Tarrant Country College The Veldt Symbols in A Story Discussion Questions For this essay, submit an MLA-formatted Word document (do not copy and paste). I

Tarrant Country College The Veldt Symbols in A Story Discussion Questions For this essay, submit an MLA-formatted Word document (do not copy and paste).


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Your essay should be a cohesive response (purposeful paragraphs, one unifying thesis, not list-like) to the use of symbolism to create meaning. Questions to consider include the following:

What symbol(s) did you notice in this story?
What “big ideas” do the symbols represent?
How do the symbols relate to the story’s meaning or overall theme?
Can these symbols be interpreted in more than one way?

Your first paragraph should include (a) the name of the story and author, (b) a one or two sentence summary of the story and (c) your thesis statement or main point about the symbols used in the story.

Your essay should be written in academic style (no first or second person, academic language, use of MLA formatting) and include examples or quotes from the story.

Part 4 of your textbook has additional information on developing a thesis statement, using quotations, and citing sources.

Do not consult any source other than the story for this assignment. THE VELDT
Ray Bradbury
Gothic Digital Series @ UFSC
The Veldt
(The Saturday Evening Post, 1950)
“George, I wish you’d look at the nursery.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, then.”
“I just want you to look at it, is all, or call a psychologist in to look at it.”
“What would a psychologist want with a nursery?”
“You know very well what he’d want.” His wife paused in the middle of the kitchen
and watched the stove busy humming to itself, making supper for four.
“It’s just that the nursery is different now than it was.”
“All right, let’s have a look.”
They walked down the hall of their soundproofed Happylife Home, which had cost
them thirty thousand dollars installed, this house which clothed and fed and rocked
them to sleep and played and sang and was good to them. Their approach sensitized a
switch somewhere and the nursery light flicked on when they came within ten feet of
it. Similarly, behind them, in the halls, lights went on and off as they left them behind,
with a soft automaticity.
“Well,” said George Hadley.
They stood on the thatched floor of the nursery. It was forty feet across by forty
feet long and thirty feet high; it had cost half again as much as the rest of the house.
“But nothing’s too good for our children,” George had said.
The nursery was silent. It was empty as a jungle glade at hot high noon. The walls
were blank and two dimensional. Now, as George and Lydia Hadley stood in the
center of the room, the walls began to purr and recede into crystalline distance, it
seemed, and presently an African veldt appeared, in three dimensions, on all sides, in
color reproduced to the final pebble and bit of straw. The ceiling above them became
a deep sky with a hot yellow sun.
George Hadley felt the perspiration start on his brow.
“Let’s get out of this sun,” he said. “This is a little too real. But I don’t see anything
“Wait a moment, you’ll see,” said his wife.
Now the hidden odorophonics were beginning to blow a wind of odor at the two
people in the middle of the baked veldtland. The hot straw smell of lion grass, the cool
green smell of the hidden water hole, the great rusty smell of animals, the smell of
dust like a red paprika in the hot air. And now the sounds: the thump of distant
antelope feet on grassy sod, the papery rustling of vultures. A shadow passed through
the sky. The shadow flickered on George Hadley’s upturned, sweating face.
“Filthy creatures,” he heard his wife say.
“The vultures.”
“You see, there are the lions, far over, that way. Now they’re on their way to the
water hole. They’ve just been eating,” said Lydia. “I don’t know what.”
“Some animal.” George Hadley put his hand up to shield off the burning light from
his squinted eyes. “A zebra or a baby giraffe, maybe.”
“Are you sure?” His wife sounded peculiarly tense.
“No, it’s a little late to be sure,” he said, amused. “Nothing over there I can see but
cleaned bone, and the vultures dropping for what’s left.”
“Did you bear that scream?” she asked.
“About a minute ago?”
“Sorry, no.”
The lions were coming. And again George Hadley was filled with admiration for
the mechanical genius who had conceived this room. A miracle of efficiency selling
for an absurdly low price. Every home should have one. Oh, occasionally they
frightened you with their clinical accuracy, they startled you, gave you a twinge, but
most of the time what fun for everyone, not only your own son and daughter, but for
yourself when you felt like a quick jaunt to a foreign land, a quick change of scenery.
Well, here it was!
And here were the lions now, fifteen feet away, so real, so feverishly and
startlingly real that you could feel the prickling fur on your hand, and your mouth was
