A Haircut by : I. S. Nakata

Page 1 (Introduction to Literature)
A Haircut by : I. S. Nakata
People have trouble deciding what I am. Indians mistake me for one of their own; in Chinatown they gave me a menu written in Chinese; and once even a Japanese kid asked me if I was Korean. My ancestors are full-blooded Japanese, but I have had to get used to people thinking I’m something else.

Like that time I went to the barber college on North Clark Street for my cut-rate haircut. It’s a place where student-barbers get on-the-job training, and that’s where I met this guy. He was last in line, and he kept staring at me as I walked in. I just stared back.


Finally he smiled and said with a southern drawl straight out of Alabama, “Say, you’re Indian, aren’t you?”

I looked in the long mirror on the opposite wall. “No,” I told the guy, “I’m not an Indian.”

“Not an Indian?” Alabama said. “I would have sworn you were.”

“I’m not.”

Alabama shook his head and said, “You can’t fool me. I’ve been all over the country. Seen all kinds of Indians. Cherokees in the Carolinas and Georgia and Alabama. Navajos in Arizona and New Mexico. Winnebagos in Wisconsin, and even some Shastas once in the mountains of California. I know you’re some kind of Indian.”

I shook my head, crossed my arms in front of my chest, and took a deep breath. “No.”

“Cherokee?”

“No, not Cherokee.”

“Not Sioux, are you?”

“Never been in North or South Dakota,” I said.

“Winnebago?”

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I didn’t answer. I knew a lot more about the Winnebagos. After World War II at an army post just outside Paris, I had met a Winnebago Indian from Black River Falls, Wisconsin. Jameson, I think his name was. A medic. And in the week or so that we were at the army post we spent a lot of time talking and eating. Every night we would go and buy a couple of long loaves of bread fresh from the baker’s oven, and we would eat and talk for hours. He made me promise to visit him in Wisconsin when I got back to the States.

“That’s God’s country – where the Winnebagos live,” I told Alabama. “Plenty of hunting and fishing, especially for muskellunge.”

“Muskellunge, huh?” Alabama said. He looked impressed.

“Yeah, muskellunge. Most people call them muskies. Good eating, too. Salted, fried, or broiled in the ashes of hickory wood.
“Wish you were there, huh, Chief?”
“Yeah, nice place,” I said.
“So, you’re a Winnebago?” he said with a happy nod.
“I never said that. I am not a Winnebago.” I turned away.
“Now, now, Chief. Don’t get mad,” Alabama said. “I’m your friend. Yes, sir, I’m truly your friend. I’ve worked with Indians and helped lots of them working for Standard Oil. The reason I thought you were Winnebago is because you know so much about them.”

“I don’t know so much.”

“You do. You sure do, Chief.” He looked slyly around and then lowered his voice. “You running away from there, Chief? Maybe from the police?”

“I AM NOT RUNNING AWAY FROM THE POLICE,” I told him.

“OK, Chief,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean no harm.”

For a long time Alabama didn’t say anything. Some of the guys ahead of us moved up in line, and we moved along, too. Soon Alabama had a choice of sitting or standing. He sat down on the bench and slid over to make room for me. Then he began again.

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“So you’re not a Winnebago, huh?”
I didn’t answer him.
“Crow?”
“No, I am not a Crow,” I said very sharply, even though I had nothing against that tribe.

He rubbed his chin with his left hand and thought hard. “Arapaho?”
I shook my head.
“Navajo, then?”

I smiled. The Navajos were a tribe that I’d be proud to be a part of. Great weavers, great in handicrafts, and among the best when it came to farming. I’d once gone to an art school in Kansas City with Custer Begay – a Navajo and fine artist. I started thinking about Custer and his beautiful drawings of Indians on horseback. Then I remembered some of the great times we’d had and I began to laugh.

Alabama slapped his knee and said, “You’re a Navajo! From Arizona.”

This guy would not give up!

“Well,” I said with a sigh, “I was once on a reservation in Arizona.”

I really had been, too. I’d been sent to Arizona to live in a relocation camp for Japanese Americans during World War II, before I volunteered for the army.

