Министерство образования и науки Российской Федерации
Федеральное агентство по образованию
Южно-Уральский государственный университет
Кафедра лингвистики и межкультурной коммуникации
Ш143.21-9
К889
О.В. Кудряшова
АНГЛИЙСКИЙ ЯЗЫК.
ФОРМИРОВАНИЕ
КОММУНИКАТИВНОЙ КОМПЕТЕНЦИИ
В ПИСЬМЕННОЙ РЕЧИ
Учебное пособие
для студентов 3 курса факультета лингвистики
Под ред. Т.Н. Хомутовой
Челябинск
Издательство ЮУрГУ
2004
ББК Ш143.21-923.4
Кудряшова О.В. Английский язык. Формирование коммуникативной
компетенции в письменной речи: Учебное пособие для студентов 3 курса
факультета лингвистики/Под ред. Т.Н. Хомутовой. – Челябинск: Изд-во ЮУрГУ,
2004. – 81 с.
Данное учебное пособие предназначено для студентов специальности
022600/031201 “Теория и методика преподавания иностранных языков и культур”
направления 620100 “Лингвистика и межкультурная коммуникация”. Целью
обучения
письменной
речи
является
формирования
письменной
коммуникативной компетенции (на примере обучения написанию сочинений),
результатом которой выступает текст-продукт. Средством достижения данной
цели служит процесс создания письменного речевого произведения.
В пособии предложена характеристика письменной речи, детально
рассмотрены структура письменного речевого произведения и процесс его
создания, а также даны задания на создание письменных речевых произведений
Ил. 12, табл. 1, список лит. – 14 назв.
Одобрено учебно-методической комиссией
факультета лингвистики.
Рецензенты: канд. пед.наук А.Ф .Присяжная,
канд. фил. наук М.Н. Сметанина.
© Издательство ЮУрГУ, 2004.
ПРЕДИСЛОВИЕ
Целью данного пособия является обучение процессу создания письменного
речевого произведения. Письменная речь рассматривается не как средство
обучения, а как цель обучения, т.е. овладение принципами построения
письменного высказывания на иностранном языке, формирование письменной
коммуникативной компетенции, которая подразумевает свободное владение
навыками правильно выражать мысли на иностранном языке в письменной
форме. Пособие рассчитано на 38 часов аудиторной работы на завершающем
этапе трехгодичного целенаправленного обучения (5 и 6 семестры). Пособие
состоит из пяти разделов.
Первый и второй разделы содержат теоретический материал для
самостоятельного изучения и освещают следующие проблемы: исследования в
области письменной речи; различные формы выражения мыслей (описание,
повествование и аргументация) и способы детализации; виды письменных
речевых произведений; характеристика письменной речи.
Третий раздел рассматривает процесс создания письменного речевого
произведения, поскольку стержневым в определении содержания обучения
письменной речи является процесс становления письменного речевого
произведения. Целью обучения является текст-результат. Качество текстарезультата не будет высоким, если студент не понимает процесс создания
письменного произведения речи.
Четвертый раздел описывает структуру письменного речевого
произведения.
В конце первых четырех разделов приводятся контрольные вопросы для
проверки понимания изложенного материала.
Пятый раздел – практическая часть, в которой представлены упражнения с
различными заданиями, способствующими поэтапному формированию
коммуникативной компетенции студентов в письменной речи на примере
эссе/сочинения. Формирование данной компетенции происходит в контексте
коммуникативной деятельности, в основе которой лежит смысл. В основе
категории “смысла” лежат реальные потребности и интересы студентов,
обусловленные реальным или возможным контекстом деятельности.
Представленные в данном пособии тексты отражают общечеловеческие ценности.
Авторы надеются, что их содержание вызовет потребность высказать свое
видение проблемы и, как результат, выразить свои мысли на письме.
3
1. RESEARCH ON SECOND LANGUAGE WRITING
Process vs. product. A few decades ago writing teachers were mostly concerned
with the final product of writing: the essay, the report, the story and what that product
should “look” like. Compositions were supposed to a) meet certain standards of
prescribed English rhetorical style (description, narration, argumentation, exposition),
b) reflect accurate grammar, and c) be organized in conformity with what the audience
would consider to be conventional. A good place of attention was placed on “model”
compositions that students would emulate and on how well a student’s final product
measured up against a list of criteria that included content, organization, vocabulary use,
grammatical use and mechanical considerations such as spelling and punctuation.
There is nothing inherently wrong with attention to any of the above criteria. They
are still the concern of writing teachers. But nowadays students are seen as creators of
language, they are allowed to focus on content and message, their own individual
instinctive motives are put at the center of learning. The process approach to writing
instruction is being developed now. Process approaches do most of the following:
a) focus on the process of writing that leads to the final written product;
b) help student writers to understand their own composing process;
c) help them build repertoires of strategies for pre-writing, drafting and rewriting;
d) give students time to write and rewrite;
e) place central importance on the process of revision;
f) let students discover what they want to say as they write;
g) give students feedback throughout the composing process (not just on the final
product) to consider as they attempt to bring their expression closer to intention;
h) encourage feedback both from the instructor and peers;
i) include individual conferences between teacher and student during the process
of composition.
Perhaps you can personally appreciate what it means to be asked to write
something – say, a letter to an editor, an article for a newspaper, a paper for a course
you are taking – and to allow the very process of putting ideas down on paper to
transform thoughts into words, to sharpen your main ideas, to give them structure and
coherent organization. As your first draft goes through several steps of revision, you
thesis and developing ideas more and more clearly resemble something that you would
consider a final product. If you have done this, you have used your own process
approach to writing.
You may also know from firsthand knowledge what it is like to try to come up with
a “perfect” final product without the above process. You may have experienced
“writer’s cramp” (mental blocks) that severely hampered any progress. You may have
felt a certain level of anxiety welling up within you as you felt the pressure to write an
in-class essay that would be judged by the teacher, graded and returned with no chance
in the future to revise it in any way. The process approach is an attempt to take
advantage of the nature of the written code (unlike conversation it can be planned and
given an unlimited number of revisions before its “release”) to give students chance to
4
think as they write. Another way of putting it is that writing is indeed a thinking
process.
You should keep in mind that the ultimate goal is the product; it is the reason why
we go through the process of prewriting, drafting, revising and editing. Without that
final product firmly in view, we could quite simply drown ourselves in a sea of
revisions. Process is not the end; it is the means to the end.
Questions for revision:
1. What are the criteria of a composition?
2. What is the ultimate goal in writing?
3. How can you prove that writing is a thinking process?
4. What are the main steps of the wiring process?
2. WRITTEN LANGUAGE
A. English Rhetorical Style (Description, Narration, Argumentation,
Exposition)
Description. Describing things and objects the student writer expresses his own
impressions of the things described. His goal is to create their image in the mind of the
reader.
Narration. The student writer narrates about some events and expresses his
impressions of the events narrated. Narration can include description.
Exposition and Argumentation. The student writer expresses his opinion on
this or that matter either aware or unaware of the reader’s point of view.
Different forms of the English rhetorical style, which are interrelated and
interconnected can be presented in the following way [10] (fig.1).
description
narration
exposition
argumentation
Fig. 1. Interrelation and interconnection of different forms of the English rhetorical style
5
B. Methods of Development
In academic writing several methods of development are commonly used to present
written material according to which students should make a decision how to present
their ideas:
• process “How to…”
Usually process paragraphs are organized chronically (in time): first step, then
second step and so forth. As a result, the reader is able to follow clearly the process
being described. Precision in diction and logical progression from one step to another
are necessary for successful process paragraph.
• extended definition “The meaning of…”
Simple (formal) definitions of concrete words are often short and complete. Formal
definition: Term = class + distinguishing details. Such words as apple, pencil,
dictionary can be defined in a single sentence. However, the more abstract a word is, the
more difficult it is to define it simply. Words such as love, democracy, knowledge,
require extended definition. The following supporting techniques are used: facts,
examples, physical detail, personal experience.
• classification “Kinds of…”
Classification paragraphs divide persons, places, things and ideas into groups
according to a common basis. A single subject can be classified in various ways
according to various “classes”.
• comparison-contrast “X is like Y” or “X is different from Y”
Comparison-contrast is a method of development that will essentially compare
(show likeness) or contrast (show difference). The purpose of comparison is to show
how persons, places and things that are usually considered very different are alike in
some way. The opposite is true of contrast: you are to show how persons, places and
things that are often considered very much alike are different in some ways. The word
comparison is sometimes used to mean both comparison and contrast.
• cause-effect “Why … happened,” or “The effect of …”
Cause-effect paragraphs investigate why things are as they are or why something
happened or the effect of an event or a situation.
Choosing to use one method of development depends on: the analysis of your
audience, the purpose of your writing, the material you have. Each of these methods of
development will be supported with one or more supporting techniques: facts,
examples, physical details or personal experience.
6
C. Types of Written Language
Thirty-some-odd types of written language “forms” are given below. How many of
these types of writing would you like to produce yourself? The types that you need
either for further study of English or for ultimate academic goals should become the
prime focus of “real” writing in your classroom.
• non-fiction
o
reports
o
editorials
o
essays, articles
o
references (dictionaries, encyclopedias)
• fiction
o
novels
o
short stories
o
jokes
o
drama
o
poetry
• letters
o
personal
o
business
• greeting cards
• diaries, journals
• memos (e.g., interoffice memos)
• messages (e.g., phone messages)
• announcements
• newspaper “journalese”
• academic writing
o
short answer test responses
o
reports
o
essays, papers
o
theses, books
• forms, applications
• questionnaires
• directions
• labels
• signs
• recipes
• bills (and other financial statements)
• maps
• manuals
• menus
• schedules (e.g., transportation information)
7
•
o
o
•
•
•
advertisements
commercial
personal (want ads)
invitations
directories (e.g., telephone, yellow pages)
comic strips, cartoons
D. Types of Classroom Writing Performance
• Display writing
• Real writing
Display writing. Writing within the academic curriculum context is a way of life.
For all language students short answer exercises, essay examinations and even research
reports will involve an element of display. For academically bound students one of the
academic skills that they need to master is a whole array of display writing techniques.
Real writing. While virtually every classroom writing task will have an element of
display writing in it, nevertheless some classroom writing aims at the genuine
communication of messages to an audience in need of those messages. The two
categories of real and display writing are actually two ends of a continuum, and in
between the two extremes lie such practical instances of a combination of display
writing and real. Three subcategories illustrate how reality can be injected.
Academic. Students are given opportunities to convey genuine information.
Problem-solving tasks, especially those that relate to current issues and other personally
relevant topics have a writing component in which information is genuinely sought and
conveyed.
Vocational/technical. Quite a variety of real writing can take place in classes of
students studying English for advancement in their occupation. Real letters can be
written and actual forms can be filled out.
Personal. Diaries, letters, post cards, notes, personal messages and other
information writing can take place within the context of an interactive classroom.
E. Characteristics of Written Language: A Writer’s View
• Permanence
Once something is written down and delivered in its final form to its intended
audience, the writer abdicates a certain power: power to emend, to clarify, to withdraw.
• Production time
Students should learn to deal with time limitations.
8
• Distance
One of the thorniest problems writers face is anticipating their audience [4]. That
anticipation ranges from general audience characteristics to how specific words and
phrases and sentences and paragraphs are going to be interpreted. The distance factor
requires the so-called cognitive empathy, i.e. good writers can “read” their own writing
from the perspective of the mind of the targeted audience. Writers need to be able to
predict the audience’s general knowledge, cultural and literary schemata, specific
subject-matter knowledge, and very importantly, how their choice of language will be
interpreted.
• Orthography
Everything from the simple greetings to extremely complex ideas is captured
through the manipulation of a few dozen letters and other written symbols.
• Complexity
Student writers must learn how to remove redundancy (which may not jibe with
their first language rhetorical tradition), how to combine sentences, how to make
references to other elements in a text, how to create syntactic and lexical variety and
much more.
• Vocabulary
Writing places a heavier demand on vocabulary use than speaking. Good writers
will learn to take advantage of the richness of English vocabulary.
• Formality
Whether a student is filling out a questionnaire or writing a full-blown essay, the
conventions of each form must be followed. The most difficult and complex
conventions occur in academic writing where students have to learn how to describe,
explain, compare, contrast, illustrate, defend, criticize and argue.
Questions for revision:
1. What is English rhetoric style consist of?
2. What methods of development are known to you? What methods of development
can be used in description, narration, argumentation?
3. Can display writing be considered as real writing?
4. What characteristics of written English have you recollected? Can you compare
written English with spoken English?
9
3. THE PROCESS OF WRITING
The process of writing for student writers includes pre-writing, while-writing and
post writing or in other words preparation (1), drafting (2), feedback (3), revising (4),
editing (5) and getting evaluation (6) [5].
The art of preparation is considered in the Structure of an Essay/Composition
(chapter 4).
Most professional writers would agree that writing and rewriting DRAFTS is the
basis for most successful authors. Academic writing is no different; student writers must
be prepared to write a draft, revise it and then write another draft. This process may
occur several times.
The strategies for drafting an essay for a first-year composition class, an
argumentative paper for a speech class or a master’s thesis have the same general
objectives:
1) an introduction that
• appeals to the needs and interests of the audience;
• gives background information about the topic;
• has a strong, clear thesis statement (of opinion and/or intent) that gives the
main idea of the essay/composition.
2) body paragraphs that
• have topic sentences that relate to the thesis statement and that contain
controlling ideas;
• contain supporting sentences that explain, define and/or illustrate the
controlling ideas by using facts, examples, physical description and/or
personal experience;
• present material that uses appropriate methods of development.
3) a conclusion that
• summarizes the main idea/ideas in the essay/composition;
• emphasizes the important points;
• offers a prediction, a solution or a recommendation.
A well-organized essay/composition is the basis for coherence (an
essay/composition that “sticks together”). An essay/composition with a clear stated
statement, a carefully identified audience and purpose and body paragraphs that support
the topic sentences will have a sense of logic that makes the essay/composition easy to
read and understand.
However there are additional coherent devices that will make your
essay/composition smoother and more sophisticated: the use of pronouns, the repetition
of key words and phrases, transitional words and phrases.
Some transitions available to the student writer are given below. They are arranged
according how the student writer might use them (table).
10
Table
Coherent Devices
Thought
Relationship
time
sequence
addition of
items
addition of
description
(adjective
clauses)
contrast/
contradiction/
reversal of
thought
condition
Signals Introducing
Independent Clauses
now, later, then,
next, afterward,
moment
first, second, then,
next, afterwards,
finally, in
conclusion
Signals Introducing
Dependant Clauses
Signals
used in simple
sentences
before, after, when,
while, since, whenever
on + day, in +
year. at + time,
as long as, till
and, besides
as well as…
who, which, that,
whose, where
but, yet, however,
nevertheless, in
contrast
although, though,
even, while, whereas
despite, in spite
of
if, whether, until,
unless
Revising. RE means again. Re-vision means to “look again”. The processes of
revising are filled with “re-“ words:
reread
reflect
reconsider
respond
rewrite
Revision takes place throughout the writing process. As the student writer thinks,
plans, develops ideas and writes, questions continually need answering:
How can I make this more interesting for my audience?
How can I fulfill the purpose of this assignment?
Is this enough detail? Too much?
What word should I use here?
Is this example related to my topic?
Have I defined it clearly?
When a student writer completes a draft, the next logical step is to reread the draft
several times; each rereading will focus on specific reconsiderations:
11
Focus on the Audience:
Who is the audience? What are their interests, experiences, education, prejudice?
What does the audience know about your topic? Not know? What would they be
interested in learning?
What is your relationship to the audience?
1. Expert to novice?
2. More experienced to less experienced?
3. Classmate to classmate
4. Student to professor?
What is the audience’s attitude toward your topic?
1. Passionately interested?
2. Hostile?
3. Ignorant, but willing to learn?
4. Mildly interested?
5. Professionally interested?
How does your essay/composition successfully communicate with your audience?
A. Does your introduction
engage the reader’s interest?
give the plan for the essay/composition clearly?
B. Do your body paragraphs
consider the experiences and needs of the audience?
focus on the main points of the essay/composition?
present adequate information about the topic?
give the quantity and quality of detail necessary to support the ideas in the
essay/composition?
C. Does your conclusion
leave the reader with a clear idea of the importance of the essay/composition?
impress the reader with the main ideas of the essay/composition?
Focus on the Purpose:
What is the purpose of your essay/composition?
A. To explain?
B. To educate?
C. To teach how to do something?
D. To hare your experience?
E. To give information?
F. To fulfill an assignment?
G. To entertain or amuse
H. To persuade?
I. To solve a problem?
J. To report a discovery?
12
What do you want to emphasize in your essay/composition?
A. The problem?
B. The solution?
C. The evidence?
D. What the reader can do?
E. The situation?
F. Your expertise?
G. Your opinion?
H. Standards for evaluation?
Focus on the Communication
How does your essay/composition communicate your purpose successfully?
A. Does your introduction
give adequate background about the topic?
state a thesis of opinion and/or intent that gives direction to the
essay/composition?
B. Do your body paragraphs
have topic sentences that are directly related to the thesis statement?
give information: facts, examples, physical description and/or personal
experience?
give details that explain, define and/or illustrate the controlling ideas in the
topic sentences?
use methods of development that allow the information to be communicated?
contain coherence devices that make the information flow smoothly?
C. Does your conclusion
end emphatically, with focus on the main ideas?
end effectively, perhaps with a prediction, a solution or a recommendation?
Editing. After you have revised your essay-composition, but before you turn in
your final, completed draft, be sure to proofread your essay/composition for grammar
and sentence structure errors. Errors in grammar and sentence structure distract the
reader and lessen your authority as a writer. Reread your essay/composition slowly,
perhaps aloud (so you can hear as well as see the errors), concentrating practically on:
sentence structure
vocabulary
spelling
punctuation
verb tense
agreement
Questions for revision:
1. Drafting strategy. What it is?
2. Point out five Re- in Revising. Dwell upon each Re3. Editing means …
13
4. THE STRUCTURE OF AN ESSAY/COMPOSITION
PLANNING THE ESSAY/COMPOSOITION
Many academic writing assignments require that you explain ideas, opinions or
processes. These assignments are approximately 500 words long (2 double-spaced
typewritten pages). Such an essay/composition is a series of paragraphs about one
subject/several subjects.
The essay has.
