Story of Guno ang Koyo

By: Harold Courlander

(Have you ever been caught doing something wrong? Did you admit your guilt humbly or did you try
to cover up your fault by behaving childishly or by giving excuses? Here is a humorous incident which
will give you a picture of some ridiculous actions of two who were silly to own their crime and their
fight.)
Everywhere in Java, Sumatra and Celebes, the people know of two men named Guno and Koyo and
whenever they hear of them they smile. For the name Guno means Helpful and Guno is really a very
unhelpful man; and while Koyos name means rich, Koyo in fact never has any money at all.
Whatever he manages to get his hands on, Guno the Helpful, one helps him lose.
It is said that one time Guno persuaded Koyo to go with him to rob an Old Hadji. They crept in the
night to the old mans house and began to dig a hole under the wall. When the hole was large enough
for a man to enter, Guno crawled through. He silently gathered the valuables of the sleeping Hadji and
handed them neatly on the ground. As Guno prepared to go out, he saw the Hadjis colorful robe
hanging on a peg. He took the robe down and dressed himself in it. He said to himself: I will soil my
new robe if I crawl out the way I came in. So instead of going through the hole, he went to the door,
unlocked it and stepped out.
Koyo, expecting Guno to appear though the hole, was startled. Seeing the dignified robe figure coming
out of the door, he thought it was the Hadji, and that Guno was still inside.
Ai! The Hadji! Koyo screamed.
And leaving the file of loot where he had placed it on the ground, he began to run. Guno, thinking the
Hadji was behind him, hastily threw his new robe away and fled after Koyo.
Because the two of them made so much noise fleeing through the village, the neighbors were
awakened, and they came out with sticks and sickles to pursue them.
Guno and Koyo ran across the open fields until they came panting to the edge of the edge of the river.
Ah, we are lost! Koyo groaned. Well either be caught or beaten, or we will drown in the flooded
river!
The river isnt flooded, Guno said helpfully.
Indeed the river is flooded' Koyo said.
No, it certainly is not flooded, Guno said. If it were in flood it would be muddy and dark. But it is so
clear you can almost see the bottom.
Koyo looked. It was true. Faintly in the starlight, he could see the rocks on the bottom of the river.
Well, he said nervously, you go first and tell me how it is. So Guno held his breath, and leaped
from the rocky ledge.
But the riverbed was dry, there was no water at all, and Guno fell into the ground and stones below.
As he lay there in great surprise, he heard Koyo shouting to him from the ledge:
How is it? How is it?

Guno was embarrassed. So he began to make swimming motion with his hands and legs as he lay on
the bottom of the river bed, and he called out.
Its fine below, dont you see me?
So Koyo, too, took a deep breath and closed his eyes, and leaped from the ledge. He landed next to
Guno, sprawling on the ground.
Guno, still waving his arms as though he were swimming turned to Koyo and said:
You can see now that I was right. The river is not in flood.
The people of the village arrived on the ledge. They looked down and shouted at the two men to come
out and take their punishment.
In terror, Koyo also began to make swimming motions.
The villagers, seeing Guno and Koyo swimming this way in the river that had been dry for months, put
down their weapons and laughed. They couldnt bring themselves to punish the silly fugitives.
So today, whenever a person tries to get out of a predicament by a ridiculous act, someone is sure to
say:
Dont go swimming in a dry riverbed.
THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO
By: Edgar Allan Poe
(1846)
THE thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could, but when he ventured upon insult I
vowed revenge. You, who so well know the nature of my soul, will not suppose, however, that gave
utterance to a threat. At length I would be avenged; this was a point definitely, settled --but the very
definitiveness with which it was resolved precluded the idea of risk. I must not only punish but punish
with impunity. A wrong is unredressed when retribution overtakes its redresser. It is equally
unredressed when the avenger fails to make himself felt as such to him who has done the wrong.
It must be understood that neither by word nor deed had I given Fortunato cause to doubt my good
will. I continued, as was my in to smile in his face, and he did not perceive that my to smile now was at
the thought of his immolation.
He had a weak point --this Fortunato --although in other regards he was a man to be respected and
even feared. He prided himself on his connoisseurship in wine. Few Italians have the true virtuoso
spirit. For the most part their enthusiasm is adopted to suit the time and opportunity, to practise
imposture upon the British and Austrian millionaires. In painting and gemmary, Fortunato, like his
countrymen, was a quack, but in the matter of old wines he was sincere. In this respect I did not differ
from him materially; --I was skilful in the Italian vintages myself, and bought largely whenever I could.
It was about dusk, one evening during the supreme madness of the carnival season, that I encountered
my friend. He accosted me with excessive warmth, for he had been drinking much. The man wore
motley. He had on a tight-fitting parti-striped dress, and his head was surmounted by the conical cap
and bells. I was so pleased to see him that I thought I should never have done wringing his hand.
I said to him --"My dear Fortunato, you are luckily met. How remarkably well you are looking to-day. But
I have received a pipe of what passes for Amontillado, and I have my doubts."