Alabama’s eyes lit up. “I knew it! You couldn’t fool me. What reservation was it, Chief?”

“Poston, Arizona,” I said, remembering the wartime internment camp. “On the Colorado River.”

“I mean,” Alabama moaned, “what tribe was it?”

“Nipponese. We were scattered a bit until Uncle Sam gathered us up and put us all back together again.”


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Alabama nodded a couple times. “Well, I sure do think that was the best thing to do, having the government look after you all. Nipponese, eh? That must be a very small tribe. Never heard of it, Chief.”

I had enjoyed my joke. Alabama wanted me to be something else, but I wasn’t going to be anyone but myself.

“A Nipponese is a Japanese. I am Japanese.” I spoke slowly, feeling a little self-conscious as I wondered how I supposed to say what I am.

Alabama rubbed his chin and looked puzzled. “Jap, eh? Wouldn’t think it to look at you. You could pass for Indian any day.”

“Japanese,” I said.
“Sure, sure, Jap-a-nees. Japanese. But you were born in the USA, weren’t you? You can’t talk American like that without your being born here.”

“I was born in Hawaii.”
“Well, you’re American like the rest of us, then. A man should be proud to what he is. Aren’t you?”

Did I sense a threatening tone in his voice?

“I am pleased that I am who I am, Alabama,” I told him. “It’s good to be alive.”

“Sure it’s, all right,” he said. “But you’re wrong about me. I don’t come from Alabama.”
“No?”

“No!” He stood up because it was finally his turn to get a haircut. “I’m from Georgia,” he said in a loud voice, “and proud of it.”


“Sorry I made the mistake,” I told him. Then I shrugged. For the life of me I couldn’t see what difference it made if he came from Georgia or Alabama

The Spell by Arthur Gordon

Page 1 (Introduction to Literature)
The Spell by Arthur Gordon

Excuse me, sir, I see that you are smoking – could you possibly spare a cigarette? We are not allowed to have them here. A wise rule, no doubt, in the majority of cases. Lunatics should never be trusted with fire.

But believe me, sir, I don’t belong in this place with all these crazy people. Really, I don’t! I’m as sane as anyone, as sane as you are. But there you sit in your parked car, free to come and go as you please. And here am I behind these bars…


Oh, please don’t go away! Don’t drive off just because I am talking to you. I won’t cause you any embarrassment. Not the slightest. I won’t even ask you again for a cigarette.

I suppose you’re waiting for someone. Your wife? A friend, perhaps? One of the doctors who work here in the asylum? It doesn’t matter. If I see anyone coming, I’ll stop talking. I’ll go away from the window. But until then, please stay. You don’t know what it means to be able to talk to somebody on the outside. Somebody who will listen, somebody who might even believe…

No, that’s too much to expect, of course. But tell me, sir, do I sound like a madman? My mind is as good as it ever was; truly, it is. I can solve a problem in trigonometry for you or recite one of Shakespeare’s sonnets. But when I try to tell the truth, they won’t believe me.

Sir, you’re a gentleman, that’s obvious. You have the sympathy and the tolerance, the willingness to hear a man out. I can recognize those qualities for a very good reason. You see, I’m a gentleman myself.

Oh, you wouldn’t think so from looking at me, I know. And you wouldn’t think so if you read my medical file. It says that I am David Greenlea, merchant seaman, a hopeless paranoiac suffering from insane delusions. But, sir, I swear to you I’m not David Greenlea and I’m not insane!

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Let me tell you, sir, just how it happened. And let me beg of you not to judge me by the way I look. This broken nose, these gnarled hands – they’re not mine, I tell you, they’re not mine! They belong to David Greenlea, that’s true. But I’m not David Greenlea, I’m not. I’m not.

I’m Edgar Greenlea, vice-president of the Overseas Shipping Company, with a house on Edgewater Drive and a wife and two fine children… oh, you must believe me!

But wait. I’m going too fast. I can see the disbelief in your eyes. And the pity. Yes, the pity. I don’t blame you, sir, really I don’t. But hear me out. I beg of you. I will only take a minute or two. And it will cost you nothing. Just a cigarette, perhaps, if you’re so inclined.