1. A beginning: called the introduction, this paragraph is the first in the essay.
2. A thesis statement: generally located at the end of the introduction, this
sentence is the most general, most important sentence in the essay. It contains
controlling ideas that limit and direct the rest of the essay.
3. A middle: called the body of the essay, these paragraphs explain, define, clarify
and illustrate the thesis sentence. Each body paragraph consists of a topic sentence and
several supporting sentences. The number of body paragraphs depends on the length
and complexity of the assignment.
4. An end: called the conclusion, this paragraph completes the essay.
See fig.2.
Introduction
General statement about the topic
A little information about the topic
Thesis statement of intent or opinion
Body Paragraphs
Begin with a topic sentence
Explain, define, clarify the controlling ideas of the topic sentence
with facts, examples, physical description and/or personal experience
End with a concluding sentence that draws the paragraph together
Conclusion
May content a brief summary; will also contain one or more of the
following: a prediction, a recommendation, or a solution
Fig. 2. The structural elements of an essay/composition
14
SELECTING A TOPIC
Often the subject for an academic assignment is chosen for the student by the
professor. However, the student frequently must narrow the subject to a topic. Selecting
a topic for an essay/composition is similar to choosing a topic to write about a
paragraph. The same process applies.
1. Write about what you know.
2. Identify your audience.
3. Decide on the purpose of the essay/composition.
4. Select a topic that will interest your audience.
Some topics are too broad to be covered in a single essay. These topics need to be
narrowed. As you begin to narrow your topic, decide what methods of development you
could use to present your topic to your audience. Several methods of development are
possible for each topic (see fig.3).
Example:
Backpacking
Russian
Relationship
Animals
How to Prepare your First Backpacking Trip (process)
Kinds of Equipment for the Expert Backpacker
(classification)
Backpacking in the Rocky Mountains vs. Backpacking in
the Ural Mountains (comparison-contrast)
The Importance of Cultural Exchanges with Different
Countries of the World (cause-effect)
Good-Will Diplomacy (definition)
The Agreement on Terrorism (definiton and cause-effect)
Breaking vs. Training a Horse (comparison-contrast)
The Carrying Capacity of Animal Habitat (definition)
Dolphins: the Friendly Mammal (definition and causeeffect)
How to Fish with Lures (process)
Fig. 3. Subject narrowing
ABSTRACT AND CONCRETE TOPIC
The more abstract your topic is, the more difficult it is to support, and the more
difficult it is to keep your audience’s interest. For that reason, abstract topics are usually
not so successful as concrete topics.
Examples of abstract topics that are difficult to support include:
1.
2.
3.
Patriotism: The Greatest Virtue (definition and cause-effect)
How to Judge Bad Art (process)
Relationship: Love and Hate (process)
15
Examples of concrete topics that are often more successful include:
1.
2.
3.
4.
Four Types of People (classification)
How to Install a Roof Vent in a Van (process)
Getting Married vs. Staying Single (comparison-contrast)
Should the Olympic be Organized? (cause-effect)
TITLE OF THE ESSAY/COMPOSITION
Often the selection of a topic will function as the title for your essay/composition.
The purposes of titles are:
1. To attract the reader.
2. To give the reader an idea of what the essay/composition is about.
3. To provide focus for the essay/composition.
Titles should be clear, concise and precise. The title is a phrase, not a sentence, and
all extra words should be excluded. Other rules for titles include:
1. Use no quotation marks.
2. Center on the top of the first page.
3. Either capitalize all the letters in the title or capitalize the first letter of all the
important words (small words like “in” and “a” need not be capitalized).
Examples:
THE ENERGY CRISIS
CHOOSING TEACHING AS A CAREER (all capitals)
Three Chess Champions
Youth Problems (each major word capitalized)
ORGANIZING A TOPIC
1. The body paragraph in an essay/composition can be organized according to a
single method of development, or the body paragraphs can be developed using two or
more separate methods.
2. Each of these methods of development will be supported with one or more
supporting techniques: facts, examples, physical details or personal experience.
3. In deciding what method of development and supporting techniques to use, keep
in mind
The 3 A’s:
A. The intended audience
Audience
B. The purpose of the essay/composition
Assignment
C. The material you have to present
Available material
16
PREWRITING
Once you have decided on a topic for your essay/composition, asking yourself
questions often helps to plan the ideas and the structure of the essay/composition.
Questions to ask to gain information about a topic include:
WHO:
WHAT:
am I writing about? A person? A group of people?
am I writing about, an event, a problem, a belief, a process, or a
comparison?
WHEN: am I writing about? A contemporary person, event, or situation? The past?
The future?
WHY:
am I writing about a person, place, event, problem, or belief? Why did the
event occur? Why did the problem arise?
WHERE: are the people? Where did the event take place? Where does the problem
exist?
HOW:
is the person involved? How did the event or the situation begin? What are
the results? What will be the result? Can the result be changed? Do I want
them changed?
As you begin to plan your essay/composition, you may begin with a general subject
and then narrow to more specific details (see fig. 4). Asking questions about the general
subject may lead you to an interesting topic.
Another way to begin essay/composition planning is to begin with a single idea
(perhaps a fact) and then, by asking questions discover the topic you would like to
communicate to your audience (see fig. 5).
Rebuilding Russia
Broad
subject
Questions
Rebuild what?
The cities?
Rebuild how?
The rural areas?
Literally?
Socially?
Culturally?
Narrowed Topic
Topic
(Title)
Social problems in
Russia's rural areas
Fig.4. Method of induction
17
Questions
The high school I attended
in my native town/village.
Thesis
Fact – not a thesis
or topic
Why do you want to write about
What do you want to communicate?
(figureimportant
2)
How was this school
to you?
Because the high schoolFig.
in 5.
my native
place prepared me in special ways, I was
able to enter the University
Topic
discovered
Fig. 5. Method of deduction
Another form of prewriting is brainstorming: the process of writing as many
thoughts as you have as quickly as you can. In this process, there is no formal
organization. Only after you have finished brainstorming will you go back and select
and organize the material. Brainstorming can be a functional part of essay/composition
writing both because it permits you to see immediately how much you do know about a
topic (and how much you don’t know), and because it allows you to organize on paper
the material you have.
This is an example of brainstorming for the topic “Terrorism. The Main Threat”.
Gun
Plane
Refugee
Siege
Police
Hospital
hostage
grave
innocent people
problem
minute of silence
madness
ruins
death
sufferings
armed militants
crime
injuries
bombing
gunfire
mourning
woe and sorrow
explosion
danger
The following examples of clustering, treeing and flow chart can be regarded as
variants of brainstorming (see fig.6–8).
18
Advanced
technology
State
enterprise
LANCOME
company
Good
materials
Good
reputation
Produce
on time
Efficient
service
Produce
everything
From France
to world
Good
quality
Fig. 6. Clustering
Basic
needs
Clothing
Food
Housing
Limited items
Medical care
Russia
Better
lives
Special times
for ads
Advertisement
in Russia and
the U.S.
Every kind of
product
Transportation
Family planning
½ hour blocks
Twice a day
Before news programs
New films
Coca-cola
Cars
Restaurants
Toys
U.S.
Ads through-out
programs
Fig. 7. Treeing
19
In the middle of news programs
During regular programs
During television films
Effect of cause (2)
Cause
Alcohol
Effect of
alcohol
Drunkennes
Cause (2)
Body balance
Dizziness
Effect of cause (3)
Lack of attention
Exceed speed
limit
Asleep
Loss of control
Swerving
Automobile
accidents
General effect
Causes (4)
Causes (3)
Fig. 8. Flow chart
THE THESIS STATEMENT
Each essay/composition you write will contain a thesis statement. This statement is
usually one sentence that gives the purpose of the essay/composition.
1. The thesis is the strongest, clearest statement in the essay/composition.
2. The thesis should come at the beginning of the essay/composition, usually at the
end of the introductory paragraph.
3. The thesis must not be a simple statement of fact that requires no elaboration. A
simple statement of fact has no possibilities for development.
Example: Mrs. Brown, my neighbour, has four cats and three dogs. } not a thesis
4. The thesis will probably not be expressed as a question, for a question contains
no attitude or opinion. The answer to the question is the thesis statement.
5. The thesis will contain controlling ideas that will be used in the topic sentences
of the body paragraphs of the essay/composition.
Example: A successful soccer coach has four qualities. } controlling ideas
underlined
6. The thesis may be a statement of opinion that you will explain and prove in the
body paragraph of the essay/composition.
Example: My neighbour, Mrs. Brown, owns four cats: these animals present a
serious health hazard in our neighbourhood. } statement of opinion
7. The thesis may be a statement of intent that you will explain and illustrate in the
body paragraphs of the essay/composition.
Example: This essay will show how corn is planted and why the method of planting
is successful. } statement of intent
A successful thesis statement results from selection, qualification and specificity.
20
Below are samples of thesis statements followed by the theoretical organization for
the remainder of each essay.
Essay A.
Thesis statement of intent:
In Cuba stagnation in economy, overpopulation and political corruption are the
major problems.
Audience: professor of a political science
Purpose: to explain the major problems in Cuba
Methods of development: extended definition, cause-effect
Techniques of support: facts, examples
Essay B.
Thesis statement of intent:
The reason I study languages at the University is to educate myself and then to
apply my knowledge either as a teacher at school or an interpreter at some business
company.
Audience: classmates
Purpose: to explain the reasons of going to the USA
Methods of development: classification, cause-effect
Techniques of support: personal experience, examples
Essay C. Thesis statement of opinion and intent:
Michelangelo’s three famous sculptures – the Pieta, David and Moses –
demonstrate his artistic genius throughout his life.
Audience: professor of art
Purpose: to explain the opinion about Michelangelo’s sculpture
Methods of development: comparison-contrast
Techniques of support: physical description, examples
PARAGRAPH RELATIONSHIP
In academic essays/compositions the thesis statement of intent is directly related to
the topic sentences in the body paragraphs. Each topic sentence relates to and deals with
one or more controlling ideas in the thesis. Each set of supporting sentences that follows
a topic sentence relates directly to that topic sentence. In this way the essay/composition
will be as unified and as complete as the paragraph.
The following is the sample of paragraph relationship (diagram of paragraph
relationship within an essay/composition) (see fig.9).
21
I. Introduction:
Controlling ideas
Thesis:
II. Body paragraph:
Topic sentence:
A
B
C
Controlling
ideas in topic
sentence
A
Supporting
sentences
III. Body paragraph:
Topic sentence:
Controlling
ideas in topic
sentence
B
Supporting
sentences
IV. Body paragraph:
Topic sentence:
Controlling
ideas in topic
sentence
C
Supporting
sentences
V. Conclusion
Fig. 9. Paragraph relationship
Example:
MICHELANGELO’S GENIUS
Thesis Statement of Intent: The greatest sculptural works of Michelangelo – the
Pieta, David, and Moses – demonstrate his lifelong artistic genius.
Body Paragraph Topic Sentence: The Pieta demonstrates Michelangelo’s early
artistic genius.
1. How?
2. In what way?
22
Body Paragraph Topic Sentence: Michelangelo’s sculpture David shows his genius
in middle life.
1. How?
2. In what way?
3. How does it compare/contrast with the Pieta?
Body Paragraph Topic Sentence: Finally, the statue of Moses makes clear that
Michelangelo’s creative energies were still significant in old age.
1. How?
2. In what way?
3. How does it compare/contrast with the Pieta and David?
Concluding Sentence: Michelangelo’s long life was filled with art; his sculptures
show his lifelong artistry.
ESSAY/COMPOSITON OUTLINING
Student writers sometimes have difficulty organizing the material they have
gathered for an essay/composition. One way to order your ideas is to outline your
essay/composition.
Usually an essay/composition outline consists of words or phrases or complete
sentences.
Examples:
Topic: Travel Preparation
– Getting money
– Getting information about the validity of the travel agency
– Choosing a place to go to
– Choosing a companion
– The art of packing
Topic: Travelling
– Money
– Travel agency
– Place
– Companion
– Packing
23
The Introduction (see fig.10).
THE INTRODUCTION
The general statement(s) with which you begin your
introduction should make your audience interested in
your topic, and should lead logically to your statement
of thesis:
Fig. 10. Introduction
The purpose of the introduction is to introduce the topic to your audience and to
state the purpose of your essay/composition in the thesis statement. The introduction:
1) often opens with a general statement about the topic;
2) gives the reader general information about the topic that is needed to
understand the essay/composition;
3) narrows from that general information to the thesis statement of opinion or
intent.
Example:
Small Town Relationships
Almost all of the small towns are similar in their
background
geography and general appearance. In addition, many of
information
the people who live in these towns have a special lifestyle.
In contrast to life in larger cities, people in small towns
thesis statement
share many things and all kinds of experiences. This
of opinion
unusual sharing contributes to a familiar relationship
among neighbours.
The Body (see fig.11).
THE BODY
The paragraphs should be constructed according to
the rules of cohesion and coherence
Fig. 11. Body
24
The Conclusion (see fig.12).
THE CONCLUSION
The conclusion borrows from everything that has
gone before, summarizing without repeating exactly,
suggesting, predicting. In so doing, it gives the essay
its final shape, and gives writers a single last chance
to show that their theses are valid.
Fig. 12. Conclusion
Example of successful conclusion:
The TOEFL Examination: Why?
In conclusion, it is not fair to deny a student university admission
because he or she has not passed the TOEFL test, especially if that
student has studied English in the United States for a semester. One
question comes to mind: what is the purpose of the aim of the
summary
university? The TOEFL examination was created to measure the
language proficiency of students not in the U.S. who were applying
to U.S. universities. When this university receives the foreign
applications, it will be able to know from their TOEFL score if they
are able to study in English.
However, if the student applies in person, and if that person has the
recommendations of the intensive English language program, the
Solution
reason for the TOEFL is gone. In these cases, the TOEFL test is not
necessary.
Now you are welcome to demonstrate a command of the following skills:
1. Prewriting: think before writing
a) understand the assignment;
b) choose a subject that you are interested in, narrow the subject so that it can
be adequately covered within the limits of the assignment;
c) collect ideas;
d) consider the audience.
2. Organization: write straightforward prose
a) begin and end the paper clearly;
b) write a thesis statement of opinion and/or intent;
c) move smoothly from one paragraph to another.
3. Development: support ideas
a) use specific details to explain general ideas;
b) use facts, examples, physical description and personal experience to
develop ideas.
25
4. Revision: look again, change and strengthen
a) consider the needs of the audience;
b) reconsider the purpose(s) of the paper.
5. Grammar and mechanics
a) use language with precision;
b) avoid common errors of grammar and sentence structure;
c) strengthen writing through editing.
Questions for revision:
1. Speak on the difference between the subject and the topic of an
essay/composition.
2. What rules should a student writer follow to compose the title of an
essay/composition?
3. What are the three magic A’s in essay/composition writing?
4. Thesis statement and topic sentence. What unites them?
5. PRACTICE
Exercise 1. Read the text, give examples of paragraphs containing description,
narration, exposition or argumentation, indicate methods of development:
Теxt 1
From “Theatre” by W.S. Maugham
When Julia looked at Michael now she wondered what there was in him that had
ever aroused in her such a frenzy of passion. The thought of having sexual relations
with him nauseated her. Fortunately he found himself very comfortable in the bedroom
she had furnished for him. He was not a man for whom sex was important, and he was
relieved when he discovered that Julia no longer made any demands on him. He thought
with satisfaction that the birth of the baby had calmed her down, he was bound to say
he had thought it might, and he was only sorry they had not had one before. When he
had two or three times, more out of amiability than out of desire, suggested that they
should resume marital relations and she had made excuses, either that she was tired,
not very well, or had two performances next day, to say nothing of a fitting in the
morning, he accepted the situation with equanimity. Julia was much easier to get on
with, she never made scenes any more, and he was happier than he had ever been
before. It was a damned satisfactory marriage he had made, and when he looked at
other people’s marriages he couldn’t help seeing he was one of the lucky ones. Julia
was a good damned sort and clever, as clever as a bagful of monkeys; you could talk to
her about anything in the world. The best companion a chap ever had, my boy. He
didn’t mind saying this, he’d rather spend a day with her than play a round of golf.
26
Julia was surprised to discover in herself a strange feeling of pity for him because
she no longer loved him. She was a kindly woman, and she realized that it would be a
bitter blow to his pride if he ever had an inkling how little he meant to her. She
continued to flatter him. She noticed that for long now he had come to listen
complacently to her praise of his exquisite nose and beautiful eyes. She got a little
private amusement by seeing how much he could swallow. She laid it on with a trowel.
But now she looked more often at his straight thin-lipped mouth. It grew meaner as he
grew older, and by the time he was an old man it would be no more than a cold hard
line. His thrift, which in the early days had seemed an amusing, rather touching trait,
now revolted her. When people were in trouble, and on the stage they too often are, they
got sympathy and kind friendly words from Michael, but never little cash. He looked
upon himself as devilish generous when he parted with a guinea, and a five-pound note
was to him the extreme of lavishness.
He had soon discovered that Julia ran the house extravagantly, and insisting that
he wanted to save her trouble took the matter in his own hands. After that nothing was
wasted. Every penny was accounted for. Julia wondered why servants stayed with them.
They did because Michael was so nice to them. With his hearty, jolly, affable manner he
made them anxious to please him, and the cook shared his satisfaction when she had
found a butcher from whom they could get meat a penny a pound cheaper than
elsewhere. Julia could not but laugh when she thought how strangely his passion for
economy contrasted with the devil-may-care, extravagant creatures he portrayed so
well on the stage. She had often thought that he was incapable of a generous impulse,
and now, as though it were the most natural thing in the world, he was prepared to
stand aside so that she might have her chance. She was too deeply moved to speak. She
reproduced herself bitterly for all the unkind things she had for so long been thinking of
him.
They put on the play, and it was a success. After that they continued to produce
plays year after year. Because Michael ran the theatre with the method and thrift he
ran his home they lost little over the failures, which of course they sometimes had, and
made every possible penny out of their successes. Michael flattered himself that there
was not a management in London where less money was spent on the productions [13].
Exercise 2. Read/listen to the passage and define whether it is description,
narration, argumentation or exposition:
CALIFORNIA LIVING
Harry Johnson and his family live in a small town near San Diego, California.
Harry is a college textbook salesman. He visits the colleges and universities in Southern
California. He has recently transferred to the west coast from the New Jersey area.
