Book Offers Solution to Chinese Murder Mystery

Published May 17, 2012

The city of Beijing, then known as Peking, awakes on a cold January morning in 1937, to discover a young English woman, the daughter of a retired diplomat, has been brutally murdered. Sara Williams reports on a follow up investigation of the murder

US Lifting All Economic Sanctions on Burma

Published May 17, 2012

The United States is lifting all of its economic sanctions against the military-led government in Burma following the election to parliament of long-time pro-democracy advocate Aung San Suu Kyi. VOA State Department correspondent Scott Stearns reports, Washington will be sending its first ambassador to Burma in more than 20 years.

Lutheran Organization Seeks Help From Former Refugees

Published May 17, 2012

In the 1970s and 1980s, tens of thousands of Cambodians immigrated to the United States. Many of those were helped by religious organizations, including the Lutheran Immigration and Refugee Service. Today’s immigrants come largely from other parts of the world, but many of their needs are the same. And now the Lutheran refugee service is looking for help from refugees it once aided. Brian Calvert has more.

A Princess of Mars, Part 1

Today, we begin a new series from a book by American writer Edgar Rice Burroughs.  The book is called "A Princess of Mars."  It is the first book in a series that Mr. Burroughs wrote about a man who travels to Mars during the last years of the eighteen hundreds. There, the man meets strange beings and sees strange sights. At first he is a captive, then a warrior, and after many battles, a prince of a royal family.

Shep O'Neal begins the story of "A Princess of Mars."

JOHN CARTER:  I am a very old man. How old I do not know. It is possible I am a hundred, maybe more.  I cannot tell because I have never aged as other men do.

So far as I can remember, I have always been a man of about thirty.  I appear today as I did forty years ago.  Yet, I feel that I cannot go on living forever.  Someday I will die the real death from which there is no escape.  I do not know why I should fear death. I who have died two times and am still alive.

I have never told this story. I know the human mind will not believe what it cannot understand.  I cannot explain what happened to me. I can only tell of the ten years my dead body lay undiscovered in an Arizona cave.

My name is John Carter.  I am from the state of Virginia.  At the close of the Civil War I found myself without a home, without money and without work.

I decided the best plan was to search for gold in the great deserts of the American Southwest.

I spent almost a year searching for gold with another former soldier, Captain James Powell, also of Virginia.  We were extremely lucky.  In the winter of eighteen sixty-five we found rocks that held gold.

Powell was trained as a mining engineer.  He said we had uncovered over a million dollars worth of gold in only three months.  But the work was slow with only two men and not much equipment.  So we decided Powell should go to the nearest settlement to seek equipment and men to help us with the work.  On March third, eighteen sixty-six, Powell said good-bye.  He rode his horse down the mountain toward the valley. I followed his progress for several hours.

The morning Powell left was like all mornings in the deserts of the great Southwest -- clear and beautiful.

Not much later I looked across the valley.  I was surprised to see three riders in the same place where I had last seen my friend.  After watching for some time, I decided the three riders must be hostile Indians.

Powell, I knew, was well armed and an experienced soldier.  But I knew he would need my aid.  I found my weapons, placed a saddle on my horse and started as fast as possible down the trail taken by Powell.

I followed as quickly as I could until dark.  About nine o'clock the moon became very bright.  I had no difficulty following Powell's trail.  I soon found the trail left by the three riders following Powell.  I knew they were Indians.  I was sure they wanted to capture Powell.

Suddenly I heard shots far ahead of me.  I hurried ahead as fast as I could.  Soon I came to a small camp.  Several hundred Apache Indians were in the center of the camp.  I could see Powell on the ground.  I did not even think about what to do, I just acted.  I pulled out my guns and began shooting.

The Apaches were surprised and fled.  I forced my horse into the camp and toward Powell. I reached down and pulled him up on the horse by his belt.  I urged the horse to greater speed.  The Apaches by now realized that I was alone and quickly began to follow.  We were soon in very rough country.

The trail I chose began to rise sharply.  It went up and up.  I followed the trail for several hundred meters more until I came to the mouth of a large cave.

It was almost morning now.  I got off my horse and laid Powell on the ground.  I tried to give him water.  But it was no use.  Powell was dead.  I laid his body down and continued to the cave.

I began to explore the cave.  I was looking for a safe place to defend myself, or perhaps for a way out.  But I became very sleepy.  It was a pleasant feeling.  My body became extremely heavy.  I had trouble moving.  Soon I had to lay down against the side of the cave.  For some reason I could not move my arms or legs.