It happened almost a year ago. I was in my office, as usual. I was in my own body, too, not this tattooed monstrosity that you’re looking at. Oh, I know that does sound insane, but let me explain, please! Just listen…

One of our ships, the Eastern Star, had docked only that morning. About noon they brought me word that David Greenlea had come ashore, was drinking himself blind in a water-front tavern. David Greenlea, my first cousin, a wretched ne’er-do-well, always drunk or fighting, always in trouble. I had got him his berth on the Eastern Star. Without my influence he would have lost it a dozen times. But there was no gratitude on his part, sir. None at all. Indeed, he hated me because I was successful, respected, everything he wanted to be – and was not.

Malevolent as he was, I felt responsible for him as a member of the family. And so I went down to that tavern. I found him, drunk and disgusting. I took him into a backroom and ordered coffee. We were alone there…

Sir, could you possibly let me have a cigarette? Look, I’ll stretch my arm through the bars as far as it will go. If you could just put one in my fingers, I’d be so grateful. Really, you don’t know how agonizing it is to watch another man smoke when you… oh, thank you, sir, you are most kind!


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So I made David drink the coffee. I got him fairly sober, but he kept reviling me. He accused me of secretly loathing him, despising him. I said that I didn’t despise him, I only pitied him. When I said that, he gave me a strange look, half drunken and half cunning. Then he smiled. I tell you, sir, I have seen that smile a thousand times since in my dreams.

“Let me show you a trick, Cousin Edgar”, he said, “a trick I learned from a singsong girl in Hong Kong. A little magic, black or white, depending on where you sit.”

He took something out of his pocket and put it on the table, and I saw that if was a cone of cheap incense. “First there must be pity”, he said, smiling that evil smile, “if the spell is to work. Then there must be a burnt offering, and finally there must be the words.”
I thought he was raving, but I decided to humor him So I … pardon me, sir, could a trouble you for a light? You needn’t give me a match, just hold the flame where I can reach it with the tip of the cigarette. Thank you, sir. Ah, that’s good…

So I said tomy cousin David, “What words?”

He had the incense lighted now, and the smoke was rising. He looked at me through it, just as I am looking at you. The he said the words. Come closer. I’ll whisper them to you. Just a little closer. There!

It works! It works! the ancient and terrible gods, the spell still works! I thought it would, I hoped it would!Oh, I am sorry, sir, to leave you in there.
But I had to get out, I had to! And this was only way. I had to change places with you, don’t you see? I had to exchange bodieswith you, just the way David did with me!

Oh, please don’t scream like that and शकेthe bars. The attendants will come and put you in a straitjacket. Because to them you’ll just be David Greenlea, merchant seaman, hopeless paranoiac. And no matter what you say, they don’t believe you. You’ll have to bide your time, just as I did. You’ll have to wait until someone pities you, and then there must be a burnt offering, remember, and the words. Don’t forget the words.


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Now I must be going, for I have much to do. Ah,yes, much to do. My cousin David will not be expecting me, not looking like this. What a surprise for David!

I’ll take your car, sir, because you won’t be needing it any more.Thank you for everything, especially the burnt offering – I mean, the cigarette. Good-by,sir, Good-by.

A MAN WHO HAD NO EYES by Mackinlay Kantor

Page 1
A beggar was coming down the avenue just as Mr. Parsons emerged from his hotel.

He was a blind beggar, carrying the traditional battered can, and thumping his way before him with the cautious, half-furtive effort of the sightless. He was a shaggy, thick-necked fellow; his coat was greasy about the lapels and pockets, and his hand splayed over the cane’s crook with a futile sort of clinging. He wore a black pouch slung over his shoulder. Apparently he had something to sell.

The air was rich with spring; sun was warm and yellowed on the asphalt. Mr. Parsons,
standing there in front of his hotel and noting the clack-clack approach of the sightless man, felt a sudden and foolish sort of pity for all blind creatures.

And, thought Mr. Parsons, he was very glad to be alive. A few years ago he had been
little more than a skilled laborer; now he was successful, respected, admired…
Insurance… And he had done it alone, unaided, struggling beneath handicaps… And he
was still young. The blue air of spring, fresh from its memories of windy pools and lush shrubbery, could thrill him with eagerness.