stuffed with the dusty upholstery smell of their heated pelts, and the yellow of them
was in your eyes like the yellow of an exquisite French tapestry, the yellows of lions
and summer grass, and the sound of the matted lion lungs exhaling on the silent
noontide, and the smell of meat from the panting, dripping mouths.
The lions stood looking at George and Lydia Hadley with terrible green-yellow
“Watch out!” screamed Lydia.
The lions came running at them.
Lydia bolted and ran. Instinctively, George sprang after her. Outside, in the hall,
with the door slammed he was laughing and she was crying, and they both stood
appalled at the other’s reaction.
“Lydia! Oh, my dear poor sweet Lydia!”
“They almost got us!”
“Walls, Lydia, remember; crystal walls, that’s all they are. Oh, they look real, I must
admit — Africa in your parlor — but it’s all dimensional, superreactionary,
supersensitive color film and mental tape film behind glass screens. It’s all
odorophonics and sonics, Lydia. Here’s my handkerchief.”
“I’m afraid.” She came to him and put her body against him and cried steadily. “Did
you see? Did you feel? It’s too real.”
“Now, Lydia…”
“You’ve got to tell Wendy and Peter not to read any more on Africa.”
“Of course — of course.” He patted her.
“And lock the nursery for a few days until I get my nerves settled.”
“You know how difficult Peter is about that. When I punished him a month ago by
locking the nursery for even a few hours — the tantrum be threw! And Wendy too.
They live for the nursery.”
“It’s got to be locked, that’s all there is to it.”
“All right.” Reluctantly he locked the huge door. “You’ve been working too hard.
You need a rest.”
“I don’t know — I don’t know,” she said, blowing her nose, sitting down in a chair
that immediately began to rock and comfort her. “Maybe I don’t have enough to do.
Maybe I have time to think too much. Why don’t we shut the whole house off for a
few days and take a vacation?”
“You mean you want to fry my eggs for me?”
“Yes.” She nodded.
“And dam my socks?”
“Yes.” A frantic, watery-eyed nodding.
“And sweep the house?”
“Yes, yes — oh, yes!”
“But I thought that’s why we bought this house, so we wouldn’t have to do
“That’s just it. I feel like I don’t belong here. The house is wife and mother now,
and nursemaid. Can I compete with an African veldt? Can I give a bath and scrub the
children as efficiently or quickly as the automatic scrub bath can? I cannot. And it
isn’t just me. It’s you. You’ve been awfully nervous lately.”
“I suppose I have been smoking too much.”
“You look as if you didn’t know what to do with yourself in this house, either. You
smoke a little more every morning and drink a little more every afternoon and need a
little more sedative every night. You’re beginning to feel unnecessary too.”
“Am I?” He paused and tried to feel into himself to see what was really there.
“Oh, George!” She looked beyond him, at the nursery door. “Those lions can’t get
out of there, can they?”
He looked at the door and saw it tremble as if something had jumped against it
from the other side.
“Of course not,” he said.
At dinner they ate alone, for Wendy and Peter were at a special plastic carnival
across town and bad televised home to say they’d be late, to go ahead eating. So
George Hadley, bemused, sat watching the dining-room table produce warm dishes
of food from its mechanical interior.
“We forgot the ketchup,” he said.
“Sorry,” said a small voice within the table, and ketchup appeared.
As for the nursery, thought George Hadley, it won’t hurt for the children to be
locked out of it awhile. Too much of anything isn’t good for anyone. And it was clearly
indicated that the children had been spending a little too much time on Africa. That
sun. He could feel it on his neck, still, like a hot paw. And the lions. And the smell of
blood. Remarkable how the nursery caught the telepathic emanations of the
children’s minds and created life to fill their every desire. The children thought lions,
and there were lions. The children thought zebras, and there were zebras. Sun — sun.
Giraffes — giraffes. Death and death.
That last. He chewed tastelessly on the meat that the table bad cut for him. Death
thoughts. They were awfully young, Wendy and Peter, for death thoughts. Or, no, you
were never too young, really. Long before you knew what death was you were wishing
it on someone else. When you were two years old you were shooting people with cap
But this — the long, hot African veldt — the awful death in the jaws of a lion. And
repeated again and again.
“Where are you going?”
He didn’t answer Lydia. Preoccupied, be let the lights glow softly on ahead of him,
extinguish behind him as he padded to the nursery door. He listened against it. Far
away, a lion roared.
He unlocked the door and opened it. Just before he stepped inside, he heard a
faraway scream. And then another roar from the lions, which subsided quickly.
He stepped into Africa. How many times in the last year had he opened this door
