Form 9 Additional Texts
Unit 1- 3
Relatives.
Friends. Relationships
It was the old lady's birthday. She got up early
to be ready for the post.
Today
she was sure there would be something. Myra wouldn't forget her mother's
birthday, even if she seldom wrote at other times. Of course Myra was busy. Her
husband had been Mayor last year, and Myra herself had got a medal for her work
for the aged. A daughter to be proud of!
The
old lady was eighty today. She had put on her best dress. Perhaps Myra might
come. After all, eighty was a special birthday; another decade lived or endured
just as you chose to look at it.
Even
if Myra did not come, she would send a present. The old lady was sure of that.
Two spots of colour brightened her cheeks. She was excited like a child. She would enjoy her day. What would she like? A
pair of slippers perhaps. Or a new cardigan. A cardigan would be lovely. Blue s
such a pretty colour. Or a table lamp, so that she wouldn't drop so many
stitches in her knitting. Or a travel book, with pictures, or a little clock,
with clear black numbers. So many lovely things. She stood by the window,
watching.
The
postman turned round the corner on his bicycle. Her heart beat fast. Johnie had
seen him too and ran to the gate. Then clatter, clatter up the stairs. Johnie
knocked at her door. "Granny, Granny," he shouted. "I've got
your post." He gave four envelopes, three unsealed cards from old friends.
The fourth sealed, in Myra's writing. The old lady felt disappointment.
"No parcel, Johnie?" "No, granny."
Maybe
the parcel was too large to come by letter post. That was it. It would come
later by parcel post. She must be patient. Almost reluctantly she tore the
envelope open. Folded in the ornate card was a piece of paper. Written on the
card was a message under the printed Happy Birthday. "Buy yourself
something nice with the cheques," Myra and Harold. The cheques fluttered
to the floor like a bird with a broken wing. Slowly the old lady stopped to
pick it up. Her present, her lovely present. With trembling fingers she tore it
into little bits.
Answer the following questions
1.
How old was the woman?
2.
Did her daughter give the old lady a
present?
3.
What did the old lady expect to get
for her birthday?
4.
Why did the old lady feel a pang of
disappointment?
5.
What did she buy with the check her
daughter sent her?
Charles
by Shirley Jackson
The day my
son Laurie started kindergarten an era of my life was ended; my sweet-voiced
little baby was replaced by a self- confident character who forgot to stop at
the corner and wave good-bye to me. He came home the same day, his hat on the
floor, shouting, "Isn't anybody here?"
At lunch he
spoke impolitely to his father, spilled his baby sister's milk and remarked
that his teacher said we were not to take the name of the Lord in vain.
"How
was school today?" I asked casually.
"All
right," he said.
"Did
you learn anything?" his father asked.
Laurie
regarded his father coldly. "I didn't learn nothing," he said.
Why did Laurie correct his father?
"Anything,"
I said. "Didn't learn anything."
"The
teacher spanked a boy, though," Laurie said, addressing his bread and
butter. "For being fresh (too confident, showing a lack of respect),"
he added, with his mouth full.
"What
did he do?" I asked. "What was it?"
Laurie
thought. "It was Charles," he said. "He was fresh. The teacher
spanked him and made him stand in the corner. He was awfully fresh."
The next
day Laurie remarked at lunch, as soon as he sat down, "Well, Charles was
bad again today." He grinned enormously and said, "Today Charles hit
the teacher."
"Good
Heavens," I said, mindful of the Lord's name. "I suppose, he got
spanked again?"
"He
sure did," Laurie said. "Look up," he said to his father.
Why do you
think Charlie behaved like that?
"What?"
his father said, looking up.
"Look
down," Laurie said. "Look at my thumb. Gee, you are dumb." He
began to laugh hysterically.
Where do
you think Laurie learnt this joke?
"Why
did Charles hit the teacher?" I asked quickly.
"Because
he made him colour with red crayons," Laurie said. "Charles wanted to
colour with green crayons so he hit the teacher and she spanked him and said
nobody play with Charles but everybody did."
On
Wednesday Charles hit a little girl, on Thursday he had to stand in a corner
during the story-time because he kept pounding his feet on the floor. Friday
Charles threw chalk.
On Saturday
I remarked to my husband, "Do you think kindergarten is too unsettling for
Laurie? All this toughness and bad grammar, and this Charles boy sounds like
bad influence."
"It'll
be all right," my husband said reassuringly. "There must be people like
Charles in the world. Might as well meet them now as later."
What does
Laurie's father want to say with the highlighted words?
On Monday
Laurie came home late, full of new. "Charles," he yelled,"
Charles was bad again. You know what Charles did?" he demanded,
"Charles yelled so in school they sent a boy in from first grade to tell
the teacher she had to make Charles keep quiet, and so Charles had to stay
after school. And so all the children stayed to watch him."
"What
did he do?" I asked.
"He
just sat there," Laurie said, climbing into his chair at the table.
"Hi, Pop, y'old dust mop."
"Charles
had to stay after school today and everyone stayed with him," I told my
husband.
"What
does Charles look like? What's his other name?" my husband asked Laurie.
"He's
bigger than me," Laurie said.
Monday
night was the first Parent — Teacher meeting, and only the fact that the baby
had a cold kept me from going: I wanted passionately to meet Charles' mother.
On Tuesday Laurie remarked suddenly, "Our teacher had a friend come to see
her in school today."
"Charles'
mother?" my husband and I asked simultaneously.
"Naah,"
Laurie said scornfully. "It was a man who came and made us do exercises.
We had to touch our toes. Charles was fresh again, he didn't even do exercises.
The teacher's friend told Charles to touch his toes and Charles kicked
him."
"What
are they going to do with Charles, do you suppose?" Laurie's father asked
him.
"Throw
him out of school, I guess," he said.
Wednesday
and Thursday were routine. Charles yelled during the story-hour and hit a boy
in the stomach and made him cry. On Friday Charles stayed after school again
and so did all the other children. The third week was the same.
During the
third and forth weeks it looked like a reformation in Charles. Laurie reported
grimly at lunch on Thursday of the third week, "Charles was so good today
the teacher gave him an apple. And he was the teacher's helper: gave crayons
around and picked up the books."
For over a
week Charles was the teacher's helper; each day he handed things out and he
picked things up no one had to stay after school.
«Charles?» I
said laughing, “you must have your hands full in that kindergarden, with
Charles.”
“Charles?” she
said. “We don`t have any Charles in the kindergarden.”
A Devoted Friend
by Oscar Wild
Once upon a time there was an
honest little fellow named Hans. He wasn`t distinguished at all, except for his
kind heart, and his funny round good-humoured face.
He lived in a tiny cottage all
by himself and every day he worked in his garden. In all the countryside there
was no garden as lovely as his. Roses, crocuses and daffodils bloomed in their
proper order as the months went by.