I lay facing the opening of the cave.  I could see part of the trail that had led me here.  And now I could see the Apaches.  They had found me.  But I could do nothing.

Within a minute one of them came into the cave.  He looked at me, but he came no closer.  His eyes grew wide.  His mouth opened.  He had a look of terror on his face.  He looked behind me for moment and then fled.

Suddenly I heard a low noise behind me.

So could the rest of the Apaches.  They all turned and fled.  The sound became louder.  But still I could not move.  I could not turn my head to see what was behind me.  All day I lay like this.  I tried again to rise, and again, but still I could not move.  Then I heard a sharp sound.  It was like a steel wire breaking.  I quickly stood up.  My back was against the cave wall.

I looked down.  There before me lay my body.

For a few moments, I stood looking at my body.  I could not bring myself to touch it.  I was very frightened.  The sounds of the cave and the sight of my body forced me away.  I slowly backed to the opening of the cave.

I turned to look at the Arizona night.  I could see a thousand stars.  As I stood there I turned my eyes to a large red star.  I could not stop looking at it.  It was Mars…the red planet…the red god of war.  It seemed to pull me near.

Then, for a moment, I closed my eyes.  There was an instant of extreme cold and total darkness.  Suddenly I was in deep, dreamless, peaceful sleep.

I opened my eyes upon a very strange land.  I immediately knew then I was on Mars.  Not once did I question this fact.  My mind told me I was on Mars as your mind tells you that you are upon Earth.  You do not question the fact, nor did I.

I found myself lying on a bed of yellow colored grass that covered the land for kilometers.  The time was near the middle of the day and the sun was shining full upon me.  It was warm.

I decided to do a little exploring.  Springing to my feet, I received my first Martian surprise.  The effort to stand carried me into the Martian air to the height of about one meter.  I landed softly upon the ground, however, without incident.

I found that I must learn to walk all over again.  My muscles were used to the gravity of Earth.  Mars has less gravity.  My attempts to walk resulted in jumps and hops, which took me into the air.  I once landed on my face.  I soon learned that it took much less effort for me to move on Mars than it did on Earth.

Near me was a small, low wall.  Carefully, I made my way to the wall and looked over.  It was filled with eggs, some already broken open.  Small, green creatures were in them.  They looked at me with huge red eyes.

As I watched the fierce-looking creatures, I failed to hear twenty full-grown Martians coming from behind me.  They had come without warning.  As I turned, I saw them.  One was coming at me with a huge spear, with its sharp tip pointed at my heart!

(SOUND AND MUSIC)

ANNOUNCER: This is Bob Doughty.  You have been listening to American Stories and our version of "A Princess of Mars."  The voice of John Carter was Shep O'Neal.  Our program was written for radio, produced and directed by Paul Thompson.

Join us again next week for the next part of the Edgar Rice Burroughs story, "A Princess of Mars,"  on the Special English program, American Stories, on the Voice of America.

Earthworms

This is the VOA Special English Agriculture Report.

What can you do with earthworms? Some people use the creepy crawlers to catch fish. But others put worms to work making compost. Compost looks and feels like good soil. Gardeners and farmers add it to soil to make plants grow better.

You can make compost from food waste at home with or without the help of worms. How the worms help is by first eating and processing the food. It comes out the other end of the worm as rich compost.

Kim Gabel from the University of Florida Extension service in Key West suggests using red worms known as red wigglers.

KIM GABEL: "The red wigglers are the best varieties for doing it because they are more of a surface feeder. Because different worms live in different strata, or portions of the earth."

You need a container to hold the waste and the worms. The size of the composting bin depends on how much compost you want to make. You need about a kilogram of worms for each half a kilogram of daily food waste that you add.

Kim Gabel says the bin needs holes so the worms can get air.

KIM GABEL: "The worms do breathe. So that is a very important factor, along with they also like to be in the dark."

So cover the bin to keep out the light.

One thing worms do not like is very high temperatures. Kim Gabel lives in the warm climate of southern Florida. She keeps her worm bin indoors. Unpleasant smells can be prevented by controlling the amount of food waste added to the bin and avoiding meat or bones.

For composting with worms, you need bedding that is moist but not too wet. The amount of water you add will depend on the bedding material you use. Kim Gabel uses newspaper cut into strips about two and a half centimeters wide. Add two handfuls of soil for every half square meter of bedding material and mix well.

Spread the worms over the bedding. The worms will start to wiggle their way down. Remove any worms that remain on top of the bedding after two hours.

When you feed the worms, place the food about two and a half centimeters below the surface of the bedding and cover it.

The worm's waste, or castings, should be ready to use as compost within two to six months.

