 Yeah, so my name is Grant Wheeler. I'm an ASMSU senator for on-campus and today's book I'm in reading from The Call of the Cloud. This is by Jack London, one of my favorite books I've ever read outside of class. Just a little bit of background on this book, Why I Was Banned. It was banned in Italy in 1929 in Yugoslavia. It was also burned in Nazi bonfires in 1933. So this was more kind of an international ban. But I really like this book because it depicts nature through someone else's eyes, the eyes of the dog. And that dog's name is Buck. He's the main character in this book. He's 140 pounds St. Bernard. So just let you know that. Also just to let you know some other things so you can kind of understand what's going on in the story. Francois and Perrault are two mushers that are in charge of the dogs, the dogs led team. And Spitz is the team leader. He's the dog that's in charge of all the other dogs. So with that, I'm going to start my story. It starts in Canada as we're going towards the coast. Seven days from the time they pulled into Dawson, they dropped down the steep bank by the barracks to the Yukon Trail and pulled by Daiya in the saltwater. Perrault was carrying dispatches, if anything, more urgent than those he had brought in. Also, the travel pride had gripped him and he purposed to make the record trip of the year. Several things favored him in this. The weeks rest had incorporated the dogs and put them in thorough trim. The trail they had broken into the country was packed hard by later journeyers. And further, the police had arranged in two or three places deposits of grub, dog and man, he was traveling light. Made 60 mile, which is a 50 mile run on the first day. The second day saw them booming up the Yukon well on their way to Peli. With such splendid running was achieved, not without great trouble and vexation in the part of Francois. The insidious revolt led by Bach had destroyed the solitary team of the team. It no longer was a one dog leaping in traces. The encouragement of Bach gave that rebels led them all into all kinds of petty misdemeanors. No more was Spitz a leader greatly to be feared. The old odd departed and they grew equal to challenging his authority. Pike robbed him of half a fish one night and built it down on the protection of Bach. Another night, Dub and Joe fought Spitz and made him forgo the punishment they deserved. And even Billy, the good nature was less good natured. And why not half as placatingly as in former days. But never came near Spitz without snarling and bristling men as an athlete. In fact, his conduct approached that of a bully. He was given to swaggering up and down before Spitz very knows. Breaking down a discipline likewise affected the dogs in the relations with one another. They quarreled and bickered more than ever among themselves till at times the camp was a howling bedlam. Dave and Solix, alone were unaltered. They were made irritable by the unending squabbling. Francois saw a strange barbarous oaths and stamped the snow and futile rage and tore his hair. His lash was always singing among the dogs. It was of small avail. Directly his back was turned. They were at it again. He backed up Spitz with his whip while Buck backed up the remainder of the team. Francois knew he was beheld all the trouble. And Buck knew he knew. But Buck was too clever ever again to be caught red handed. He worked faithfully in the harness for the toil had become a delight to him. Yet it was a greater delight slyly to precipitate the fight among his mates and tangled the traces. At the mouth of the taquina one night after supper, Doug turned up a snowshoe rabbit, lundered it and missed. In a second the whole team was in full cry. 100 yards away was a camp on the Northwest police with 50 dogs Huskies all who joined the chase. The rabbit sped down the river turned off into a small creek of the frozen bed of which it held steadily. It ran lightly on the surface of the snow while the dogs plowed through by main strength. Buck led the pack 60 strong around a bend after bend but he could not gain. You lay down low to the race whining eagerly his splendid body flashing forward leap by leap in the way in white moonlight. And leap by leap like some pale frost race, the snowshoe rabbit flashed on ahead. All that stirring of old instincts with its stated periods drives men out from the sounding cities to forest and plain to kill things by chemically propelled lead and bullets. Pellets, the blood lust, the joy to kill, all this was bucks. Only it was infinitely more intimate. He was ranging at the head of the pack, running the wild thing down, or leaving meat to kill his own teeth and wash his muscle to the eyes and warm blood. There is an ecstasy that marks the summit of life and beyond which life cannot rise. And such is the paradox of living. This ecstasy comes when one is most alive. And it comes as a complete forgetfulness that one is alive. This ecstasy, this forgetfulness of the living, comes