Harry and his family are very happy in California. The weather is lovely and the
children (two boys) like their school. Mrs Johnson is busy with several projects: for
27
example, she is a volunteer worker at the hospital. The Johnsons are very content with
their lives; in fact they are hardly ever homesick for the east at all.
The home-office of Harry's company is in New York. New York is the center of the
publishing industry in America. From time to time Harry has to fly to New York or
Chicago for business meetings. When he goes east he has a chance to pay a visit to his
mother Rose. She lives in Harry's hometown in Maryland. Her house is the same one
where Harry grew up. When Harry arrives at her house, Rose always asks the same
questions: “Are you happy in California? Aren't you coming back East soon? Don't the
children miss their grandmother?” Harry always answers “yes” because he knows how
much Rose misses him and his family. Her secret dream is to move to California some
day.
Exercise 3. Paraphrase the text by means of description, narration, argumentation
and exposition; indicate methods of development:
Text 1
“WHAT A DOG!”
Dear Diary,
This morning at 10:00 the phone rang. It was David – thank goodness! He called
just as I was washing my hair, and I got a lot of shampoo in my eyes but it was well
worth it to get to talk to him. I didn't sleep much after our fight last night and I wanted
to make up. He came over about a half hour later and we decided to go out for a walk.
David even suggested that we take Snoopy alone. As we were walking down the hall we
ran into the super. At that point Snoopy began to bark. I tried to calm him down
because he was running around our legs and the super was beginning to get angry.
Through it all, David just stared at the ceiling, trying to ignore what was happening.
Then, all of a sudden the super started to laugh. I looked down and saw my dog using
David's leg as a fire hydrant! Luckily, David forgave us and we are going out tomorrow
night (without Snoopy this time).
I sometimes wonder what I'm doing at college. Joe's so very happy and I'm so
miserable. I just don't seem cut out for serious studying. Maybe living in an apartment
was a mistake – Martha's a great roommate but we have such a good time that we never
study. I don't have many interests unlike Joe. He has a lot – his flute, his friends, his
grades… All I want is to be on my own. Do I dare talk to Mom and Dad about it?
Maybe it's too soon.
That's all for now, diary… till tomorrow.
28
Text 2
A NOISY GARBAGE CAN
Mrs. J
Mrs. A
Mrs. J
Mrs. A
Mrs. J
Mrs. A
Mrs. J
Mrs. A
Mrs. J
Mrs. A
Mrs. J
Mrs. A
Mrs. J
Mrs. A
Mrs. J
Mrs. A
Good morning, Mabel. How are you doing today?
I’m doing fine, thanks. How about you?
Oh, I’m O.K. Isn’t it beautiful today? The sun’s shining, there’s no
chance of rain.
Mm. I’m on my way to the store. They’re having a sale. Are you
going?
Oh, not today, I’m too busy. On second thought … when are you
leaving?
Well, It’s ten o’clock now and I’m meeting Hazel for lunch at 1:00,
so … how about in a half hour?
That’s fine with me. Oh, by the way, did you hear that awful noise
this morning?
Yes. It woke me up. Do you know what it was?
No, I’m not sure. But I think it was that Mr. Korn down the way. He
drives like a maniac you know. Anyway, I think his car knocked
over a garbage can.
It’s too bad he has to drive so fast. And such a nice wife too … I
forget her name. Is there garbage on the street?
I can’t see. But we can look on our way to the store.
Yes. What do you need? They’ve got cookies, paper towels, apples
and green beans on sale.
Oh, wonderful. I need some vegetables and some meat. Have they
got eggs on special too?
I think so. But they don’t have any meat in the sale.
Oh, and it’s so expensive! It’s a scandal.
And so is the way Mr. Korn drives!
Text 3
A BUSINESS CALL
J: Excuse me, professor Cohen? Good-morning! I'm Harry Johnson from Wheeler
Publishing. May I come in?
C: Surely, Mr Johnson. I've been expecting you. How do you do?
J: Very well, thank you, and you?
C: I'm fine, thank you. Have a seat, Mr Johnson.
J: Thank you very much. You have a great office here – much larger than most of
those I saw back east.
C: Oh, are you new to California?
29
J: Yes, I'm…and glad to be here, I might add.
C: Well, the California college system doesn't appeal to everybody…large
universities, huge classes and all that. But the weather, well nobody complains about
that.
J: No, that's understandable. Are you teaching large classes in the fall?
C: Yes, of course… That's part of teaching in a large state system. there will
probably be 400 students in my Psycology 101 class.
J: We have a new introductory psycology textbook coming out at the end of the
month. The advanced reviews are very favorable. Would you like to see a copy?
C: Yes, I would. I like the texts I'm using but I'm always on the lookout for
something better.
J: Fine, I'll send you a copy and give you a call after you have had a chance to
look the book over. Perhaps, you'll have some questions I can answer.
Text 4
PERSONAL OPINION
This time next month millions of Americans will be frantically turning their
television dials from channel to channel. Why? You know the answer as well as I do!
They will be trying to find something new to watch. And they won’t find anything.
Because, ladies and gentlemen, it will be that time of year again – summer – better
known as rerun time! The same old programs we heard about in the fall and saw all
winter and spring – those that were on every week – will be reappearing. The same silly
sitcoms, violent police shows, westerns, whodunits, and ‘made for T.V.’ movies will be
parading before our weary eyes again.
I, for one, am fed up with this situation. Why is it that we, the viewers, have to be
tortured with such punishment? Who do the T.V. producers think we are? How many
seasons do we have to endure this treatment? Are we just going to stand around and do
nothing?
The answer, I hope, is no. But, as usual, the question is what can we do? Well, for
one thing, we can complain about programming to our local stations. We can write
letters to the networks. We can refuse to do business with our local merchants who
sponsor such programs.
Will this help? Who knows? But at least for a change we won’t be sitting around in
our easy chairs doing nothing. It’s up to me and it’s up to you to get through to those
thick-headed T.V. executives. We’ve got to say: ‘Enough! We’re bored with those old
shows! Think up a new police show this time – and if the hero’s too hot in his uniform,
let him wear bermuda shorts!’
30
Exercise 4. Express one and the same thought in a passage by means of
description, narration, argumentation and exposition:
1. If it were not for hope, the heart would break.
2. If the pills were pleasant, they would not be gilded.
3. If there were no clouds we should not enjoy the sun.
4. What is experience?
The name we give to our mistakes.
Exercise 5. Get acquainted with the point of view on “How to Raise Happy Kids”
and express your opinion in the form of argumentation:
HOW TO RAISE HAPPY KIDS
You can help your children into successful lives of their own
Condensed from “John Rosemond’s Six-Point Plan for Raising Happy, Healthy
Children”
After John K. Rosemond
Once upon a time people got married, had children and reared them. It wasn’t
something they spent a lot of time fretting over. Then came the baby boom and a slew
of child-rearing experts with fancy degrees.
Soon rhetoric replaced reality. Nonsense replaced common sense. Raising kids
became “parenting”, an abstract, difficult science. Parents became permissive and
democratic, and, not surprisingly, children became spoiled and out of control.
Well, I also am an expert at raising children, but not because I’m a psychologist. I
have been a father for nearly 20 years and have learned through trial and error. My
experience has shown me that a number of fashionable ideas many of today’s parents
believe are actually damaging myths. Here are six of these myths – and the straight facts
that can make raising your children much easier and more rewarding.
Myth 1: Children should come first. For most of the first seven years of my life,
my mother went to college and worked part-time. When Mom was home, she often
ushered me outdoors, where I’d find myself sharing the sidewalk with other kids –
who’d also been kicked out of their houses. If I truly needed Mom, she was always
there. On the other hand, if I wanted her to do something for me that I could do for
myself, she was quick to instruct me accordingly. I never felt rejected or uncared for.
Quite the contrary – I felt loved and independent at the same time.
Since World War II, we have become obsessed with elevating kids to a position of
prominence they have not earned and do not benefit from. The more child-centered the
family has become, the more self-centered children have become.
Except for the first few years of life, children do not require constant attention –
any more than they require unlimited food. Kids need to eat, but if you give them too
31
much they become food addicts. Too much attention in every bit is damaging, making it
difficult for the child to outgrow his infantile self-centeredness.
But parents can help cure children of an addiction to attention by putting their
marriage first. For if the marriage is healthy, the family and each individual within it
will be healthy as well. The children will have a secure foundation upon which to build
self-esteem.
Several years ago, some friends created an unusual rule: for 30 minutes after
everyone gets home, the children must play in their rooms or go outside. The parents
take this time to unwind and talk as they prepare the evening meal.
Until this rule, my friends had devoted themselves entirely to the kids. But the
more attention they gave, the more demanding and disobedient the children became.
The kids had taken over!
Now the children find things to do by themselves until dinner, when they all enjoy
talking together. These children have become independent, secure, outgoing, happy and
polite. What it took was the parents’ moving their marriage back to center stage.
Myth 2: A family is a democracy. Parents often ask me, “How can we get our
children to obey?” My answer is simple and direct: “If you expect your children to
obey, they will.”
I’m sure many American parents would say they do expect their children to obey.
I’m equally sure that many American children are not obedient. This sorry state of
affairs is the fault of parents who forever beat around the bush of obedience, lest they
damage their child’s supposedly fragile psyche. When parents plead, bargain, bribe,
threaten, give second chances or “reason” with children, they are wishing for – not
expecting – obedience.
The most common form of wishing takes place when parents argue with young
children. A parent will make a decision that the child doesn’t like, and the child
screeches, “Why?” But this isn’t a question. It’s an invitation to do battle. By accepting
the invitation, you step squarely into the quicksand. And you cannot win.
No matter how eloquent or correct your explanation, children can see only one
point of view – their own. It is far better, without hint of threat or apology, to say
simply, “Because I said so.”
As a child, I couldn’t stand to hear those four words, and I promised myself I
would never say them to my children. I kept that promise until I came to the brink of
disaster with my first child. “Because I said so” became part of my vocabulary. If those
words absolutely stick in your throat, try, “Because I’m the parent, and making
decisions is my responsibility.”
The fact is, a family is not a democracy. Eventually someone has to have the final
say, and that someone better be an adult, or anyone is in trouble.
Myth 3: Housework is for parents only. When I run workshops, I ask, “How
many of you expect your children to perform household chores for which they are not
paid?” In a group of 500, no more that 50 hands will go up.
Then: “How many of your parents would have raised their hands to the same
question?” Hands go up everywhere, and people laugh. But it’s no laughing matter. In
32
just one generation, we have managed to misplace an important tenet of childrearing:
children should be contributing members of their families.
The ultimate purpose of raising children is to help them out of our lives and into
successful lives of their own. Chores provide a sense of accomplishment, enlarging a
child’s feeling of worth.
You should begin assigning chores when your child is three. At this age, kids are
eager to please and want to get involved in whatever their parents are doing. A threeyear-old can help make his bed and set the table. A four- or five-year-old can keep his
room orderly. A six-year-old can vacuum. A ten-year-old should contribute 45 minutes
of “chore time” each day plus another two hours on Saturday. By age 18, a kid should
know how to run a home. He should be able to wash and iron clothes, prepare basic
meals, clean bathrooms, mow grass. All this training not only helps prepare children for
adulthood but also develops an appreciation for the effort parents put into maintaining a
household.
Myth 4: Frustration is bad for children. Believing the fairy tale that frustration
causes stress and poor self-esteem, parents work hard to “protect” their children from
this terrible scourge. But the truth is, life involves many frustrations, and it’s only
through experience with frustration that we develop a tolerance for it. This enables us to
turn adversity into challenge and persevere in the face of it. Perseverance, that important
“if at first you don’t succeed” attitude, is the primary quality in every success story.
So give your children regular doses of vitamin N. This vital nutrient is the most
character-building two-letter word in the English language – NO.
To find out if you have given your children enough of this word, list on a sheet of
paper everything you’ve ever dreamed of having. A sports car? A new house? Jewelry?
Now circle the things on your list you’ll actually acquire within the next five years.
Most of us content ourselves with 20 percent of what we desire.
On a second sheet of paper, list everything your kids will ask you for in the next 12
months – toys, electronic equipment, the latest clothes, movie tickets, etc. Then circle
the things they’re probably going to get. If you’re a typical American, you circled 75
percent of your children’s wish list.
We accustom our children to a material standard completely out of kilter with what
they can expect as adults. Consider also that most of them attain this level of affluence
not by working or sacrificing, but by whining, demanding and manipulating. We teach
them that something can be had for nothing – one of the most destructive attitudes a
person can acquire.
So administer vitamin N. Give your children all they truly need, but only some –
say 25 percent – of what they really want.
Myth 5: The more toys kids have, the better. A typical child’s home has toys
strewn all over the place, yet children still complain, “I’m bored!” They are bored
precisely because parents provide them with so many things. A child can’t decide what
to do next because the clutter presents too many options.
The child’s boredom also has a lot to do with the kinds of toys parents buy. In most
cases, they are mass-produced toys that stimulate little creative thought. Worse, they are
33
so one-dimensional – especially the popular electronic games – that they limit a child’s
ability to express imagination.
Truly creative toys encourage a child to use something to represent something else.
When a child takes a pine corn, sets it upright and calls it a tree, that’s the essence of
fantasy. Clay, finger paints and crayons are all examples of creative toys. In the hands
of an imaginative child, so are everyday things like spoons, boxes and paper bags – not
to mention sticks, rocks and mud, glorious mud.
Some parents worry that if their child doesn’t own the latest “in” toys his friends
have, his self-esteem will suffer. But self-esteem is not a function of how many things
we have. It’s a function of nurturing the gifts that lie within.
Myth 6: “My kids don’t watch too much TV.” Between ages two and five, the
average American preschool child watches 28 hours of television a week, or 1456
hours a year. You may say, “My child only watches 15 hours a week.” Well, according
to my own informal studies in the families I work with, parents generally underestimate
the children’s television viewing time by 50 percent [9].
Exercise 6. Find passages from the book on home reading illustrating description,
narration, argumentation and exposition.
Exercise 7. Read the piece carefully. Write a full answer to each question. When
several questions are given together join up your answers with the conjunctions and
phrases given in brackets. Each answer you write must be a complete sentence.
Comment upon the conjunctions and phrases used.
AN ANT AND A DOVE
By J. O. Judd
A great French writer has said that we should help everyone as much as possible
because we often need help ourselves. Even the small can help the great. To this effect
he tells the following story.
An ant was drinking at a brook and fell in. She made desperate efforts to reach the
side, but made no progress at all. The poor ant, almost exhausted, was still bravely
doing her best when a dove saw her. Moved with pity the bird threw her a blade of
grass, which supported her like a raft, and thus she regained the bank.
While she was resting and drying herself in the grass she heard a man
approaching. He was walking along barefoot and carrying a gun in his hand. As soon
as he saw the dove he wished to kill her, and he would certainly have done so, but the
ant bit him in the foot just as he raised his gun to fire. He stopped to see what had
pricked him, and the dove immediately flew away. It was a creature much weaker and
smaller than herself that had saved her life [9].
34
Questions.
1. Why should we help each other as much as possible? Should only the great help
the small? (because) (and even)
2. What did the dove see once? What had happened to the ant? Was the ant trying
to reach the bank? What was the result of the efforts? (that) (who) (but)
3. How did the dove help the ant? How did the ant make use of the blade of grass
thrown to her? (which) (and)
4. Who did the ant see some time later? What was the man doing? What was he
carrying in his hand? (who) (and)
5. What did the man want to do on seeing the dove? What did the ant do? When
did she bite the man in the foot? (on seeing) (but) (just as) (and)
6. Why could the dove fly away? (because)
Supporting task.
1. Think over the proverb which reveals the main idea of the text.
2. Recollect a similar episode from your life.
3. Reproduce the text on behalf of one of the characters.
Exercise 8. Read the text, divide it into paragraphs, give your reasons, identify the
topic sentence in each paragraph, write down the words/sentences, developing the main
idea of the topic sentence and give the text a title:
There are two addresses in London that the whole world knows. One is 10
Downing Street, where the Prime Minister lives. The other is Buckingham Palace. This
famous palace, first built in 1703, is in the very center of London. It is two places, not
one. It is a family house, where children play and grow up. It is also the place where
presidents, kings and politicians go to meet the Queen. Buckingham Palace is like a
small town, with a police station, two post offices, a hospital, a bar, two sports clubs, a
disco, a cinema and a swimming pool. There are 600 rooms and three miles of red
carpet. Two men work full time to look after the 300 clocks. About 700 people work in
the Palace. When the Queen gets up in the morning, seven people look after her. One
starts her bath, one prepares her clothes, and one feeds the Royal dogs. She has eight or
nine dogs and they sleep in their own bedroom near the Queen’s bedroom. Two people
bring her breakfast. She has coffee from Harrod’s, toast and eggs. Every day for fifteen
minutes a piper plays Scottish music outside her room and the Queen reads The Times.
Every Tuesday evening she meets the Prime Minister. They talk about world news and
have a drink, perhaps a gin and tonic or a whisky. When the Queen invites a lot of
people for dinner, it takes three days to prepare the table and three days to do the
washing-up. Everybody has five glasses: one for red wine, one for white wine, one for
water, one for port, and one for liqueur. During the first and second courses the Queen
speaks to the person on her left and then she speaks to the person on her right for the
rest of the meal. When the Queen finishes her food, everybody finishes, and it is time for
the next course! [6].
35
Exercise 9. In the following text the paragraphs are mixed, put them in the right
order to produce logical narration.
Question: underline two things Mary was used to doing in California, and the thing
she can’t get used to in England. Express your opinion why.
WE CRAWLED INTO UTTER DEVASTATION
(Mary Williams and her family lost their home and most of their possession in the
1971 Los Angeles earthquake)
1 It was midnight on 8 February, 1971, and the children were in bed. It was a
beautiful evening but unusually quiet. Normally there were hundreds of animals moving
about – snakes, lizards, squirrels – but they’d all gone. I’m absolutely convinced they
knew something was going to happen.
The rescue operations moved quite quickly, and we were all congratulated on
the way we had reacted, but after about a fortnight when things began to calm down, I
went into shock and for a while I could hardly talk.
My first thoughts were for my daughter. It was pitch black in her bedroom and I
couldn’t see her, but eventually I grabbed hold of her hand and we made our way to the
stairs. “Where do we go?” I thought. I knew under the stairs was the safest place. It’s
human instinct to run outside, but outside the earth can swallow you up, and everything
flies around – glass, tiles, and so on.
