

 Authors
 Short Stories
 Children
 Favorites
 Poets
 Novels
 Features


 login

The Story of An Hour

by Kate Chopin

This story was first published in 1894 as The Dream of an Hour before being republished under this
title in 1895. We encourage students and teachers to use our The Story of An Hour Study
Guide and Feminist Literature Study Guide.
 Carl Halsoe,
Waiting by the Window, 1863

Knowing that Mrs. Mallard was afflicted with a heart trouble, great care was
taken to break to her as gently as possible the news of her husband's death.

It was her sister Josephine who told her, in broken sentences; veiled hints that
revealed in half concealing. Her husband's friend Richards was there, too,
near her. It was he who had been in the newspaper office when intelligence of
the railroad disaster was received, with Brently Mallard's name leading the list
of "killed." He had only taken the time to assure himself of its truth by a
second telegram, and had hastened to forestall any less careful, less tender
friend in bearing the sad message.

She did not hear the story as many women have heard the same, with a
paralyzed inability to accept its significance. She wept at once, with sudden,
wild abandonment, in her sister's arms. When the storm of grief had spent
itself she went away to her room alone. She would have no one follow her.

There stood, facing the open window, a comfortable, roomy armchair. Into this
she sank, pressed down by a physical exhaustion that haunted her body and
seemed to reach into her soul.

She could see in the open square before her house the tops of trees that were
all aquiver with the new spring life. The delicious breath of rain was in the air.
In the street below a peddler was crying his wares. The notes of a distant
song which someone was singing reached her faintly, and countless sparrows
were twittering in the eaves.

There were patches of blue sky showing here and there through the clouds
that had met and piled one above the other in the west facing her window.

She sat with her head thrown back upon the cushion of the chair, quite
motionless, except when a sob came up into her throat and shook her, as a
child who has cried itself to sleep continues to sob in its dreams.

She was young, with a fair, calm face, whose lines bespoke repression and
even a certain strength. But now there was a dull stare in her eyes, whose
gaze was fixed away off yonder on one of those patches of blue sky. It was
not a glance of reflection, but rather indicated a suspension of intelligent
thought.
There was something coming to her and she was waiting for it, fearfully. What
was it? She did not know; it was too subtle and elusive to name. But she felt it,
creeping out of the sky, reaching toward her through the sounds, the scents,
the color that filled the air.

Now her bosom rose and fell tumultuously. She was beginning to recognize
this thing that was approaching to possess her, and she was striving to beat it
back with her will--as powerless as her two white slender hands would have
been. When she abandoned herself a little whispered word escaped her
slightly parted lips. She said it over and over under the breath: "free, free,
free!" The vacant stare and the look of terror that had followed it went from her
eyes. They stayed keen and bright. Her pulses beat fast, and the coursing
blood warmed and relaxed every inch of her body.

She did not stop to ask if it were or were not a monstrous joy that held her. A
clear and exalted perception enabled her to dismiss the suggestion as trivial.
She knew that she would weep again when she saw the kind, tender hands
folded in death; the face that had never looked save with love upon her, fixed
and gray and dead. But she saw beyond that bitter moment a long procession
of years to come that would belong to her absolutely. And she opened and
spread her arms out to them in welcome.

There would be no one to live for during those coming years; she would live
for herself. There would be no powerful will bending hers in that blind
persistence with which men and women believe they have a right to impose a
private will upon a fellow-creature. A kind intention or a cruel intention made
the act seem no less a crime as she looked upon it in that brief moment of
illumination.
And yet she had loved him--sometimes. Often she had not. What did it matter!
What could love, the unsolved mystery, count for in the face of this
possession of self-assertion which she suddenly recognized as the strongest
impulse of her being!

"Free! Body and soul free!" she kept whispering.

Josephine was kneeling before the closed door with her lips to the keyhole,
imploring for admission. "Louise, open the door! I beg; open the door--you will
make yourself ill. What are you doing, Louise? For heaven's sake open the
door."

