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سریال آموزش زبان extra english
داستان کوتاه a cosmoplite in a cafe صفحه 5
داستان کوتاه the gift of the magi صفحه 1
داستان کوتاه the gift of the magi صفحه 5
داستان کوتاه a cosmoplite in a cafe صفحه 1
داستان کوتاه the gift of the magi صفحه 2
داستان کوتاه a cosmoplite in a cafe صفحه 3
داستان کوتاه a cosmoplite in a cafe صفحه 2
داستان کوتاه the poet and the peasant صفحه 1
براي اطلاع از آپدیت شدن سایت در خبرنامه سایت عضو شويد تا جديدترين مطالب به ايميل شما ارسال شود
آخرین نظرات کاربران
داستان کوتاه cousin tribulation's story
داستان کوتاه an old man lived in a village
داستان کوتاه the boagy beast
داستان کوتاه انگلیسی a wise counting
داستان کوتاه the shower of gold
تبلیغات در سایت
داستان کوتاه انگلیسی past one at rooney's
داستان کوتاه proof of the pudding صفحه 8
داستان کوتاه proof of the pudding صفحه 7
داستان کوتاه proof of the pudding صفحه 6
داستان کوتاه proof of the pudding صفحه 5
داستان کوتاه proof of the pudding صفحه 4
داستان کوتاه proof of the pudding صفحه 3
داستان کوتاه proof of the pudding صفحه 2
داستان کوتاه proof of the pudding صفحه 1
داستان A municipal report صفحه 14
داستان A municipal report صفحه 13
داستان A municipal report صفحه 12
Cousin Tribulation’s Story
by Louisa May Alcott
An illustration for the story Cousin Tribulation’s Story by the author Louisa May Alcott
Painting by William Adolphe Bouguereau, 1880
Dear Merrys:–As a subject appropriate to the season, I want to tell you about a New Year’s breakfast which I had when I was a little girl. What do you think it was? A slice of dry bread and an apple. This is how it happened, and it is a true story, every word.
As we came down to breakfast that morning, with very shiny faces and spandy clean aprons, we found father alone in the dining-room.
“Happy New Year, papa! Where is mother?” we cried.
“A little boy came begging and said they were starving at home, so your mother went to see and–ah, here she is.”
As papa spoke, in came mamma, looking very cold, rather sad, and very much excited.
“Children, don’t begin till you hear what I have to say,” she cried; and we sat staring at her, with the breakfast untouched before us.
“Not far away from here, lies a poor woman with a little new-born baby. Six children are huddled into one bed to keep from freezing, for they have no fire. There is nothing to eat over there; and the oldest boy came here to tell me they were starving this bitter cold day. My little girls, will you give them your breakfast, as a New Year’s gift?”
We sat silent a minute, and looked at the nice, hot porridge, creamy milk, and good bread and butter; for we were brought up like English children, and never drank tea or coffee, or ate anything but porridge for our breakfast.
“I wish we’d eaten it up,” thought I, for I was rather a selfish child, and very hungry.
“I’m so glad you come before we began,” said Nan, cheerfully.
“May I go and help carry it to the poor, little children?” asked Beth, who had the tenderest heart that ever beat under a pinafore.
“I can carry the lassy pot,” said little May, proudly giving the thing she loved best.
“And I shall take all the porridge,” I burst in, heartily ashamed of my first feeling.
“You shall put on your things and help me, and when we come back, we’ll get something to eat,” said mother, beginning to pile the bread and butter into a big basket.
We were soon ready, and the procession set out. First, papa, with a basket of wood on one arm and coal on the other; mamma next, with a bundle of warm things and the teapot; Nan and I carried a pail of hot porridge between us, and each a pitcher of milk; Beth brought some cold meat, May the “lassy pot,” and her old hood and boots; and Betsey, the girl, brought up the rear with a bag of potatoes and some meal.
Fortunately it was early, and we went along back streets, so few people saw us, and no one laughed at the funny party.
What a poor, bare, miserable place it was, to be sure,–broken windows, no fire, ragged clothes, wailing baby, sick mother, and a pile of pale, hungry children cuddled under one quilt, trying to keep warm. How the big eyes stared and the blue lips smiled as we came in!
“Ah, mein Gott! it is the good angels that come to us!” cried the poor woman, with tears of joy.
“Funny angels, in woollen hoods and red mittens,” said I; and they all laughed.