When we crawled out the scene was one of utter devastation. The windows had
blown out, pieces of the pavement were standing up vertically like gravestones, and
glass was everywhere. Luckily none of us was seriously hurt although I had cut my hand
quite badly.
I came in but I couldn’t relax. And when I went to bed I felt very, very uneasy.
Five hours later, at 5.57am, I woke up and two things hit me simultaneously. First was
the noise, which was absolutely deafening. And then there was this violent shaking. I
tried to grab hold of the bed but it just flew to the other side of the room. I felt for the
wall; it was somehow fluid like a river.
It suddenly occurred to me that I didn’t know where my husband was. Then I
saw him coming down the stairs. The quake had only lasted one minute and twentyeight seconds, but it seemed like a lifetime. Like all Californian families, we had our
earthquake survival kit – first air kit, bottled water, canned food that could keep us
going for 48 hours or so. We stayed under the stairs and waited for dawn.
36
My daughter and I stayed with friends in New York and then we returned to
England; but I still haven’t adjusted. When you’re used to picking oranges for
breakfast, or going to San Francisco for a weekend, it’s hard to get used to having a
small house and garden in the middle of rural England. But at least these events make
you respect the tremendous forces of nature. You can build marvelous cities like Los
Angeles, but it only takes 6.6 on the Richter scale to reduce it all to a few bits of
concrete [2].
Exercise 10. Read the story, write the end of the story presenting your arguments,
draw a parallel with modern life and say whether it is up-to-date.
THE TIGER AND THE PRINCESS
Long, long ago there lived a king in one of the eastern countries. Like so many
eastern kings he was rich and cruel. In his capital there was an arena, where on holidays
plays were staged, girls sang and danced, and men held competitions to show how brave
and strong they were.
The arena was also used to try men who committed crimes. There were two doors
in the arena. A tiger was put behind one door, and a beautiful young girl behind the
other. If the man opened the first door, a tiger jumped at him and tore him to pieces, if
he opened the other door, a beautiful girl came out and he was married to her at once,
whether he already had a wife or not.
Now the king had a daughter. One day the princess fell in love with a man lower
than she in social position. In those days it was a great crime for a man of low position
to love a princess. So, when the king learned about it, he ordered to arrest the man and
try him in the arena. It was ordered to find the largest, strongest and the most cruel tiger
in the whole kingdom; but it was also ordered to find the most beautiful girl in the
whole kingdom if the man opened the correct door.
Now, the princess loved her man very much, and could do everything for him. So
she learned behind which door was the tiger and behind which door – the girl. But she
learned even more than that – she found out who the girl was. It was one of the most
beautiful girls in the kingdom, the daughter of one of her father’s own ministers. The
princess did not like the girl because she had seen the girl look at her lover with soft
eyes. More than that, she had seen her talk once or twice with her lover. True, the
conversation was short and the princess did not know what they were about. Yet…
When the day of the trial came, everybody came to the arena; the king and the
princess were there too. The princess’s lover was brought and placed before the king.
Everybody liked him very much and was sorry for him because he was young and
handsome. The man saluted the king but his eyes were on the princess. They were
asking, “Which door?” The princess’s hand slowly moved to the right. The man bravely
went to the door on the right and opened it.
37
Now, it is up to you to say what was there behind the door: the girl or the tiger.
You mustn’t forger that the princess loved her man very much and could do
everything for him. But, being a woman, could she give up her lover to another woman
– one of the most beautiful girls in the kingdom? She – the king’s daughter? Yet, a
woman’s heart is soft. Could the princess see her lover die in front of her own eyes?
Wasn’t it better for her to give up her man to another woman than to send him to
his death?
So what was there behind the door: the girl or the tiger? [9].
Exercise 11. Read the story, write the end of the story presenting your arguments,
express your opinion of Tom’s uncle.
A DILEMMA
Tom’s uncle Philip was a very rich man. He was a strange old man who lived
alone, had no wife or friends and spent all his money in buying precious stones.
One day, about a week before Uncle Philip died, he sent for Tom. Now, we must
tell you that this was the first time the two men met. Many years ago Philip had a
quarrel with his sister, who was Tom’s mother, and since then he had never spoken to
her or to Tom.
When Tom came to see him, Uncle Philip was lying in bed. “I am leaving all my
precious stones to you,” he told Tom. “You will find them in a box in the bank. But
before you unlock the box read the letter, which is lying on the box. Be careful not to
shake the box.”
Tom thought that this was very strange, but as his uncle was a strange man, he
believed that everything was all right.
After Uncle Philip’s death Tom went to the bank for the box. Before he started to
open it, he read the letter. Here is what it said:
“Dear Tom,
In this box there are a lot of precious stones. I am leaving them all to you because I
want you always to remember your uncle. But in this box there is also a powerful
charge of dynamite, which will explode as soon as you try to unlock the box. If you do
not believe me, try to open the box and you will be blown to pieces. Do not forget me.
Yours,
Uncle Philip.”
Tom thought for a whole week until he decided to try to open the box from a
distance with the aids of wires. If the dynamite exploded, he would be safe; but then he
realized that if the dynamite exploded, it would blow to pieces all the stones in the box.
From that time on Tom could think of nothing but the box in the bank and the
fortune that he could have if he could open the box safely. He asked everyone he knew
for advice. Different people gave him different plans of opening the box, but they did
not believe in their own plans enough to try them out.
38
One day the inspector came to collect the tax on Tom’s inheritance. Tom was very
glad to see him. He showed the inspector Uncle Philip’s letter and gave him the key to
the box. The man said he would think it over and come back later. Of course, he never
came back. Would you?
So there’s Tom’s dilemma. A rich man, he is at the same time poor. He has a box
with great fortune in it, but also with a powerful charge of dynamite in it that will
explode when the key is used to unlock it.
What advice can you give? Can you help Tom? What is your plan? [9].
Exercise 12. Read the story, write the end of the story presenting your arguments
and express your opinion of Elinor.
SONG IN A QUIET WORLD
After Alfred Coppard
Jack fell in love with a deaf girl. She was a good girl but was really stone deaf. Fire
a gun near her ear and she would not notice it, she couldn’t. Yet, the marriage turned
out a success for Elinor Parsons was not only beautiful but clever. She was not mutedeaf for she had not been born deaf – her deafness came as a result of an accident. That
was why she could speak to you and say what she wanted; but to talk to her you had to
use the finger language, or she could lip-read you, or you had to write on a piece of
paper.
When she was old enough, she began to work on her father’s farm. As time went
on Jock found employment with Mr. Parsons driving a lorry. That was how he met and
fell in love with Elinor.
They were married and went to live in a little house belonging to Elinor’s father at
the corner of the holding. Somewhere in the following year Elinor gave birth to twins,
two girl babies at once. From the very beginning she adored them, laughed and cried as
she nursed them. But there was one thing she was really upset about – she could not
hear her babies’ voices. For a year or so Elinor was so full with her glory – her babies
were never out of her sight and she did not allow anyone beside herself to take care of
them, not even let Jack handle and dandle them. But as soon as the girls could walk and
talk, they passed from their mother’s arms to the knees of their father – they were struck
by the deaf woman’s inability to hear them. She could feed them, play with them, bathe
them, and then they would go to their father, who alone could hear them, understand
them and answer their questions. They loved their mother as children always must, but
it was their father who was ready with what their mother lacked.
When they were ten, they were sweet little singers, blonde and blue-eyed, and
Elinor, who had never heard them speak, grieved that no sound from them had ever
passed that lonely silence which separated her from her children. She wanted greatly to
hear her girls’ voices, and her passionate wish grew stronger and stronger until she
started seeing dreams in which she was no longer deaf. In her dreams she could hear
39
voices, like the voices of opera prima donnas, singing a song that she could make
nothing of. Yet, she was sure that they were the voices of her children. Such dreams
gave her a powerful hope that her lack of hearing was curable, despite the long period of
deafness. She was almost hysterical when she told Jack about the dreams and her
theory. He was not so sure as she was. Not now – he said – it was too late: but Elinor
was only the more angry with him.
Trying to find something that could bring about the miracle, Elinor read in a
magazine about an operation that was still experimental and dangerous. The operation
might kill her – but there was always some danger in any serious operation. Or she
might go clean mad! No one could be sure of success, it could be no good after all and
leave her in chronic suffering. Yet, there was one chance in ten that the hearing would
be restored, perhaps for a short time only. The doctors themselves hardly expected more
than short rise out of the dark silence followed by a return to deafness. These were the
chances Elinor had to face in order to hear, even though once only, the voices of her
children. Yet, she went to the hospital without hesitation because if there was one good
chance, she had to take it.
After the operation she lay hoping for weeks and weeks, not knowing one way or
the other because her head and ears were covered with bandages. One day she thought
she heard something at last. No more than a very distant sound it was, but she could
hear it! When she heard it again, it did not stop and started growing into something that
she could not understand until at last the noise of the world rolled over her like the
waters of a stormy sea. But the joy of that woman! At first every sound was too much
for her, because after twenty or more years of silence every word was like a crack of a
gun fired at her. Yet, and it was quite natural too, she wanted to be taken home at once
to hear the voices of her children; but that could not be allowed yet.
Home she went at last.
Now, it is up to you to think up the end of the story. Was her hearing restored for
good and all? Was it restored but for a short time only? How did the children take her
now that she could hear, if she could? Or, perhaps, the operation was not a success
after all? Give it all a good thought and try to finish the story in a way which seems
most probable to you [9].
40
Exercise 13. Read the story and write the end of the story presenting your
arguments. Try to make the end of the story fascinating for your reader to be carried
away into the world of fantasy.
THE ADVENTURE OF MY AUNT
By Washington Irving
My aunt was a big woman, very tall, with a strong mind and will. She was what
you may call a very manly woman. My uncle was a thin, small man, very weak, with
no will at all. He was no match for my aunt. From the day of their marriage he began
to grow smaller and weaker. His wife's powerful mind was too much for him; it
weakened his health.
My aunt took all possible care of him; half the doctors in town visited him and
prescribed medicine for him enough to cure a whole hospital. She made him take all
the medicines prescribed by the doctors, but it didn't help him. My uncle grew worse
and worse, and one day she found him dead.
My aunt was very sorry by the death of her poor dear husband. Now she was
sorry that she had made him take so much medicine and felt, that he was the victim
of her kindness. Anyhow, she did all that a widow could do to honour his
memory.
She spent very much money on her mourning dress, she wore a miniature of
him about her neck as large as a small clock; and she had a full-length portrait of him
always hanging in her bedroom. All the world praised her conduct. “A woman who
did so much to honour the memory of one husband, deserves soon to get another,"
said my aunt's friends.
Some time passed, and my aunt decided to move to Derbyshire where she had a
big country-house. The house stood in a lonely, wild part of the country among the
grey Derbyshire hills.
The servants, most of whom came with my aunt from town, did not like the
sad-looking old place. They were afraid to walk alone about its black-looking
rooms. My aunt herself seemed to be struck with the lonely appearance of her house.
Before she went to bed, therefore, she herself examined the doors and windows and
locked them with her own hands. Then she carried the keys from the house together
with a little box of money and jewels to her own room. She always saw to all things
herself.
One evening after she had sent away her girl-servant she sat by her toilet-table
arranging her hair. For, in spite of her sorrow for my uncle, she still cared very much
about her appearance. She sat for some time looking at her face in the glass first on
one side, then on the other. As she looked, she thought of her old friend, a rich gentleman of the neighbourhood, who had visited her that day and whom she had known
since her girlhood.
Suddenly she thought she heard something move behind her. She looked round
quickly, but there was nothing to be seen. Nothing but the painted portrait of her
41
poor dear husband on the wall behind her. She gave a heavy sigh to his memory as
she always did whenever she spoke of him in company and went on arranging her
hair. Her sigh was re-echoed. She looked round again, but no one was to be seen.
“Oh, it is only the wind,” she thought and went on putting her hair in papers,
but her eyes were still fixed on her own reflection and the reflection of her husband's
portrait in the looking-glass. Suddenly it seemed to her that in the glass she saw one
of the eyes of the portrait move. It gave her a shock.
“I must make sure,” she thought and moved the candle so that the light fell on
the eye in the glass. Now she was sure that it moved. But not only that, it seemed to
give her a wink exactly as her husband used to do when he was living. Now my aunt
got really frightened. Her heart began to beat fast. She suddenly remembered all the
frightful stories about ghosts and criminals that she had heard.
But her fear soon was over. Next moment, my aunt who, as I have said, had a
remarkably strong will, became calm. She went on arranging her hair. She even sang
her favourite song in a low voice and did not make a single false note. She again
moved the candle and while moving it she overturned her workbox. Then she took the
candle and began without any hurry to pick up the articles one by one from the
floor. She picked up something near the door, then opened the door, looked for a
moment into the corridor as if in doubt whether to go and then walked quietly out.
She hurried down the stairs and ordered the servants to arm themselves with
anything they could find. She herself caught a red-hot poker and, followed by her
frightened servants, returned almost at once. They entered the room. All was quiet
and exactly in the same order as when she had left it. They came up to the portrait
of my uncle.
“Pull down that picture,” ordered my aunt.
A heavy sigh was heard from the portrait. The servants stepped back in fear.
“Pull it down at once,” cried my aunt.
The picture was pulled down, and … [3].
Exercise 14. Read the following poem and say why it appeals to you, if it does.
Toss the ideas on the subject “Life”. Narrow the subject to topics, choose one and dwell
upon it in writing.
A man of words and not of deeds,
Is like a garden full of weeds;
And when the weeds begin to grow,
It’s like a garden full of snow;
And when the snow begins to fall,
It’s like a bird upon the wall;
And when the bird away does fly,
It’s like an eagle in the sky;
And when the sky begins to roar,
It’s like a lion at the door;
42
And when the door begins to crack,
It’s like a stick across your back;
And when your back begins to smart,
It’s like a penknife in your heart;
And when your heart begins to bleed,
You’re dead, and dead, and dead indeed.
Exercise 15. Does the proverb “A Friend in Need is a Friend Indeed” suit the
situation described in the story below? Present your arguments. Try to explain, why
Harry wanted to look better that he was. Is it true-to-life?
HOW LARRY HELPED HIS FRIEND
“Larry,” said his friend one day. “I want to ask you to do me a good favour. You
see, I met a girl and fell in love with her. I want her to think that I am well-to-do. And
you must help me.”
“How can I do it?” asked Larry.
“It is very easy,” said the friend. “Tomorrow I shall invite her for lunch to a
restaurant in our street. At 12 o’clock you will drop in. Of course, I’ll see you, invite
you to our table and introduce you to miss Ferguson – that’s her name. I shall ask you to
sit down at our table with us. Then I shall begin talking about myself. And every time I
mention anything that belongs to me you interrupt me and begin to swell me. That’s all.
So you boost and boost until she believes that I am a millionaire.”
“All right,” said Larry. “Leave it to me.”
Next afternoon Larry entered the restaurant. His friend was having lunch with a girl
there. He called Larry and introduced him to miss Ferguson. Then he invited Larry to
take a seat at their table.
“I was telling miss Ferguson,” began Larry’s friend “that last Sunday I was out at
my little place in the country…”
“Little place in the country – huh!” Larry broke in. “Listen to that , lady, he calls it
a place in the country! It is an estate, that’s what it is!”
His friend smiled and went on.
“No matter, old man, so I was out there at my shack…”
“Shack, huh? It’s a palace, that’s what it is!” Larry broke in again.
“Well,” continued his friend, “I was going to say that I called the maid…”
“You called the maid – huh?” interrupted him Larry. “Why don’t you say that you
called one of the maids? As far as I know, you have five or six maids and some butlers.”
“All right, let it be one of the maids,” said his friend, “and I told her to bring me
some hot water, sugar and a little whiskey. You see, I got a cold – “
“Cold?” whooped Larry. “Listen, lady, do you hear this guy saying he got a cold?
It is galloping consumption, that’s what it is!” [8].
43
Exercise 16. Give a definition to a “Smoking Chimney” and write why “smoking
chimneys” are sometimes angry with their husbands.
SMOKING CHIMNEY
One afternoon going to the field a farmer saw his neighbour Thomas, who was
sitting in the kitchen garden not far from the house and eating his dinner alone. The
farmer approached him and asked:
“What are you doing here? Why are you having your dinner here, alone and not at
home?”
“Well,” answered Thomas after a short pause, “the chimney smokes.”
“That’s too bad,” said the farmer, “let’s have a look at it, I shall help you to repair
it.”
And the farmer went to enter the house. But as soon as he opened the door, a
broom fell on his head and a woman’s voice cried:
“Oh, you old rascal, go away, or I’ll kill you…!”
The farmer left the house at once and came up to Thomas. He put his hand on his
neighbour’s shoulder and said to him smiling:
“Never mind, my chimney smokes sometimes too.”[8].
Exercise 17. Comment on your choice: better to be poor and happy or to be rich
and live in fear.
THE COUNTRY MOUSE AND THE CITY MOUSE
One day a city mouse met a country mouse in the field. The country mouse was
eating grains and ground-nuts.
“Hallo, friend!” the city mouse said.
“Hallo!” answered the country mouse.
“Why do you eat such bad food?” asked the city mouse. “I always eat only good
food and as much as I want.”
“Do you work hard to get your food?”
“No, I don’t work at all.”
The country mouse was surprised.
“Is that so?” she asked.
“Surely. Come with me and see. You will like everything in the city. You will
never think of this field again and you will never want to come back.”
The country mouse wanted very much to see the place where her friend lived. She
went together with the city mouse. They walked and walked. At last they came to the
city. There were many big and small houses in the city and the friends went to one of
them.
“There is a room in the house,” said the city mouse “where the people keep bread
and other food. Let’s go there.”
44
There was a lot of food in the room. The country mouse was very glad.
“So much food! I can’t believe my eyes! What shall we begin with?” she asked.
“Come on! Let’s have dinner. You may take what you like,” the city mouse said.
They started to eat. At this moment they heard the sounds of people’s voices.
“Run! Run away quick!” the city mouse cried in fear.
And they both ran away very fast. When they stopped at last, the country mouse
turned to her friend.
“Oh, my heart was in my mouth,” she said, “I was very much afraid. I am going
back to the field to eat the bad food without fear. I think it is better to be poor and happy
than to be rich and live in fear.” [8].
