before."

"What makes you think so?" "That's the only thing that bothers us. It's the only thing that's made us unhappy."

The girl looked at the bead curtain, put her hand out and took hold of
two of the strings of beads.

"And you think then we'll be all right and be happy."

"I know we will. You don't have to be afraid. I've known lots of people
that have done it."

"So have I," said the girl. "And afterward they were all so happy."

"Well," the man said, "if you don't want to you don't have to. I wouldn't have you do it if you didn't want to. But I know it's perfectly simple."

"And you really want to?"

" I think it's the best thing to do. But I don't want you to do it if you don't really want to."

"And if I do it you'll be happy and things will be like they were and you'll love me?"

"I love you now. You know I love you."

" I know. But if I do it, then it will be nice again if I say things are like white elephants, and you'll like it?"

"I'll love it. I love it now but I just can't think about it. You know how I get when I worry."

"If I do it you won't ever worry?"

"I won't worry about that because it's perfectly simple."

"Then I'll do it. Because I don't care about me."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't care about me."

"Well, I care about you."

"Oh, yes. But I don't care about me. And I'll do it and then everything
will be fine."

"I don't want you to do it if you feel that way."

The girl stood up and walked to the end of the station. Across, on the
other side, were fields of grain and trees along the banks of the Ebro. Far away, beyond the river, were mountains. The shadow of a cloud moved across the field of grain and she saw the river through the trees.

"And we could have all this," she said. "And we could have everything and every day we make it more impossible."

"What did you say?"

"I said we could have everything."

"We can have everything."

"No, we can't."

"We can have the whole world."

"No, we can't."

"We can go everywhere."

"No, we can't. It isn't ours any more."

"It's ours."

"No, it isn't. And once they take it away, you never get it back."

"But they haven't taken it away."

"We'll wait and see."

"Come on back in the shade," he said. "You mustn't feel that way."

" I don't feel any way," the girl said. " I just know things."

"I don't want you to do anything that you don't want to do—"

"Nor that isn't good for me," she said. " I know. Could we have another
beer?"

"All right. But you've got to realize—"

"I realize," the girl said. "Can't we maybe stop talking?"

They sat down at the table and the girl looked across at the hills on the
dry side of the valley and the man looked at her and at the table.

"You've got to realize," he said, "that I don't want you to do it if you
don't want to. I'm perfectly willing to go through with it if it means any-thing to you."

"Doesn't it mean anything to you? We could get along."

"Of course it does. But I don't want anybody but you. I don't want any one else. And I know it's perfectly simple."

"Yes, you know it's perfectly simple."

"It's all right for you to say that, but I do know it."

"Would you do something for me now?"

"I'd do anything for you."

"Would you please please please please please please please stop
talking?"

He did not say anything but looked at the bags against the wall of the station. There were labels on them from all the hotels where they had spent nights.

"But I don't want you to," he said, " I don't care anything about it."

"I'll scream," the girl said.

The woman came out through the curtains with two glasses of beer and put them down on the damp felt pads.

"The train comes in five minutes," she said.

"What did she say?" asked the girl.

"That the train is coming in five minutes." The girl smiled brightly at the woman, to thank her.

"I'd better take the bags over to the other side of the station," the man
said.

She smiled at him. "All right. Then come back and we'll finish the beer."

He picked up the two heavy bags and carried them around the station to the other tracks. He looked up the tracks but could not see the train. Coming back, he walked through the barroom, where people waiting for the train were drinking. He drank an Anis at the bar and looked at the people. They were all waiting reasonably for the train. He went out through the bead curtain. She was sitting at the table and smiled at him.

"Do you feel better?" he asked.

“I feel fine," she said. "There's nothing wrong with me. I feel fine."

D. Hemingway was a master at having simplistic dialogue hint at an underlying conflict. What is the underlying conflict in this story?
   3. Abortion
   9. Capital punishment
   7. Gay marriage
   1. Prayer in school

Although William Carlos Williams (1883-1963) is remembered for his poetry, his primary occupation was as a family doctor. He practiced medicine by day and wrote at night. In addition to poetry (his main literary focus), he occasionally wrote plays, novels, essays, and short stories. His subject matter was centered on everyday circumstances of life and the lives of common people.

William Carlos Williams—“The Use of Force”

They were new patients to me. All I had was the name, Olson. Please come down as soon as you can, my daughter is very sick.

When I arrived I was met by the mother, a big startled looking woman, very clean and apologetic who merely said, Is this the doctor? and let me in. In the back, she added. You must excuse us, doctor, we have her in the kitchen where it is warm. It is very damp here sometimes.

The child was fully dressed and sitting on her father's lap near the kitchen table. He tried to get up, but I motioned for him not to bother, took off my overcoat and started to look things over. I could see that they were all very nervous, eyeing me up and down distrustfully. As often, in such cases, they weren't telling me more than they had to, it was up to me to tell them; that's why they were spending three dollars on me.

The child was fairly eating me up with her cold, steady eyes, and no expression to her face whatever. She did not move and seemed, inwardly, quiet; an unusually attractive little thing, and as strong as a heifer in appearance. But her face was flushed, she was breathing rapidly, and I realized that she had a high fever. She had magnificent blonde hair, in profusion. One of those picture children often reproduced in advertising leaflets and the photogravure sections of the Sunday papers.

She's had a fever for three days, began the father and we don't know what it comes from. My wife has given her things, you know, like people do, but it don't do no good. And there's been a lot of sickness around. So we tho't you'd better look her over and tell us what is the matter.

As doctors often do I took a trial shot at it as a point of departure. Has she had a sore throat?