To remove the compost, you can push it all to one side of the bin. Place new bedding and food on the other side. Within a few weeks the worms will move to the new bedding. Now you can remove the compost and fill the empty space with new bedding.

And that’s the VOA Special English Agriculture Report, written by Jerilyn Watson. Have you ever made compost with worms? Tell us your story at voaspecialenglish.com. I’m Jim Tedder.

An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge

Our story today is called, "An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge. " It was written by Ambrose Bierce.

The occurrence, or event, in our story takes place during the Civil War of the eighteen sixties between the American states of the north and the states of the south. A group of soldiers is hanging a southern farm owner for trying to stop northern military movements across the Owl Creek Bridge.

In the last moments of his life, the southern prisoner dreams he has escaped. And everything that happens in the story is really the images in the prisoners mind just before he dies.

Here is Shep O'Neal with our story.

Narrator:  A man stood on a railroad bridge in Alabama looking down into the swift waters of the Owl Creek River below. The mans hands were tied behind his back. There was a rope around his neck. The rope was tied to part of the bridge above him. Three soldiers of the northern army stood near the prisoner, waiting for their captains orders to hang him.

Everybody was ready. The prisoner stood quietly. His eyes were not covered. He looked down and saw the water under the bridge. Now, he closed his eyes.

He wanted his last thoughts to be of his wife and children. But, as he tried to think of them, he heard sounds -- again and again. The sounds were soft. But they got louder and louder and started to hurt his ears. The pain was strong. He wanted to shout. But the sounds he heard were just those of the river running swiftly under the bridge.

The prisoner quickly opened his eyes and looked at the water. "If I could only free my hands," he thought. "Then I could get the rope off my neck and jump into the river. I could swim under the water and escape the fire of their guns. I could reach the other side of the river and get home through the forest. My house is outside of their military area, and my wife and children are safe there. I would be, too…"

While these thoughts raced through the prisoners mind, the captain gave the soldiers the order to hang him. A soldier quickly obeyed. He made the rope firm around the prisoners neck. Then he dropped him through a hole in the bridge.

As the prisoner fell, everything seemed black and empty. But then he felt a sharp pain in his neck and could not breathe. There were terrible pains running from his neck down through his body, his arms and his legs. He could not think. He could only feel, a feeling of living in a world of pain.

Then, suddenly, he heard a noise…something falling into the water. There was a big sound in his ears. Everything around him was cold and dark. Now he could think. He believed the rope had broken and that he was in the river.

But the rope was still around his neck, and his hands were tied. He thought: "How funny. How funny to die of hanging at the bottom of a river!" Then he felt his body moving up to the top of the water.

The prisoner did not know what he was doing. But his hands reached the rope on his neck and tore it off.

Now he felt the most violent pain he had ever known. He wanted to put the rope back on his neck. He tried but could not. His hands beat the water and pushed him up to the top. His head came out of the water. The light of the sun hurt his eyes. His mouth opened, and he swallowed air. It was too much for his lungs. He blew out the air with a scream.

Now the prisoner could think more clearly. All his senses had returned. They were even sharper than before. He heard sounds he never heard before -- that no mans ears ever heard -- the flying wings of small insects, the movement of a fish. His eyes saw more than just the trees along the river. They saw every leaf on the trees. And they saw the thin lines in the leaves.

And he saw the bridge, with the wall at one end. He saw the soldiers and the captain on the bridge. They shouted, and they pointed at him. They looked like giant monsters. As he looked, he heard gunfire. Something hit the water near his head. Now there was a second shot. He saw one soldier shooting at him.

He knew he had to get to the forest and escape. He heard an officer call to the other soldiers to shoot.

The prisoner went down into the river, deep, as far as he could. The water made a great noise in his ears, but he heard the shots.

As he came up to the top again, he saw the bullets hit the water. Some of them touched his face and hands.

One even fell into the top of his shirt. He felt the heat of the bullet on his back.

When his head came out of the water for air, he saw that he was farther away from the soldiers. And he began swimming strongly.

As he swam, the soldiers fired their rifles. Then they fired their cannon at him. But nothing hit him. Then, suddenly, he could not swim. He was caught in a whirlpool which kept turning him around and around. This was the end, he thought. Then, just as suddenly as it had caught him, the whirlpool lifted him and threw him out of the river. He was on land!

He kissed the ground. He looked around him. There was a pink light in the air. The wind seemed to make music as it blew through the trees. He wanted to stay there. But the cannon fired again, and he heard the bullets above his head. He got up and ran into the forest. At last, he found a road toward his house. It was a wide, straight road. Yet it looked like a road that never had any travelers on it. No farms. No houses on its sides, only tall black trees.