Exercise 18. Read the following two stories “A Broken Vase” and “Why Was She
Angry?” and share your opinion on the relations between a young man and a young
woman.
A BROKEN VASE
This is an old story about a poor young man who was in love with a rich beautiful
girl.
They both lived in London. The girl’s house, a big comfortable house, was situated
in a quiet street near an old park. The young man lived on the outskirts of the city in an
old wooden hut near the docks.
One day the girl invited the young man to come to dinner on her birthday. The
young man wanted to make her a present. He wanted to buy something beautiful for her,
but he did not know how to do it, as he had little money.
The next morning he went to a shop. There were many fine things there: rings,
watches and what not.
But all of them were very expensive. Then he saw a vase, it was so beautiful that
he could not take his eyes off. That was a good present for his sweetheart, but it was
also rather expensive.
As he was looking at the vase for about half an hour, the manager of the shop had
noticed him. The young man looked so pale, and was unhappy that the manager
understood everything and decided to help him. He showed the young man another vase
broken into many pieces and said: “I shall order my servant to pack it and take it to your
sweetheart. When he enters the house he will fall down and drop it. The girl will think
that the servant broke the vase.”
On the birthday the servant came to the girl’s house and fell down as soon as he
entered the room full of people. There was horror on the faces of the guests. The girl
began to cry. But when she unpacked the vase everybody saw that each piece was
packed separately. And that was the end of the young man’s love [8].
45
WHY WAS SHE ANGRY?
A young man was in love with a beautiful girl. One day when they were walking in
the park near the girl’s house she said to him:
“Tomorrow is my birthday, will you come to have dinner with me?”
“Of course, I shall,” said the young man, “and I’ll send you red roses, one rose for
each year of your life.”
The same evening the young man went to a florist’s. As the girl was twenty years
old, he paid for twenty roses and asked the florist to send them to the girl’s house the
next day.
He left the address and a letter full of love.
The florist knew the young man very well because he often bought flowers in his
shop.
The florist thought: “The young man is a good customer, my price for the roses
was too high, I’ll send thirty roses instead of twenty.” And he did so. The next morning
he sent thirty red roses to the girl. In the afternoon when the young man came to see her,
she did not want to speak to him. He was very unhappy and went back home. But he
never knew why she was so angry with him. Why? [8].
Exercise 19. We need the skill of outlining when we plan our writing, explore our
ideas about the topic, and organise our material. An outline of a passage states the main
idea sentence and lists significant supporting facts, details, or examples in brief note
form.
Study an outline of the text given below then add some items to the outline or
correct it if you think it is necessary.
1. A curious wife.
2. A desire to test the husband.
3. A message.
4. Bill’s sudden arrival.
5. Hiding under the bed.
6. A loving husband.
NEWS FOR PEERER
By Peter Langdale
Stella was as curious as any wife should be who’s left her husband a note telling
him he could look after himself in the future because she is fed up with his bad temper
when he comes home evenings, and that she has just had enough of cleaning and
polishing and cooking in a three-room flat for a man who has got as much sense of
gratitude as an undertaker has a sense of humour.
She was curious because she had never done this before; she had never had time.
They had only been married three months, and that’s not really long enough for a girl to
46
know all about what happens when a wife gives her husband the air in writing. She
wanted to see how Bill reacted to that note on the dressing table; whether he took it
bravely and went out to face the world fearless and wifeless, or whether he crumpled.
She hoped he would crumple.
Anyway, the best way to see a thing, she decided logically, was to go to the place
where it was happening and keep your eyes open.
It has been two-fifteen in the afternoon, when she had written the note, and by
three-fifteen she had changed her mind quite a few times, packed a suitcase with a few
clothes, just for appearance, and closed the front door behind her with a firm resolution
never to enter the flat again until Bill went down on his knees and begged pardon.
Knowing Bill was due home at five o’clock, the thought occurred to her that unless
she hurried she would miss the show, and if she did that no one would forgive her, least
of all herself.
So, she did enter the flat again, but she didn’t look at it that way. After all, maybe
she had been a little harsh with the darling boy; perhaps there was something in this
businessman idea or else why did movie magnates make pictures of them? And then – a
horrible thought flashed through her mind – there was a chance, an awful chance, that
Bill would kill himself with that gun he had bought during the burglar alarm. He might
even take to drinking his head off with his pay envelope (he might even start drinking
and go on with it until he ran out of money), or put his head in the gas oven.
In fact there were quite a number of things he might do, and Stella began to think
she had been led back to the flat by some Fate which had a personal interest in the
destiny of young couples.
She walked into the bedroom and noticed that her message was still there, just
where she had placed it on the dressing table. So Bill hadn’t been back yet. She was in
time to prevent disaster and that unpleasant follow-through (after-effect) which they
always printed in the papers whenever anyone committed suicide.
Glancing around the room, the only place she could think of to watch from was
under the bed. From this angle she had a view of the note on the dressing table.
She would be able to watch Bill’s reaction when he read the note; and then, if he
didn’t stage a horizontal (упасть в обморок) but went to the drawer where the gun was
kept instead, she would jump out and save him.
Too bad she couldn’t have a cushion or two to help her get comfortable under the
bed, but there wasn’t space. The floor was rather hard, and it wasn’t possible to move
much, because the underside of the mattress was so close; an inch lower and she
couldn’t have squeezed in at all.
Just as her pose was reproducing the first stage of paralysis, the front door opened
and Bill came into the hall with a hearty “Hello, darling! You there?”
A few strides and he was in the bedroom. He saw the note and, looking from under
the bed Stella watched him read it, turn it over, and finally fold it away in his pocket.
There was dead silence while he stood beside the dressing table staring blankly into
space; deciding whether to use a gun or a gas meter, Stella supposed. She was all ready
to leave her hiding place the moment he made for the drawer where the weapon lay.
Instead, he opened his wardrobe and, with a deep sigh, took out a suit, which he put on.
47
Going out to discuss the problem with a friend, thought Stella, or maybe …
maybe he would make a date with a pre-marriage sweetheart! She hadn’t thought of
dames before.
But this horrible idea was crushed out of her by Bill’s weight as he sat heavily on
the bed and changed his shoes. When he had got the second shoe on he began to hum. It
was a lighthearted tune, the kind a man hums when he is in high spirits.
Stella got angry. He wasn’t in the least sorry. A hard, insensitive brute who could
watch his quarter-year-bride walk out on him just like that. He had no feelings, and she
felt she wouldn’t care less if he dropped dead on the floor beside her.
When he had dressed she saw him, still humming, write something on the back of
her note, fold it in reverse way, and replace it in its original place on the dressing table.
Then he brushed his suit carefully, fixed his tie straight, gave himself the once-over
in the mirror, and went into the hall.
Immediately the front door closed Stella got out from underneath the bed and
snatched at the note. This must be some kind of clue to his movements.
She read: “It’s much softer ON the bed” [9].
Exercise 20. The items in the following outline are mixed. Put them in the right
order.
1. Two young dreamers.
2. A man from Washington.
3. A bandaged hand and a lot of paint on hands.
4. General Pinkney and his daughter.
5. The great Magister and the great Rosenstock.
A SERVICE OF LOVE
After O. Henry
Joe Larrabee dreamed of becoming a great artist. Even when he was six, people in
the little western town where he lived used to say, “Joe has great talent, he will become
a famous artist.” At twenty, he left his hometown and went to New York. He had his
dreams - but very little money.
Delia had her dreams too. She played the piano so well in the little southern village
where she lived that her family said, “She must finish her musical training in New
York.” With great difficulty they collected enough money to send her north “to finish”.
Joe and Delia got acquainted at a friend’s house where some art and music students
had gathered to discuss art, music and the newest plays. They fell in love with each
other, and in a short time they married.
Mr. and Mrs. Larrabbee began their married life in a little room. But they were
happy, for they had their Art, and they had each other. Joe was painting in the class of
the great Magister. Mr. Magister got a lot of money for his pictures – and he took a lot
48
of money for his lessons. Delia was taking piano lessons from the great Rosenstock, and
he was taking a lot of money from Delia.
The two young dreamers were very, very happy while their money lasted. But it
didn’t last very long. Soon, they didn’t have enough to pay for their lessons and eat
three times a day. When one loves one’s Art, no service seems hard. So Delia decided
she must stop taking lessons and give lessons herself. She began to look for pupils. One
evening, she came home very excited, with shining eyes.
“Joe, dear,” she announced happily, “I’ve got a pupil. General Pinkney – I mean –
his daughter, Clementina. He’s very rich, and they have a wonderful house. She’s so
beautiful – she dresses in white; and she is so nice and pleasant! I’m going to give her
three lessons a week; and just think, Joe! Five dollars a lesson. Now, dear, don’t look so
worried, and let’s have supper. I’ve bought some very nice fish.”
But Joe refused to listen to her. “That’s all right for you, Delia, but all wrong for
me,” he protested. “Do you suppose I’m going to let you work while I continue to study
Art? No! Never! I can get a job as mechanic or clean windows. I’ll get some kind of
work.”
Delia threw her arms around him. “Joe, dear, you mustn’t think of leaving Mr.
Magister and your Art. I am not giving up music. The lessons won’t interfere with my
music. While I teach, I learn, and I can go back to Rosenstock when I get a few more
pupils.”
“All right,” said Joe. “But giving lessons isn’t Art.”
“When one loves one’s Art, no service seems too hard,” said Delia.
During the next week, Mr. and Mrs. Larrabbee had breakfast very early. Joe was
painting some pictures in Central Park, and he needed the morning light especially, he
said. Time flies when you love Art, and it was usually seven o’clock in the evening
when Joe returned home. At the end of the week, Delia, very proud but a little tired, put
fifteen dollars on the table. “Sometimes,” she said, “Clementina is a very difficult pupil.
And she always wears white. I’m tired of seeing the same colour.”
And then Joe, with the manner of Monte Cristo, pulled eighteen dollars out of his
pocket and put it on the table too. “I sold one of my pictures to a man from
Washington,” he said. “And now he wants a picture of the East River to take with him
to Washington.”
“I’m so glad you haven’t given up your Art, dear,” Delia said. “You are sure to
win! Thirty-three dollars! We have never had so much money to spend.”
The next Saturday evening, Joe came home first. He put his money on the table and
then washed what seemed to look a lot of paint from his hands. Half an hour later, Delia
arrived. There was a big bandage on her right hand. “Delia, dear, what has happened?
What is the matter with your hand?” Joe asked.
Delia laughed, but not very happily. “Clementina,” she explained, “asked me to
have lunch with her and the General after the lesson. She’s not very strong, you know,
and when she was giving me some tea, her hand shook and she spilled a lot of very hot
water over my hand. But General Pinkney bandaged my hand himself. They were both
so sorry. Oh, Joe, did you sell another picture?” She had seen the money on the table.
49
“Yes,” said Joe. “To the man from Washington. What time this afternoon did you
burn your hand, Delia?”
“Five o’clock, I think,” said Delia. “The iron – the water was very hot. And
Clementina cried and General Pinkney …”
Joe put his arms round Delia. “Where are you working, Delia? Tell me,” he asked
in a serious voice.
Delia was about to say something but suddenly tears appeared in her eyes and she
began to cry. “I couldn’t get any pupils,” she said. “And I didn’t want you to stop taking
lessons, so I got a job ironing shirts in the big laundry on Twenty-Fourth Street. This
afternoon I burnt my hand with a hot iron. Don’t be angry with me, Joe. I did it for your
Art. And now, you have painted those pictures for the man from Washington…”
“He isn’t from Washington,” said Joe slowly.
“It makes no difference where he is from,” said Delia. “How clever you are, Joe!
How did you guess that I wasn’t giving music lessons?”
“I guessed,” Joe said, “because about five o’clock this afternoon, I sent some oil up
to the ironing-room. They said a girl had burnt her hand. You see, dear, I work as a
mechanic in that same laundry on Twenty-Fourth Street.”
“And the man from Washington…?”
“Yes, dear,” Joe said. “The man from Washington and General Pinkney are both
creations of the same art, but you can’t call it painting or music.” And they both began
to laugh.
“You know, dear,” Joe said. “When one loves one’s Art, no service seems …”
But Delia stopped him with her hand on his mouth. “No,” she said, “just – when
one loves.” [14].
Exercise 21. Make up an outline to the text.
TONIGHT OR NEVER
After a many sleepless night I decided to speak to Helen and to tell her of my
feeling to her. But where could I do it? I could not take her to a village pub, firstly there
were always too many people there who knew both me and Helen separately and
together. I could not ask her to my place because I had no such a thing as MY PLACE.
The room upstairs in the house of the local veterinary doctor whose assistant I was
could hardly be called my place. So I decided to take her out to “dinner and diner
dance” as one of the advertisements said. There was such a place about two hours ride
from the village. I could only be sure that no farmer would call me out on an urgent call
to see his cow or her calf or a sheep. The place was ruinous for my pocket, but after all
it is not every day that you take the girl you love to a restaurant.
I drove to Helen’s house to pick her up. She was not quite ready yet and I had to
wait for her in the kitchen under the understanding smiles of her elder sister and the
giggles of her three younger brothers. At last she came down the stairs to me looking
absolutely out of this world and a stranger.
50
As we came the restaurant hall was half-full. I realized too late that I hadn’t
reserved a comfortable table for us. If I had thought about it a little earlier, we would
have a nice table waiting for us. The headwaiter came up to me. He asked if we were
staying with the Lindons (it was one of the richest families in the vicinity and they often
had guests who came for supper to their restaurant, as I learned later). On learning that
we were not, he took us to a quiet corner far from the dancing floor and near the kitchen
door. I began to wonder how I was going to manage the distance to the dance floor with
so many eyes of people by whom we would have to pass, when the waiter said that
since they had no dance that night it would not make much difference to us anyway.
Then he gave us the menu card. To my utter dismay the card was in French. I wish I
knew French. Somehow I was sure Helen did not speak a word of French either.
So when the waiter prepared to take down the order I simply pointed my finger into
three things that looked most incomprehensible to me with a lot of apostrophes to them.
At least I was not mistaken in one thing. They looked on a platter as fanciful as in
spelling and proved as tasty. But when Helen asked me what it was that we were eating
I stumbled and mumbled and at last said it was my little surprise for her. To her, she
said, it tasted much like roasted veal in mushrooms and sourcream.
The coffee was also as good as our housekeeper Mrs. Hudson made on her best
days with her best efforts. The service was very good and quiet. Only the waiter could
not understand that the restaurant could not help my greatest problem, my shyness. With
intervals between the courses growing longer our stretches of silence grew too. I could
not make myself say a word outside some casual remark. I felt so clumsy and awkward
that my own clumsiness helped me in the long run.
Pouring some coffee into Helen’s cup I spilt it on her dress. ”Oh,” I exclaimed,
“I’ve ruined your dress. You looked so lovely in it, so heavenly. I’ll never forgive
myself.” Helen started telling me it was nothing, it was just a small thing not worthy
any worry over. But I pressed my point saying that she looked now a terrible mess.
When I realized my mistake I began to explain what I really had meant to say. The more
I spoke the worse I felt and I couldn’t stop. Helen looked at me in silence now. She
could hardly insert a word for all the flow, of torrent of words that rushed from me,
breaking all the inner dams, making me free.
At last I stopped and looked at the girl in amazement. I fell silent as suddenly as I
began to speak. We stared at each other. Then Helen began to laugh. She laughed and
laughed and laughed. Two or three people from the tables around looked at us, one of
them with a certain envy. I felt strong and witty. They probably thought I had said
something really funny to make a charming girl like Helen laugh so much.
As I paid the bill and left a generous tip for the waiter who still watched me with
some secret compassion, I decided to tell the girl the most important thing. I was about
to tell her I loved her, I needed her. But as I opened my mouth not a sound came out. I
tried again, and still the same result. Then Helen looked at me and said very simply,
“You know, James, when we get married, you and me, I mean, and if you are in a
difficulty to say something to me, I’ll make that thing again. I’ll help you to spill coffee
on my dress.” That is all [9].
51
Exercise 22. Read the text and follow the teacher’s instruction.
THE GIFT OF THE MAGI
By O.Henry
One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in
pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable
man and the butcher until one's cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony
that such close dealing implied. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eightyseven cents. And the next day would be Christmas.
There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and howl.
So Della did it. Which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs,
sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating.
While the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding from the first stage to the
second, take a look at the home. A furnished flat at $8 per week. It did not exactly
beggar description, but it certainly had that word on the look-out for the mendicancy
squad.
In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no letter would go, and an
electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring. Also appertaining
thereunto was a card bearing the name “Mr. James Dillingham Young”.
The “Dillingham” had been flung to the breeze during a former period of
prosperity when its possessor was being paid $30 per week. Now, when the income was
shrunk to $20 the letters of “Dillingham” looked blurred, as though they were thinking
seriously of contracting to a modest and unassuming D. But whenever Mr. James
Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat above he was called “Jim” and
greatly hugged by Mrs. James Dillingham Young, already introduced to you as Della.
Which is all very good.
Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the powder rag. 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 fare and sterling –
something just a little bit near to being worthy of the honor of being owned by Jim.
There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you have seen a
pier-glass in an $8 flat. A very thin and very agile person may, by observing his
reflection in a rapid sequence of longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception
of his looks. Della, being slender, had mastered the art.
Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. 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.
52
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. Had the Queen of Sheba lived in the flat
across the airshaft, Della would have let her hair hang out the window some day to dry
just to depreciate Her Majesty's jewels arid gifts. Had King Solomon been the janitor,
with all his treasures piled up in the basement, Jim would have pulled out his watch
every time he passed, just to see him pluck at his beard from envy.
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: “Mme. 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 practiced 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 fob chain simple and chaste in design, properly proclaiming its value by
substance alone and not by meretricious ornamentation – as all good things should do. 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. Grand as the
watch was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly on account of the old leather strap that
he used in place of a chain.
When Della reached home her intoxication gave way a little to prudence and
reason. She got out her curling irons and lighted the gas and went to work repairing the
ravages made by generosity added to love. Which is always a tremendous task, dear
friends – a mammoth task.
Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, close-lying curls that made
her look wonderfully like a truant 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?”
53
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 of
saying little silent prayers 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, as immovable as a setter at the scent of quail. 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 it 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, laboriously, as if he had not arrived at that
patent fact yet even after the hardest mental labor.