"How?" said he. "Amontillado, A pipe? Impossible! And in the middle of the carnival!"

"I have my doubts," I replied; "and I was silly enough to pay the full Amontillado price without
consulting you in the matter. You were not to be found, and I was fearful of losing a bargain."
"Amontillado!"
"I have my doubts."
"Amontillado!"
"And I must satisfy them."
"Amontillado!"
"As you are engaged, I am on my way to Luchresi. If any one has a critical turn it is he. He will tell me
--"
"Luchresi cannot tell Amontillado from Sherry."
"And yet some fools will have it that his taste is a match for your own.
"Come, let us go."
"Whither?"
"To your vaults."
"My friend, no; I will not impose upon your good nature. I perceive you have an engagement.
Luchresi--"
"I have no engagement; --come."
"My friend, no. It is not the engagement, but the severe cold with which I perceive you are afflicted.
The vaults are insufferably damp. They are encrusted with nitre."
"Let us go, nevertheless. The cold is merely nothing. Amontillado! You have been imposed upon. And
as for Luchresi, he cannot distinguish Sherry from Amontillado."
Thus speaking, Fortunato possessed himself of my arm; and putting on a mask of black silk and
drawing a roquelaire closely about my person, I suffered him to hurry me to my palazzo.
There were no attendants at home; they had absconded to make merry in honour of the time. I had
told them that I should not return until the morning, and had given them explicit orders not to stir from
the house. These orders were sufficient, I well knew, to insure their immediate disappearance, one and
all, as soon as my back was turned.
I took from their sconces two flambeaux, and giving one to Fortunato, bowed him through several
suites of rooms to the archway that led into the vaults. I passed down a long and winding staircase,
requesting him to be cautious as he followed. We came at length to the foot of the descent, and stood
together upon the damp ground of the catacombs of the Montresors.
The gait of my friend was unsteady, and the bells upon his cap jingled as he strode.
"The pipe," he said.

"It is farther on," said I; "but observe the white web-work which gleams from these cavern walls."
He turned towards me, and looked into my eves with two filmy orbs that distilled the rheum of
intoxication.
"Nitre?" he asked, at length.
"Nitre," I replied. "How long have you had that cough?"
"Ugh! ugh! ugh! --ugh! ugh! ugh! --ugh! ugh! ugh! --ugh! ugh! ugh! --ugh! ugh! ugh!"
My poor friend found it impossible to reply for many minutes.
"It is nothing," he said, at last.
"Come," I said, with decision, "we will go back; your health is precious. You are rich, respected,
admired, beloved; you are happy, as once I was. You are a man to be missed. For me it is no matter.
We will go back; you will be ill, and I cannot be responsible. Besides, there is Luchresi --"
"Enough," he said; "the cough's a mere nothing; it will not kill me. I shall not die of a cough."
"True --true," I replied; "and, indeed, I had no intention of alarming you unnecessarily --but you should
use all proper caution. A draught of this Medoc will defend us from the damps.
Here I knocked off the neck of a bottle which I drew from a long row of its fellows that lay upon the
mould.
"Drink," I said, presenting him the wine.
He raised it to his lips with a leer. He paused and nodded to me familiarly, while his bells jingled.
"I drink," he said, "to the buried that repose around us."
"And I to your long life."
He again took my arm, and we proceeded.
"These vaults," he said, "are extensive."
"The Montresors," I replied, "were a great and numerous family."
"I forget your arms."
"A huge human foot d'or, in a field azure; the foot crushes a serpent rampant whose fangs are
imbedded in the heel."
"And the motto?"
"Nemo me impune lacessit."
"Good!" he said.
The wine sparkled in his eyes and the bells jingled. My own fancy grew warm with the Medoc. We had
passed through long walls of piled skeletons, with casks and puncheons intermingling, into the inmost
recesses of the catacombs. I paused again, and this time I made bold to seize Fortunato by an arm
above the elbow.