to the artist caught up out of himself in a sheet of flame. It comes to the soldier wore mad on a stricken field of refusing for it. And it came to Buck leading the pack sounding the old wolf cry, straining after the food that was alive and that fled swiftly before him through the midnight. He was sounding the deeps of his nature and the parts of his nature that were deeper than he going back into the womb of time. He was mastered by the sheer surging of life, the tidal wave of being, the perfect joy of each separate muscle, joint and sinew, and that it was everything that was not death, that it was a glow and rampant, expressing itself in movement, flying exultantly under the stars and over the face of dead matter that did not move. But spits, cold and calculating, even in his supreme moods, left the pack and cut a narrow neck of land where the creek made a long bend around. Buck did not know this. And as he rounded the bend, the frost-rave of a rabbit still flitting before him, he saw another and larger frost-rave leap from the overhanging bank into the immediate path of rabbit. It was spits. The rabbit could not turn and as the white teeth broke its back in midair and shrieked as loudly as a stricken man may shriek. At sound of this, the cry of life plunging down from life's apex in the grip of death, the full packet of pucks heels raised a hellish chorus of delight. Buck did not cry out. He did not check himself but drove in upon spits, shoulder to shoulder, so hard that he missed the throat. They rolled over and over in the powdery snow. Spits gained his feet almost as though he had not been overthrown, slashing Buck down the shoulder and leaping clear. Twice his teeth clipped together like the steel jaws of a trap as he backed away for better footing with lean and lifting lips that writhe and snarled. In a flash, Buck knew it. The time had come. It was to the death. As they circled about, snarling, years laid back, keenly watchful for the advantage, scene came to Buck with a sense of familiarity. He seemed to remember at all the white woods and earth and moonlight and the thrill of battle. All the whiteness and silence rooted a ghostly calm. There was not the faintest whisper of fear. Nothing moved, not a leaf quivered, the visible breaths of the dogs rising slowly and lingering in the fausty air. They had made short work of the snowshoe rabbit, these dogs that were ill-tamed wolves, and they were now drawn in up in an expectant circle. They too were silent, their eyes only gleaming and their breasts drifting slowly upward. Tobacco was nothing new or strange, a scene of old time. It was as though it had always been, the wanted way of things. Spitz was a practice fighter, from Spitzbergen to the Arctic, and across Canada in the Barrens. He had held his own with all manner of dogs and achieved a mastery over them. Bitter rage was his, but never blind rage. In passion to rent and destroy, he never forgot that his enemy was in like passion to rent and destroy. He never rushed till he was prepared to receive a rush. He never, never rushed till he was prepared to receive a rush, never attacked till he first defended that attack. In vain, Buck strode to sink his teeth and neck of a big white dog. Where his fangs struck for the softer flesh, they were counterbotted fangs of Spitz. Fang flashed fang, and lips were cut and bleeding, but Buck could not penetrate his enemy's guard. Then he warmed up and enveloped Spitz in a whirlwind of rushes. Time and time again he tried for the snow white throat, the life bubbled near to the surface, and each time and every time Spitz slashed him and got away. Then Buck took to rushing, as though for the throat, when suddenly drawing back his head and curving in from the side, he would drive his shoulder, the shoulder of Spitz, as a ram bite to which overthrown him. But instead, Buck's shoulder was slashed down each time a Spitz leaped away lightly. Spitz was untouched. While Buck was streaming with blood and panting hard, the fight was growing desperate, and all the while the silent and wolfish circle waited to finish off whichever dog went down. As Buck grew winded, Spitz took to the rushing, and he kept him staggering for footing. Once, Buck went over and the whole circle of sixty dollars started up, but he covered himself almost in midair, and the circle sank down again and waited. Buck possessed a quality that made for greatness, imagination. He fought by instinct, but he could fight by head as well. He rushed as though attempting the old shoulder trick, but the last instant swept low to the snow and in, his teeth closed on Spitz's left foreleg. There was a crunch of breaking bone, and the white dog faced him on three legs. Christ, he tried to knock him over, then repeated the trick and broke the right foreleg. Despite the pain and helplessness, Spitz struggled madly to keep up. He saw the silent circle with gleaming eyes, woe-ling tongues, and silvery breaths drifting upward, closing