Little Hans had a great many friends, but the
most devoted friend of all was big Hugh the Miller. Indeed, so devoted was the
rich Miller to little Hans, that he would never go by his garden without
leaning over the wall and getting a handful of sweet herbs, or filling his
pockets with plums and cherries if it was the fruit season.
‘‘Real friends should have
everything in common,’ the Miller used to say, and little Hans nodded and
smiled, and felt very proud of having a friend with such noble ideas.
Sometimes, indeed, the
neighbours thought it strange that the rich Miller never gave little Hans
anything in return, though he had a hundred sacks of flour stored away in his
mill, and six milk cows, and a large flock of woolly sheep; but Hans never
troubled his head about these things, and nothing gave him greater pleasure
than to listen to all the wonderful things the Miller used to say about the unselfishness
of true friendship.
During the spring, the summer, and the
autumn he was very happy, but when the winter came, and he had no fruit or
flowers to bring to the market, he suffered a good deal from cold and hunger
and often had to go to bed without any supper but a few dried pears or some
hard nuts. In the winter, also, he was extremely lonely, as the Miller never
came to see him then.
‘‘There is no good in my going
to see little Hans as long as the snow lasts,’ the Miller used to say to his
wife, ‘for when people are in trouble they should be left alone, and not be
bothered by visitors. That at least is my idea about friendship, and I am sure
I am right. So I shall wait till the spring comes, and then I shall pay him a
visit, and he will be able to give me a large basket of primroses, and that
will make him so happy.’’
‘‘You are certainly very
thoughtful about others,’ answered the Wife, as she sat in her comfortable
armchair by the big pinewood fire; ‘very thoughtful indeed. It is quite a treat
to hear you talk about friendship. I am sure the clergyman himself could not
say such beautiful things as you do.’’
‘‘But could we not ask little
Hans up here?’ said the Miller's youngest son. ‘If poor Hans is in trouble I
will give him half my porridge, and show him my white rabbits.’’
‘‘What a silly boy you are!’ cried the Miller;
‘I really don't know what is the use of sending you to school. You seem not to
learn anything. Why, if little Hans came up here, and saw our warm tire, and
our good supper, and our great cask of red wine, he might get envious, and envy
is a most terrible thing, and would spoil anybody's nature. Besides, if Hans
came here, he might ask me to let him have some flour on credit, and that I
could not do. Flour is one thing, and friendship is another, and they should
not be confused. Why, the words are spelt differently, and mean quite different
things. Everybody can see that.’’
‘‘How well you talk!’ said the
Miller's Wife, pouring herself out a large glass of warm ale; ‘It is just like
being in church.’’
‘‘Lots of people act well,’
answered the Miller; ‘but very few people talk well, which shows that talking
is much the more difficult thing of the two, and much the finer thing also;’
and he looked sternly across the table at his little son.
As
soon as the winter was over, and the primroses began to open their pale yellow
stars, the miller said to his wife that he would go down and see little Hans.
‘‘Good morning, little Hans,’ said the
Miller.’
‘‘Good morning,’ said Hans,
leaning on his spade, and smiling from ear to ear.’
‘‘And how have you been all
the winter?’ said the Miller.’
‘‘Well, really,’ cried Hans,
‘it is very good of you to ask, very good indeed. I am afraid I had rather a
hard time of it, but now the
‘‘We often talked of you during the winter,
Hans,’ said the Miller, ‘and wondered how you were getting on.’’
‘‘That was kind of you,’ said
Hans; ‘I was half afraid you had forgotten me.’’
‘‘Hans, I am surprised at
you,’ said the Miller; ‘friendship never forgets. How lovely your primroses are
looking!’’
‘‘They are certainly very
lovely,’ said Hans, ‘and it is a most lucky thing for me that I have so many. I
am going to bring them into the market and sell them to the Burgomaster's
daughter, and buy back my wheelbarrow with the money.’’
‘‘Buy back your wheelbarrow?
You don't mean to say you have sold it? What a very stupid thing to do!’’
‘‘Well, the fact is,’ said
Hans, ‘that winter was a very bad time for me, and I really had no money at all
to buy bread with. So I first sold the silver buttons off my Sunday coat, and
then I sold my silver chain, and then I sold my big pipe, and at last I sold my
wheelbarrow. But I am going to buy them all back again now.’’
‘‘Hans,’ said the Miller, ‘I
will give you my wheelbarrow. It is not in very good repair; indeed, one side
is gone, and there is something wrong with the wheel-spokes; but in spite of
that I will give it to you. I have got a new wheelbarrow for myself.’’
‘‘Well, really, that is
generous of you,’ said little Hans, and his funny round face glowed all over
with pleasure. ‘I can easily put it in repair, as I have a plank of wood in the
house.’’
‘‘A plank of wood!’ said the
Miller; ‘why, that is just what I want for the roof of my barn. There is a very
large hole in it, and the corn will all get damp if I don't stop it up.
‘‘Certainly, I can give it to
you!’ cried little Hans, and he ran into the shed and dragged the plank out.’
‘‘It is not a very big plank,’
said the Miller, looking at it, ‘and I am afraid that after I have mended my
barn-roof there won't be any left for you to mend the wheelbarrow with; but, of
course, that is not my fault. And now, as I have given you my wheelbarrow, I am
sure you will give me some flowers in return.
‘‘Quite full?’ said little Hans, rather
sorrowfully, for it was really a very big basket, and he knew that if he filled
it he would have no flowers left for the market, and he was very anxious to get
his silver buttons back.’
‘‘Well, really,’ answered the
Miller, ‘as I have given you my wheelbarrow, I don't think that it is much to
ask you for a few flowers.’’
‘‘My dear friend, my best
friend,’ cried little Hans, ‘you are welcome to all the flowers in my garden’
and he ran and plucked all his pretty primroses, and filled the Miller's
basket.’
‘The
next day when Hans was nailing up some honeysuckle against the porch, he heard
the Miller's voice calling to him from the road. So he jumped off the ladder,
and ran down the garden, and looked over the wall.’
‘There was the Miller with a
large sack of flour on his back.’
‘‘Dear little Hans,’ said the
Miller, ‘would you mind carrying this sack of flour for me to market?’’
Little Hans ran in for his cap
and trudged off with the big sack on his shoulders.’
‘Early the next morning the Miller came down
to get the money for his sack of flour, but little Hans was so tired that he
was still in bed.’
‘‘Upon my word, you are very lazy”
said the Miller, clapping little Hans on the back, ‘for I want you to come up
to the mill as soon as you are dressed, and mend my barn-roof for me.’’
Poor little Hans was very
anxious to go and work in his garden, for his flowers had not been watered for
two days, but he did not like to refuse the Miller, as he was such a good
friend to him. So little Hans jumped out of bed, and dressed himself and went
up to the barn.