"The nitre!" I said; "see, it increases. It hangs like moss upon the vaults. We are below the river's bed.
The drops of moisture trickle among the bones. Come, we will go back ere it is too late. Your cough --"
"It is nothing," he said; "let us go on. But first, another draught of the Medoc."
I broke and reached him a flagon of De Grave. He emptied it at a breath. His eyes flashed with a fierce
light. He laughed and threw the bottle upwards with a gesticulation I did not understand.
I looked at him in surprise. He repeated the movement --a grotesque one.
"You do not comprehend?" he said.
"Not I," I replied.
"Then you are not of the brotherhood."
"How?"
"You are not of the masons."
"Yes, yes," I said; "yes, yes."
"You? Impossible! A mason?"
"A mason," I replied.
"A sign," he said, "a sign."
"It is this," I answered, producing from beneath the folds of my roquelaire a trowel.
"You jest," he exclaimed, recoiling a few paces. "But let us proceed to the Amontillado."
"Be it so," I said, replacing the tool beneath the cloak and again offering him my arm. He leaned upon
it heavily. We continued our route in search of the Amontillado. We passed through a range of low
arches, descended, passed on, and descending again, arrived at a deep crypt, in which the foulness of
the air caused our flambeaux rather to glow than flame.
At the most remote end of the crypt there appeared another less spacious. Its walls had been lined
with human remains, piled to the vault overhead, in the fashion of the great catacombs of Paris. Three
sides of this interior crypt were still ornamented in this manner. From the fourth side the bones had
been thrown down, and lay promiscuously upon the earth, forming at one point a mound of some size.
Within the wall thus exposed by the displacing of the bones, we perceived a still interior crypt or
recess, in depth about four feet, in width three, in height six or seven. It seemed to have been
constructed for no especial use within itself, but formed merely the interval between two of the
colossal supports of the roof of the catacombs, and was backed by one of their circumscribing walls of
solid granite.
It was in vain that Fortunato, uplifting his dull torch, endeavoured to pry into the depth of the recess.
Its termination the feeble light did not enable us to see.
"Proceed," I said; "herein is the Amontillado. As for Luchresi --"
"He is an ignoramus," interrupted my friend, as he stepped unsteadily forward, while I followed
immediately at his heels. In niche, and finding an instant he had reached the extremity of the niche,
and finding his progress arrested by the rock, stood stupidly bewildered. A moment more and I had
fettered him to the granite. In its surface were two iron staples, distant from each other about two feet,
horizontally. From one of these depended a short chain, from the other a padlock. Throwing the links

about his waist, it was but the work of a few seconds to secure it. He was too much astounded to
resist. Withdrawing the key I stepped back from the recess.
"Pass your hand," I said, "over the wall; you cannot help feeling the nitre. Indeed, it is very damp. Once
more let me implore you to return. No? Then I must positively leave you. But I must first render you all
the little attentions in my power."
"The Amontillado!" ejaculated my friend, not yet recovered from his astonishment.
"True," I replied; "the Amontillado."
As I said these words I busied myself among the pile of bones of which I have before spoken. Throwing
them aside, I soon uncovered a quantity of building stone and mortar. With these materials and with
the aid of my trowel, I began vigorously to wall up the entrance of the niche.
I had scarcely laid the first tier of the masonry when I discovered that the intoxication of Fortunato had
in a great measure worn off. The earliest indication I had of this was a low moaning cry from the depth
of the recess. It was not the cry of a drunken man. There was then a long and obstinate silence. I laid
the second tier, and the third, and the fourth; and then I heard the furious vibrations of the chain. The
noise lasted for several minutes, during which, that I might hearken to it with the more satisfaction, I
ceased my labours and sat down upon the bones. When at last the clanking subsided, I resumed the
trowel, and finished without interruption the fifth, the sixth, and the seventh tier. The wall was now
nearly upon a level with my breast. I again paused, and holding the flambeaux over the mason-work,
threw a few feeble rays upon the figure within.
A succession of loud and shrill screams, bursting suddenly from the throat of the chained form, seemed
to thrust me violently back. For a brief moment I hesitated, I trembled. Unsheathing my rapier, I began
to grope with it about the recess; but the thought of an instant reassured me. I placed my hand upon
the solid fabric of the catacombs, and felt satisfied. I reapproached the wall; I replied to the yells of him
who clamoured. I re-echoed, I aided, I surpassed them in volume and in strength. I did this, and the
clamourer grew still.
It was now midnight, and my task was drawing to a close. I had completed the eighth, the ninth and
the tenth tier. I had finished a portion of the last and the eleventh; there remained but a single stone to
be fitted and plastered in. I struggled with its weight; I placed it partially in its destined position. But
now there came from out the niche a low laugh that erected the hairs upon my head. It was succeeded
by a sad voice, which I had difficulty in recognizing as that of the noble Fortunato. The voice said-"Ha! ha! ha! --he! he! he! --a very good joke, indeed --an excellent jest. We will have many a rich laugh
about it at the palazzo --he! he! he! --over our wine --he! he! he!"
"The Amontillado!" I said.
"He! he! he! --he! he! he! --yes, the Amontillado. But is it not getting late? Will not they be awaiting us
at the palazzo, the Lady Fortunato and the rest? Let us be gone."
"Yes," I said, "let us be gone."
"For the love of God, Montresor!"
"Yes," I said, "for the love of God!"
But to these words I hearkened in vain for a reply. I grew impatient. I called aloud -"Fortunato!"