“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 a 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. For ten
seconds let us regard with discreet scrutiny some inconsequential object in the other
direction. Eight dollars a week or a million a year – what is the difference? A
mathematician or a wit would give you the wrong answer. The magi brought valuable
gifts, but that was not among them. This dark assertion will be illuminated later on.
Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon he table.
“Don't make any mistake, Dell,” he said, “about me. I don't think there's anything
in the way of haircut or shave or a shampoo that could make me like my girl any less.
But if you 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 an ecstatic scream of
joy; and then, alas! a quick feminine change to hysterical tears and wails, 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 for long in a Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell, with
54
jewelled rims – just the shade to wear in the beautiful vanished hair. They were
expensive combs, she knew, and her heart had simply craved and yearned over them
without the least hope of possession. And now, they were hers, but the tresses that
should have adorned the coveted adornment were 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 then 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 on her bright and
ardent 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 'em 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.” [14].
The magi, as you know, were wise men – wonderfully wise men – who brought
gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents.
Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of
exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful
chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other
the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be
said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. Of all who give and receive
gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi.
Exercise 23. Read the text and follow the teacher’s instruction.
THE MAN WITH THE SCAR
After William Somerset Maugham
It was on account of the scar that I first noticed him, for it ran broad and red, in a
great crescent from his temple to his chin. This scar spoke of a terrible wound and I
wondered whether it had been caused by a sabre or by a fragment of shell. It was
unexpected on that round, fat and good-humored face. He was a powerful man of more
than common height. I never saw him in anything but a very shabby grey suit, a khaki
shirt, and a battered sombrero. He was far from clean.
He used to come into the Palace Hotel at Guatemala City every day at cocktail time
and tried to sell lottery tickets. If this was the way he made his living it must have been
a poor one.
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I was standing at the bar one evening, my foot on the rail, with an acquaintance –
they make a very good dry Martini at the Palace Hotel in Guatemala City – when the
man with the scar came up. My companion greeted him kindly.
“How is life, general?”
“Not so bad. Business is none too good, but it might be worse.”
“What will you have, general?”
“A brandy.”
He tossed it down and put the glass back on the bar.
He nodded to my acquaintance.
“Thank you.”
Then he turned away and offered his tickets to the men who were standing next to
us.
“Who is your friend?” I asked. “That’s a terrific scar on his face.”
“It doesn’t add to his beauty, does it? He’s an exile from Nicaragua. He was a
revolutionary general. When his ammunition gave out they captured him together with
his staff and tried him by court-martial. Such things are rather summary in these
countries, you know, and he was sentenced to be shot at dawn. I guess he knew what
was coming to him when he was caught. He spent the night in gaol and he and the
others, there were five of them altogether, passed the time playing poker.
In the morning they were led into the courtyard of the prison and placed against a
wall, the five of them side by side, with the firing party facing them. There was a pause
and our friend asked the officer in charge of them what the devil they were keeping
them waiting for. The officer said that the general commanding the government troops
wished to attend the execution and they awaited his arrival.
Soon the general came into the courtyard of the prison. The usual formalities were
performed and the general asked the condemned men whether there was anything they
wished before the execution took place. Four of the five shook their heads, but our
friend said that he wished to say good-bye to his wife.
“All right’, said the general, ‘I have no objections to that. Where is she?”
“She is waiting at the prison door.”
“Then it will not cause a delay of more than five minutes.”
“Hardly that, Senor General,” said our friend.
“Have him placed on one side.”
Two soldiers advanced and between them the condemned rebel walked to the spot
indicated. The officer in command of the firing squad on a nod from the general gave an
order, there was a ragged report, and the four men fell.
There was a little stir at the gateway. A woman came into the courtyard, with quick
steps, and then, her hand on her heart, stopped suddenly. She gave a cry and with
outstretched arms ran forward.
She was in black, with a veil over her hair, and her face was dead white. She was
hardly more that a girl, a slim creature, with little regular features and enormous eyes.
Her loveliness was such that as she ran, her mouth slightly open and the agony of her
face beautiful, a gasp of surprise was wrung from those indifferent soldiers who looked
at her.
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The rebel advanced a step or two to meet her. She threw herself into his arms and
with a hoarse cry of passion: soul of my heart, he passed his lips to hers. And at the
same moment he drew a knife from his ragged shirt – I haven’t a notion how he
managed to retain a possession of it – and stabbed her in the neck. The blood spurted
from the cut vein and dyed his shirt. Then he threw his arms round her and once more
pressed his lips to hers.
It happened so quickly that many did not know what had happened. The rebel
knew where he was striking and it was impossible to staunch the blood.
“She’s dead,” the officer whispered.
The rebel crossed himself.
“Why did you do it?” asked the general.
“I loved her.”
A sort of sigh passed through those men crowded together and they looked with
strange faces at the murderer. The general stared at him for a while in silence.
“It was a noble gesture,” he said at last. “I cannot execute this man. Take my car
and have him led to the frontier. I offer you the homage which is due from one brave
man to another.”
My friend stopped and for a little while I was silent.
“But how then did he get the scar?” I asked at length.
“Oh, that was due to a bottle that burst when I was opening it. A bottle of ginger
ale.’
“I never liked it,” said I [12].
Exercise 24. Read the text and follow the teacher’s instruction.
THE SAND GLASS
Anna was a dear old servant in our house in Paris. She had been a servant in our
family before I was born and had been nurse to my sisters Marie and Yvonne and to me.
She helped with the work in the house, she did the sewing, she could cook an omelette,
or any other dish better that anyone else I know. We all loved her, she was so kind, so
helpful and so constantly busy. From early morning till late at night she never rested
and nothing was too much trouble for her. If we were in difficulties, from a torn frock to
a broken heart, it was to Anna that we went for help and comfort.
Then one day she came to say that she was leaving us. “Leaving us, Anna!” I said,
hardly able to believe my ears.
“Yes, Miss Lucille,” she said, and then , blushing and looking rather confused she
said, “I’m going to be married.” You could have knocked me down with a feather
because we had known her all our lives, we girls naturally thought of Anna as old, but I
don’t suppose she was more that forty when she left us. So she left us and married
Henry Behr.
It was the greatest mistake she ever made in her life and though Anna never said a
word about it, I am sure she regretted it almost from the day she was married. Anna had
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saved quite a bit of money during the years she had been with us, and with it she bought
a house in Tours.
It was quite a big old house and she made her living by letting rooms in it. And
when I say she made the living, I mean that, for Henry did absolutely nothing at all. My
father, my mother and my sisters and I at some time or other all visited Anna, but none
of us liked Henry. He was ten or twelve years older Anna, a big, unpleasant, selfish,
bad-tempered man. I never once saw him smile or say a kind word to anyone. But all
this was nothing compared with his laziness. That was almost beyond belief. I don’t
think he had ever done a stroke of work in his life. He certainly never did after he
married Anna. He got up about 10 o’clock in the morning (by which time Anna had
been up for four or five hours) and sat in his armchair by the big stove, and there he
would sit until it was time to go to bed. Anna had to leave her work and hurry to bring
him his breakfast of rolls and butter and coffee. Then he sat and read his paper and
smoked his pipe or slept while Anna ran about upstairs cleaning all the rooms (and with
Anna everything was always as clean and bright as a new pin), making the beds, doing
the washing, or running downstairs half a dozen times to answer the doorbell. And in
the midst of it all she had to prepare the vegetables and cook the huge meal that he
always expected promptly at one o’clock. A dozen times a day you would hear him
shout “Anna” and she had to leave her work and hurry to see what he wanted. It would
usually be to pick up the pipe that he had dropped, or find another cushion for his head,
get him a glass of wine or put some more wood on the fire. If she didn’t come running
the moment he called, he would burst into a fit of rage, his face would go red with anger
and you could hear his shouting all over the house.
Well, for the next year or two we lost touch with Anna. Tours is a hundred and
fifty miles or so from Paris, and in any case we hated to see her unhappy, so we never
went to see her. Then, one day, I went to Tours to visit some friends and I thought I
would call and see Anna. I went to the house where she lived near the Church of NotreDame-la-Riche. I rang the bell – it was one of those old-fashioned bells that you pulled
– and I could hear it ringing through the house. I waited but there was no sound of
footsteps in the house. I waited, perhaps for two minutes, but still all was silent. But the
house was occupied; there was smoke coming from the chimney (it was in December),
and I recognized Anna’s clean, bright curtains in the windows. I rang again, louder than
before, and then, after another minute or so, I heard footsteps slowly coming down the
stairs. The door opened and I saw Anna. The moment she saw me her face lighted up
with a smile. I threw my arms round her and said, “Oh, Anna, how nice to see you
again!” There was no doubt about her joy at seeing me. She took me upstairs to her cosy
room, neat and clean and tidy as Anna’s rooms always were. The room was exactly as I
had always known it – except that Henry wasn’t there. Oh, yes, and except for one other
thing. On the table near Anna’s chair (the chair where Henry always used to sit) was a
big sand-glass, I think you call it an egg-timer.
I noticed that Anna looked every now and then at the sand-glass and whenever she
saw that the sand (a peculiar, dark-coloured sand) had run through, she turned the glass
and let the sand run through again. Just then the front doorbell rang again, but instead of
jumping up at once to answer it as Anna used to do, she just turned the sand-glass over
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and sat still. When the sand had all run through, she got up quietly and went downstairs
to open the door. So that was why I had to wait so long! It all seemed very funny, but I
didn’t say anything. She came back and we continued our chat, and then she said, “But
you must be hungry, Miss Lucille; I’ll make lunch. Would you like an omelette?” I
certainly was hungry and, knowing Anna’s omelette of old, I said there was nothing I
should like better. But again she didn’t get up. She just turned over the sand-glass and
when she saw the sand had run through, she got up and cooked the lunch. It was not
until we had finished lunch that I said, “Where is Henry?” Anna said, “He’s dead; he
died about a year ago.” I couldn’t say, “I’m sorry to hear it,” I just sat silent. Anna
continued, “He got into one of his rages and suddenly dropped down dead.” There was a
pause. She picked up the sand-glass. “I had him cremated,” she said. “These,” and she
pointed to the sand, “are his ashes. He never worked while he was alive, but I see to it
that he does now he’s dead.” [1].
Exercise 25. Read the text and follow the teacher’s instruction.
THE LAST LEAF
By 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, in traversing this route, suddenly meet himself coming back, without a cent
having been paid on account!
So, to quaint old Greenwich Village the art people soon came prowling, hunting for
north windows and eighteenth-century gables and Dutch attics and low rents. Then they
imported some pewter mugs and a chafing dish or two from Sixth Avenue, and became
a “colony”.
At the top of a three-story brick house in Greenwich Village Sue and Johnsy had
their studio. “Johnsy” was familiar for Joanna. One was from Maine; the other from
California. They had met at the table d'hôte of an Eight Street “Delmonico's”, 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.
Over on the east side this ravager strode boldly, smiting his victims by scores, but his
feet trod slowly through the maze of the narrow and moss-grown “places”.
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
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moving, on her painted iron bedstead, looking through the small Dutch windowpanes 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. This way people
have of lining-up on the side of the undertaker makes the entire pharmacopoeia look
silly. Your little lady has made up her mind that she's not going to get well. Has she
anything on her mind?”
“She – she wanted to paint the Bay of Naples some day,” said Sue.
“Paint? – bosh! Has she anything on her mind worth thinking about twice – a man,
for instance?”
“A man?” said Sue, with a jew's-harp twang in her voice. “Is a man worth – but,
no, doctor; there is nothing of the kind.”
“Well, it is the weakness, then,” said the doctor. “I will do all that science, so far as
it may filter through my efforts, can accomplish. But whenever my patient begins to
count the carriages in her funeral procession I subtract 50 per cent from the curative
power of medicines. If you will get her to ask one question about the new winter styles
in cloak sleeves I will promise you a one-in-five chance for her, instead of one in ten.”
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 towards
the window. She stopped whistling, thinking she was asleep.
She arranged her board and began a pen-and-link drawing to illustrate a magazine
story. Young artists must pave their way to Art by drawing pictures for magazine stories
that young authors write to pave their way to Literature.
As Sue was sketching a pair of elegant horseshow riding trousers and a monocle on
the figure of the hero, an Idaho cowboy, 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 a little later “eleven”; and then “ten”, and “nine”; and then
“eight” and “seven”, almost together.
Sue looked 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, gnarled and decayed at the roots, climbed half way up the
brick wall. The cold breath of autumn had stricken its leaves from the vine until its
skeleton branches clung, almost bare, to the crumbling bricks.
“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.”
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“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! Why, that's almost as good a chance as we have in New York
when we ride on the street cars or walk past a new building. Try to take some broth
now, and let Sudie go back to her drawing, so she can sell the editor man with it, and
buy port wine for her sick child, and pork chops for her greedy self.”
“You needn't get any more wine,” said Johnsy, keeping her eyes fixed out the
window. “There goes another. No, I don't want any broth. 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 tomorrow. 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. “Besides, 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 a 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 'til I come back.”
Old Behrman was a painter who lived on the ground floor beneath them. He was
past sixty and had a Michael Angelo's Moses beard curling down from the head of a
satyr along the body of an imp. Behrman was a failure in art. Forty years he had wielded
the brush without getting near enough to touch the hem of his Mistress's robe. He had
been always about to paint a masterpiece, but had never yet begun it. For several years
he had painted nothing except now and then a daub in the line of commerce or
advertising. 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. He drank gin to excess, and still talked of
his coming masterpiece. For the rest he was a fierce little old man, who scoffed terribly
at softness in any one, and who regarded himself as the protector of the two young
artists in the studio above.
Sue found Behrman smelling strongly of juniper berries in his dimly lighted den
below. In one corner was a blank canvas on an easel that had been waiting there for
twenty-five years to receive the first line of the masterpiece. 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.
Old Behrman, with his red eyes plainly streaming, shouted his contempt and
derision for such idiotic imaginings.
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“Vass!” he cried. “Is dere people in de world mit der foolishness to die because
leafs dey drop off from a confounded vine? I haf not heard of such a thing. No, I will
bose as a model for your fool hermit-dunderhead. Vy go you allow dot silly pusiness to
come in der prain of her? Ach, dot poor leetle Miss Yohnsy.”
“She is very ill and weak,” said Sue, “and the fever has left her mind morbid and
full of strange fancies. Very well, Mr. Behrman, if you do not care to pose for me, you
needn't. But I think you are a horrid old – old flibbertigibbet.”
“You are just like a woman!” yelled Behrman. “Who said I will not bose? Go on. I
come mit you. For half an hour I haf peen trying to say dot I am ready to bose. Gott! dis
is not any blace in which one so goot as Miss Yohnsy shall lie sick. Some day I will
baint masterpiece, and ve shall all go away. Gott! yes.”
Johnsy was sleeping when they went upstairs. Sue pulled the shade down to the
window-sill, and motioned Behrman into the other room. In there they peered out the
window fearfully at the ivy vine. Then they looked at each other for a moment without
speaking. A persistent, cold rain was falling, mingled with snow. Behrman, in his old
blue shirt, took his seat as the hermit-miner on an upturned kettle for a rock.
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 on
the vine. Still dark green near its stem, but with its serrated edges tinted with the yellow
of dissolution and decay, it hung bravely from a branch some twenty feet above the
ground.
“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 lonesomest thing in all the world is a soul when it
is making ready to go on its mysterious, far journey. The fancy seemed to possess her
more strongly as one by one the ties that bound her to friendship and to earth were
loosed.
The day wore away, and even through the twilight they could see the lone ivy leaf
clinging to its stem against the wall. And then, with the coming of the night the north
wind was again loosed, while the rain still beat against the windows and pattered down
from the low Dutch eaves.
When it was light enough Johnsy, the merciless, 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
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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.”
An hour later she said.
“Sudie, some day I hope to paint the Bay of Naples.”
The doctor came in the afternoon, and Sudie 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, and
the attack is acute. 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 danger. You've won. Nutrition
and care now – that's all.”
And that afternoon Sue came to the bed where Johnsy lay, 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 said. “Mr. Behrman died of
pneumonia today in the hospital. He was ill only two days. The janitor found him on the
morning of the first day in his room downstairs helpless with pain. His shoes and
clothing were wet through and icy cold. They couldn't imagine where he had been on
such a dreadful night. And then they found a lantern, still lighted, and a ladder that had
been dragged from its place, and some scattered brushes, and a palette with green and
yellow colors mixed on it, and – look out of the window, dear, at the last ivy leaf on the
wall. Didn't you wonder why it never fluttered or moved when the wind
blew? Ah, darling, it's Behrman's masterpiece – he painted it there the
night that the last leaf fell.” [14].
Exercise 26. Read the text and follow the teacher’s instruction.
THE READING PUBLIC
After S. Leacock
“Wish to look about the store? Oh, by all means, sir,” said the manager of one of
the biggest bookstores in New York. He called to his assistant, “Just show the
gentleman our ancient classics – the ten-cent series.” With this he dismissed me from
his mind.
In other words he had guessed at a glance that I was a professor. The manager of
the biggest bookstore cannot be deceived in a customer. He knew I would hang around
for two hours, get in everybody’s way and finally buy the Dialogues of Plato for ten
cents.
He despised me, but a professor standing in s corner buried in a book looks well in
a store. It is a sort of advertisement.
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So it was that standing in a far corner I had an opportunity of noticing something of
this up-to-date manager’s methods with his real customers.
“You are quite sure it’s his latest?’ a fashionably-dressed woman was saying to the
manager.
“Oh, yes, madam, this is Mr. Slush’s very latest book, I assure you. It’s having a
wonderful sale.” As he spoke he pointed to a huge pile of books on the counter with the
title in big letters – Golden Dreams.
“This book,” said the lady idly turning over the pages, “is it good?”
“It’s an extremely powerful thing,” said the manager, “in fact it’s a masterpiece.
The critics are saying that without exaggeration it is the most powerful book of the
season. It is bound to make a sensation.”
“Oh, really!” said the lady. “Well, I think I’ll take it then.”
Suddenly she remembered something. “Oh, and will you give me something for my
husband? He’s going down south. You know the kind of thing one reads on vacation?”
“Oh, perfectly, madam. I think we have just what your husband wants. Seven
Weeks in the Sahara, 7 dollars; Six Months in a Wagon, 6 dollars; Afternoons in an Oxcart, two volumes 4 dollars 30 cents. Or, here now, Among the Cannibals of Corfu, or
Among the Monkeys of New Guinea, 10 dollars.” And with this the manager laid his
hand on another pile as numerous as the pile of Golden Dreams.