In the tall black trees, the prisoner heard strange voices. Some of them spoke in words that he could not understand.

His neck began to hurt. When he touched it, it felt very large. His eyes hurt so much that he could not close them. His feet moved, but he could not feel the road.

As he walked, he was in a kind of sleep. Now, half-awake, half asleep, he found himself at the door of his house. His lovely wife ran to him. Ah, at last.

He put his arms about his beautiful wife. And just then, he felt a terrible pain in the back of his neck. All around him there was a great white light and the sound of a cannon. And then…then…darkness and silence.

The prisoner was dead. His neck was broken. His body hung at the end of a rope. It kept swinging from side to side. Swinging gently under a hole in Owl Creek Bridge.

Announcer: You have just heard the American story "An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge." It was written by Ambrose Bierce. Your storyteller was Shep O'Neal.

Listen again next week at this same time for another American story told in Special English on the Voice of America.  This is Faith Lapidus.

A Horseman in the Sky

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.

The Boarded Window (By Ambrose Bierce)

Our story today is called "The Boarded Window." It was written by Ambrose Bierce. Here is Shep O'Neal with the story.

In 1830, only a few miles away from what is now the great city of Cincinnati, Ohio, lay a huge and almost endless forest.

The area had a few settlements established by people of the frontier. Many of them had already left the area for settlements further to the west. But among those remaining was a man who had been one of the first people to arrive there.

He lived alone in a house of logs surrounded on all sides by the great forest. He seemed a part of the darkness and silence of the forest, for no one had ever known him to smile or speak an unnecessary word. His simple needs were supplied by selling or trading the skins of wild animals in the town.

His little log house had a single door. Directly opposite was a window. The window was boarded up. No one could remember a time when it was not. And no one knew why it had been closed. I imagine there are few people living today who ever knew the secret of that window. But I am one, as you shall see.

The man's name was said to be Murlock. He appeared to be seventy years old, but he was really fifty. Something other than years had been the cause of his aging.

His hair and long, full beard were white. His gray, lifeless eyes were sunken. His face was wrinkled. He was tall and thin with drooping shoulders—like someone with many problems.

I never saw him. These details I learned from my grandfather. He told me the man's story when I was a boy. He had known him when living nearby in that early day.

One day Murlock was found in his cabin, dead. It was not a time and place for medical examiners and newspapers. I suppose it was agreed that he had died from natural causes or I should have been told, and should remember.

I know only that the body was buried near the cabin, next to the burial place of his wife. She had died so many years before him that local tradition noted very little of her existence.

That closes the final part of this true story, except for the incident that followed many years later. With a fearless spirit I went to the place and got close enough to the ruined cabin to throw a stone against it. I ran away to avoid the ghost which every well-informed boy in the area knew haunted the spot.

But there is an earlier part to this story supplied by my grandfather.

When Murlock built his cabin he was young, strong and full of hope. He began the hard work of creating a farm. He kept a gun--a rifle—for hunting to support himself.

He had married a young woman, in all ways worthy of his honest love and loyalty. She shared the dangers of life with a willing spirit and a light heart. There is no known record of her name or details about her. They loved each other and were happy.

One day Murlock returned from hunting in a deep part of the forest. He found his wife sick with fever and confusion. There was no doctor or neighbor within miles. She was in no condition to be left alone while he went to find help. So Murlock tried to take care of his wife and return her to good health. But at the end of the third day she fell into unconsciousness and died.

From what we know about a man like Murlock, we may try to imagine some of the details of the story told by my grandfather.

When he was sure she was dead, Murlock had sense enough to remember that the dead must be prepared for burial. He made a mistake now and again while performing this special duty. He did certain things wrong. And others which he did correctly were done over and over again.

He was surprised that he did not cry — surprised and a little ashamed. Surely it is unkind not to cry for the dead.

"Tomorrow," he said out loud, "I shall have to make the coffin and dig the grave; and then I shall miss her, when she is no longer in sight. But now -- she is dead, of course, but it is all right — it must be all right, somehow. Things cannot be as bad as they seem."

He stood over the body of his wife in the disappearing light. He fixed the hair and made finishing touches to the rest. He did all of this without thinking but with care. And still through his mind ran a feeling that all was right -- that he should have her again as before, and everything would be explained.

Murlock had no experience in deep sadness. His heart could not contain it all. His imagination could not understand it. He did not know he was so hard struck. That knowledge would come later and never leave.