in upon him as he had seen similar circles closing upon beaten antagonists in the past. Only this time, he was the one who was beaten. There was no hope for him. Buck was inexorable. Mercy was a thing reserved for gentler climes. He maneuvered for the final rush. The circle had tightened until he could feel the breaths of the huskies on his flanks. He could see them beyond Spitz and to either side, half crouching for the spring, their eyes fixed upon him. The paws seemed to fall. Every animal was motionless as though turned to stone. Only Spitz quivered and bristled as he staggered back and forth, snarling with horrible menace as though to frighten off depending on death. Then Buck sprang in and out. While he was in, the shoulder had it last, squarely bent shoulder. The dark circle became a dot on the moon, flooded snow as Spitz disappeared from view. Buck stood and looked on. The successful champion. A dominant beast who had made his kill and found it good. So guys, that's it for me. Just let you know this little thing about this. I actually got this from this library, so if you guys actually want to read this book, just a little plug there. My name is Jessica Bain. I'm a senator for ASNSU as well. And today I'm reading To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee. And I chose this book because to me it's a beautifully well-written, humorous and provocative story and endowedly a classic of American literature. And while this novel is written, is narrated through the eyes of a child, it deals with serious adult themes and issues that are still prevalent and significant to us today. These issues include race, class, gender, incest, friendship, courage, death, and innocence. And those are just to name a few. Since its publication in 1960, To Kill a Mockingbird has been banned and challenged in various parts for various reasons. In East Valley, Minnesota in 1977, it was temporarily banned due to the words such as, damn and whore lady, used in the novel. It was banned in Lindale, Texas in 1966 on the Advanced Placement English Reading List because the book contained words and issues that conflicted with the values of the community. The part that I'm going to read to you is right after the jury had found Tom Robinson, a black man who was accused of rape. They found him guilty of raping a white woman named Mayola. And Atticus, a widowed father, is talking to his daughter, Scout, and Jim, about the trial and issues such as race, class, rape and incest. I'm not afraid. Summer was melting away and would made the most of it. Atticus assured us that nothing would happen to Tom Robinson until the higher court reviewed his case. And the Tom had a good chance of going free, or at least having a new trial. He was at Enfield Prison Farm, 70 miles away in Chester County. I asked Atticus if Tom's wife and children were allowed to visit him. And Atticus said, no. If he loses his appeal, I asked one evening, what'll happen to him? He'll go to the chair, said Atticus, unless the government can use his sentence. Not to worry yet, Scout. We've got a good chance. Jim was sprawled on the sofa reading popular mechanics. He looked up. It ain't right. He didn't kill anybody, but he was guilty. He didn't take anybody's life. You know, rape's a capital offense in Alabama, said Atticus. Yes, sir. But the jury didn't have to give him death. If they wanted, they could have given 20 years. Give it, said Atticus. Tom Robinson's a colored man, Jim. Know during this part of the world's going to say, we think you're guilty, but not married on a charge like that. It was either straight up whittle or nothing. Jim was shaking his head. I know it's not right, but I can't figure out what's wrong. Maybe rape shouldn't be a capital offense. Atticus dropped his newspaper beside his chair. He didn't, he said he didn't have any quarrel with the rape statute known whatsoever, but he did have deep misgivings when the state asked for and the jury gave a death penalty on the purely circumstantial evidence. He glanced at me. So I was listening and made it easier. I mean, before a man is sentenced to death from murder, say there should be at least one or two eyewitnesses. Someone should be able to say, yes, I was there and I saw him hold the trigger. Well, lots of folks have been hung, have been hung hanged on circumstantial evidence, said Jim. I know, and lots of them probably deserved it too, but in the absence of eyewitnesses there's always a doubt, sometimes only shadow of doubt. The law says reasonable doubt, but I think a defendant's entitled to shadow of doubt. There's always the possibility, no matter how improbable, that he's innocent. Then it all goes back to the jury then. We ought to do away with juries, Jim was adamant. Atticus tried hard not to smile, but couldn't help it. He rather hard on his son, I think maybe either might be aware of it, better way, change the law, change it so that only judges have the power of fixing penalty and capital