and found Wonderland, Alice, the Mock Turtle, or Aladdin and his Magical Lamp, or
Jack Pumpkinhead of Oz, or Dr. Doolittle, or the cow jumping over a very realappearing moon-all the delightful contraptions of a make-believe world. How often
had he seen Pegasus flying in the sky ceiling, or seen fountains of red fireworks, or
heard angel voices singing. But now, is yellow hot Africa, this bake oven with murder
in the heat. Perhaps Lydia was right. Perhaps they needed a little vacation from the
fantasy which was growing a bit too real for ten-year-old children. It was all right to
exercise one’s mind with gymnastic fantasies, but when the lively child mind settled
on one pattern…? It seemed that, at a distance, for the past month, he had heard lions
roaring, and smelled their strong odor seeping as far away as his study door. But,
being busy, he had paid it no attention.
George Hadley stood on the African grassland alone. The lions looked up from
their feeding, watching him. The only flaw to the illusion was the open door through
which he could see his wife, far down the dark hall, like a framed picture, eating her
dinner abstractedly.
“Go away,” he said to the lions.
They did not go.
He knew the principle of the room exactly. You sent out your thoughts. Whatever
you thought would appear. “Let’s have Aladdin and his lamp,” he snapped. The
veldtland remained; the lions remained.
“Come on, room! I demand Aladin!” he said.
Nothing happened. The lions mumbled in their baked pelts.
He went back to dinner. “The fool room’s out of order,” he said. “It won’t respond.”
“Or —”
“Or what?”
“Or it can’t respond,” said Lydia, “because the children have thought about Africa
and lions and killing so many days that the room’s in a rut.”
“Could be.”
“Or Peter’s set it to remain that way.”
“Set it?”
“He may have got into the machinery and fixed something.”
“Peter doesn’t know machinery.”
“He’s a wise one for ten. That I.Q. of his —”
“Nevertheless —”
“Hello, Mom. Hello, Dad.”
The Hadleys turned. Wendy and Peter were coming in the front door, cheeks like
peppermint candy, eyes like bright blue agate marbles, a smell of ozone on their
jumpers from their trip in the helicopter. “You’re just in time for supper,” said both
“We’re full of strawberry ice cream and hot dogs,” said the children, holding
hands. “But we’ll sit and watch.”
“Yes, come tell us about the nursery,” said George Hadley.
The brother and sister blinked at him and then at each other.
“All about Africa and everything,” said the father with false joviality.
“I don’t understand,” said Peter.
“Your mother and I were just traveling through Africa with rod and reel; Tom
Swift and his Electric Lion,” said George Hadley.
“There’s no Africa in the nursery,” said Peter simply.
“Oh, come now, Peter. We know better.”
“I don’t remember any Africa,” said Peter to Wendy. “Do you?”
“Run see and come tell.”
She obeyed.
“Wendy, come back here!” said George Hadley, but she was gone. The house lights
followed her like a flock of fireflies. Too late, he realized he had forgotten to lock the
nursery door after his last inspection.
“Wendy’ll look and come tell us,” said Peter.
“She doesn’t have to tell me. I’ve seen it.”
“I’m sure you’re mistaken, Father.”
“I’m not, Peter. Come along now.”
But Wendy was back. “It’s not Africa,” she said breathlessly.
“We’ll see about this,” said George Hadley, and they all walked down the hall
together and opened the nursery door.
There was a green, lovely forest, a lovely river, a purple mountain, high voices
singing, and Rima, lovely and mysterious, lurking in the trees with colorful flights of
butterflies, like animated bouquets, lingering in her long hair. The African veldtland
was gone. The lions were gone. Only Rima was here now, singing a song so beautiful
that it brought tears to your eyes.
George Hadley looked in at the changed scene. “Go to bed,” he said to the
They opened their mouths.
“You heard me,” he said.
They went off to the air closet, where a wind sucked them like brown leaves up
the flue to their slumber rooms.
George Hadley walked through the singing glade and picked up something that
lay in the comer near where the lions had been. He walked slowly back to his wife.
“What is that?” she asked.
“An old wallet of mine,” he said.
He showed it to her. The smell of hot grass was on it and the smell of a lion. There
were drops of saliva on it, it bad been chewed, and there were blood smears on both
He closed the nursery door and locked it, tight.
In the middle of the night he was still awake and he knew his wife was awake. “Do
you think Wendy changed it?” she said at last, in the dark room.
“Of course.”
“Made it from a veldt into a forest and put Rima there instead of lions?”
“I don’t know. But it’s staying locked until I find out.”
“How did your wallet get there?”
“I don’t know anything,” he said, “except that I’m beginning to be sorry we bought
that room for the children. If children are neurotic at all, a room like that —”
“It’s supposed to help them work off their neuroses in a healthful way.”