Since that time Hans was never
able to look after his flowers at all, for his friend the Miller was always
coming round and sending him off on long errands, or getting him to help at the
mill.
‘Now it happened that one evening little Hans
was sitting by his fireside when a loud rap came at the door. It was a very
wild right, and the wind was blowing and roaring round the house so terribly
that at first he thought it was merely the storm. But a second rap came, and
then a third, louder than either of the others.’
‘‘It is some poor traveller,’
said little Hans to himself and he ran to the door.’
‘There stood the Miller with a
lantern in one hand and a big stick in the other.’
‘‘Dear little Hans,’ cried the
Miller, ‘I am in great trouble. My little boy has fallen off a ladder and hurt
himself and I am going for the Doctor. But he lives so far away, and it is such
a bad night, that it has just occurred to me that it would be much better if
you went instead of me. You know I am going to give you my wheelbarrow, and so
it is only fair that you should do something for me in return.’’
‘‘Certainly,’ cried little
Hans, ‘I will start off at once. But you must lend me your lantern, as the
night is so dark that I am afraid I might fall into the ditch.’’
‘‘I am very sorry,’ answered
the Miller, ‘but it is my new lantern, and it would be a great loss to me if
anything happened to it.’’
‘‘Well, never mind, I will do
without it,’ cried little Hans, and he took down his great fur coat, and tied a
muffler round his throat, and started off.’
‘What a dreadful storm it was!
The night was so black that little Hans could hardly see, and the wind was so
strong that he could scarcely stand. However, he was very courageous, and after
he had been walking about three hours, he arrived at the Doctor's house, and
knocked at the door.’
‘‘Who is there?’ cried the
Doctor, putting his head out of his bedroom window.’
‘‘Little Hans, Doctor.’’
‘What do you want, little Hans?’
‘‘The Miller's son has fallen
from a ladder, and has hurt himself and the Miller wants you to come at once.’’
‘‘All right!’ said the Doctor;
and he ordered his horse, and his big boots, and his lantern, and came
downstairs, and rode off in the direction of the Miller's house, little Hans
trudging behind him.’
‘But the storm grew worse and
worse, and the rain fell in torrents, and little Hans could not see where he
was going, or keep up with the horse. At last he lost his way, and wandered off
on the moor, which was a very dangerous place, as it was full of deep holes,
and there poor little Hans was drowned.’
‘Everybody went to little
Hans' funeral, as he was so popular, and the Miller was the chief mourner.’
‘‘As I was his best friend,’
said the Miller, ‘it is only fair that I should have the best place;’ so he
walked at the head of the procession in a long black cloak, and every now and
then he wiped his eyes with a big pocket-handkerchief.’
‘‘Little Hans is
certainly a great loss to every one,’ said the Blacksmith, when
The Gifts of Magi
by O`Henry
One dollar and
eighty-seven cents. That was all. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and
eighty-seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas.
There was clearly
nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and begin to cry. So
Della did it.
After some time Della
finished her cry and attended to powdered her cheeks. She stood by the window
and looked out dully at a gray cat walking a gray fence in a gray backyard.
Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and she had only $1.87 with which to buy Jim a
present. She had been saving every penny she could for months, with this
result. Twenty dollars a week doesn't go far. Expenses had been greater than
she had calculated. They always are. Only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her
Jim. Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him.
Something fine and rare and sterling--something just a little bit near to being
worthy of the honor of being owned by Jim.
Suddenly she
whirled from the window and stood before the mirror. Her eyes were shining brilliantly,
but her face had lost its color within twenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down
her hair and let it fall to its full length.
Now, there were
two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in which they both took a mighty
pride. One was Jim's gold watch that had been his father's and his
grandfather's. The other was Della's hair.
So now Della's
beautiful hair fell about her rippling and shining like a cascade of brown
waters. It reached below her knee and made itself almost a garment for her. And
then she did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered for a minute
and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet.
On went her old
brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a whirl of skirts and with the
brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered out the door and down the
stairs to the street.
Where she stopped
the sign read: "Mne. Sofronie. Hair Goods of All Kinds." One flight
up Della ran, and collected herself, panting. Madame, large, too white, chilly,
hardly looked the "Sofronie."
"Will you buy
my hair?" asked Della.
"I buy hair,"
said Madame. "Take your hat off and let's have a sight at the looks of
it."
Down rippled the
brown cascade.
"Twenty
dollars," said Madame, lifting the mass with a practised hand.
"Give it to
me quick," said Della.
Oh, and the next
two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forget the hashed metaphor. She was
ransacking the stores for Jim's present.
She found it at
last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else. There was no other like
it in any of the stores, and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a
platinum watch chain simple and chaste in design, properly proclaiming its
value by substance alone. It was even worthy of The Watch. As soon as she saw
it she knew that it must be Jim's. It was like him. Quietness and value--the
description applied to both. Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and
she hurried home with the 87 cents. With that chain on his watch Jim might be
properly anxious about the time in any company.
When Della reached home she got out her
curling irons and lighted the gas and went to work repairing the ravages made
by generosity added to love. Within forty minutes her head was covered with
tiny, close-lying curls that made her look wonderfully like a schoolboy. She looked at her reflection in
the mirror long, carefully, and critically.
"If Jim
doesn't kill me," she said to herself, "before he takes a second look
at me, he'll say I look like a Coney Island chorus girl. But what could I do
oh! What could I do with a dollar and eighty- seven cents?"
At 7 o'clock the
coffee was made and the frying-pan was on the back of the stove hot and ready
to cook the chops.
Jim was never
late. Della doubled the fob chain in her hand and sat on the corner of the
table near the door that he always entered. Then she heard his step on the
stair away down on the first flight, and she turned white for just a moment.
She had a habit for saying little silent prayer about the simplest everyday
things, and now she whispered: "Please God, make him think I am still
pretty."
The door opened
and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and very serious. Poor fellow,
he was only twenty-two and to be burdened with a family! He needed a new
overcoat and he was without gloves.
Jim stopped inside
the door. His eyes were fixed upon Della, and there was an expression in them
that she could not read, and it terrified her. It was not anger, nor surprise,
nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments that she had been
prepared for. He simply stared at her fixedly with that peculiar expression on
his face.
Della wriggled off
the table and went for him.
"Jim,
darling," she cried, "don't look at me that way. I had my hair cut
off and sold because I couldn't have lived through Christmas without giving you
a present. It'll grow out again--you won't mind, will you? I just had to do it.
My hair grows awfully fast. Say `Merry Christmas!' Jim, and let's be happy. You
don't know what a nice-- what a beautiful, nice gift I've got for you."
"You've cut
off your hair?" asked Jim.
"Cut it off
and sold it," said Della. "Don't you like me just as well, anyhow?
I'm me without my hair, ain't I?"
Jim looked about
the room curiously.
"You say your
hair is gone?" he said, with an air almost of idiocy.