cases. Then go up to Montgomery and change the law. You'd be surprised how hard that would be. I won't live to see the law changed, and if you learn to see it, you'll be an old man. This is not good enough for Jim. No, sir, they ought to do away with juries. He wasn't guilty in the first place, and they said he was. If you've been on the jury, son, and eleven other boys like you, Tom would be a free man, said Atticus. So far nothing into your life has interfered with your reasoning process. Those are twelve reasonable men in their everyday life, Tom's jury, but you saw something become between them and reason. You saw the same thing that night in front of the jail. When that crew went away, they didn't go away as reasonable men. They went because we were there. There's something in a world that makes men lose their heads. It couldn't be fair as they tried. In our courts, when it's a white man's world against the black man's, the white always wins. They're ugly, but those are the facts of life. Doesn't make it right, said Jim. He beat his first fist softly on his knee. You just can't convict a man on evidence like that. You can't. You couldn't, but they couldn't did. The older you grow, the more you'll see it. One place where a man ought to get a square deal is in the court world, be any color of the rainbow. The people have a way of carrying their resentments right to the jury box. As you grow older, you'll see white men beat black men every day of your life, but let me tell you something, and don't you forget it. Whenever a white man does that to a black man, no matter where he is, how rich he is, or how fine a family comes from, the white man is trash. Atticus was speaking so quietly. His last word crashed in our ears. I looked up and his face was venerated. There's nothing more sickening to me than a low-grade white man who'll take advantage of a Negro's innocence. Don't fool yourself. It's all adding up, and one of these days you're going to pay the bill for it. I hope it's not in your children's time. Jim was scratching his head. Suddenly his eyes widened. Atticus, he said. Why don't people like us and Ms. Maudi ever sit on juries? You never see anybody from Maycomb on a jury. They all come out in the woods. Atticus leaned back in the rocking chair. For some reason you look pleased with Jim. I was wondering when that occurred to you. There are lots of reasons. For one thing, Ms. Maudi can't serve on a jury because she's a woman. You mean women in Alabama can't? I was indignant. I do. I guess it's to protect our frail ladies from sorted cases like Tom's. Besides Atticus Grint, I doubt if we ever get a complete case tried, the ladies being interrupting to ask questions. Jim and I laughed. Ms. Maudi on a jury would be impressive. I thought of all Ms. Du Bois in her wheelchair. Stop that rapping. John Taylor, I want to ask this man something. Perhaps our forefathers were wise. Atticus was saying, would people like this? Like us? That's our share of the bill. We generally get the juries we deserve. Our stout Maycomb citizens are interested in the first place. In the second place, they're frail. Then they're afraid. Why? Asked Jim. Well, what if, say, Mr. Link Diaz had to decide the amount of damages to reward Samus Maudi when Ms. Rachel ran her over with the car. Link wouldn't like the thought of losing either of the ladies' business at his store, wouldn't he? So he tells Judge Taylor that he can't serve on a jury because he doesn't have anybody to keep store for him while he's gone. So Judge Taylor excused him. Something he excuses him raffedly. Raffedly. What made him think either of them stopped training with him? I asked. Jim said, Ms. Rachel wouldn't, Ms. Maudi wouldn't. But a jury's voice voiced both secret, Atticus, our father juggled. We've many miles to go, son. A jury's voice supposed to be secret. Serving on a jury forces a man to make up his mind and declare himself about something. Men don't like to do that. Sometimes it's unpleasant. Tom's jury, though, sure made up its mind in a hurry. Jim Maudi, Atticus, fingers went back to his, went to his watch pocket. No, it didn't. He said more to himself than us. That was the one thing that made me think, well, this may be the shadow of the beginning. The jury took a few hours and an abut old verdict, maybe. But usually, usually it takes him just a few minutes. This time, he broke off and looked at us. He might like to know that there was one fellow who took considerable wearied down. In the beginning, he was wearing it for an outright acquittal. Who, Jim asked, astonished. Atticus eyes twinkled. It's not for me to say, but I'll tell you this much. He was one of your old seren friends. One of, one of the Cunninghams? Jim, you know, one of, I didn't recognize any of them. You're joking. He looked at Atticus with the, out of the corners of his eyes. One of their connections on a hunch. I didn't strike him, just on hunch. Couldn't. But I didn't. Golly Moses, Jim said