Our story today is called, "A Horseman in the Sky." It was written by Ambrose Bierce.

Here is
Roy Depew with the story.
Narrator: Carter Druse was born in Virginia. He loved his parents, his home and the south. But
he loved his country, too. And in the autumn of eighteen sixty-one, when the United States was
divided by a terrible civil war, Carter Druse, a southerner, decided to join the Union Army of the
north.
He told his father about his decision one morning at breakfast.
The older man looked at his only son for a moment, too shocked to speak. Then he said, "As of
this moment you are a traitor to the south. Please dont tell your mother about your decision. She
is sick, and we both know she has only a few weeks to live."
Carters father paused, again looking deep into his sons eyes. "Carter," he said, "No matter what
happens -- be sure you always do what you think is your duty."
Both Carter Druse and his father left the table that morning with broken hearts. And Carter soon
left his home, and everyone he loved to wear the blue uniform of the Union soldier.
One sunny afternoon, a few weeks later, Carter Druse lay with his face in the dirt by the side of a
road. He was on his stomach, his arms still holding his gun. Carter would not receive a medal for
his actions. In fact, if his commanding officer were to see him, he would order Carter shot
immediately.
For Carter was not dead or wounded. He was sleeping while on duty. Fortunately, no one could
see him. He was hidden by some bushes, growing by the side of the road.
The road Carter Druse had been sent to guard was only a few miles from his fathers house.
It began in a forest, down in the valley, and climbed up the side of a huge rock. Anyone standing
on the top of this high rock would be able to see down into the valley. And that person would feel
very dizzy, looking down. If he dropped a stone from the edge of this cliff, it would fall for six
hundred meters before disappearing into the forest in the valley below.
Giant cliffs, like the one Carter lay on, surrounded the valley.
Hidden in the valleys forest were five union regiments -- thousands of Carters fellow soldiers.
They had marched for thirty-six hours. Now they were resting. But at midnight they would climb
that road up the rocky cliff.

Their plan was to attack by surprise an army of southerners, camped on the other side of the cliff.
But if their enemy learned about the Union Army hiding in the forest, the soldiers would find
themselves in a trap with no escape. That was why Carter Druse had been sent to guard the road.
It was his duty to be sure that no enemy soldier, dressed in gray, spied on the valley, where the
union army was hiding.
But Carter Druse had fallen asleep. Suddenly, as if a messenger of fate came to touch him on the
shoulder, the young man opened his eyes. As he lifted his head, he saw a man on horseback
standing on the huge rocky cliff that looked down into the valley.
The rider and his horse stood so still that they seemed made of stone. The mans gray uniform
blended with the blue sky and the white clouds behind him. He held a gun in his right hand, and
the horses reins in the other.
Carter could not see the mans face, because the rider was looking down into the valley. But the
man and his horse seemed to be of heroic, almost gigantic size, standing there motionless against
the sky. Carter discovered he was very much afraid, even though he knew the enemy soldier
could not see him hiding in the bushes.
Suddenly the horse moved, pulling back its head from the edge of the cliff. Carter was
completely awake now. He raised his gun, pushing its barrel through the bushes. And he aimed
for the horsemans heart. A small squeeze of the trigger, and Carter Druse would have done his
duty.
At that instant, the horseman turned his head and looked in Carters direction. He seemed to look
at Carters face, into his eyes, and deep into his brave, generous heart.
Carters face became very white. His entire body began shaking. His mind began to race, and in
his fantasy, the horse and rider became black figures, rising and falling in slow circles against a
fiery red sky.
Carter did not pull the trigger. Instead, he let go of his gun and slowly dropped his face until it
rested again in the dirt.
Brave and strong as he was, Carter almost fainted from the shock of what he had seen.
Is it so terrible to kill an enemy who might kill you and your friends? Carter knew that this man
must be shot from ambush -- without warning. This man must die without a moment to prepare
his soul; without even the chance to say a silent prayer.