Deep sadness is an artist of powers that affects people in different ways. To one it comes like the stroke of an arrow, shocking all the emotions to a sharper life. To another, it comes as the blow of a crushing strike. We may believe Murlock to have been affected that way.

Soon after he had finished his work he sank into a chair by the side of the table upon which the body lay. He noted how white his wife's face looked in the deepening darkness. He laid his arms upon the table's edge and dropped his face into them, tearless and very sleepy.

At that moment a long, screaming sound came in through the open window. It was like the cry of a lost child in the far deep of the darkening forest! But the man did not move. He heard that unearthly cry upon his failing sense, again and nearer than before. Maybe it was a wild animal or maybe it was a dream. For Murlock was asleep.

Some hours later, he awoke, lifted his head from his arms and listened closely. He knew not why. There in the black darkness by the side of the body, he remembered everything without a shock. He strained his eyes to see -- he knew not what.

His senses were all alert. His breath was suspended. His blood was still as if to assist the silence. Who — what had awakened him and where was it!

Suddenly the table shook under his arms. At the same time he heard, or imagined he heard, a light, soft step and then another. The sounds were as bare feet walking upon the floor!

He was afraid beyond the power to cry out or move. He waited—waited there in the darkness through what seemed like centuries of such fear. Fear as one may know, but yet live to tell. He tried but failed to speak the dead woman's name. He tried but failed to stretch his hand across the table to learn if she was there. His throat was powerless. His arms and hands were like lead.

Then something most frightful happened. It seemed as if a heavy body was thrown against the table with a force that pushed against his chest. At the same time he heard and felt the fall of something upon the floor. It was so violent a crash that the whole house shook. A fight followed and a confusion of sounds impossible to describe.

Murlock had risen to his feet. Extreme fear had caused him to lose control of his senses. He threw his hands upon the table. Nothing was there!

There is a point at which fear may turn to insanity; and insanity incites to action. With no definite plan and acting like a madman, Murlock ran quickly to the wall. He seized his loaded rifle and without aim fired it.

The flash from the rifle lit the room with a clear brightness. He saw a huge fierce panther dragging the dead woman toward the window. The wild animal's teeth were fixed on her throat! Then there was darkness blacker than before, and silence.

When he returned to consciousness the sun was high and the forest was filled with the sounds of singing birds. The body lay near the window, where the animal had left it when frightened away by the light and sound of the rifle.

The clothing was ruined. The long hair was in disorder. The arms and legs lay in a careless way. And a pool of blood flowed from the horribly torn throat. The ribbon he had used to tie the wrists was broken. The hands were tightly closed.

And between the teeth was a piece of the animal's ear.

"The Boarded Window" was written by Ambrose Bierce. It was adapted for Special English by Lawan Davis who was also the producer. The storyteller was Shep O'Neal.

One Thousand Dollars (By O. Henry)

Our story today is called “One Thousand Dollars.”  It was written by O. Henry.  Here is Steve Ember with the story.

"One thousand dollars," said the lawyer Tolman, in a severe and serious voice.  "And here is the money.”

Young Gillian touched the thin package of fifty-dollar bills and laughed.

"It's such an unusual amount," he explained, kindly, to the lawyer.  “If it had been ten thousand a man might celebrate with a lot of fireworks.  Even fifty dollars would have been less trouble."

"You heard the reading of your uncle's will after he died," continued the lawyer Tolman.  "I do not know if you paid much attention to its details.  I must remind you of one.  You are required to provide us with a report of how you used this one thousand dollars as soon as you have spent it.  I trust that you will obey the wishes of your late uncle."

"You may depend on it," said the young man respectfully.

Gillian went to his club. He searched for a man he called Old Bryson.

Old Bryson was a calm, anti-social man, about forty years old.  He was in a corner reading a book.  When he saw Gillian coming near he took a noisy, deep breath, laid down his book and took off his glasses.

"I have a funny story to tell you,” said Gillian. 

"I wish you would tell it to someone in the billiard room," said Old Bryson. "You know how I hate your stories."

"This is a better one than usual," said Gillian, rolling a cigarette, and I'm glad to tell it to you. It's too sad and funny to go with the rattling of billiard balls.

I’ve just come from a meeting with my late uncle's lawyers.  He leaves me an even thousand dollars. Now, what can a man possibly do with a thousand dollars?"

Old Bryson showed very little interest.  "I thought the late Septimus Gillian was worth something like half a million."

"He was," agreed Gillian, happily.  "And that's where the joke comes in.  He has left a lot of his money to an organism. That is, part of it goes to the man who invents a new bacillus and the rest to establish a hospital for doing away with it again. There are one or two small, unimportant gifts on the side.  The butler and the housekeeper get a seal ring and ten dollars each.  His nephew gets one thousand dollars."