"You needn't
look for it," said Della. "It's sold, I tell you - sold and gone,
too. It's Christmas Eve, boy. Be good to me, for it went for you. Maybe the
hairs of my head were numbered," she went on with sudden serious
sweetness, "but nobody could ever count my love for you. Shall I put the
chops on, Jim?"
Out of his trance
Jim seemed quickly to wake. He enfolded his Della. Jim drew a package from his
overcoat pocket and threw it upon the table.
"Don't make
any mistake, Dell," he said, "about me. I don't think there's
anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that could make me
like my girl any less. But if you'll unwrap that package you may see why you
had me going a while at first."
White fingers and
nimble tore at the string and paper. And then a scream of joy; and then, alas!
a quick feminine change to hysterical tears, necessitating the immediate
employment of all the comforting powers of the lord of the flat.
For there lay The
Combs - the set of combs, side and back, that Della had worshipped long in a
Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell -just the shade to wear
in the beautiful hair. They were expensive combs, she knew and she didn`t have
the least hope of possession. And now, they were hers, but her hair was gone.
But she hugged
them to her bosom, and at length she was able to look up with dim eyes and a
smile and say: "My hair grows so fast, Jim!"
And them Della
leaped up like a little singed cat and cried, "Oh, oh!"
Jim had not yet seen
his beautiful present. She held it out to him eagerly upon her open palm. The
dull precious metal seemed to flash with a reflection of her bright spirit.
"Isn't it a
dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You'll have to look at the time
a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I want to see how it looks on
it."
Instead of
obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands under the back of his
head and smiled.
"Dell,"
said he, "let's put our Christmas presents away and keep them a while.
They're too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to get the money to
buy your combs. And now suppose you put the chops on."
No Story
By O`Henry
I was doing work on a newspaper.
One day Tripp came in and leaned on my table.
Tripp was something in the mechanical department. He was about
twenty-five and looked forty. Half of his face was covered with short, curly
red whiskers that looked like a door-mat. He was pale and unhealthy and
miserable and was always borrowing sums of money from twenty-five cents to a
dollar. One dollar was his limit. When he leaned on my table he held one hand
with the other to keep both from shaking. Whisky.
«Well, Tripp,» said I, looking up at him rather impatiently, «how goes
it?» He was looking more miserable than I had ever seen him.
«Have you got a dollar?» asked Tripp looking at me with his dog-like
eves.
That day I had managed to get five dollars for my Sunday story. «I have,»
said I; and again I said, «I have,» more loudly, «and four besides. And I had
hard work getting them. And I need them all.»
«I don’t want to borrow any,» said Tripp, «I thought you’d like to get a
good story. I’ve got a really fine one for you. It’ll probably cost you a
dollar or two to get the stuff. I don’t want anything out of it myself.»
«What is the story?» I asked.
«It’s girl. A beauty. She has lived all her
life on Long Island and never saw New York City before. I ran against her on
Thirty-fourth Street. She stopped me on the street and asked me where she could
find George Brown. Asked me where she could find George Brown in New York City!
What do you think of that?! I talked to her. It’s like this. Some years ago
George set off for New York to make his fortune. He did not reappear. Now
there’s a young farmer named Dodd she’s going to marry next week. But Ada – her
name’s Ada Lowery – couldn’t forget George, so this morning she saddled a horse
and rode eight miles to the railway station to catch the 6.45 a.m. train. She
came to the city to look for George. She must have thought the first person she
inquired of would tell her where her George was! You ought to see her! What
could I do? She had paid her last cent f or her railroad ticket. I couldn’t
leave her in the street, could I? I took her to a boarding-house. She has to
pay a dollar to the landlady. That’s the price per day.»
«That’s no story,» said I. «Every ferry-boat brings or takes away girls
from Long Island.»
Tripp looked disappointed. «Can’t you see what an amazing story it would
make? You ought to get fifteen dollars for it. And it’ll cost you only four, so
you’ll make a profit of eleven dollars.»
«How will it cost me four dollars?» I asked suspiciously.
«One dollar to the landlady and two dollars to pay the girl’s fare back
home.»
«And the fourth?» I inquired.
«One dollar to me,» said Tripp. «Don’t you see,» he insisted, «that the
girl has got to get back home today?»
And then I began to feel what is known as the sense of duty. In a kind of
cold anger I put on my coat and hat. But I swore to myself that Tripp would not
get the dollar.
Tripp took me in a street-car to the boarding-house. I paid the fares.
In a dim parlour a girl sat crying quietly and eating candy out of a
paper bag. She was a real beauty. Crying only made her eyes brighter.
«My friend, Mr. Chalmers. He is a reporter,» said Tripp «and he will tell
you, Miss Lowery, what’s best to do.»
I felt ashamed of being introduced as Tripp’s friend in the presence of
such beauty. «Why – er – Miss Lowery,» I began feeling terribly awkward, «will
you tell me the circumstances of the case?»
«Oh,» said Miss Lowery, «there aren’t any circumstances, really. You see,
everything is fixed for me to marry Hiram Dodd next Thursday. He’s got one of
the best farms on the Island. But last night I got to thinking about G – George
–»
«You see, I can’t help it. George and I loved each other since we were
children. Four years ago he went to the city. He said he was going to be a
policeman of a railroad president or something. And then he was coming back for
me. But I never heard from him any more. And I – I – liked him.»
«Now, Miss Lowery,» broke in Tripp, «you like this young man, Dodd, don’t
you? He’s all right, and good to you, isn’t he?»
«Of course I like him. And of course he’s good to me. He’s promised me an
automobile and a motorboat. But somehow I couldn’t help thinking about George.
Something must have happened to him or he would have written. On the day he
left, he got a hammer and a chisel and cut a cent into two pieces. I took one
piece and he took the other, and we promised to be true to each other and
always keep the pieces till we saw each other again. I’ve got mine at home. I
guess I was silly to come here. I never realised what a big place it is.»
Tripp broke in with an awkward little laugh. «Oh, the boys from the
country forget a lot when they come to the city. He may have met another girl
or something. You go back home, and you’ll be all right.»
In the end we persuaded Miss Lowery to go back home. The three of us then
hurried to the ferry, and there I found the price of the ticket to be but a
dollar and eighty cents. I bought one, and a red, red rose with the twenty
cents for Miss Lowery. We saw her aboard her ferry-boat and stood watching her
wave her handkerchief at us. And then Tripp and I faced each other.
«Can’t you get a story out of it?» he asked. «Some sort of a story?»
«Not a line,» said I.
«I’m sorry,» he said quietly. There was disappointment in his tone. Tripp
unbuttoned his shabby coat to reach for something that had once been a
handkerchief. As he did so I saw something shining on his cheap watch-chain. It
was the half of a silver cent that had been cut in halves with a chisel.
«What?!» I exclaimed looking at him in amazement.