No answer. I called again -"Fortunato!"

No answer still. I thrust a torch through the remaining aperture and let it fall within. There came forth
in return only a jingling of the bells. My heart grew sick; it was the dampness of the catacombs that
made it so. I hastened to make an end of my labour. I forced the last stone into its position; I plastered
it up. Against the new masonry I re-erected the old rampart of bones. For the half of a century no
mortal has disturbed them. In pace requiescat!

Biography of Harold Courlander

Harold Courlander was born in Indianapolis in 1908 but moved to Detroit when he was six. He later
claimed that his interest in other nationalities and cultures probably resulted from the multicultural
climate of his Detroit neighborhoods. He lived near Polish and black sections of town, and German
Lutherans ran an orphanage across the street from his school. Courlander received a B.A. from the
University of Michigan in 1931 and did graduate work at Michigan and Columbia. After trying his hand
at farming from 1933 until 1938, he worked for radio's Voice of America as an editor, writer and
information chief. During World War II he supervised news and feature reports for the Office of War
Information in Bombay. After the war he worked as a Douglas Aircraft Corporation historian, United
Nations press officer, and press officer with the U.S. Mission to the United Nations.
On his travels and through research grants, Courlander pursued his interest in ethnohistory and
folklore by collecting stories, making recordings, and writing books and articles about a variety of
African and African diaspora cultures. The result of his travels and studies was the publication of more
than thirty-five books and many sound recordings of the rich and varied musical and story traditions of
African, African-American, Caribbean, Indonesian, and Native American cultures. His best-known
collection of stories is The Cow-Tail Switch and Other West African Stories (1947), co-written with
George Herzog, which was a Newbery Honor Book in 1948. Other African folktales include The HatShaking Dance and Other Tales from the Gold Coast (1957), The King's Drum and Other African Stories
(1962), and Olode the Hunter and Other Tales From Nigeria (1968). He also wrote one original story,
The Son of the Leopard (1974), based on an Ethiopian legend of a man who is shunned and cast out of
his village. Kantchil's Lime Pit, and Other Stories from Indonesia (1950) represents the author's venture
into Asian folklore. He wrote several authoritative storybooks and non-fiction works about Haiti,
including Uncle Bouqui of Haiti (1942), The Piece of Fire and Other Haitian Tales (1962), and The Drum
and the Hoe (1960). Hopi Indian culture was recorded in The People of the Short Blue Corn: Tales and
Legends of the Hopi Indians (1970) and The Fourth World of the Hopis (1971). His best-known work on
African-American music and folkways is Negro Folk Music U.S.A. (1963), while his Treasury of AfroAmerican Folklore (1976) chronicles the oral histories of the many different peoples of African descent
in the Americas.
Courlander's career has not been without controversy. In 1977 he sued author Alex Haley, claiming
that Haley's enormously popular book, Roots, plagiarized Courlander's own novel, The African. After
several months in court, it was determined that several pages of Haley's novel quoted almost verbatim
from The African. Haley claimed that the researchers who gave him the material in question had not
cited any sources. Haley eventually settled out of court, awarding as much as $650,000 to Courlander.
Courlander died of emphysema in March 1996. Henry Holt and Company published his biography, A
Voice For the People: The Life and Work of Harold Courlander, by Nina Jaffe, in 1997.
Biography od Edgar Allan Poe