"Were there any others mentioned in your uncle’s will?" asked Old Bryson.

"None." said Gillian. “There is a Miss Hayden.  My uncle was responsible for her.  She lived in his house. She's a quiet thing…musical… the daughter of somebody who was unlucky enough to be his friend.  I forgot to say that she was in on the ring and ten dollar joke, too. I wish I had been.  Then I could have had two bottles of wine, given the ring to the waiter and had the whole business off my hands. Now tell me what a man can do with a thousand dollars."

Old Bryson rubbed his glasses and smiled. And when Old Bryson smiled, Gillian knew that he intended to be more offensive than ever.

There are many good things a man could do with a thousand dollars,” said Bryson. "You?" he said with a gentle laugh.  "Why, Bobby Gillian, there's only one reasonable thing you could do. You can go and buy Miss Lotta Lauriere a diamond necklace with the money and then take yourself off to Idaho and inflict your presence upon a ranch. I advise a sheep ranch, as I have a particular dislike for sheep.”

"Thanks," said Gillian as he rose from his chair. "I knew I could depend on you, Old Bryson. You've hit on the very idea. I wanted to spend the money on one thing, because I have to turn in a report for it, and I hate itemizing.”

Gillian phoned for a cab and said to the driver:  "The stage entrance of the Columbine Theatre."

The theater was crowded.  Miss Lotta Lauriere was preparing for her performance when her assistant spoke the name of Mr. Gillian.

"Let it in," said Miss Lauriere.  "Now, what is it, Bobby?  I'm going on stage in two minutes."

“It won't take two minutes for me. What do you say to a little thing in the jewelry line?  I can spend one thousand dollars."

“Say, Bobby,” said Miss Lauriere,  “Did you see that necklace Della Stacey had on the other night?  It cost two thousand two hundred dollars at Tiffany's.”

Miss Lauriere was called to the stage for her performance.

Gillian slowly walked out to where his cab was waiting.  "What would you do with a thousand dollars if you had it?" he asked the driver.

"Open a drinking place," said the driver, quickly. "I know a place I could take money in with both hands. I've got it worked out--if you were thinking of putting up the money.”

"Oh, no," said Gillian.  “I was just wondering.”

Eight blocks down Broadway, Gillian got out of the cab.  A blind man sat on the sidewalk selling pencils. Gillian went out and stood in front of him.

"Excuse me, but would you mind telling me what you would do if you had a thousand dollars?” asked Gillian.

The blind man took a small book from his coat pocket and held it out. Gillian opened it and saw that it was a bank deposit book.

It showed that the blind man had a balance of one thousand seven hundred eighty-five dollars in his bank account. Gillian returned the bank book and got back into the cab.

"I forgot something," he said. "You may drive to the law offices of Tolman & Sharp.”

Lawyer Tolman looked at Gillian in a hostile and questioning way.

"I beg your pardon," said Gillian, cheerfully.  "But was Miss Hayden left anything by my uncle's will in addition to the ring and the ten dollars?"

"Nothing," said Mr. Tolman.

“I thank you very much, Sir," said Gillian, and went to his cab. He gave the driver the address of his late uncle's home.

Miss Hayden was writing letters in the library.  The small, thin woman wore black clothes.  But you would have noticed her eyes.  Gillian entered the room as if the world were unimportant.

“I have just come from old Tolman's," he explained.  “They have been going over the papers down there.  They found a…”  Gillian searched his memory for a legal term.  “They found an amendment or a post-script or something to the will.  It seemed that my uncle had second thoughts and willed you a thousand dollars.  Tolman asked me to bring you the money.  Here it is.”

Gillian laid the money beside her hand on the desk.  Miss Hayden turned white. "Oh!" she said.  And again, "Oh!"

Gillian half turned and looked out the window.  In a low voice he said, "I suppose, of course, that you know I love you."

"I am sorry," said Miss Hayden, as she picked up her money.

"There is no use?" asked Gillian, almost light-heartedly.

"I am sorry," she said again.

"May I write a note?" asked Gillian, with a smile.  Miss Hayden supplied him with paper and pen, and then went back to her writing table.

Gillian wrote a report of how he spent the thousand dollars: “Paid by Robert Gillian, one thousand dollars on account of the eternal happiness, owed by Heaven to the best and dearest woman on earth."

Gillian put the note into an envelope.  He bowed to Miss Hayden and left.

His cab stopped again at the offices of Tolman & Sharp.