«Oh yes,» he replied. «George Brown, or Tripp. What’s the use?»
Unit 4,5
Health.
Healthy lifestyle
Healthy Lifestyle
I'm John Doe. I'm a journalist with
an important magazine. The other day I saw a white-haired man sitting in front
of his house. I could see the wrinkles in his face and neck, and his wrinkled
hands. Articles on the secrets of living to an old age are always popular with
our readers so I decided to ask him some questions to find the secret of his
long life.
JOHN: Is it all right, Sir, if I
talk with you for just a moment?
MAN: Sure. I'll be delighted! Until
not very long ago I lived a full and active life.
JOHN: Well, I say, that a lot of
activity helps one to live a long time.
MAN: That's true, very true. I
still feel very well, though I walk more slowly now.
JOHN: Is it all right if I smoked a
cigarette?
MAN: Sure, go ahead.
JOHN: I suppose you probably don't
smoke, or drink...
MAN: On the contrary! I've always
smoked my head off. Until a little while ago I went dancing every night. As for
alcoholic drinks...
JOHN: You mean to say that you've
done all these things all your life?
MAN: Of course. Why does that
surprise you so much?
JOHN: I've always been told that
doing those things is bad for the health.
MAN: I never thought about it!
JOHN: I suppose that you have
another secret — a lot of fruit, vegetables, a lot of exercise in the fresh
air.
MAN: Don't be silly! I hate
exercise in the fresh air. I don't like any kind of vegetables.
JOHN: I can`t believe it!
MAN: What do you mean? What are you
talking about?
JOHN: It`s just that I can`t
understand how you have been able to live like that and to have lasted so long.
Tell me how old are you?
MAN: I am twenty one
.A Day`s Wait
After
E. Hemingway
He came into the room to close the
windows. We were still in bed and I saw he looked ill. He was shivering, his
face was white, and he walked slowly.
"What's the matter,
Schatz?"
"I've got a headache."
"You should go back to
bed."
"No, I'm all right."
"Go to bed, please. I'll see
you when I'm dressed."
But when I came downstairs he was
dressed and was sitting by the fire. He looked a very sick and miserable boy of
nine years. When I put my hand on his forehead I knew he had a fever.
"You go up to bed," I
said, "you're sick."
"I'm all right," he said.
When the doctor came, he took the
boy's temperature.
"What is it?" I asked
him.
"One hundred and two."
Downstairs, the doctor left three
different medicines with instructions for giving them.
The doctor said there was nothing
to worry about if the fever did not go above one hundred and four degrees. This
was a light case of flu and there was no serious danger.
I wrote the boy's temperature down
and made a note of the time to give medicine.
"I can read a story to
you," I said.
"All right if you want
to," said the boy.
His face was very white and there
were dark areas under his eyes. He lay still in the bed and I saw that he was
not listening to the story. I could see he was not following what I was reading
and was looking very strangely at me.
"How do you feel,
Schatz?" I asked him.
"Just the same," he said.
"Why don't you try to go to
sleep? I'll wake you up for the medicine."
"I don't want to sleep,"
he said. "You don't have to stay in here with me, Papa, if it bothers
you."
I thought perhaps he was a little lightheaded,
I gave him the medicine and went out for a while.
When I came back to the house, they
said the boy had refused to let anyone come into the room.
"You can't come in," he
said. "You mustn't get what I have." I went up to him and found him
in exactly the position I had left him. His face was white, his cheeks red and
he was looking still at the foot of his bed.
I took his temperature.
"What
is it?"
"Something
like a hundred,"
I said. It was one hundred and two.
"It was a
hundred and two," he said. "Who said so?" "The
doctor."
"Your temperature is all
right," I said. "You needn't worry about it."
"I don't worry," he said,
"but I can't keep from thinking."
"Don't think," I said.
"Just take it easy."
"I'm taking it easy," he
said and looked strangely at me.
"Take this with water."
"Do you think it will do any
good?"
"Of course it will."
I sat down and opened the Pirate
book and began to read. But I could see he was not following, so I stopped.
"About what time do you think
I'm going to die?" he asked.
"What?"
"About how long will it be
before I die?"
"You aren't going to die.
What's the matter with you?"
"Yes, I am. I heard the doctor
say a hundred and two." "People don't die with a fever of one hundred
and two. That's a silly way to talk."
"I know they do. At school in
France the boys told me you can't live with forty-four degrees. And I've got a
hundred and two."
He had been waiting to die all day,
ever since nine o'clock in the morning.
"You poor
Schatz," I said. "It's like miles and kilometres. You aren't going to
die. That's a different thermometer. On that thermometer thirty-seven is
normal. On this kind it's ninety-eight." "Are you sure?"
"Absolutely,"
I said. "It's like miles and kilometres. Do you know how many kilometres
we make when we do seventy miles in the car?"
"Oh,"
he said.
But his look at the foot of the bed relaxed slowly.
The hold over himself relaxed too, and the next day he cried very easily at
little things that were of no importance.
Answer the questions.
1. What did the father see when he looked at the
boy?
2. What did the doctor say when he examined the boy?
3. What was the boy's temperature?
4. Why didn't the boy listen to the story that his father
was reading to him?
5.
What
did the boy do when he was alone in his room?
6. Why did the boy think that he was going to die?
7. Was he a brave boy?
Unit 6,7
Leisure. Entertainment
Under
High Trees
It was six o'clock when Ben Smith,
dreadfully tired, arrived home from the school where he was a teacher. He had
had a lot of work and trouble that day. He dreamed of a quiet evening at home.
June, his, wife, met him at the dour smiling radiantly. She asked Ben to be quick
with his supper and change after that. She said she had got everything arranged
and they would go to the theatre.
Only then Ben remembered it was the
very night that had been settled for their going out. So June was realizing her
dream. He envied his daughter, a sixteen-year-old girl, who said she would stay
indoors and watch television. But suddenly he was sorry for June who got too
little entertainment even at weekends.
It was already past seven when they
started for the theatre. The weather was unusually nasty. Ben's nose and feet
were cold. It was raining hard. The road was wet. When they got on the bus, the
seats were full. The bus conductor told Ben to get off as only seven people
could stand in the bus. Ben did so forgetting that his wife has got the tickets.
It was pouring now.
Luckily Ben got on the next bus and found a seat. He shut his eyes. When he opened them again, the bus was past the
theatre. Bon walked hack feeling unhappy. Over the doors were the words. “Under
the High Trees”.
The
man at the door said he could not let him in without a ticket. Ben was about to leave when a girl behind the
ticket-office window said:
"Are you Mr. Smith?
Your wife left your ticket with me."
Ben
squeezed to his seat in the dark, stepping on people`s feet. She asked June what
wa the play about. She whispered she couldn`t understand much as one actor, an
old man spoke very quietly, and the other, a young roan, spoke very quickly.