“It seems rather expensive,” remarked the lady.
“Oh, a most expensive book,” repeated the manager in a tone of enthusiasm. “You
see, it’s the illustrations, actual photographs of actual monkeys; and the paper.”
The lady bought Among the Monkeys.
Another lady entered. A widow, judging by her black dress.
“Something new in fiction,” repeated the manager, “yes, madam, here’s a charming
thing, Golden Dreams, – a very sweet story. In fact, the critics are saying it’s the
sweetest thing Mr. Slush has done.”
“Is it good?” said the lady.
“It’s a very charming love story. My wife was reading it aloud only last night. She
could hardly read for tears.”
“I suppose it’s quite a safe book?” asked the widow anxiously. “I want it for my
daughter.”
“I assure you it’s perfectly safe. In fact, it is written quite in the old style, like the
dear old books of the past; quite like – “here the manager paused with a slight doubt –
“Dickens and Fielding and – er – so on.”
The widow bought the Golden Dreams, received it wrapped up, and passed out
“Have you got any good light reading?” called out the next customer in a loud
cheerful voice – he had the air of a man starting on a holiday.
“Yes,” said the manager, and his face almost broke into a laugh. “Here’s an
excellent thing, Golden Dreams; quite the most humorous book of the season. My wife
was reading it last night. She could hardly read for laughing.”
After that the customers came and went in a string. To one lady Golden Dreams
was sold as exactly the reading for a holiday, to another as the very book to read after a
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holiday; another bought it as a book for a rainy day, and a fourth, as the right sort of
reading for a fine day.
Among the Monkeys was sold as a sea story, a land story, a story of the jungle, a
story of the mountains; each time at a different price.
After a busy two hours I drew near and from a curiosity that I couldn’t resist said,
“That book, Golden Dreams, you seem to think it’s a very wonderful book?”
The manager knew I had no intention of buying the book, so he shook his head.
“Frankly speaking, I imagine it’s perfectly rotten.”
“Haven’t you read it?” I asked in amazement.
“Dear me, no!” said the manager. His air was that of a milkman who is offered a
glass of his own milk. “A pretty time I’d have if I tried to read all the new books. It’s
quite enough to keep track of them without that.”
“But those people,” I went on, deeply puzzled, “won’t they be disappointed?”
“By no means!” he said. “They won’t read it. They never do.”
“But at any rate your wife thought it a fine story,” I insisted.
The manager smiled widely. “I am not married, sir” [9].
Exercise 27. Read the text and follow the teacher’s instruction.
A TREE GROWS IN BROOKLYN
Christmas was a wonderful time in Brooklyn. It was in the air, long before it came.
The first hint of it was Mr. Morton going around the schools teaching Christmas carols,
but the first sure sight was the store windows.
You have to be a child to know how wonderful is a store window filled with dolls
and other toys. And this wonder came free to Francie. It was nearly as good as actually
having the toys to be permitted to look at them through the glass window.
The air was cold and still, and full of the pine smell and the smell of tangerines
which appeared in the stores only at Christmas time and the mean street was truly
wonderful for a little while.
There was a cruel custom in the neighborhood. It was about the trees still unsold
when midnight of Christmas Eve approached. There was a saying that if you waited
until ten, you might not have to buy a tree; that “they'd throw them at you”. That was
literally true.
At midnight on the Eve the kids gathered where there were unsold trees. The man
threw each tree in turn, starting with the biggest. Kids volunteered to stand up against
the throwing. If a boy didn't fall down under the weight of the tree, the tree was his.
Only the bravest boys and some of the young men elected to be hit by a big tree. The
others waited until a tree came up that they could stand against. The little kids waited
for the tiny, foot-high trees and shrieked in delight when they won it.
On the Christmas Eve when Francie was ten and Neeley nine, mama let them go
down and have their first try for a tree. Francie had chosen her tree earlier in the day.
She had stood near it all afternoon and evening praying that no one would buy it. To her
65
joy, it was still there at midnight. It was ten feet high. Its branches were bound with new
white rope.
The man took the tree out first. Before Francie could speak up, a boy of eighteen
known as Punky Perkins, stepped forward and ordered the man to chuck the tree at him.
The man hated the way Punky was so confident. He looked around and asked.
“Anyone else wanna take a chance on it?”
Francie stepped forward: “Me, Mister.”
A spurt of laughter came from the tree man.
“You're too little,” he objected.
“Me and my brother – we're not too little together.”
She pulled Neeley forward. The man looked at them – a thin girl of ten with
hollows in her cheeks but with the chin still baby-round. He looked at the little boy with
his fair hair and round blue eyes.
“Two ain't fair,” cried Punky.
“Shut up!” advised the man who held all power in that hour. “These kids got the
nerve. Stand back the rest of yous. These kids is goin' to have a show at this tree.”
The others made a wavering lane. Francie and Neeley stood at one end of it and the
big man with the big tree at the other. The man raised his great arms to throw the great
tree. He noticed how tiny the children looked at the end of the short lane. For a moment,
the tree man hesitated.
“Why don't I just give 'em the tree, say Merry Christmas and let them go? What's
the tree to me? I can't sell it no more this year and it won't keep till the next year.” The
kids watched him solemnly as he stood there in his moment of thought. “But then,” he
went on thinking, “if I did that, all the others would expect to get them handed to them.
And the next year nobody at all would buy a tree from me; they'd all wait to get 'em
handed to 'em on a silver plate. I ain't big enough man to give this tree away for nothing.
I ain't big enough to do a thing like that. I gotta live in this world, they got to get used to
it. They got to learn to give and take punishment. And this God-damned world.”
Francie saw the tree leave the hands of the tree-man. The whole world stood still as
something dark and great came through the air. There was nothing – nothing but
darkness and something that grew and grew as it rushed at her.
The tree hit them. Neeley went to his knees but Francie pulled him up before he
could go down. There was a mighty swishing sound as the tree settled. Everything was
dark, green and prickly. Then she felt a sharp pain at the side of her head where the
trunk of the tree had hit her. She felt Neeley trembling.
When some of the older boys pulled the tree away, they found Francie and her
brother standing upright, hand in hand. Blood was coming from scratches on Neeley's
face. He looked more like a baby than ever with his big blue eyes and white skin made
more noticeable because of the clear red blood. But they were smiling. Had they won
the biggest tree in the neighborhood? Some of the boys cried, “Hurray!” A few adults
lapped. The tree man shouted at them, “And now get the hell out of here with your tree,
you lousy bastards.”
Francie had heard swearing since she had heard words. They were emotional
expressions of uneducated people with small vocabularies; they made a kind of dialect.
66
The phrases could mean many things according to the expressions and tone used in
saying them. So now, when Francie heard themselves called lousy bastards, she smiled
at the kind man. She knew that he was really saying, “Goodbye – God bless you.”
It wasn't easy dragging that tree home. They had to pull it inch by inch. In a way, it
was good that it took them so long to get the tree home. It made them more triumphant.
Francie smiled when she heard a lady say, “I never saw such a big tree!” A man called
after them, “You kids musta robbed a bank to buy such a big tree.” The cop on their
corner stopped them, examined the tree, and solemnly offered to buy it for ten cents –
fifteen cents if they'd deliver it to his home. Francie nearly burst with pride although she
knew he was joking. She said she wouldn't sell it for a dollar, even. He shook his head
and said she was foolish not to grab the offer.
It was like acting in a Christmas play where the setting was a street corner and the
time, a frosty Christmas Eve and the characters, a kind cop, her brother and herself.
Francie knew all the dialogue. The cop gave her his lines right and Francie picked up
her cues happily and the stage directions were the smiles between the spoken lines.
They had to call up to papa to help them get the tree up the narrow steps stairs.
Papa came running down. His amazement at the size of the tree was flattering. He
pretended to believe that it wasn't theirs. Francie had a lot of fun convincing him
although she knew all the while that the whole thing was make-believe. Papa pulled it in
front and Francie and Neeley pushed it back and they began forcing the big tree up the
narrow flights of stairs. Johnny was so excited that he started singing, not caring that it
was rather late at night. The narrow walls took up his clear sweet voice. Doors opened
and families gathered on the landings, pleased and amazed at something unexpected
being added to that moment of their lives.
They set the tree up in the front room. The tree filled the whole room. There was
no money to buy tree decorations or lights. But the great tree standing there was
enough. The room was cold. It was a poor year, that one - too poor for them to buy the
extra coal for the front room stove. The room smelled cold and clean and aromatic.
Every day, during the week the tree stood there. Francie put on her sweater and cap and
went in and sat under the tree. She sat there and enjoyed the smell and the dark
greenness of it.
Poor as they were that year, it was a very nice Christmas and the children did not
lack for gifts. Mama gave each of them a pair of drawers and a woolen shirt with long
sleeves. Aunt Evy gave them a box of dominoes. Papa showed them how to play.
Neeley didn't like the game, so papa and Francie played together and he pretended to be
sad when he lost. Everybody was happy [7].
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Exercise 28. Read the text and follow the teacher’s instruction.
NO STORY
After O.Henry
I was doing space-work work on the Beacon, hoping to be put on salary. Some one
had cleared with a rake or a shovel a small space for me at the end of a long table piled
high with exchanges, Congressional Records, and old files. There I did my work. I
wrote whatever the city whispered or roared or chuckled to me on my diligent
wanderings about its streets. My income was not regular.
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 doormat with the
“welcome left off”. 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 eyes.
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 was driven to emphasis by the premonition that I was to lose one of the dollars on
the spot.
“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 with an editorial air.
“It’s a girl. A beauty. Rosebuds covered with dew – violets in the mossy bed – and
truck like that. 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! 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 train for the city. 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!
That’s about how innocent and beautiful she is. You ought to see her! What could I do?
She had paid her last cent for her railroad ticket. I couldn’t leave her loose 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.”
68
“That’s no story,” said I. “Every ferry-boat brings or takes away girls from Long
Island.”
The premature lines on Tripp’s face grew deeper. He frowned seriously from his
tangle of hair. He separated his hands and emphasised his answer with one shaking
forefinger. “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 clear 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 making a rapid mental calculation.
“One dollar to me,” said Tripp. “for whiskey. Are you on?”
I smiled enigmatically and spread my elbows as if to begin writing again. But this
grim, abject, specious, subservient, burr-like wreck of a man would not be shaken off.
His forehead suddenly became shiningly moist.
“Don’t you see,” he said with a sort of desperate calmness, “that the girl has to get
back home to-day – not to-night, nor to-morrow, but to-day? I can’t do anything for her.
I thought you could make a newspaper story out of it and win out a piece of money on
general results. But, anyhow, don’t you see that she’s got to get back home before
night?”
And then I began to feel that dull, leaden, soul-depressing sensation known as the
sense of duty. Why should that sense fall upon one as a weight and a burden? I knew
that I was doomed that day to give up the bulk of my store of hard-wrung coin to the
relief of this Ada Lowery.
But I swore to myself that Tripp’s whiskey dollar would not be forthcoming. In a
kind of chilly anger I put on my coat and hat.
Tripp, admissive, cringing, vainly endeavouring to please, conducted me via the
street-car to the boarding house. I paid the fares.
Tripp pulled the bell at the door of the mouldy red-brick boarding-house. At its
faint tinkle he paled, and crouched as a rabbit makes ready to spring away at the sound
of a bunting-dog. I guessed what a life he had led, terror-haunted by the coming
footsteps of landladies.
“Give me one of the dollars – quick!” he said.
The door opened six inches. The landlady stood there with white eyes – they were
white, I say – and a yellow face, holding together at her throat with one hand a dingy
pink flannel dressing-sack. Tripp thrust the dollar through the space without a word, and
it brought us entry.
“She’s in the parlour,” said the landlady, turning the back of her sack upon us.
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. I was introduced and a candy
suffered neglect while she conveyed to me a naive interest, such as a puppy dog (a prize
winner) might bestow upon a crawling beetle or a frog.
Tripp took his stand by the table, with the fingers of one hand spread upon it, as an
attorney or a master of ceremonies might have stood. But he looked the master of
nothing.
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“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 a
beauty. “Why – er – Miss Lowery,” I began feeling terribly awkward, will you tell me
the circumstances of the case?”
“Oh,” said Miss Lowery, beaming for a moment, “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
–“
Down went the golden head upon her hands. What a storm of tears! By and by she
took another candy and went on.
“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 or 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.”
Down went her head again. Such a beautiful April storm! Unrestrainedly she
sobbed. I wished I could have comforted her. But I was not George. And I was glad I
was not Hiram – and yet I was sorry, too.
“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. So is everybody.”
I could have sworn it myself. Throughout Miss Ada Lowery’s life all men would
be good to her. They would strive, contrive, struggle and compete to hold umbrellas
over her hat, check her trunk, pick up her handkerchief, and buy for her soda at the
fountain.
“He’s promised me an automobile and a motor-boat. 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. 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. I guess, George, maybe, is on the bun, or got roped in
by some other girl, or maybe gone to the dogs on account of whisky or the races. You
go back home, and you’ll be all right.”
But now the time was come for action, for the hands of the clock were moving
close to noon. Frowning upon Tripp, I argued gently with Miss Lowery, delicately
convincing her of the importance of returning home at once. I impressed upon her the
truth that it would be absolutely necessary to her future happiness that she mention to
Hiram the wonders of the city that had swallowed up the unlucky George. 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 twenty cents for Miss Lowery. We saw her aboard her ferry-boat
and stood watching her wave her handkerchief at us until it was the tiniest white patch
70
imaginable. And then Tripp and I faced each other, brought back to earth, left dry and
desolate in the shade of the sombre verities of life
The spell wrought by beauty and romance was dwindling. I looked at Tripp and
almost sneered. He looked more careworn, contemptible and disreputable than ever. I
figured the two silver dollars remaining in my pocket and looked at him with the halfclosed eyelids of contempt. He mustered up an imitation of resistance.
“Can’t you get a story out of it?” he asked. “Some sort of a story?”
“Not a line,” said I. “I can fancy the look on Grime’s face if I should try over any
slush like this. But we’ve helped the little lady out, and that’ll have to be our only
reward.”
“I’m sorry,” he said almost inaudibly. 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 caught sight of something shining on his cheap watchchain. I stretched out my hand and seized it curiously. 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, alias Tripp. What’s the use?”
I produced a dollar from my pocket and unhesitatingly laid it in his hand [14].
Exercise 29. Read the text and follow the teacher’s instruction.
RUTHLESS
By William de Mille
Outside, the woods lay basking in clear October sunlight; trees a riot of colour, air
full of Autumn’s tang and the sharp, exciting small of moist, leaf-covered earth.
Inside, a man smiled grimly as he turned from the bathroom cabinet, entered the
expensively primitive living-room of his mountain camp, and crossed to a closet set in
the pine wall.
It was his special closet, with a spring lock and in it he kept guns, ammunition,
fishing-rods, tackle and liquor. Not even his wife was allowed to have a key, for Judson
Webb loved his personal possessions and felt a sense of deep outrage if they were
touched by any hand but his own. The closet door stood open, he had been packing his
things away for the winter and in a few minutes would be driving back to civilization.
As he looked at the shelf on which the liquor stood his smile was not attractive. All
the bottles were unopened except one quart of Bourbon which was placed invitingly in
front, a whiskey glass by its side. This bottle was less than half full. As he took it from
the shelf his wife spoke from the adjoining bedroom.
“I’m all packed, Judson. Hasn’t Alec come to run the water off and get the keys?”
Alec lived about a mile down the road and acted as caretaker for the city folks
when they were away.
71
Marcia came into the room carrying her suitcase. She paused in surprise as she saw
the bottle in her husband’s hand.
“Judson!” she exclaimed, “you’re not taking a drink at ten o’clock in the
morning?”
“You wrong me, my dear,” he chuckled. “I’m not taking anything out of this bottle.
I am putting a little kick into it.”
His closed hand opened and he put upon the table two tiny white pellets as he
started to uncork the whiskey. His eyes narrowed as she watched him. She had learned
to dread that tone of his voice, the tone he used when he was planning to “put
something over” in a business deal.
“Whoever broke into my closet last winter and stole my liquor will probably try it
again once we are out of here,” he went on, “only this time he’ll wish he hadn’t.” She
caught her breath at the cruel vindictiveness of his manner as one by one he dropped the
tablets into the bottle and held it up to watch them dissolve.
“What are they?” she asked. “Something to make him sick?”
“And how!” He seemed fascinated as he saw the genial Bourbon changing into a
lethal dose: “At least no one has found an antidote: once it’s down – it’s curtains.” He
corked his bottle vengeance and set it back in the shelf alongside the little whiskey
glass.
“Everything nice and handy,” he remarked approvingly. “Now, Mr.Thief, when
you break in, drink hearty, I won’t begrudge you this one.”
The woman’s face was pale. “Don’t do it, Judson,” she gasped. “It’s horrible – it’s
murder.”
“The law doesn’t call it murder if I shoot a thief who is entering my house by
force,” he said harshly. “Also, the use of rat poison is quite legal. The only way any rat
can get into this closet, is to break in. What happens then is his affair, not mine.”
“Don’t do it, Judson,” she begged. “The law doesn’t punish burglary by death,
what right have you?”
“When it comes to protecting my property I make my own laws.” His deep voice
suggested a big dog growling at threatened loss of a bone.
“But all they did was to steal a little liquor,” she pleaded. “They didn’t do any real
damage.”
“That’s not the point,” he said. “If a man holds me up and robs me of five dollars it
makes me just as sore as if he took a hundred. A thief’s a thief.”
She made one last effort: “We won’t be here till next spring. I can’t bear to think of
that deathtrap waiting there all the time. Suppose something happens to us – and no one
knows!”
He chuckled once more at her earnestness. “We’ll take a chance drop dead, you can
do as you please. The stuff will be yours.”
It was useless to argue, she knew. He had always been ruthless in business and
whenever anything crossed him. Things had to be done his way. She turned toward the
door with a sigh of defeat. “I’ll walk down the road and say good-bye at the
farmhouse,” she said quietly. “You can pick me up there.”
She had made up her mind to tell Alec’s wife. Someone had to know.
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“Okay, my dear,” he smiled genially, “and don’t worry about your poor, abused
little burglar. No one is going to get hurt who hasn’t got it coming to him.”
As she went down the path he started to close the closet door, then paused as he
remembered his hunting boots drying outside on the porch. They belonged in the closet,
so leaving the door open he went to fetch them from the heavy rustic table on which
they stood, along with his bag and top coat.