reverently. One minute they're trying to kill him and the next they're trying to turn him loose. I'll never understand those folks as long as I live. Atticus said you just had to know him. He said that Cunninghams hadn't taken anything from or off. of anybody since they migrated to the no role. He said the other thing about them was once you earn their respect, they rear his tooth and nail. Atticus said he had a feeling nothing more than a suspicion but they left the jail that night with considerable respect for the finches. Then too he said it took a thunderbolt plus another Cunningham to make one of them change his mind. If we had two of that crowd, we'd have had a hung jury. Jim says loy. You mean you actually put on the jury a man who wanted to kill you the night before? How could you take such a risk? Atticus, how could you? When you analyze it, there's a little risk. There's no difference between one man who's going to convict and another man who's going to convict. Is there? There's a faint difference between a man who's going to convict and a man who's a little disturbed in his mind, isn't there? He was only he was the only uncertainty on the whole list. What can was that was that man to Mr. Walter Cunningham? I asked. Atticus rose stretched and yawned. Was not even our bedtime. But we knew he wanted to chance to read his newspaper. Picked it up, folded it and tapped my head. Let's see now. He drowned himself. I got it. Double first cousin. How can that be? Two sisters marry two brothers. That's all I tell you. You figure it out. I tortured myself and decided that if I married Jem and Dill and had a sister who he married our children, we'd be double first cousins. She made it. Jem, I said when Atticus is gone, they're fine folks. Did you hear that? It's also in the library. You guys want to check it out? It's really a great story. My name is Joyce Snyder and I am the student body president here at Montana State University. And I will be reading a book called The Butter Battle Book, which is a hidden gem by the children's writer, Dr. Zeus. Published in 1984, this New York Times notable book of the year reflects the concerns of the Cold War era, including the possibility that all life on earth could be destroyed with the nuclear war. The Butter Battle Book was removed from library shelves in the mid-1980s due to its position regarding the arms race. I chose this reading because of its creative approach in teaching children about current events. I give to you The Butter Battle Book. On the last day of summer, 10 hours before fall, my grandfather took me out to the wall. For a while he stood silent, then finally he said with a very sad shake of his very old head, as you know, on this side of the wall we are Zeus, on the far other side of the wall with the Zeus. My grandfather said, it's high time that you knew of the terrible, horrible things that Zeus do. In every Zook house and in every Zook town, every Zook eats his bread with the butter side down. But we Yooks, as you know, when we breakfast or sup, spread our bread, grandpa said, with the butter side up. That's the right, honest way, grandpa gritted his teeth, so you can't trust a Zook who spreads bread underneath. Every Zook must be watched, he has kinks in his soul. That's why, as a youth, I made watching my goal, watching Zooks for the Zook-watching border patrol. In those days, of course, the wall wasn't so high and I could look any Zook square in the eye. If he dared to come close, I could give him a twitch with my tough, tough prickly Snickberry Switch. For a while, that worked fine, all the Zooks stayed away and our country was safe than one terrible day. A very rude Zook by the name of Van Itch snuck up and slingshoted my Snickberry Switch. With my broken off switch and my head held in shame, to the chief Yukaroo in great sorrow I came. But our leader just smiled, he said, you're not to blame and those Zooks will be sorry they started this game. We'll dress you right up in a fancier suit and we'll give you a fancier slingshot to shoot and he ordered the boys in the back room to figure how to build me some sort of triple sling jigger. With my triple sling jigger, I sure felt much bigger. I marched the wall with great thim and great figure right up to Van Itch with my hand on the trigger. I'll have no more nonsense, I said with a frown from Zooks who eat bread with the butter side down. Van Itch looked quite sickly and he ran off quite quickly. I'm unhappy to say that he came back the next day with a spiffy new suit and a big new machine and he snarled us and said looking frightfully mean. You may fling those hard rocks with your triple sling jigger but I also now have my hand on the trigger. My wonderful weapon, the jigger rocks snatch them, we'll fling them right back just as quick as we catch them. We'll have no more nonsense, we'll take no more gup from you youths who eat bread with the butter side up. I have failed sir, I sobbed as I made my report to the