As soon as the play was over, they
ran out. There wore n" and it was
still raining. They waited and waited and their clothes got wetter. At last Ben lost his
patience and shouted: "Taxi!" The passing taxi stopped. Ben pushed
his wife in. “Two pounds,” said the driver when they arrived. "What?”
"After
ten o'clock in the evening the fare
is higher. " Unwillingly Ben paid the driver. Besides all the trouble it
turned out to be too expensive for them,
"Did
you watch television, Penny?" Ben asked his daughter.
"Yes,"
she said. "You can't imagine how brilliant the play was.”
"What was the name of it?"
asked Ben as he picked up his cup of coffee.
“Under
the High.
Trees” was the answer. Ben Smith put his cup of coffee on the kitchen table and
went slowly upstairs to bed.
Complete
the sentences inserting the omitted parts:
1 .It was ... when Ben Smith,
dreadfully tired, arrived home from school where... ,
2.
It was already ... when they started for the theater.
3. Ben shut his eyes. When he
opened them again, ....
Correct the following sentences
according to the text.
1.
Ben was very tired
after work, but as far as he had arrange everything for their going out to the
theater, he was quick with his supper and changed his clothes.
2.
Ben was too slow to get
on the bus, and that's why he was left the bus stop without the tickets to the
theater: his wife went there alone.
3.
Ben was late for the
performance and was about to leave theatre, but a girl standing nearby offered him her own ticket.
Say when
Ben Smith experienced
the feelings of impatience, envy, unhappiness, great surprise and disappointment.
Unit 8
Clothes
and Fashion
A Dress for Cinderella
Fifty-five
years ago, in 1952, a young Italian girl was dreaming about marrying a young
man she was in love with, but she knew they would have to wait for a long time
because they had no money.
In
1952, a young actress Audrey Hepburn was planning her wedding to a London
playboy called James Hanson... While filming in Rome the actress ordered her
wedding dress in a famous Fontana fashion house. It was a perfect wedding dress
- made of white lace, with a flowing train. At last it was practically ready
and Audrey had to go to the designers for the final fitting... but two weeks
before the wedding Audrey called it off. She could just keep the dress or sell
it, but instead she phoned Fontana and said; "I want my dress to be worn
by another girl, someone who couldn't ever afford a dress like mine, the most
beautiful poor Italian girl you can find."
Now
the three Fontana sisters who owned the house had to find a girl, poor, young,
beautiful and pencil-slim like Audrey. They thought of a poor new town of
Latina, not far away from Rome. The mayor of Latina gave them the name of
Amabile Altobello. Amabile met all the requirements, and she got the dress. The
people of Latina were so excited that the town presented Amabile kitchen furniture
and organized a honeymoon in Paris. "It was a dream come true,"- she
said.
The
story was soon forgotten. But this year the Fontana fashion house was planning
an exhibition of dresses made for film stars and other celebrities, so the last
of the Fontana sisters decided to find out what had happened to Hepburn's dress
and the girl who had got it.
Amabile Altobello still lives in the same town of
Latina. She has three children and five grandchildren. She and her husband
haven't become rich, but they have had a happy marriage, and Amabile says that
the dress brought her luck, so she has kept it, carefully wrapped in tissue
paper, all these years.
Answer the questions
1. Why
couldn't a young couple get married?
2. What
was Audrey Hepburn's desire when her wedding had been called off?
3. Was
the task given to Fontana fashion house difficult?
4. How
did the town accept the news?
5. Did
the celebrity's dress bring luck to the new owner?
A Dress for the Moon
by Indira Krishnan
Once upon a time a young man named
Madan lived in a village in northern India. Madan's father wanted him to become
a farmer. But Madan wished to leave the village and find work in town. He
promised his father that he would send a part of his earnings home regularly.
In town, Madan learned to be a
tailor. He worked hard and soon became known for the fine clothes he made. All
people in the town wanted clothes made by Madan. The more dresses he made, the
more proud and boastful Madan became.
One night Madan sat looking at the
full moon high up in the sky. The moon was beautiful above a tall coconut tree Madan said, "I am sure I can make a dress for the moon. The moon will like
my handiwork, and then the sun and stars will want me to make dresses for
them."
The coconut tree heard his words.
Laughing softly, the tree bent down and whispered, "That's one thing you can't do."
Madan didn't like that. "How
do you know what I can do?" he said. "You are only a tree."
The coconut tree tried to say
something more, but Madan would not listen.
"If you want to be of some
help, tell the moon that I want to make a dress for her. You are tall enough to
do that," he said.
So the tree told the moon about
Madan. The moon said she would like to have a dress made by the famous tailor
from Earth.
Madan was excited. Quickly he began
to make a dress of wonderful white silk for the moon. When it was done, he said
to the coconut tree, "The dress is ready. Give it to the moon." The
coconut tree did so.
The following evening, the moon
didn't come out in her new dress. The coconut tree bent down and whispered,
"The moon says your dress doesn't fit. It's too loose." Madan was
shocked. "It can't be!" he cried. "The clothes I make always fit
perfectly." But the moon gave the dress back to him, and he had to redo
it. Madan spent the night making the dress a little bigger.
The next evening the moon rose a
little later. She wasn't wearing her new dress again. And again the coconut
tree bent down and whispered, "The dress is still too loose."
Madan
couldn't believe that! "How could I go wrong?" he cried.
"I tried to tell you before
but you didn't listen," said the tree. "I have seen for many years
that after the moon is full, she grows smaller each day until you can't see her
at all. Then, she starts growing bigger day after day until she gets full. So
how can you make one dress that would fit the moon perfectly?"
Brokenhearted, Madan sat with his
head in his hands all night long. When he saw the moon on the other side of the
sky, he whispered, "I am sorry, dear Moon. I am not as great a tailor as I
thought."
"It's all right," said
the moon. "After all, I'm the moon. How can I wear clothes as people
do?"
From
that day on, Madan worked harder than before. He was not proud or boastful
anymore, and his hard work brought him more money. He remembered to send a good
part of it to his father. People liked him better because he was an excellent
tailor and a humble one, too.
Unit 9
Means of Сommunication
The
Surgeon
(After Isaac Asimov)
The surgeon looked up without
expression. "Is he ready?" "He is nervous," said his
assistant. "They always are... Well, it's a serious operation."
"I'll see him in this room," said the surgeon. "Has he made up
his mind?"
"Yes. He wants metal;
they always do."
The surgeon's face didn't change expression. He
stared at his hands. "Sometimes one can talk them out of it."
"Why bother?" said the assistant,
indifferently. "If he wants metal, let it be metal."
"You don't care?"
"Why should I? Either way it's a medical
engineering problem and I'm a medical engineer. Why should I go beyond
that?"
"I care. I have to try." The surgeon
pushed a small button and the door opened. The patient moved into the room in
his motorchair, the nurse stepping along beside him.
