Here is Harry Monroe with our story.
Here is Harry Monroe with our story. One December night, a long, long time ago, a family sat around the fireplace in their home. A golden light from the fire filled the room. The mother and father laughed at something their oldest daughter had just said.
The girl was seventeen, much older than her little brother and sister, who were only five and six years old.
A very old woman, the family's grandmother, sat knitting in the warmest corner of the room. And a baby, the youngest child, smiled at the fire's light from its tiny bed. This family had found happiness in the worst place in all of New England. They had built their home high up in the White Mountains, where the wind blows violently all year long.
The family lived in an especially cold and dangerous spot. Stones from the top of the mountain above their house would often roll down the mountainside and wake them in the middle of the night. No other family lived near them on the mountain.
But this family was never lonely. They enjoyed each other's company, and often had visitors. Their house was built near an important road that connected the White Mountains to the Saint Lawrence River. People traveling through the mountains in wagons always stopped at the family's door for a drink of water and a friendly word.
Lonely travelers, crossing the mountains on foot, would step into the house to share a hot meal. Sometimes, the wind became so wild and cold that these strangers would spend the night with the family.
The family offered every traveler who stopped at their home a kindness that money could not buy. On that December evening, the wind came rushing down the mountain. It seemed to stop at their house to knock at the door before it roared down into the valley.
The family fell silent for a moment. But then they realized that someone really was knocking at their door. The oldest girl opened the door and found a young man standing in the dark.
The old grandmother put a chair near the fireplace for him. The oldest daughter gave him a warm, shy smile. And the baby held up its little arms to him. But when I saw the light in your window, I decided to stop. I would like to sit and enjoy your fire and your company for a while.
It sounded as if someone was running down the side of the mountain, taking enormous steps. The father looked out one of the windows.
He must have been afraid we would forget him. He sometimes shakes his head and makes us think he will come down on top of us," the father explained to the young man.
Besides, I have made a safe hiding place outside to protect us in case a slide brings the mountain down on our heads. While he ate, he talked freely to the family, as if it were his own. This young man did not trust people easily. Yet on this evening, something made him share his deepest secret with these simple mountain people.
The young man's secret was that he was ambitious.Announcer: You have just heard the story, "The Ambitious Guest. " It was written by Nathaniel Hawthorne, and adapted for Special English by Dona de Sanctis.
Your . A View of the Mountain Pass Called the Notch of the White Mountains (Crawford Notch), , oil on canvas by American artist Thomas Cole (–).Image courtesy of National Gallery of . "The Ambitious Guest" is a short story by Nathaniel Hawthorne. First published in The New-England Magazine in June , it was republished in the second volume of Twice-Told Tales in Plot.
A young traveler stops for the night with a family that lives in a "notch. “The Ambitious Guest” portrays a young man traveling in the White Mountains on his way to Burlington; he stops at a cozy family-run inn in the awe-inspiring shadows of Crawford Notch.
Just starting out in life, the man seeks “a high and abstracted ambition” and a fame that will last long after he . The Ambitious Guest Download MP3. Our story today is called, "The Ambitious Guest.
" It was written by Nathaniel Hawthorne. Here is Harry Monroe with our story. Jul 07, · The Ambitious Guest One September night a family had gathered round their hearth, and piled it high with the driftwood of mountain streams, the dry cones of the pine, and the splintered ruins of great trees that had come crashing down the precipice.