He took a step forward just as the tap-tapping blind man passed him by. Quickly the
shabby fellow turned.
"Listen guv’nor. Just a minute of your time."
Mr. Parsons said, "It’s late. I have an appointment. Do you want me to
give you something?"

"I ain’t no beggar, guv’nor. You bet I ain’t. I got a handy little article here" he
fumbled a small article into Mr. Parsons’ hand " that I sell. One buck. Best cigarette
lighter made."


Page 2
Mr. Parsons stood there, somewhat annoyed and embarrassed. He was a handsome figure with his immaculate grey suit and grey hat and malacca stick. Of course, the man with the cigarette lighter could not see him…

"But I don’t smoke," he said.

"Listen. I bet you know plenty people who smoke. Nice little present," wheedled the man. "And, mister, you wouldn’t mind helping a poor guy out?" He clung to Mr. Parsons’
sleeve.

Mr. Parsons sighed and felt in his vest pocket. He brought out two half dollars and
pressed them into the man’s hand. "Certainly I’ll help you out. As you say, I can give it to someone. Maybe the elevator boy would " He hesitated, not wishing to be boorish and inquisitive, even with a blind peddlar. "Have you lost your sight entirely?"

The shabby man pocketed the two half dollars. "Fourteen years, guv’nor." Then he added with an insane sort of pride: "Westbury, sir, I was one of ‘em."

"Westbury," repeated Mr. Parsons. "Ah yes. The chemical explosion . . . the papers
haven’t mentioned it for years. But at the time it was supposed to be one of the greatest disasters in"

"They’ve all forgot about it." The fellow shifted his feet wearily. "I tell you, guv’nor, a
man who was in it don’t forget about it. Last thing I ever saw was C shop going up in one grand smudge, and that damn gas pouring in at all the busted windows."
Mr. Parsons coughed. But the blind peddler was caught up with the train of his one
dramatic reminiscence. And, also, he was thinking that there might be more half dollars in Mr. Parsons’ pocket.


Page 3

"Just think about it, guv’nor. There was a hundred and eight people killed, about
two hundred injured, and over fifty of them lost their eyes. Blind as bats." He groped
forward until his dirty hand rested against Mr. Parsons’ coat. "I tell you sir, there wasn’t nothing worse than that in the war. If I had lost my eyes in the war, okay. I would have been well took care of. But, I was just a worker, working for what was in it. And I got it. You’re damn right I got it, while the capitalists were making their dough! They was insured, don’t worry about that. They "

"Insured," repeated his listener. "Yes, that’s what I sell. "

"You want to know how I lost my eyes?" cried the man. "Well, here it is!" His words fell with the bitter and studied drama of a story often told and told for money. "I was there in C shop, last of all the folks rushin’ out. Out in the air there was a chance, even with buildings exploding right and left. A lot of guys made it safe out the door and got away. And just when I was about there, crawling along between those big vats, a guy behind me grabs my leg. He says, ‘Let me past, you ! Maybe he was nuts. I
dunno. I try to forgive him in my heart, guv’nor. But he was bigger than me. He hauls me back and climbs right over me! Tramples me into the dirt. And he gets out, and I lie there with all that poison gas pouring down on all sides of me, and flame and stuff . . ." He swallowed -- a studied sob—and stood dumbly expectant. He could imagine the next words: Tough luck, my man. Damned tough luck. Now I want to "
That’s the story, guv’nor."

The spring wind shrilled past them, damp and quivering.

Not quite," said Mr. Parsons.



Page 4

The blind peddlar shivered crazily. "Not quite? What do you mean, you ?--"

"The story is true," Mr. Parsons said, "except that it was the other way around."

"Other way around?" He croaked unamiably. "Say, guv’nor---"

"I was in C shop," said Mr. Parsons. "It was the other way around. You were the fellow
who hauled back on me and climbed over me. You were bigger than I was, Markwardt."
The blind man stood for a long time, swallowing hoarsely. He gulped: "Parsons. By
heaven. By heaven! I thought you--" And then he screamed fiendishly: "Yes. Maybe so.
Maybe so. But I’m blind! I’m blind, and you’ve been standing there letting me spout to
you, and laughing at me every minute of it! I’m blind!"