"You may go, nurse," said the surgeon,
"but wait outside. I will call you." He nodded to the assistant, who
left with the nurse, and the door closed behind them. The man in the chair
watched them go. He looked worried and uncomfortable. He said, "Will we be
starting today?" The surgeon nodded. "This afternoon."
"I understand it will take weeks."
"Not the operation itself. But there are a
number of small points to take care of."
"Is it dangerous?" Then, as though
trying to sound friendlier, but against his will, he added,
"...doctor?"
The surgeon paid no attention to this. He said
calmly, "We take our time to make it less dangerous, and we already have
all the required equipment. But I must ask you to make a decision. It is
possible to supply you with either of two types of cyber-hearts metal or
..."
"Plastic!" said the patient irritably.
"Cheap plastic. I don't want that. I've made my choice. I want the metal
because it is better."
"It depends on the patient. In my opinion,
in your individual case, it is not. And we prefer not to call them plastic. It
is a fibrous cyber-heart. It's made of a polymeric material designed to imitate
as closely as possible the human heart you now have in your chest."
"Exactly, and the human heart I now have in
my chest is worn out, although I am not yet sixty years old. I don't want
another one like it, thank you. I want something better."
"We all want something better for you. The
fibrous cyber-heart will be better. It has a potential life of centuries."
"But it does wear out. No, I want it to be
metallic, doctor. What's the matter with you? Are you afraid I'm making myself
into a robot... into a Metallo, as they call them since Metallos became
citizens?"
"There is nothing wrong with a Metallo. As
you say, they are citizens. But you're not a Metallo. You're a human. Why not
stay a human?"
"Because I want the best and that's a
metallic heart. And will you be the surgeon in charge? They tell me you're the
best.
The surgeon nodded. “Very well. I will do what I
can to make the operation an easy one.”
The door opened and the chair moved the patient
out to the waiting nurse.
The medical engineer came in. "Well,"
he said, "I can't say what happened just by looking at you. What was his
decision?"
The surgeon bent over his desk, putting together
some records. "What you predicted. He insists on the metallic heart. It
has become a real mania with people ever since Metallos became citizens. Men
have this strange desire to make Metallos out of themselves because they think
that Metallos are physically strong and powerful."
"It isn't one-sided, doc. You don't work
with Metallos but I do; so I know. The last two who came in for repairs have
asked for fibrous elements... I suppose that some day we shall have Metallos
that are a kind of flesh and blood, and humans half made of metal. We have two
varieties of intellect on Earth now and in the near future we won't be able to
tell the difference between them. We'd have the best of both worlds; the
advantages of man combined with those of robot."
"You'd get a hybrid," said the surgeon
almost angrily. "You'd get something that is not both but neither. I
believe in being what one is. I wouldn't change a bit of my own structure for
any reason. I am myself; well pleased to be myself; and would not be anything
else."
He
had finished now and had to prepare for the operation. He placed his strong
hands into the heating oven and kept them there until they became red-hot and
completely sterilized. Though his speech had been emotional, his voice had
never risen, and on its metal face there was, as always, no sign of expression.
Choose the
right item:
1. The
patient had a ... problem.
a) brain b)
heart c)
eye
2. Before
the operation the surgeon wanted to talk to the ... .
a) nurse b)
medical engineer c) patient
3. The
surgeon wanted to supply the patient with a ... heart,
a) metallic b) fibrous polymeric c) human
4. The
patient wanted to get a ... heart.
a) metallic b)
fibrous polymeric c)
human
5. The
surgeon ... the results of his talk with the patient.
a) was
pleased with b) was not pleased with
c) didn't care about
6.
The medical engineer thought that in
the near future there would be only
a)
Humans b) robots c) hybrids of
men and robots
7. The
surgeon himself was ...
a)
a human b) half a man and half a
robot c) a Metallo
Unit 10, 11
Disasters.
Whether the weather
The Last Leaf
after
O. Henry
In a little district west of
Washington Square the streets have run crazy and broken themselves into small
strips called "places". These "places" make strange angles
and curves. One street crosses itself a time or two. An artist once discovered
a valuable possibility in this street. Suppose a collector with a bill for
paints, paper and canvas should... suddenly meet himself coming back, without a
cent having been paid on account!
So, to quaint old Greenwich Village
the art people soon- became a "colony."
At the top of a three-story brick
house Sue and Johnsy had their studio. "Johnsy" was familiar for
Joanna. One was from Maine the other from California. They had met... and found
their tastes in art, chicory salad and bishop sleeves so congenial that the
joint studio resulted.
That was in May. In November a
cold, unseen stranger, whom the doctors called Pneumonia, stalked about the
colony, touching one here and there with his icy fingers-
Mr. Pneumonia was not what you
would call a chivalric old gentleman. A mite of a little woman with blood
thinned by California zephyrs was hardly fair game for the red-fisted, short-
breathed old duffer. But Johnsy he smote and she lay, scarcely
moving, on her painted iron
bedstead, looking through the small Dutch window-panes at the blank side of the
next brick house.
One morning the busy doctor invited
Sue into the hallway with a shaggy, gray eyebrow.
"She has one chance in — let
us say, ten," he said, as he shook down the mercury in his clinical
thermometer. "And that chance is for her to want to live. ...Your little
lady has made up her mind that she's not going to get well."
After the doctor had gone Sue went
into the workroom and cried a Japanese napkin to a pulp. Then she swaggered
into Johnsy's room with her drawing board, whistling ragtime.
Johnsy lay, scarcely making a
ripple under the bedclothes, with her face toward the window. Sue stopped
whistling, thinking she was asleep.
She arranged her board and began a
pen-and-ink drawing to illustrate a magazine story...
As Sue was sketching a pair of
elegant horseshow riding trousers and a monocle of the figure of the hero she heard
a low sound, several times repeated. She went quickly to the bedside.
Johnsy's eyes were open wide. She
was looking out the window and counting — counting backward.
"Twelve," she said, and
little later "eleven" and then "ten", and "nine"
and then "eight" and "seven", almost together.
Sue look solicitously out of the
window. What was there to count? There was only a bare, dreary yard to be seen,
and the blank side of the brick house twenty feet away. An old, old ivy vine
climbed half way up the brick wall. The cold breath of autumn had stricken its
leaves from the vine.
"What
is it, dear?" asked Sue.
"Six," said Johnsy, in
almost a whisper. "They're falling faster now. Three days ago there were
almost a hundred. It made my head ache to count them. But now it's easy. There
goes another one. There are only five left now."
"Five
what, dear? Tell your Sudie."
"Leaves. On the ivy vine. When
the last one falls I must go, too. I've known that for three days. Didn't the
doctor tell you?"