Alec was coming up from the lake and waved to him from a distance. A chipmunk,
hearing Judson’s heavy tread, abandoned the acorn he was about to add to his store
within the cabin wall and disappeared, like an electric bulb burning out.
Judson, reaching for his boots, stepped fairly upon the acorn, his boot slid from
under him and his head struck the massive table as he fell.
Several minutes later he began to regain his sense. Alec’s strong arm was
supporting him as he lay on the porch and a kindly voice was saying. “It was not much
of a fall, Mr.Webb. You ain’t cut none: just knocked out for a minute. Here, take this,
it’ll put you together.”
A small whiskey glass was pressed to his lips. Dazed and half
conscious, he drank [8].
Exercise 30. Read the text and follow the teacher’s instruction.
UNCLE THEO
My Uncle Theophilus (we always call him Theo) is the uncle with the real brains.
He is a tall, thin, grey-haired man whose thoughts are always on learning and nothing
else. He is quiet and gentle and absent-minded and with about as much sense as a little
child where money is concerned. Well, he applied for a post in Camford University. It
was a very good post and there were hundreds of candidates who applied for it, and
about fifteen, including Theo, were asked to go to be interviewed.
Now Camford is a very small town; there is only one hotel in it, and this was so
full that they had to put many of the candidates two in a room. Theo was one of these,
and the man who shared the room with him was a self-confident fellow called Adams,
about twenty years younger than Theo, with a loud voice, and a laugh that you could
hear all over the hotel. But he was a clever fellow all the same and had a good post in
Iscariot College. Well, the Dean, that’s the head of the department of the University,
and the committee interviewed all the candidates; and as a result of this interview, the
number was reduced to two, Uncle Theo and Adams. The committee couldn’t decide
which of the two to take, so they decided to make their final choice after each candidate
had given a public lecture in the college lecture-hall. The subject they had to speak on
was “The Civilisation of the Ancient Sumerians”; and the lecture had to be given in
three day’s time.
Well, for three days Uncle Theo never left his room. He worked day and night at
that lecture, writing it out and memorizing it, almost without eating or sleeping. Adams
didn’t seem to do any preparation at all. You could hear his voice and his laughter in the
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bar where he had a crowd of people around him. He came to his room late at night,
asked Uncle Theo how he was getting on with his lecture, and then told him how he had
spent the evening playing billiards, or at the theatre or music-hall. He ate like a horse
and slept like a log; and Uncle Theo sat up working at his lecture.
The day of the lecture arrived. They all went into the lecture-room and Theo and
Adams took their seats on the platform. And then, Theo discovered to his horror, that
the typewritten copy of his speech had disappeared! The Dean said he would call on the
candidates in alphabetical order, Adams first: and with despair in his heart, Theo
watched Adams calmly take the stolen speech out of his pocket and read it to the
professors who were gathered to hear it. And how well he read it! Even Theo had to
admit that he couldn’t have read it nearly so eloquently himself, and when Adams
finished there was a great burst of applause. Adams bowed and smiled and sat down.
Now it was Theo’s turn. But what could he do? He had put everything he knew
into that lecture. His mind was too much upset to put the same thoughts in another way.
With a burning face he could only repeat, word for word, in a low, dull voice the lecture
that Adams had spoken so eloquently. There was hardly any applause when he sat
down.
The dean and the committee went out to decide who the successful candidate was,
but everyone was sure what their decision would be. Adams leaned across to Theo and
patted him on the back and said smilingly, “Hard luck, old fellow, but, after all, only
one of us could win.”
Then the Dean and the committee came back. “Gentlemen,” the Dean said, “the
candidate we have chosen is – Mr. Hobdell.” Uncle Theo had won. You could have
knocked him down with a feather. The audience were completely taken by surprise, and
the Dean continued, “I think I ought to tell you how we arrived at that decision. We
were all filled with admiration at the learning and eloquence of Mr. Adams. I was
greatly impressed; I didn’t think he had it in him. But, you will remember, Mr. Adams
read his lecture to us. When Mr. Hobdell’s turn came, he repeated that speech, word by
word from memory, though, of course, he couldn’t have seen a line of it before. Now a
fine memory is absolutely necessary for this post; and what a memory Mr. Hobdell must
have! That is why we decided that Mr. Hobdell was exactly the man we wanted.”
As they walked out of the room, the Dean came up to Uncle Theo, who was so
confused but so happy that he hardly knew whether he was standing on his head or his
heels; and as he shook Theo’s hand he said, “Congratulations, Mr. Hobdell! But, my
dear fellow, when you are on our staff, you must be more careful and not leave valuable
papers lying about!” [1].
74
Exercise 31. Read the text and follow the teacher’s instruction.
A CUP OF TEA
After Katherine Mansfield
Rosemary Fell was not exactly beautiful. She was young, brilliant, extremely
modern, well-dressed and amazingly well-read in the newest of the new books.
Rosemary had been married for two years, and her husband was very fond of her. They
were rich, really rich, not just comfortably well-off, so if Rosemary wanted to shop, she
would go to Paris as you and I would go to Bond Street.
One winter afternoon she went into a small shop to look at a little box which the
shopman had been keeping for her. He had shown it to nobody as yet so that she might
be the first to see it.
“Charming!” Rosemary admired the box. But how much would he charge her for
it? For a moment the shopman did not seem to hear. The lady could certainly afford a
high price. Then his words reached her, “Twenty-eight guineas, madam.”
“Twenty-eight guineas.” Rosemary gave no sigh. Even if one is rich… Her voice
was dreamy as she answered: “Well, keep it for me, will you? I’ll…” The shopman
bowed. He would be willing of course to keep it for her forever.
Outside rain was falling, there was a cold, bitter taste in the air, and the newly
lighted lamps looked sad… At that very moment a young girl, thin, dark appeared at
Rosemary’s elbow and a voice like a sigh, breathed: “Madam, may I speak to you a
moment?”
“Speak to me?” Rosemary turned. She saw a little creature, no older than herself
who shivered as though she had just come out of the water.
“Madam,” came the voice, “would you let me have the price of a cup of tea?”
“A cup of tea?” There was something simple, sincere in that voice; it couldn’t be
the voice of a beggar.
“Then have you no money at all?” asked Rosemary.
“None, madam,” came the answer.
“How unusual!” Rosemary looked at the girl closer.
And suddenly it seemed to her such an adventure. Supposing she took the girl
home? Supposing she did one of those things she was always reading about or seeing on
the stage? What would happen? It would be thrilling. And she heard herself saying
afterwards to the amazement of her friends: “I simply took her home with me.” And she
stepped forward and said to the girl beside her: “Come home to tea with me.”
The girl gave a start. “You’re – you’re not taking me to the police station?” There
was pain in her voice. “The police station?” Rosemary laughed out. “Why should I be
so cruel? No, I only want to make you warm and to hear – anything you care to tell me.
Come along.”
Hungry people are easily led. The footman held the door of the car open, and a
moment later they were riding through the dusk.
75
“There!” cried Rosemary, as they reached her beautiful big bedroom. “Come and
sit down,” she said, pulling her big chair up to the fire. “Come and get warm. You look
so terribly cold.”
“I daren’t, madam,” hesitated the girl.
“Oh, please,” – Rosemary ran forward – “you mustn’t be frightened, you mustn’t,
really.” And gently she half pushed the thin figure into the chair.
There was a whisper that sounded like “Very good, madam,” and the worn hat was
taken off.
“And let me help you off with your coat, too,” said Rosemary.
The girl stood up. But she held on to the chair with one hand and let Rosemary
pull.
Then she said quickly but so lightly and strangely: “I’m very sorry, madam, but
I’m going to faint. I shall fall, madam, if I don’t have something.”
“Good heavens, how thoughtless I am!’ Rosemary rushed to the bell.
“Tea! Tea at once! And some brandy immediately.”
The maid was gone and the girl almost burst into tears. She forgot to be shy, forgot
everything except that they were both women and cried out: “I can’t go on any longer
like this. I can’t stand it. I wish I were dead. I really can’t stand it!”
“You won’t have to. I’ll look after you. I’ll arrange something. Do stop crying.
Please.”
The other did stop just in time for Rosemary to get up before the tea came.
And really the effect of that slight meal was amazing. When the tea-table was
carried away, a new girl, a light creature with dark lips and deep eyes lay back in the big
chair.
At that moment the door-handle turned.
“Rosemary, can I come in?” It was Philip, her husband.
“Of course.”
He came in. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said as if apologizing, and stopped and stared.
“It’s quite all right,” said Rosemary, smiling. “This is my friend, Miss –“
“Smith, madam,” said the figure in the chair.
“Smith,” said Rosemary. “We are going to have a little talk.”
Philip smiled his charming smile. “As a matter of fact,” he said, “I wanted you to
come into the library for a moment. Will Miss Smith excuse us?”
The big eyes were raised to him, but Rosemary answered for her: “Of course, she
will,” and they went out of the room together.
“I say,” said Philip, when they were alone. “Explain, who is she? What does it all
mean?”
Rosemary, laughing, leaned against the door and said: “I picked her up in the
street. Really. She asked me for the price of a cup of tea and I brought her home with
me.”
“Congratulations!” Philip sounded as though he were joking. “But what on earth
are you going to do with her?”
“Be nice to her,” said Rosemary quickly, “look after her. I don’t know how. We
haven’t talked yet. Just show her – treat her – make her feel – “
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“But,” said Philip slowly, and cut the end of a cigar, “she’s so extremely pretty.
She can’t be more than twenty.”
“Pretty?” Rosemary was so surprised that she blushed. “Do you think so? I – I
hadn’t thought about it.”
“Good Lord!” Philip took a match. “She’s absolutely lovely. Look again, my child.
But let me know if Miss Smith is going to dine with us!”
“You absurd creature!” said Rosemary and went out of the library but not back to
her bedroom. She went to her writing-room and sat down at her desk. Pretty! Absolutely
lovely! Her heart beat like a heavy bell. She opened a drawer, took out five pound notes,
looked at them, put two back, and holding the three in her hand, went back to her
bedroom.
Half an hour later Philip was still in the library when Rosemary came in.
“I only wanted to tell you,” said she and she leaned against the door again, “Miss
Smith won’t dine with us tonight.”
Philip put down the paper. “Oh, what’s happened? Previous engagement?”
Rosemary came over and sat down on his knee. “She insisted on going,” she said,
“so I gave the poor little thing a present of money. I couldn’t keep her against her will,
could I?” she added softly.
There was a pause.
Then Rosemary said dreamily: “I saw a wonderful little box today. It costs twentyeight guineas. Can I have it?”
“You can, little wasteful one,” said he. “You know, I can’t deny you anything.”
But that was not really what Rosemary wanted to say.
“Philip,” she whispered, “am I pretty?” [11].
Exercise 32. Read the text and follow the teacher’s instruction.
UNCONDITIONAL MOM
By Sarah J.Vogt
My mother had a great deal of trouble
with me, but I think she enjoyed it.
Mark Twain
I was a rotten teenager. Not your average spoiled, know-it-all, not-going-to-cleanmy-room, getting-an- attitude-because-I’m-15 teenager. No, I was a manipulative, lying,
acid-tongued monster, who realized early on that I could make things go my way with
just a few minor adjustments. The writers for today’s hottest soap opera could not have
created a worse “villainess”. A few nasty comments here, a lie or two there, maybe an
evil glare for a fishing touch, and things would be grand. Or so I thought.
For the most part, and on the outside, I was a good kid. A giggly, pug-nose tomboy
who liked to play sports and who thrived on competition (a nice way of saying:
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somewhat pushy and demanding). Which is probably why most people allowed me to
squeak by using what I now call “bulldozer behavior tactics”, with no regard for anyone
I felt to be of value. For a while, anyway.
Since I was perceptive enough to get some people to bend my way, it amazes me
how long it took to realize how I was hurting so many others. Not only did I succeed in
pushing away many of my closest friends by trying to control them; I also managed to
sabotage, time and time again, the most precious relationship in my life: my relationship
with my mother.
Even today, almost 10 years since the birth of the new me, my former behavior
astonishes me each time I reach into my memories. Hurtful comments that cut and stung
the people I cared most about. Acts of confusion and anger that seemed to rule my every
move – all to make sure that things went my way.
My mother, who gave birth to me at age 38 against her doctor’s wishes, would cry
to me, “I waited so long for you, please don’t push me away. I want to help you!”
I would reply with my best face of stone, “I didn’t ask for you! I never wanted you
to care about me! Leave me alone and forget I ever lived!”
My mother began to believe I really meant it. My actions proved nothing else.
I was mean and manipulative, trying to get my way at any cost. Like many young
girls in high school, the boys whom I knew were off limits were always the first ones I
had to date. Sneaking out of the house at all hours of the night just to prove I could do
it. Juggling complex lies that were always on the verge of blowing up in my face.
Finding any way to draw attention to myself while simultaneously trying to be invisible.
Ironically, I wish I could say I had been heavy into drugs during that period of my
life, swallowing mind-altering pills and smoking things that changed my personality,
thus accounting for the terrible, razor-sharp words that came flying from the mouth.
However, that was not the case. My only addiction was hatred; my only high was
inflicting pain.
But then I asked myself why. Why the need to hurt? And why the people I cared
about the most? Why the need for all the lies? Why the attacks on my mother? I would
drive myself mad with all the why’s until one day, it all exploded in a suicidal rage.
Lying awake the following night at the “resort” (my pet name for the hospital),
after an unsuccessful, gutless attempt to jump from a vehicle moving at 80 miles per
hour, one thing stood out more than my Keds with no shoe laces. I didn’t want to die.
And I did not want to inflict any more pain on people to cover up what I was truly
trying to hide myself: self-hatred. Self-hatred unleashed on everyone else.
I saw my mother’s pained face for the first time in years – warm, tired brown eyes
filled with nothing but thanks for her daughter’s new lease on life and love for the child
she waited 38 years to bear.
My first encounter with unconditional love. What a powerful feeling.
Despite all the lies I had told her, she still loved me. I cried on her lap for hours one
afternoon and asked why she still loved me after all the horrible things I did to her. She
just looked down at me, brushed the hair out of my face and said frankly, “I don’t
know.”
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A kind of smile penetrated her tears as the lines in her tested face told me all that I
needed to know. I was her daughter, but more important, she was my mother. Not every
rotten child is so lucky. Not every mother can be pushed to the limits I explored time
and time again, and venture back with feelings of love.
Unconditional love is the most precious gift we can give. Being forgiven for the
past is the most precious gift we can receive. I dare not say we could experience this
pure love twice in our lifetime.
I was one of the lucky ones. I know that. I want to extend the gift my mother gave
me to all the “rotten teenagers” in the world who are confused.
It’s okay to feel pain, to need help, to feel love – just feel it without hiding. Come
out from under the protective covers, from behind the rigid walls and the suffocating
persons, and take a breath of life [9].
Exercise 33. Write an essay on the topic “Terrorism The Main Threat.”
• Generate ideas for your writing.
• Brainstorm the vocabulary, connected with the main ideas.
• Decide how many paragraphs you will write (one paragraph for one main idea).
• Write the thesis statement of intent.
• Write a topic sentence for each paragraph.
• Develop topic sentences, making use of the brainstormed vocabulary as much as
possible.
• Choose the appropriate link-words for coherence.
• When you have written, edit carefully.
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БИБЛИОГРАФИЧЕСКИЙ СПИСОК
1. Eckersley C.E. Essential English. – Sofia: Foreign Language Press, 1965.–
Vol.2. – 128 p.
2. Gairns Ruth, Redman Stuart with Collie Joanne. True to Life. English for Adult
Learners. Intermediate. – UK: Cambridge University Press, 1996. – 183 p.
3. Irving W. The Sketch-Book of Geoffrey C. Oxford World Classic. – UK:
Oxford University Press, 2000. – 286 p.
4. Jordan R.R. Academic Writing Course. Study Skills in English. – UK:
Longman, 1999. – 136 p.
5. Joy M. Reid. The Process of Composition. – Second Edition. – USA: Colorado
State University, 1988. – 236 p.
6. Liz & John Soars. Headway. Pre-Intermediate. Student’s Book. – UK: Oxford
University Press, 1996. – 144 p.
7. Английский рассказ 20 века: На англ. яз. Сборник 1/Сост. Н.А.
Самуэльян. – М.: Менеджер, 1999. – 285 с.
8. Английский рассказ 20 века: На англ. яз. Сборник 2/Сост. Н.А.
Самуэльян. – М.: Менеджер, 2000. – 267 с.
9. Английский рассказ 20 века: На англ. яз. Сборник 3/Сост. Н.А.
Самуэльян. – М.: Менеджер, 2000. – 254 с.
10. Колкер Я.М. Основные формы, пути и способы письменного выражения и
развития мыслей//Сб. науч. статей “Обучение языкам в высшей школе”. Выпуск
79. – Ч. 1. – М.: Издательство МГПИ, 1973. – 207 с.
11. Менсфилд К. Короткие рассказы: Учебное пособие/Сост.: С.Г. Костина,
И.Н. Хлебникова. – 3-е изд. – М.: Менеджер, 2000. – 192 с.
12. Моэм С. Избранная проза: Сб. – 2-е изд. – М.: Менеджер, 1999. – 285 с.
13. Моэм У.С. Театр: Книга для чтения на англ. яз. – 3-е изд. – М.: Менеджер,
1999. – 300 с.
14. О’Генри. Сборник рассказов/Сост. Н.А. Самуэльян. – М.: Менеджер,
1998. – 298 с.
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ОГЛАВЛЕНИЕ
ПРЕДИСЛОВИЕ.............................................................................................................. 3
1. RESEARCH ON SECOND LANGUAGE WRITING ................................................ 4
2. WRITTEN LANGUAGE
A. English Rhetorical Style (Description, Narration, Argumentation, Exposition)...... 5
B. Methods of Development.......................................................................................... 6
C. Types of Written Language....................................................................................... 7
D. Types of Classroom Writing Performance ............................................................... 8
E. Characteristics of Written Language: A Writer’s View............................................ 8
3. THE PROCESS OF WRITING .................................................................................. 10
4. THE STRUCTURE OF AN ESSAY/COMPOSITION ............................................. 14
5. PRACTICE.................................................................................................................. 26
БИБЛИОГРАФИЧЕСКИЙ СПИСОК ......................................................................... 80
81