People in the street turned to stare at him.

"You got away but I’m blind! Do you hear? I’m---"

"Well," said Mr. Parsons, don’t make such a row about it, Markwardt…So am I."

A MAN WHO HAD NO EYES by Mackinlay Kantor

पेज A beggar was coming down the avenue just as Mr. Parsons emerged from his hotel.

He was a blind beggar, carrying the traditional battered can, and thumping his way before him with the cautious, half-furtive effort of the sightless. He was a shaggy, thick-necked fellow; his coat was greasy about the lapels and pockets, and his hand splayed over the cane’s crook with a futile sort of clinging. He wore a black pouch slung over his shoulder. Apparently he had something to sell.

The air was rich with spring; sun was warm and yellowed on the asphalt. Mr. Parsons,
standing there in front of his hotel and noting the clack-clack approach of the sightless man, felt a sudden and foolish sort of pity for all blind creatures.

And, thought Mr. Parsons, he was very glad to be alive. A few years ago he had been
little more than a skilled laborer; now he was successful, respected, admired…
Insurance… And he had done it alone, unaided, struggling beneath handicaps… And he
was still young. The blue air of spring, fresh from its memories of windy pools and lush shrubbery, could thrill him with eagerness.

He took a step forward just as the tap-tapping blind man passed him by. Quickly the
shabby fellow turned.
"Listen guv’nor. Just a minute of your time."
Mr. Parsons said, "It’s late. I have an appointment. Do you want me to
give you something?"

"I ain’t no beggar, guv’nor. You bet I ain’t. I got a handy little article here" he
fumbled a small article into Mr. Parsons’ hand " that I sell. One buck. Best cigarette
lighter made."
Mr. Parsons stood there, somewhat annoyed and embarrassed. He was a handsome figure with his immaculate grey suit and grey hat and malacca stick. Of course, the man with the cigarette lighter could not see him…

"But I don’t smoke," he said.

"Listen. I bet you know plenty people who smoke. Nice little present," wheedled the man. "And, mister, you wouldn’t mind helping a poor guy out?" He clung to Mr. Parsons’
sleeve.

Mr. Parsons sighed and felt in his vest pocket. He brought out two half dollars and
pressed them into the man’s hand. "Certainly I’ll help you out. As you say, I can give it to someone. Maybe the elevator boy would " He hesitated, not wishing to be boorish and inquisitive, even with a blind peddlar. "Have you lost your sight entirely?"

The shabby man pocketed the two half dollars. "Fourteen years, guv’nor." Then he added with an insane sort of pride: "Westbury, sir, I was one of ‘em."

"Westbury," repeated Mr. Parsons. "Ah yes. The chemical explosion . . . the papers
haven’t mentioned it for years. But at the time it was supposed to be one of the greatest disasters in"

"They’ve all forgot about it." The fellow shifted his feet wearily. "I tell you, guv’nor, a
man who was in it don’t forget about it. Last thing I ever saw was C shop going up in one grand smudge, and that damn gas pouring in at all the busted windows."
Mr. Parsons coughed. But the blind peddler was caught up with the train of his one
dramatic reminiscence. And, also, he was thinking that there might be more half dollars in Mr. Parsons’ pocket.

"Just think about it, guv’nor. There was a hundred and eight people killed, about
two hundred injured, and over fifty of them lost their eyes. Blind as bats." He groped
forward until his dirty hand rested against Mr. Parsons’ coat. "I tell you sir, there wasn’t nothing worse than that in the war. If I had lost my eyes in the war, okay. I would have been well took care of. But, I was just a worker, working for what was in it. And I got it. You’re damn right I got it, while the capitalists were making their dough! They was insured, don’t worry about that. They "

"Insured," repeated his listener. "Yes, that’s what I sell. "