"Oh, I never heard of such
nonsense," complained Sue, with magnificent scorn. "What have old ivy
leaves to do with your getting well? And you used to love that vine so, you
naughty girl. Don't be a goosey. Why, the doctor told me this morning that your
chances for getting well real soon were — let's see exactly what he said — he
said the chances were ten to one!" "There goes another. ...That
leaves just four. I want to see the last one fall before it gets dark. Then
I'll go, too."
"Johnsy, dear," said Sue,
bending over her, "will you promise me to keep your eyes closed, and not
look out the window until I am done working? I must hand those drawings in by
to-morrow. I need the light, or I would draw the shade down."
"Couldn't
you draw in the other room?" asked Johnsy, coldly.
"I'd rather be here by
you," said Sue. "Beside, I don't want you to keep looking at those
silly ivy leaves."
"Tell me as soon as you have
finished," said Johnsy, closing her eyes, and lying white and still as
fallen statue, "because I want to see the last one fall. I'm tired of
waiting. I'm tired of thinking. I want to turn loose my hold on everything, and
go sailing down, down, just like one of those poor, tired leaves."
"Try to sleep," said Sue.
"I must call Behrman up to be my model for the old hermit miner. I'll not
be gone a minute. Don't try to move 'till I come back."
Old Behrman was a painter who lived
on the ground floor beneath them. ...Behrman was a failure in art. He had been
always about to paint a masterpiece, but had never yet begun it. He earned a little
by serving as a model to those young artists in the colony who could not pay
the price of a professional.
Sue found Behrman. She told him of
Johnsy's fancy, and how she feared she would, indeed, light and fragile as a
leaf herself, float away, when her slight hold upon the world grew weaker.
"She is very ill and
weak," said Sue, "and the fever has left her mind morbid and full of
strange fancies...
Johnsy was sleeping when they went
upstairs. ...In there they peered out the window fearfully at the ivy vine.
Then they looked at each other for a moment without speaking.
When Sue awoke from an hour's sleep
the next morning she found Johnsy with dull, wide-open eyes staring at the
drawn green shade.
"Pull it up I want to
see," she ordered, in a whisper.
Wearily Sue obeyed.
But, lo! after the beating rain and
fierce gusts of wind that had endured through the livelong night, there yet
stood out against the brick wall one ivy leaf . It was the last one on the
vine.
"It is the last one,"
said Johnsy. "I thought it would surely fall during the night. I heard the
wind. It will fall today, and I shall die at the same time."
"Dear, dear!" said, Sue,
leaning her worn face down to the pillow, "think of me, if you won't think
of yourself. What would I do?" But Johnsy did not answer.
The day wore away, and even through
the twilight they could see the lone ivy leaf clinging to its stem against the
wall.
When it was light enough Johnsy
commanded that the shade be raised.
The ivy leaf was still there.
Johnsy lay for a long time looking
at it. And then she called to Sue, who was stirring her chicken broth over the
gas stove.
"I've been a bad girl,
Sudie," said Johnsy. "Something has made that last leaf stay there to
show me how wicked I was. It is a sin to want to die. You may bring me a little
broth now, and some milk with a little port in it, and — no bring me a hand-
mirror first, and then pack some pillows about me, and I will sit up and watch
you cook."
And hour later she said:
"Sudie, some day I hope to
paint the Bay of Naples."
The doctor came in the afternoon,
and Sue had an excuse to go into the hallway as he left.
"Even chances," said the
doctor, taking Sue's thin, shaking hand in his. "With good nursing you'll
win. And now I must see another case I have downstairs. Behrman, his name is —
some kind of an artist, I believe. Pneumonia, too. He is an old, weak man.
There is no hope for him but he goes to the hospital today to be made more
comfortable."
The next day the doctor said to
Sue: "She's out of dange You won."
And that afternoon Sue came to the
bed where Johnsy la contentedly knitting a very blue and very useless woollen
shoulder scarf, and put one arm around her, pillows and all.
"I
have something to tell you, white mouse," she sai "Mr. Behrman died
of pneumonia today in the hospital. He w ill only two days. The janitor found
him the morning of the fii day in his room downstairs helpless with pain. His
shoes a: clothing were wet through and icy cold. They couldn't imagine where he
had been on such a dreadful night. And then th found a lantern... and a
ladder... and some scattered brushes, a palette with green and yellow colors
mixed on it, and — lo out the window, dear, at the last ivy leaf on the wall.
Didn't y wonder why it never fluttered or moved when the wind blew Ah, darling,
it's Behrman's masterpiece — he painted it the night that the last leaf
fell."
Work with your partner. Answer the questions below.
1. Where
did the story take place? What kind of people lr there?
2. What
time of the year did Johnsy get pneumonia?
3. When
did Johnsy think she would die?
4. Who
was Behrman? What was his occupation?
5. Why
did Behrman die?
6. What
was Behrman's masterpiece?
Discuss
with your partner.
1. How
does the story make you feel?
2.What
does the last leaf symbolize?
3. What
is the main idea / ideas of this short story?
4. Do
you think Behrman would have gone out in the cold and rain if he'd known he
would get pneumonia and die?
Unit 12
Belarus
Unit 13
Studies
A Verger
A Verger
Albert Edward
Foreman had been verger at St.
Peter's church in Neville Square for sixteen years. He was very proud of his
job and his church. But there was one special feature about Albert: he couldn't
read or write. When one day a new vicar discovered this, he told him that
unless he learnt to read and write within three months, he would lose his job.
Albert refused and the vicar gave him a month's notice to leave. That evening
he sadly locked the church and began to walk home.
As he walked along
the street he looked for a shop to buy a packet of Gold Flaket
was a long street but there was not a single shop where he could buy
cigarettes.
«That's strange,»
Albert stopped and said to himself. «That's an idea!»
Next day he went along the street and by good
luck found a little shop to let. Twenty-four hours later he had taken it, and a
month after that set up in business as a tobacconist and newsagent. He did so
well that in ten years he had acquired no less than ten shops and he was making
money hand over fist.
One morning when he was at the bank the
cashier told him that the manager would like to see him.
«Mr. Foreman,» said
the manager, «I wanted to have a talk with you about the money you've got with
us. It's a very large sum and I think you would do better to invest it.»
A troubled look
appeared on Mr. Foreman's face. «I've never had anything to do with
investments,” he said.
«We'll do
everything. All you'll have to do is just sign some forms.»
«I could do that all right,» said Albert
uncertainly.
«But how should I
know what I was signing?
«I suppose you can read,» said the manager a
little sharply.
«Well, sir, that's just it. I can't. I can't
read or write, only my name, and I only learnt to do that when I went into
business.»
The manager was so
surprised that he jumped up from his chair. «That's the most extraordinary
thing I've ever heard. And do you mean to say that you made a fortune of thirty
thousand pounds without being able to read or write? Good God, man, what would
you now be if you had been able to?»
«I'd be verger of
St. Peter's, Neville Square.»
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