“I have spent the one thousand dollars," he said cheerfully, to Tolman.  "And I have come to present a report of it, as I agreed.” He threw a white envelope on the lawyer's table.

Without touching the envelope, Mr. Tolman went to a door and called his partner, Sharp. Together they searched for something in a large safe.  They brought out a big envelope sealed with wax.  As they opened the envelope, they shook their heads together over its contents.  Then Tolman became the spokesman.

"Mr. Gillian," he said, “there was an addition to your uncle's will.  It was given to us privately, with instructions that it not be opened until you had provided us with a full report of your handling of the one thousand dollars received in the will.

“As you have satisfied the conditions, my partner and I have read the addition.  I will explain to you the spirit of its contents.

“In the event that your use of the one thousand dollars shows that you possess any of the qualifications that deserve reward, you stand to gain much more.  If your disposal of the money in question has been sensible, wise, or unselfish, it is in our power to give you bonds to the value of fifty thousand dollars.  But if you have used this money in a wasteful, foolish way as you have in the past, the fifty thousand dollars is to be paid to Miriam Hayden, ward of the late Mr. Gillian, without delay.

“Now, Mr. Gillian, Mr. Sharp and I will examine your report of the one thousand dollars.”

Mr. Tolman reached for the envelope. Gillian was a little quicker in taking it up.  He calmly tore the report and its cover into pieces and dropped them into his pocket.

"It's all right," he said, smilingly.  "There isn't a bit of need to bother you with this.  I don't suppose you would understand these itemized bets, anyway.  I lost the thousand dollars on the races. Good-day to you, gentlemen."

Tolman and Sharp shook their heads mournfully at each other when Gillian left.  They heard him whistling happily in the hallway as he waited for the elevator.

“One Thousand Dollars” was written by O. Henry.  It was adapted for Special English by Lawan Davis.  The storyteller and producer was Steve Ember.

Bats and Fish Farming

I’m Barbara Klein.

And I’m Mario Ritter with EXPLORATIONS in VOA Special English. Today, we learn about the environmental and agricultural importance of bat populations. And, we visit the “Cod Academy,” a training program for fishers in the American state of Maine.

Bats

The United Nations has declared twenty eleven to twenty twelve the Year of the Bat. The campaign was launched last year as a way to strengthen efforts for protecting the world’s only flying mammal.

These creatures can be found in many parts of the world. Bats live in cities, deserts, grasslands and forests. There are over one thousand two hundred bat species.

The smallest bat in the world is from Southeast Asia. The Bumblebee bat measures about thirty millimeters in length. The world’s largest bat, the Giant Golden-Crowned Flying Fox, has a wingspan of one and a half meters. Most bats eat insects, but many feed on fruit or nectar from flowers.

Many people think bats are blind, but this is not true. Many species have very good sight. Most bats communicate and find their way by making “echolocation” noises. They produce high-frequency noises and can estimate the distance of an object by using the sound echoes that bounce back to them. So, while bats may travel in total darkness, they “see” using sound.

Sadly, bats are widely feared and misunderstood. Most bats come out of their shelters only at nightfall. Three bat species feed on blood. Because of these qualities, bats have long been linked in many cultures to death, darkness and vampires.

Yet bats are important for agriculture and our environment. They help pollinate plants and spread seeds. They also help control insects. Bats eat huge numbers of insects, including kinds that damage crops.

For example, a brown bat can eat more than one thousand insects the size of a mosquito in one hour. One report says bats save American farmers billions of dollars every year by reducing crop damage and limiting the need for chemicals that kill insects. The report was published earlier this year in Science magazine.

Bats have also proved useful in the medical industry. Some bats carry a substance in their saliva that has been manufactured and used in medicine to help stroke victims.

Over one-fifth of all bat species are under threat. They face disease and the human destruction of their natural environments. In the eastern United States, a disease called white-nose syndrome has greatly damaged bat populations over the past five years. The organization Bat Conservation International says white-nose syndrome has killed more than a million bats since it was discovered in a New York cave in two thousand six. In some areas, the disease has killed nearly one hundred percent of bat populations.

White-nose syndrome has now spread to at least nineteen other states and parts of Canada. The name of the disease comes from a white fungus found on the faces and wings of infected bats. The disease causes the creatures to awaken more often during hibernation, the period when they normally rest. Infected bats leave their shelters during winter and can freeze to death. Or they may use up stored body fat and starve to death.

Leslie Sturges is doing what she can to save bats. She is the director of Bat World NOVA, a bat protection group in the Washington, D.C. area. She cares for injured bats in the basement of her home. Then she releases them back into the wild.

