Early Autumn

Langston Hughes

When Bill was very young, they had been in love. Many nights they had spent walking, talking
together. Then something not very important had come between them, and they didn’t speak.
Impulsively, she had married a man she thought she loved. Bill went away, bitter about women.
Yesterday, walking across Washington Square, she saw him for the first time in years.
“Bill Walker,” she said.
He stopped. At first he did not recognized her, to him she looked so old.
“Mary! Where did you come from?”
Unconsciously, she lifted her face as though wanting a kiss, but he held out his hand. She took
it.
“I live in New York now,” she said.
“Oh”—smiling politely. Then a little frown came quickly between his eyes.
“Always wondered what happened to you, Bill.”
“I’m a lawyer. Nice firm, way downtown.”
“Married yet?”
“Sure. Two kids.”
“Oh,” she said.
A great many people went past them through the park. People they didn’t know. It was late
afternoon. Nearly sunset. Cold.
“And your husband?” he asked her.
“We have three children. I work in the bursar’s office at Columbia.”
“You’re looking very…” (he wanted to say old) “…well,” he said.
She understood. Under the trees in Washington Square, she found herself desperately
reaching back into the past. She had been older than he then in Ohio. Now she was not young at all.
Bill was still young.
“We live on Central Park West,” she said. “Come and see us sometime.”
“Sure,” he replied. “You and your husband must have dinner with my family some night. Any
night. Lucille and I’d love to have you.”
The leaves fell slowly from the trees in the Square. Fell without wind. Autumn dusk. She felt a
little sick.
“We’d love it,” she answered.
“You ought to see my kids.” He grinned.
Suddenly the lights came on up the whole length of Fifth Avenue, chains of misty brilliance in
the blue air.
“There’s my bus,” she said.
He held out his hand, “Goodbye.”
“When…” she wanted to say, but the bus was ready to pull off. The lights on the avenue
blurred, twinkled, blurred. And she was afraid to open her mouth as she entered the bus. Afraid it
would be impossible to utter a word.
Suddenly she shrieked very loudly, “Goodbye!” But the bus door had closed.
The bus started. People came between them outside, people crossing the street, people they
didn’t know. Space and people. She lost sight of Bill. Then she remembered she had forgotten to give
him her address—or to ask him for his—or tell him that her youngest boy was named Bill, too.
 Richard Cory
Edwin Arlington Robinson

Whenever Richard Cory went down town,

We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed,

And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
“Good morning,” and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich—yes, richer than a king—

And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked, and waited for the light,

And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.
 Beowulf’s Fight with Grendel
(an Excerpt)

When night comes, King Hrothgar departs from the palace and leaves behind Beowulf and his fourteen
warriors. They lie down to rest, none of them expecting to see their homes and families again, for they had
heard fearsome tales about the murderous fiend that they had come to fight.
Then in the misty night the dim monster came striding through the gloom, when all the thanes who
guarded the palace were fast asleep. All but one, who determined that the foe should no longer drag off the
prey amidst the shadows, lay watching there and awaiting with stern courage the beginning of the fray.
So the wretched Grendel, leaving the cloud-capped cliffs, approached the lofty hall, thinking to entrap
the men who slept therein. But though this was by no means the first time that he had visited Hrothgar’s home,
he never before nor afterwards met with a stouter warrior with his men. He at once broke open door; the iron
bars fell asunder as soon as he touched them. Full of evil thoughts, he burst through the portal, and fiercely
advanced across the gleaming floor; as he went his eyes gave forth a hideous light most like to fire. And when
he saw how the throng of kinsmen was slumbering peacefully together, his mind exulted, for he intended ere
daylight came to rob them of their lives; the horrid monster thought that he would son enjoy a bounteous feast.
But their time had not yet come, nor indeed was he ever again after that night to eat of humankind.
Meanwhile, Beowulf was watching him stealthily to see how he would begin the treacherous attack; nor
did the giant delay, but quickly seized at the first sleeping warrior, whom he tore asunder and swallowed great
morsels whole. Then he stepped nearer, and attempted to seize Beowulf as he lay on the bench; but the hero,
supporting himself on his arm, suddenly grasped the evil one, and Grendel knew at once that he had never
met on earth with a mightier grip than this. He was filled with terror, but could not escaped; he felt that death
was on him and was eager to flee into the darkness, to mingle in the tumult of evil spirits.
Then the bold warrior remembered the words he had spoken the evening before. He stood upright and
grappled firmly with the fiend; their fingers cracked as the foe tried to escaped him, thinking, if possible, to twist
himself from his hold and to flee away to the hiding-places of the fen. But it was all in vain, and he knew too
well that this was an unlucky journey he had made to Heorot.
So great was the din of the fight that the hall shook with it, and all the Danes, listening in the distance,
were filled with terror at the sound; indeed, it was a great wonder that the palace did not give way in the strife;
and if it had not been so firmly and skillfully united with strong bands of iron, it would have fallen to the ground.
It is said that though it had never been supposed before that any might of man could shake that splendid hall,
and that if it perished it would be by fire, yet in this terrible fray the wall quivered and trembled, and the mead
benches were torn from their supports.
Louder ang louder grew the tumult, and a great fear fell on those who were hearkening, when they
heard the horrible war-whoop of the wounded monster, as, fettered in he grasp of the foe, he bewailed his
pain. In no wise would the hero allow him to escape unhurt, for he knew that his life was of no avail to any
man.
Then Beowulf’s men, thinking to protect their lord, drew out their ancient swords, for these brave
comrades did not know that the best steel on earth was powerless to pierce the hide of the enemy. But the
giant, who had formerly committed so many crimes with a mirthful mind, found that his covering would not avail
him now that the valorous nephew of Hygelac had him fast in his hands; and as he struggled his sinews burst
apart, and his arm was wrenched from its socket.
Thus had victory been given to Beowulf; and Grendel, sick to death, fled away in despair to seek his
home beneath the marshy cliffs; full well he knew that his end had come, and that the number of his days was
complete. So had the Danes had their desire and the brave stranger from afar had cleansed the hall of
Hrothgar and saved it from the foe. He rejoiced greatly in the night’s work, for he felt that he had carried out the
mighty vow he had made, and had cured the evil from which they had suffered so much vexation and distress.
And in token of his victory he took the arm and hand that were torn from Grendel in his flight and hung them
upon the rafter beneath the spacious roof, that all men might gaze upon them there as proof of his victory.

In appreciation of Beowulf feat, King Hrothgar bestows on Beowulf a gold-adorned helmet and eight
horses, and upon each of Beowulfs followers a valuable sword.
But the fight is not over yet. For Grendel’s mother – even more fearsome than Beowulf – plans to take
revenge.