Both parents answered me together, No . . . No, she says her throat don't hurt her.

Does your throat hurt you? added the mother to the child. But the little girl's expression didn't change nor did she move her eyes from my face.

Have you looked?

I tried to, said the mother, but I couldn't see.

As it happens we had been having a number of cases of diphtheria in the school to which this child went during that month and we were all, quite apparently, thinking of that, though no one had as yet spoken of the thing.

Well, I said, suppose we take a look at the throat first. I smiled in my best professional manner and asking for the child's first name I said, come on, Mathilda, open your mouth and let's take a look at your throat.

Nothing doing.

Aw, come on, I coaxed, just open your mouth wide and let me take a look. Look, I said opening both hands wide, I haven't anything in my hands. Just open up and let me see.

Such a nice man, put in the mother. Look how kind he is to you. Come on, do what he tells you to. He won't hurt you.

At that I ground my teeth in disgust. If only they wouldn't use the word "hurt" I might be able to get somewhere. But I did not allow myself to be hurried or disturbed but speaking quietly and slowly I approached the child again.

As I moved my chair a little nearer suddenly with one catlike movement both her hands clawed instinctively for my eyes and she almost reached them too. In fact she knocked my glasses flying and they fell, though unbroken, several feet away from me on the kitchen floor.

Both the mother and father almost turned themselves inside out in embarrassment and apology. You bad girl, said the mother, taking her and shaking her by one arm. Look what you've done. The nice man . . .

For heaven's sake, I broke in. Don't call me a nice man to her. I'm here to look at her throat on the chance that she might have diphtheria and possibly die of it. But that's nothing to her. Look here, I said to the child, we're going to look at your throat. You're old enough to understand what I'm saying. Will you open it now by yourself or shall we have to open it for you?

Not a move. Even her expression hadn't changed. Her breaths however were coming faster and faster. Then the battle began. I had to do it. I had to have a throat culture for her own protection. But first I told the parents that it was entirely up to them. I explained the danger but said that I would not insist on a throat examination so long as they would take the responsibility.

If you don't do what the doctor says you'll have to go to the hospital, the mother admonished her severely.

Oh yeah? I had to smile to myself. After all, I had already fallen in love with the savage brat, the parents were contemptible to me. In the ensuing struggle they grew more and more abject, crushed, exhausted while she surely rose to magnificent heights of insane fury of effort bred of her terror of me.

The father tried his best, and he was a big man but the fact that she was his daughter, his shame at her behavior and his dread of hurting her made him release her just at the critical times when I had almost achieved success, till I wanted to kill him. But his dread also that she might have diphtheria made him tell me to go on, go on though he himself was almost fainting, while the mother moved back and forth behind us raising and lowering her hands in an agony of apprehension.

Put her in front of you on your lap, I ordered, and hold both her wrists.

But as soon as he did the child let out a scream. Don't, you're hurting me. Let go of my hands. Let them go I tell you. Then she shrieked terrifyingly, hysterically. Stop it! Stop it! You're killing me!

Do you think she can stand it, doctor! said the mother.

You get out, said the husband to his wife. Do you want her to die of diphtheria?

Come on now, hold her, I said.

Then I grasped the child's head with my left hand and tried to get the wooden tongue depressor between her teeth. She fought, with clenched teeth, desperately! But now I also had grown furious--at a child. I tried to hold myself down but I couldn't. I know how to expose a throat for inspection. And I did my best. When finally I got the wooden spatula behind the last teeth and just the point of it into the mouth cavity, she opened up for an instant but before I could see anything she came down again and gripping the wooden blade between her molars she reduced it to splinters before I could get it out again.

Aren't you ashamed, the mother yelled at her. Aren't you ashamed to act like that in front of the doctor?

Get me a smooth-handled spoon of some sort, I told the mother. We're going through with this. The child's mouth was already bleeding. Her tongue was cut and she was screaming in wild hysterical shrieks. Perhaps I should have desisted and come back in an hour or more. No doubt it would have been better. But I have seen at least two children lying dead in bed of neglect in such cases, and feeling that I must get a diagnosis now or never I went at it again. But the worst of it was that I too had got beyond reason. I could have torn the child apart in my own fury and enjoyed it. It was a pleasure to attack her. My face was burning with it.

The damned little brat must be protected against her own idiocy, one says to one's self at such times. Others must be protected against her. It is a social necessity. And all these things are true. But a blind fury, a feeling of adult shame, bred of a longing for muscular release are the operatives. One goes on to the end.

In a final unreasoning assault I overpowered the child's neck and jaws. I forced the heavy silver spoon back of her teeth and down her throat till she gagged. And there it was--both tonsils covered with membrane. She had fought valiantly to keep me from knowing her secret. She had been hiding that sore throat for three days at least and lying to her parents in order to escape just such an outcome as this.

Now truly she was furious. She had been on the defensive before but now she attacked. Tried to get off her father's lap and fly at me while tears of defeat blinded her eyes.

E. What is the major conflict of the story?
   6. The doctor’s hatred for the parents
   4. The parents not wanting to hurt their child
   5. Discovering whether the kid has diphtheria or not

F. Why does the doctor “love” the “little brat”?
   3. Because she listens
   8. Because she’s beautiful
   2. Because she shows great intelligence
   7. Because of her defiance

G. Why does the doctor hate the parents?
   0. Because they are uneducated
   7. Because they are liberals
   4. Because they are spineless
   9. Because they are Norwegian

H. How does the doctor “win”?/how does the doctor “lose”?
   4. He maintains control and professionalism/he fails to diagnose the child
   1. He successfully diagnoses the child/he loses control and professionalism

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