"You want to know how I lost my eyes?" cried the man. "Well, here it is!" His words fell with the bitter and studied drama of a story often told and told for money. "I was there in C shop, last of all the folks rushin’ out. Out in the air there was a chance, even with buildings exploding right and left. A lot of guys made it safe out the door and got away. And just when I was about there, crawling along between those big vats, a guy behind me grabs my leg. He says, ‘Let me past, you ! Maybe he was nuts. I
dunno. I try to forgive him in my heart, guv’nor. But he was bigger than me. He hauls me back and climbs right over me! Tramples me into the dirt. And he gets out, and I lie there with all that poison gas pouring down on all sides of me, and flame and stuff . . ." He swallowed -- a studied sob—and stood dumbly expectant. He could imagine the next words: Tough luck, my man. Damned tough luck. Now I want to "
That’s the story, guv’nor."

The spring wind shrilled past them, damp and quivering.

Not quite," said Mr. Parsons.

The blind peddlar shivered crazily. "Not quite? What do you mean, you ?--"

"The story is true," Mr. Parsons said, "except that it was the other way around."

"Other way around?" He croaked unamiably. "Say, guv’nor---"

"I was in C shop," said Mr. Parsons. "It was the other way around. You were the fellow
who hauled back on me and climbed over me. You were bigger than I was, Markwardt."
The blind man stood for a long time, swallowing hoarsely. He gulped: "Parsons. By
heaven. By heaven! I thought you--" And then he screamed fiendishly: "Yes. Maybe so.
Maybe so. But I’m blind! I’m blind, and you’ve been standing there letting me spout to
you, and laughing at me every minute of it! I’m blind!"

People in the street turned to stare at him.

"You got away but I’m blind! Do you hear? I’m---"

"Well," said Mr. Parsons, don’t make such a row about it, Markwardt…So am I."

Can-can

The Chaser By John Collier

Alan Austen, as nervous as a kitten, went up certain dark and creaky stairs in the neighborhood of Pell Street, and peered about for a long time on the dime landing before he found the name he wanted written obscurely on one of the doors.

He pushed open this door, as he had been told to do, and found himself in a tiny room, which contained no furniture but a plain kitchen table, a rocking-chair, and an ordinary chair. On one of the dirty buff- coloured walls were a couple of shelves, containing in all perhaps a dozen bottles and jars. An old man sat in the rocking-chair,
reading a newspaper. Alan, without a word, handed him the card he had been given.

"Sit down, Mr. Austen," said the old man very politely.
"I am glad to make your acquaintance."
"Is it true," asked Alan, "that you have a certain mixture that has-er-quite extraordinary effects?"

"My dear sir," replied the old man, "my stock in trade is not very large-I don't deal in laxatives and teething mixtures-but such as it is, it is varied. I think nothing I sell has effects which could be precisely described as ordinary."

"Well, the fact is. . ." began Alan.

"Here, for example," interrupted the old man, reaching for a bottle from the shelf. "Here is a liquid as colourless as water, almost tasteless, quite imperceptible in coffee, wine, or any other beverage. It is also quite imperceptible to any known method of autopsy."

"Do you mean it is a poison?" cried Alan, very much horrified.

"Call it a glove-cleaner if you like," said the old man indifferently. "Maybe it will clean gloves. I have never tried. One might call it a life-cleaner. Lives need cleaning sometimes."
"I want nothing of that sort," said Alan.

"Probably it is just as well," said the old man. "Do you know the price of this? For one teaspoonful, which is sufficient, I ask five thousand dollars. Never less. Not a penny less.

"I hope all your mixtures are not as expensive," said Alan apprehensively.
"Oh dear, no," said the old man. "It would be no good charging that sort of price for a love potion, for example. Young people who need a love potion very seldom have five thousand dollars. Otherwise they would not need a love potion."

"I am glad to hear that," said Alan.

"I look at it like this," said the old man. "Please a customer with one article, and he will come back when he needs another. Even if it is more costly. He will save up for it, if necessary."

"So," said Alan, "you really do sell love potions?"

"If I did not sell love potions," said the old man, reaching for another bottle, "I should not have mentioned the other matter to you. It is only when one is in a position to oblige that one can afford to be so confidential."