Slowly, a hope began to form in Carter Druses mind. Perhaps the southern soldier had not seen
the northern troops.
Perhaps he was only admiring the view. Perhaps he would now turn and ride carelessly away.
Then Carter looked down into the valley so far below. He saw a line of men in blue uniforms and
their horses, slowly leaving the protection of the forest. A foolish Union officer had permitted his
soldiers to bring their horses to drink at a small stream near the forest. And there they were -- in
plain sight!
Carter Druse looked back to the man and horse standing there against the sky. Again he took aim.
But this time he pointed his gun at the horse. Words rang in his head -- the last words his father
ever spoke to him: "No matter what happens, be sure you always do what you think is your
duty."
Carter Druse was calm as he pulled the trigger of his gun.
At that moment, a Union officer happened to look up from his hiding place near the edge of the
forest. His eyes climbed to the top of the cliff that looked over the valley. Just looking at the top
of the gigantic rock, so far above him, made the soldier feel dizzy.
And then the officer saw something that filled his heart with horror. A man on a horse was riding
down into the valley through the air!
The rider sat straight in his saddle. His hair streamed back, waving in the wind. His left hand
held his horses reins while his right hand was hidden in the cloud of the horses mane. The horse
looked as if it were galloping across the earth. Its body was proud and noble.
As the frightened Union officer watched this horseman in the sky, he almost believed he was
witnessing a messenger from heaven. A messenger who had come to announce the end of the
world. The officers legs grew weak, and he fell. At almost the same instant, he heard a crashing
sound in the trees. The sound died without an echo. And all was silent.
The officer got to his feet, still shaking. He went back to his camp. But he didnt tell anyone what
he had seen. He knew no one would ever believe him.
Soon after firing his gun, Carter Druse was joined by a Union sergeant. Carter did not turn his
head as the sergeant kneeled beside him.
"Did you fire?" The sergeant whispered.
"Yes."

"At what?"
"A horse. It was on that rock. Its not there now. It went over the cliff." Carters face was white.
But he showed no other sign of emotion. The sergeant did not understand.
"See here, Druse," he said, after a moments silence. "Why are you making this into a mystery. I
order you to report. Was there anyone on the horse?"
"Yes."
"Who? "
"My father."
Announcer: You have heard the story called, "A Horseman in the Sky." It was written by
Ambrose Bierce, and adapted for Special English by Dona de Sanctis. Your storyteller was Roy
Depew.
For VOA Special English, this is Shirley Griffith.

Our story today is called "The Californian's Tale." It was written by Mark Twain. Here is Shep
O'Neal with the story.
STORYTELLER: When I was young, I went looking for gold in California. I never found
enough to make me rich. But I did discover a beautiful part of the country. It was called "the
Stanislau." The Stanislau was like Heaven on Earth. It had bright green hills and deep forests
where soft winds touched the trees.
Other men, also looking for gold, had reached the Stanislau hills of California many years before
I did. They had built a town in the valley with sidewalks and stores, banks and schools. They had
also built pretty little houses for their families.
At first, they found a lot of gold in the Stanislau hills. But their good luck did not last. After a
few years, the gold disappeared. By the time I reached the Stanislau, all the people were gone,
too.
Grass now grew in the streets. And the little houses were covered by wild rose bushes. Only the
sound of insects filled the air as I walked through the empty town that summer day so long ago.
Then, I realized I was not alone after all.

A man was smiling at me as he stood in front of one of the little houses. This house was not
covered by wild rose bushes. A nice little garden in front of the house was full of blue and yellow
flowers. White curtains hung from the windows and floated in the soft summer wind.
Still smiling, the man opened the door of his house and motioned to me. I went inside and could
not believe my eyes. I had been living for weeks in rough mining camps with other gold miners.
We slept on the hard ground, ate canned beans from cold metal plates and spent our days in the
difficult search for gold.
Here in this little house, my spirit seemed to come to life again.
I saw a bright rug on the shining wooden floor. Pictures hung all around the room. And on little
tables there were seashells, books and china vases full of flowers. A woman had made this house
into a home.
The pleasure I felt in my heart must have shown on my face. The man read my thoughts. "Yes,"
he smiled, "it is all her work. Everything in this room has felt the touch of her hand."
One of the pictures on the wall was not hanging straight. He noticed it and went to fix it. He
stepped back several times to make sure the picture was really straight. Then he gave it a gentle
touch with his hand.
"She always does that," he explained to me. "It is like the finishing pat a mother gives her child's
hair after she has brushed it. I have seen her fix all these things so often that I can do it just the
way she does. I don't know why I do it. I just do it."
As he talked, I realized there was something in this room that he wanted me to discover. I looked
around. When my eyes reached a corner of the room near the fireplace, he broke into a happy
laugh and rubbed his hands together.
"That's it!" he cried out. "You have found it! I knew you would. It is her picture. I went to a little
black shelf that held a small picture of the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. There was a
sweetness and softness in the woman's expression that I had never seen before.
The man took the picture from my hands and stared at it. "She was nineteen on her last birthday.
That was the day we were married. When you see heroh, just wait until you meet her!"
"Where is she now?" I asked.
"Oh, she is away," the man sighed, putting the picture back on the little black shelf. "She went to
visit her parents. They live forty or fifty miles from here. She has been gone two weeks today."
"When will she be back?" I asked. "Well, this is Wednesday," he said slowly. "She will be back
on Saturday, in the evening."
I felt a sharp sense of regret. "I am sorry, because I will be gone by then," I said.