LESLIE STURGES: “You hear a lot of people refer to bats as filthy. But they aren’t. They groom like cats and dogs do. They use these toes back here to actually comb their fur coat out.”

Ms. Sturges also talks about the importance of bats during visits to schools and nature centers. Her goal is to support their protection by bringing attention to the good things that bats provide to people and the environment.

She and her assistant are caring for about thirty injured, sick or orphaned bats this summer.

When the bats are healthy, she moves them to a closed off area next to her home so they can learn once more how to fly.

One of her bats is named Shaggy. She plans to release him, but first wants to make sure he eats well. When the sun sets, she sets him free. But he does not want to leave just yet.

LESLIE STURGES: “So I think what I am going to do is put him back in and let him nap for an hour and I am going to try and release him later tonight. Because he has to go. He can’t live here.”

Ms. Sturges says Shaggy has a good chance of survival because red bats are common in the area.

Fish Farming

Several fishermen in Maine recently completed a study program at the country’s first ever “Cod Academy.” The Maine Aquaculture Association directs the program. It trains fishermen who usually earn a living fishing in the ocean to be fish farmers. The program is aimed at helping commercial fishers to find a new way to carry out their trade.

On a recent morning, a fishing boat left the public dock in the seaside community of Sorrento, Maine. But the men on the boat were not going fishing … they were going farming.

SEBASTIAN BELLE: “Today we’re probably going to be moving cages and sorting codfish so the students will get experience doing that”.

That was Sebastian Belle. He is head of the Maine Aquaculture Association. It operates the new “Cod Academy” in partnership with the University of Maine and other organizations.

About one and a half kilometers out to sea, the boat finds eight circular pens. A rubber tube encloses each one. The pens are covered with netting material to keep out seabirds. Inside each of the fifty-meter wide areas are up to fifty thousand cod. Most of these fish will be served on dinner tables around the world.

This is the only commercial cod farm in Maine. The operator is Great Bay Aquaculture, a fish-farming company. It is one of the partners in the Cod Academy.

Mr. Belle says that during a year, students are taught everything they need to know about operating a floating farm.

SEBASTIAN BELLE: “One of the things we’ve been teaching the students is how to feed the fish and not overfeed the fish. So you want to give them enough feed, and not waste any feed and make it as efficient as possible.”

The fish-farmers in training take turns throwing special fish food into the pen.

Air bubbles appear as thousands of cod come up to feed. They can be seen from the boat with an underwater camera.

Bill Thompson is one of the Cod Academy’s four students. He says the program has showed him that aquaculture, or fish-farming, is a wise choice.

BILL THOMPSON SR: “Even if the wild stocks came back to their fullest capacity they still wouldn’t feed the world. So this is the way of the future. And it’s feasible for a family to run a business also.”

That is why Mr. Thompson’s son is also a student at the academy. Thirty-nine year old Bill Thompson Junior has been a working fisherman for much of his life. He earns a living diving for urchins and fishing for lobster. But he notes that he has a wife and four children to support, so it was time for a change.

BILL THOMPSON JR: “Well I’ve seen a depletion of the source of everything I have been harvesting over the years. I look into the future, I can’t see my kids set up in what I’m doing right now as far as, you know, lobstering, urchining. I don’t want to see them get a source that’s depleting every year.”

Becoming a fish-farmer has its own financial risks. Sebastian Belle says students need to develop a business plan before they can graduate. They will be expected to raise about half of the money they would need for any farm they want to create. Mr. Belle says the “Cod Academy” is based on successful programs started in Japan and Norway more than thirty years ago. Those programs were created to retrain fishers who once caught tuna and herring.

SEBASTIAN BELLE: “It’s never been done before in America and we’re trying to see if it’s a model that has some potential.

Mr. Belle says he hopes the program will help people in Maine realize the huge promise that cod farming holds. He admits aquaculture has its critics. Critics say that crowding fish together in a farm can spread disease and produce unhealthy fish.

But Mr. Belle says Maine’s fish farmers have learned from those mistakes. And he says state inspectors make sure that fish farms obey environmental rules.

The first students of the “Cod Academy” graduated this month. They are now permitted to seek financial aid from the Maine Aquaculture Association to start their own cod-farms.

This program was written and produced by Dana Demange, with reporting by Tom Porter and Jeff Swicord.  I’m Barbara Klein.

And I’m Mario Ritter.  You can find our programs online with transcripts, MP3s, podcasts and pictures at voaspecialenglish.com Join us again next week for EXPLORATIONS in VOA Special English.