“I’m starting to wonder.” He stared at the ceiling.
“We’ve given the children everything they ever wanted. Is this our rewardsecrecy, disobedience?”
“Who was it said, ‘Children are carpets, they should be stepped on occasionally’?
We’ve never lifted a hand. They’re insufferable — let’s admit it. They come and go
when they like; they treat us as if we were offspring. They’re spoiled and we’re
“They’ve been acting funny ever since you forbade them to take the rocket to New
York a few months ago.”
“They’re not old enough to do that alone, I explained.”
“Nevertheless, I’ve noticed they’ve been decidedly cool toward us since.”
“I think I’ll have David McClean come tomorrow morning to have a look at Africa.”
“But it’s not Africa now, it’s Green Mansions country and Rima.”
“I have a feeling it’ll be Africa again before then.”
A moment later they heard the screams.
Two screams. Two people screaming from downstairs. And then a roar of lions.
“Wendy and Peter aren’t in their rooms,” said his wife.
He lay in his bed with his beating heart. “No,” he said. “They’ve broken into the
“Those screams — they sound familiar.”
“Do they?”
“Yes, awfully.”
And although their beds tried very bard, the two adults couldn’t be rocked to
sleep for another hour. A smell of cats was in the night air.
“Father?” said Peter.
Peter looked at his shoes. He never looked at his father any more, nor at his
mother. “You aren’t going to lock up the nursery for good, are you?”
“That all depends.”
“On what?” snapped Peter.
“On you and your sister. If you intersperse this Africa with a little variety — oh,
Sweden perhaps, or Denmark or China —”
“I thought we were free to play as we wished.”
“You are, within reasonable bounds.”
“What’s wrong with Africa, Father?”
“Oh, so now you admit you have been conjuring up Africa, do you?”
“I wouldn’t want the nursery locked up,” said Peter coldly. “Ever.”
“Matter of fact, we’re thinking of turning the whole house off for about a month.
Live sort of a carefree one-for-all existence.”
“That sounds dreadful! Would I have to tie my own shoes instead of letting the
shoe tier do it? And brush my own teeth and comb my hair and give myself a bath?”
“It would be fun for a change, don’t you think?”
“No, it would be horrid. I didn’t like it when you took out the picture painter last
“That’s because I wanted you to learn to paint all by yourself, son.”
“I don’t want to do anything but look and listen and smell; what else is there to
“All right, go play in Africa.”
“Will you shut off the house sometime soon?”
“We’re considering it.”
“I don’t think you’d better consider it any more, Father.”
“I won’t have any threats from my son!”
“Very well.” And Peter strolled off to the nursery.
“Am I on time?” said David McClean.
“Breakfast?” asked George Hadley.
“Thanks, had some. What’s the trouble?”
“David, you’re a psychologist.”
“I should hope so.”
“Well, then, have a look at our nursery. You saw it a year ago when you dropped
by; did you notice anything peculiar about it then?”
“Can’t say I did; the usual violences, a tendency toward a slight paranoia here or
there, usual in children because they feel persecuted by parents constantly, but, oh,
really nothing.”
They walked down the ball. “I locked the nursery up,” explained the father, “and
the children broke back into it during the night. I let them stay so they could form the
patterns for you to see.”
There was a terrible screaming from the nursery.
“There it is,” said George Hadley. “See what you make of it.”
They walked in on the children without rapping.
The screams had faded. The lions were feeding.
“Run outside a moment, children,” said George Hadley. “No, don’t change the
mental combination. Leave the walls as they are. Get!”
With the children gone, the two men stood studying the lions clustered at a
distance, eating with great relish whatever it was they had caught.
“I wish I knew what it was,” said George Hadley. “Sometimes I can almost see. Do
you think if I brought high-powered binoculars here and —”
David McClean laughed dryly. “Hardly.” He turned to study all four walls. “How
long has this been going on?”
“A little over a month.”
“It certainly doesn’t feel good.”
“I want facts, not feelings.”
“My dear George, a psychologist never saw a fact in his life. He only hears about
feelings; vague things. This doesn’t feel good, I tell you. Trust my hunches and my
instincts. I have a nose for something bad. This is very bad. My advice to you is to
have the whole damn room torn down and your children brought to me every day
during the next year for treatment.”
“Is it that bad?”
“I’m afraid so. One of the original uses of these nurseries was so that we could
study the patterns left on the walls by the child’s mind, study at our leisure, and help
the child. In this case, however, the room has become a channel toward-destructive
thoughts, instead of a release away from them.”
“Didn’t you sense this before?”
“I sensed only that you bad spoiled your children more than most. And now you’re…
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