chief guru with the headquarters fort. He just laughed, we've done nothing of the sort. Our slingshots have failed, that was old fashioned stuff. Slingshots, dear boy, are not modern enough. All they need is some newfangled kind of a gun. My boys in the background have already begun to think up a walloping with zigger one. My bright boys are thinking they're right on track. They'll think up one quick and we'll send you right back. They thought up one, they thought up a quick one, they certainly did. They thought up a gun called the Kikapoo Kid, which they loaded with powerful Poo-a-Doo powder and ant eggs and bees legs and dried fried clam chowder. And they carefully trained a real smart dog named Daniel to serve as our country's first dog, first gun toting spaniel. Then Daniel, the Kikapoo spaniel in eye marched back to the wall with our heads held up high while everyone cheered and their cheers filled the sky. Fight, fight for the butter side up, do or die. Well, we didn't do and we didn't quite die but we sure to get worse if poor Daniel and I. Vantage was there too when he said that old pig. My boys in the back room invented this rig. It's called the eight nozzle elephant toaded bomb blitz. It shoots high explosive sour cherry stone pits. And will you put your dumb Kikapoo Kid on the fritz? Poor Daniel and I were scared out of our wits. Once more by Vantage I was bested in beat. Once again, I left home limped home from the wall and defeat. I dragged and I sagged. My spirits were low as low as I thought they ever could go. When I heard a boom ba and a diddly dill and our butter up band marched up over the hill. The chief Yukaroo had sent them to meet me along with the right side up song girls to greet me. Oh, be faithful. Believe in my butter. They sang and they lifted my spirit tie out of the gutter. My boys, mild chief Yukaroo. We've just voted and made you a general. You've been promoted. Your pretty new uniforms ready. Get in it. The big war is coming and you're going to begin it. And what's more this time, you're certain to win it. My boys in the back room has have finally found how just wait till you see what they've put it up now in the great new machine. You'll fly over that wall and clobber those buttered down zoops, one and all. Those boys in the back room sure knew how to putter. They made me a thing called an utterly sputter and I jumped a bore with my heart all of butter and steered toward the land of upside down butter. This machine was so modern, so frightfully new. No one knew quite exactly what it would do. But it had several faucets that sprinkled blue goo, which somehow would sprinkle the zoops as I flew and gum up the upside down butter, they chew. I was racing pale mel when I heard a voice yell, if you sprinkle less zoops, we'll get you sprinkled as well. Then itch had a sputter exactly like mine and he yelled, my blue gooer is working just fine. And I'm here to say that if zoops can goo zoops, you'd better forget it because zoops can goo youths. I flew right back home and as you may have guessed, I was downright despondent, disturbed and depressed. I was, and I saw just as soon as I stepped back on land, so were all the girls in the butter up band. The chief majorette, Ms. Yuki An-Sue, said that was a pretty sour flight that you flew and the chief Yuki Rune has been looking for you. I raced to his office, the place was a sight, have no fear, said the chief, everything is all right. My bright back room boys have been brighter than bright. They've thought up a gadget that's newer than new. It's filled with a mysterious new lack of goo and they, and can blow all those zoops, fear to sell them a goo. They've invented the bitsy big boy goo maroon. You just run to that wall like a nice little man and drop this bomb on the zoops just as fast as you can. I have ordered all yous to stay safe underground while the bitsy big boy boo maroon is around. As I raced for the wall with the bomb in my hand, I noticed that every last uke in our land was obeying our chief Yuki Rune's bread and command. They were all bravely marching with banners of flutter down a hole for their country and rites it up butter. That's when grandfather found me, he grabbed me and said, you should be down on that hole and you're up here instead. But perhaps this is better somehow and you will see me make history right here and right now. Grandpa left on that wall with a loopy-less leap and he cleared his throat with a populous beep. He screamed, here's the end of that terrible town full of zoops who he bred with the buttersight down. And at that very instant we heard a club clap, a feet on the wall an old van itched clapped up. The boys in his back room had made him one too and his fist was another big boy boomeru. I'll blow you up, he yelled into pork and wee beads. I'll butter side up you to small smithereens. Grandpa shouted, be careful, oh gee, who's gonna drop it? Will you or will he? Be patient, said grandpa. We'll see, we will see.