"And these potions," said Alan. "They are not just-just-er"

"Oh, no," said the old man. "Their effects are permanent, and extend far beyond the mere casual impulse. But they include it. Oh, yes they include it. Bountifully, insistently. Everlastingly."

"Dear me!" said Alan, attempting a look of scientific detachment. "How very interesting!"

"But consider the spiritual side," said the old man.

"I do, indeed," said Alan.

"For indifference," said the old man, they substitute devotion. For scorn, adoration. Give one tiny measure of this to the young lady-its flavour is imperceptible in orange juice, soup, or cocktails-and however gay and giddy she is, she will change altogether. She will want nothing but solitude and you."

"I can hardly believe it," said Alan. "She is so fond of parties."

"She will not like them any more," said the old man. "She will be afraid of the pretty girls you may meet."

"She will actually be jealous?" cried Alan in a rapture. "Of me?"

"Yes, she will want to be everything to you."

"She is, already. Only she doesn't care about it."

"She will, when she has taken this. She will care intensely. You will be her sole interest in life."

"Wonderful!" cried Alan.

"She will want to know all you do," said the old man. "All that has happened to you during the day. Every word of it. She will want to know what you are thinking about, why you smile suddenly, why you are looking sad."

"That is love!" cried Alan.

"Yes," said the old man. "How carefully she will look after you! She will never allow you to be tired, to sit in a draught, to neglect your food. If you are an hour late, she will be terrified. She will think you are killed, or that some siren has caught you."

"I can hardly imagine Diana like that!" cried Alan, overwhelmed with joy.

"You will not have to use your imagination," said the old man. "And, by the way, since there are always sirens, if by any chance you should, later on, slip a little, you need not worry. She will forgive you, in the end. She will be terribly hurt, of course, but she will forgive you-in the end."

"That will not happen," said Alan fervently.

"Of course not," said the old man. "But, if it did, you need not worry. She would never divorce you. Oh, no! And, of course, she will never give you the least, the very least, grounds for-uneasiness."

"And how much," said Alan, "is this wonderful mixture?"

"It is not as dear," said the old man, "as the glove-cleaner, or life-cleaner, as I sometimes call it. No. That is five thousand dollars, never a penny less. One has to be older than you are, to indulge in that sort of thing. One has to save up for it."

"But the love potion?" said Alan.
"Oh, that," said the old man, opening the drawer in the kitchen table, and taking out a tiny, rather dirty-looking phial. "That is just a dollar."

"I can't tell you how grateful I am," said Alan, watching him fill it.

"I like to oblige," said the old man. "Then customers come back, later in life, when they are better off, and want more expensive things. Here you are. You will find it very effective."

"Thank you again," said Alan. "Goodbye."

"Au revoir," said the man.

The Advantages of Multicultural Societies

The Advantages of Multicultural Societies
Today, migrating to other countries has been a common thing. Many people live, study, and work in other countries to get better lives. However it is undeniable that migrating gets an effect of multicultural societies. The people must adapt to different culture in the country they live. They will accept the new culture from the new society they live in daily activities. The different cultures coexist in one country. People accept multicultural societies because multicultural society has some advantages.
First, people can know different culture of other countries. They learn other culture which they often see everyday. They learn it because they have to adapt to the culture where they live. By knowing the different culture people will experiences and rich of knowledge about culture that they may choose the most appropriate to be applied in daily life.

Second, Live in multicultural culture is very interesting. Such multicultural culture has divergent culture with different types of people. How monotonous this world if only in a society only exist one culture. Sometimes people will boring and do not get the variation in seeing the habit of people. If people have learnt the cultures each other, they will respect to them. Respecting another culture is important in multicultural societies in order to live in peace through diversity. Like in USA, Americans live peacefully with the people who have the different cultures. They really respected the individual freedom and plurality.

Third, people can bring the good culture from different cultures which they have learnt. They will take the advantage and absorb the thing that useful for their own culture. Of course it must not be contradicted to their own culture. It will enrich their culture.
One cultural society is not more desirable than multicultural ones. A lot of countries welcome the different cultures as the new culture in their countries. Accepting new culture will add our basic culture which we have. Since we still preserve our own culture and it is not contradicted to our culture.