"Gone? No! Why should you go? Don't go. She will be so sorry. You see, she likes to have
people come and stay with us."
"No, I really must leave," I said firmly.
He picked up her picture and held it before my eyes. "Here," he said. "Now you tell her to her
face that you could have stayed to meet her and you would not."
Something made me change my mind as I looked at the picture for a second time. I decided to
stay.
The man told me his name was Henry.
That night, Henry and I talked about many different things, but mainly about her. The next day
passed quietly.
Thursday evening we had a visitor. He was a big, grey-haired miner named Tom. "I just came
for a few minutes to ask when she is coming home," he explained. "Is there any news?"
"Oh yes," the man replied. "I got a letter. Would you like to hear it? He took a yellowed letter out
of his shirt pocket and read it to us. It was full of loving messages to him and to other people
their close friends and neighbors. When the man finished reading it, he looked at his friend. "Oh
no, you are doing it again, Tom! You always cry when I read a letter from her. I'm going to tell
her this time!"
"No, you must not do that, Henry," the grey-haired miner said. "I am getting old. And any little
sorrow makes me cry. I really was hoping she would be here tonight."
The next day, Friday, another old miner came to visit. He asked to hear the letter. The message in
it made him cry, too. "We all miss her so much," he said.
Saturday finally came. I found I was looking at my watch very often. Henry noticed this. "You
don't think something has happened to her, do you?" he asked me.
I smiled and said that I was sure she was just fine. But he did not seem satisfied.
I was glad to see his two friends, Tom and Joe, coming down the road as the sun began to set.
The old miners were carrying guitars. They also brought flowers and a bottle of whiskey. They
put the flowers in vases and began to play some fast and lively songs on their guitars.
Henry's friends kept giving him glasses of whiskey, which they made him drink. When I reached
for one of the two glasses left on the table, Tom stopped my arm. "Drop that glass and take the
other one!" he whispered. He gave the remaining glass of whiskey to Henry just as the clock
began to strike midnight.

Henry emptied the glass. His face grew whiter and whiter. "Boys," he said, "I am feeling sick. I
want to lie down."
Henry was asleep almost before the words were out of his mouth.
In a moment, his two friends had picked him up and carried him into the bedroom. They closed
the door and came back. They seemed to be getting ready to leave. So I said, "Please don't go
gentlemen. She will not know me. I am a stranger to her."
They looked at each other. "His wife has been dead for nineteen years," Tom said.
"Dead?" I whispered.
"Dead or worse," he said.
"She went to see her parents about six months after she got married. On her way back, on a
Saturday evening in June, when she was almost here, the Indians captured her. No one ever saw
her again. Henry lost his mind. He thinks she is still alive. When June comes, he thinks she has
gone on her trip to see her parents. Then he begins to wait for her to come back. He gets out that
old letter. And we come around to visit so he can read it to us.
"On the Saturday night she is supposed to come home, we come here to be with him. We put a
sleeping drug in his drink so he will sleep through the night. Then he is all right for another
year."
Joe picked up his hat and his guitar. "We have done this every June for nineteen years," he said.
"The first year there were twenty-seven of us. Now just the two of us are left." He opened the
door of the pretty little house. And the two old men disappeared into the darkness of the
Stanislau.
ANNOUNCER: You have just heard the story "The Californian's Tale." It was written by Mark
Twain and adapted for Special English by Donna de Sanctis. Your storyteller was Shep O'Neal.
For VOA Special English, this is Shirley Griffith.