"Go away. I am not making myself ill." No; she was drinking in a very elixir of
life through that open window.

Her fancy was running riot along those days ahead of her. Spring days, and
summer days, and all sorts of days that would be her own. She breathed a
quick prayer that life might be long. It was only yesterday she had thought with
a shudder that life might be long.

She arose at length and opened the door to her sister's importunities. There
was a feverish triumph in her eyes, and she carried herself unwittingly like a
goddess of Victory. She clasped her sister's waist, and together they
descended the stairs. Richards stood waiting for them at the bottom.

Someone was opening the front door with a latchkey. It was Brently Mallard
who entered, a little travel-stained, composedly carrying his grip-sack and
umbrella. He had been far from the scene of the accident, and did not even
know there had been one. He stood amazed at Josephine's piercing cry; at
Richards' quick motion to screen him from the view of his wife.
When the doctors came they said she had died of heart disease--of the joy
that kills.

The Story of An Hour was featured as The Short Story of the Day on Tue, Feb
09, 2021

Earlier, I pointed out that this story was first published in 1894 as The Dream
of an Hour before being republished in 1895 as The Story of an Hour.
Having read the story, why do you suppose Kate Chopin chose to change
that one word? Given societal norms and expecations about women and
marriage in 1895, do you see how simply changing a single word in the title
may have been an answer to the controversy and criticism that the story
engendered at that time?

The Story of an Hour is one of the stories featured in our collection of Short
Stories for High School I and Short Short Stories to read when you have five
minutes to indulge yourself reading a great story

                 
7.3

           
 Create a library and add your favorite stories. Get started by clicking the "Add" button.
Add  The Story of An Hour to your own personal library.
Return to the Kate Chopin Home Page, or . . . Read the next short story; The
Unexpected


 Authors
 Short Stories
 Children
 Favorites
 Poets
 Novels
 Features


 login

How the Camel Got His Hump

by Rudyard Kipling
Rudyard Kipling's Just So Stories (1902) offer young readers the opportunity to identify literary
devices like anthropomorphism and explore the characteristics of what makes a "tall tale" believable.

NOW this is the next tale, and it tells how the Camel got his big hump.

In the beginning of years, when the world was so new and all, and the
Animals were just beginning to work for Man, there was a Camel, and he lived
in the middle of a Howling Desert because he did not want to work; and
besides, he was a Howler himself. So he ate sticks and thorns and tamarisks
and milkweed and prickles, most 'scruciating idle; and when anybody spoke to
him he said 'Humph!' Just 'Humph!' and no more.
Presently the Horse came to him on Monday morning, with a saddle on his
back and a bit in his mouth, and said, 'Camel, O Camel, come out and trot like
the rest of us.'

'Humph!' said the Camel; and the Horse went away and told the Man.

Presently the Dog came to him, with a stick in his mouth, and said, 'Camel, O
Camel, come and fetch and carry like the rest of us.'

'Humph!' said the Camel; and the Dog went away and told the Man.

Presently the Ox came to him, with the yoke on his neck and said, 'Camel, O
Camel, come and plough like the rest of us.'

'Humph!' said the Camel; and the Ox went away and told the Man.

At the end of the day the Man called the Horse and the Dog and the Ox
together, and said, 'Three, O Three, I'm very sorry for you (with the world so
new-and-all); but that Humph-thing in the Desert can't work, or he would have
been here by now, so I am going to leave him alone, and you must work
double-time to make up for it.'

That made the Three very angry (with the world so new-and-all), and they
held a palaver, and an indaba, and a punchayet, and a pow-wow on the edge
of the Desert; and the Camel came chewing on milkweed most 'scruciating
idle, and laughed at them. Then he said 'Humph!' and went away again.

Presently there came along the Djinn in charge of All Deserts, rolling in a
cloud of dust (Djinns always travel that way because it is Magic), and he
stopped to palaver and pow-pow with the Three.