Born January 19, 1809, Boston, Massachusetts, U.S. American short-story writer, poet, critic, and editor
Edgar Allan Poe's tales of mystery and horror initiated the modern detective story, and the atmosphere
in his tales of horror is unrivaled in American fiction. His The Raven (1845) numbers among the bestknown poems in national literature.
With his short stories and poems, Edgar Allan Poe captured the imagination and interest of readers
around the world. His creative talents led to the beginning of different literary genres, earning him the
nickname "Father of the Detective Story" among other distinctions. His life, however, has become a bit
of mystery itself. And the lines between fact and fiction have been blurred substantially since his
death.
The son of actors, Poe never really knew his parents. His father left the family early on, and his mother
passed away when he was only three. Separated from his siblings, Poe went to live with John and
Frances Allan, a successful tobacco merchant and his wife, in Richmond, Virginia. He and Frances
seemed to form a bond, but he never quite meshed with John. Preferring poetry over profits, Poe
reportedly wrote poems on the back of some of Allan's business papers.
Money was also an issue between Poe and John Allan. When Poe went to the University of Virginia in
1826, he didn't receive enough funds from Allan to cover all his costs. Poe turned to gambling to cover
the difference, but ended up in debt. He returned home only to face another personal setbackhis
neighbor and fiance Elmira Royster had become engaged to someone else. Heartbroken and
frustrated, Poe left the Allans.
At first, Poe seemed to be harboring twin aspirations. Poe published his first book, Tamerlane and Other
Poems in 1827, and he had joined the army around this time. Poe wanted to go to West Point, a
military academy, and won a spot there in 1830. Before going to West Point, he published a second
collection Al Aaraaf, Tamberlane, and Minor Poems in 1829. Poe excelled at his studies at West Point,
but he was kicked out after a year for his poor handling of his duties. Some have speculated that he
intentionally sought to be court-martialed. During his time at West Point, Poe had fought with his foster
father and Allan decided to sever ties with him.
After leaving the academy, Poe focused his writing full time. He moved around in search of
opportunity, living in New York City, Baltimore, Philadelphia and Richmond. From 1831 to 1835, he
stayed in Baltimore with his aunt Maria Clemm and her daughter Virginia. His young cousin, Virginia,
became a literary inspiration to Poe as well as his love interest. The couple married in 1836 when she
was only 13 (or 14 as some sources say) years old.
Returning to Richmond in 1835, Poe went to work for a magazine called the Southern Literary
Messenger. There he developed a reputation as a cut-throat critic, writing vicious reviews of his
contemporaries. Poe also published some of his own works in the magazine, including two parts of his
only novel, The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym. His tenure there proved short, however. Poe's
aggressive-reviewing style and sometimes combative personality strained his relationship with the
publication, and he left the magazine in 1837. His problems with alcohol also played a role in his
departure, according to some reports. Poe went on to brief stints at two other papers, Burton's
Gentleman's Magazine and The Broadway Journal.
Poe was overcome by grief after the death of his beloved Virginia in 1847. While he continued to work,
he suffered from poor health and struggled financially. His final days remain somewhat of a mystery.
He left Richmond on September 27, 1849, and was supposedly on his way to Philadelphia. On October
3, Poe was found in Baltimore in great distress. He was taken to Washington College Hospital where he
died on October 7. His last words were "Lord, help my poor soul."
At the time, it was said that Poe died of "congestion of the brain." But his actual cause of death has
been the subject of endless speculation. Some experts believe that alcoholism led to his demise while

others offer up alternative theories. Rabies, epilepsy, carbon monoxide poisoning are just some of the
conditions thought to have led to the great writer's death.
Shortly after his passing, Poe's reputation was badly damaged by his literary adversary Rufus Griswold.
Griswold, who had been sharply criticized by Poe, took his revenge in his obituary of Poe, portraying
the gifted yet troubled writer as a mentally deranged drunkard and womanizer. He also penned the
first biography of Poe, which helped cement some of these misconceptions in the public's minds.
While he never had financial success in his lifetime, Poe has become one of America's most enduring
writers. His works are as compelling today as there were more than a century ago. A bright,
imaginative thinker, Poe crafted stories and poems that still shock, surprise and move modern readers.