'Djinn of All Deserts,' said the Horse, 'is it right for any one to be idle, with the
world so new-and-all?'
'Certainly not,' said the Djinn.

'Well,' said the Horse, 'there's a thing in the middle of your Howling Desert
(and he's a Howler himself) with a long neck and long legs, and he hasn't
done a stroke of work since Monday morning. He won't trot.'

'Whew!' said the Djinn, whistling, 'that's my Camel, for all the gold in Arabia!
What does he say about it?'

'He says "Humph!"' said the Dog; 'and he won't fetch and carry.'

'Does he say anything else?'

'Only "Humph!"; and he won't plough,' said the Ox.

'Very good,' said the Djinn. 'I'll humph him if you will kindly wait a minute.'

The Djinn rolled himself up in his dust-cloak, and took a bearing across the
desert, and found the Camel most 'scruciatingly idle, looking at his own
reflection in a pool of water.

'My long and bubbling friend,' said the Djinn, 'what's this I hear of your doing
no work, with the world so new-and-all?'

'Humph!' said the Camel.

The Djinn sat down, with his chin in his hand, and began to think a Great
Magic, while the Camel looked at his own reflection in the pool of water.

'You've given the Three extra work ever since Monday morning, all on account
of your 'scruciating idleness,' said the Djinn; and he went on thinking Magics,
with his chin in his hand.

'Humph!' said the Camel.

'I shouldn't say that again if I were you,' said the Djinn; you might say it once
too often. Bubbles, I want you to work.'

And the Camel said 'Humph!' again; but no sooner had he said it than he saw
his back, that he was so proud of, puffing up and puffing up into a great big
lolloping humph.

'Do you see that?' said the Djinn. 'That's your very own humph that you've
brought upon your very own self by not working. To-day is Thursday, and
you've done no work since Monday, when the work began. Now you are going
to work.'

'How can I,' said the Camel, 'with this humph on my back?'

'That's made a-purpose,' said the Djinn, 'all because you missed those three
days. You will be able to work now for three days without eating, because you
can live on your humph; and don't you ever say I never did anything for you.
Come out of the Desert and go to the Three, and behave. Humph yourself!'

And the Camel humphed himself, humph and all, and went away to join the
Three. And from that day to this the Camel always wears a humph (we call it
'hump' now, not to hurt his feelings); but he has never yet caught up with the
three days that he missed at the beginning of the world, and he has never yet
learned how to behave.
THE Camel's hump is an ugly lump

Which well you may see at the Zoo;

But uglier yet is the hump we get

From having too little to do.

Kiddies and grown-ups too-oo-oo,

If we haven't enough to do-oo-oo,

We get the hump--

Cameelious hump--
The hump that is black and blue!

We climb out of bed with a frouzly head

And a snarly-yarly voice.

We shiver and scowl and we grunt and we growl

At our bath and our boots and our toys;

And there ought to be a corner for me

(And I know there is one for you)

When we get the hump--

Cameelious hump--

The hump that is black and blue!

The cure for this ill is not to sit still,

Or frowst with a book by the fire;

But to take a large hoe and a shovel also,

And dig till you gently perspire;

And then you will find that the sun and the wind.

And the Djinn of the Garden too,

Have lifted the hump--

The horrible hump--

The hump that is black and blue!

I get it as well as you-oo-oo--

If I haven't enough to do-oo-oo--

We all get hump--

Cameelious hump--

Kiddies and grown-ups too!

Enjoy Kipling's How the Leopard Got His Spots. Many of Kipling's Just So Stories are often read
in grades 2-3.

                 
7.8

           

Create a library and add your favorite stories. Get started by clicking the "Add" button.
Add  How the Camel Got His Hump to your own personal library.
Return to the Rudyard Kipling Home Page, or . . . Read the next short
story; How the First Letter Was Written

Or read more short stories for kids in our Children's Library