Then we fell to work, and in fifteen minutes, it really did seem as if fairies had been at work there. Papa made a splendid fire in the old fireplace and stopped up the broken window with his own hat and coat. Mamma set the shivering children round the fire, and wrapped the poor woman in warm things. Betsey and the rest of us spread the table, and fed the starving little ones.
“Das ist gute!” “Oh, nice!” “Der angel–Kinder!” cried the poor things as they ate and smiled and basked in the warm blaze. We had never been called “angel-children” before, and we thought it very charming, especially I who had often been told I was “a regular Sancho.” What fun it was! Papa, with a towel for an apron, fed the smallest child; mamma dressed the poor little new-born baby as tenderly as if it had been her own. Betsey gave the mother gruel and tea, and comforted her with assurance of better days for all. Nan, Lu, Beth, and May flew about among the seven children, talking and laughing and trying to understand their funny, broken English. It was a very happy breakfast, though we didn’t get any of it; and when we came away, leaving them all so comfortable, and promising to bring clothes and food by and by, I think there were not in all the hungry little girls who gave away their breakfast, and contented themselves with a bit of bread and an apple of New Year’s day.
An old man lived in the village. He was one of the most unfortunate people in the world. The whole village was tired of him; he was always gloomy, he constantly complained and was always in a bad mood.
The longer he lived, the more bile he was becoming and the more poisonous were his words. People avoided him, because his misfortune became contagious. It was even unnatural and insulting to be happy next to him.
He created the feeling of unhappiness in others.
But one day, when he turned eighty years old, an incredible thing happened. Instantly everyone started hearing the rumour:
“An Old Man is happy today, he doesn’t complain about anything, smiles, and even his face is freshened up.”
The whole village gathered together. The old man was asked:
Villager: What happened to you?
“Nothing special. Eighty years I’ve been chasing happiness, and it was useless. And then I decided to live without happiness and just enjoy life. That’s why I’m happy now.” – An Old Man
Moral of the story:
Don’t chase happiness. Enjoy your life.
Emperor Akbar was in the habit of putting riddles and puzzles to his courtiers. He often asked questions which were strange and witty. It took much wisdom to answer these questions.
Once he asked a very strange question. The courtiers were dumb folded by his question.
Akbar glanced at his courtiers. As he looked, one by one the heads began to hang low in search of an answer. It was at this moment that Birbal entered the courtyard. Birbal who knew the nature of the emperor quickly grasped the situation and asked, “May I know the question so that I can try for an answer”.
Akbar said, “How many crows are there in this city?”
Without even a moment’s thought, Birbal replied “There are fifty thousand five hundred and eighty nine crows, my lord”.
“How can you be so sure?” asked Akbar.
Birbal said, “Make you men count, My lord. If you find more crows it means some have come to visit their relatives here. If you find less number of crows it means some have gone to visit their relatives elsewhere”.
Akbar was pleased very much by Birbal’s wit.
MORAL : A witty answer will serve its purpose.
ONCE upon a time lived a poor little maiden, whose father and mother were both dead, and the child was so very poor that she had no little room to live in nor even a bed to lie on. At last all her clothes were gone excepting those she wore, and she had nothing to eat but a piece of bread, which she held in her hand. She was good and pious, and although forsaken by all the world, she knew that God would take care of her, and she went out into the field and prayed to him.
She was walking along the road with a piece of bread in her hand, when she met a poor old man, who said to her, “Please give me something to eat; I am so hungry.” She gave him the whole piece, and continued her walk.
Presently she saw a little child sitting by the roadside crying, and as she passed, the child cried to her, “Oh, my head is so cold! do give me something to cover it.” Instantly she took off her hood and gave it to the child.
A little farther on the maiden met another child, who said she was freezing for want of a cloak; so she gave up her own.
At length she entered a forest, where it was quite dark, and here she intended to sleep. She had not gone far before she found another poor little child, with scarcely any clothing at all, and nearly dying with cold. The good maiden thought to herself, “It is quite dark now, and no one will see me;” so she took off her skirt and covered the poor, shivering child with it.
Now the good maiden had nothing left in the world, and she was turning to go into the forest and cover herself with leaves, when suddenly a golden shower fell around her from heaven. A little angel had watched the kind maiden and took pity on her and sent down a shower of stars, which turned into golden dollars when they reached the ground. She found herself covered from head to foot with warm clothes. Then she gathered up the money, carried it away, and was rich the rest of her life.
The Shower of Gold
A Fictional Short Story by
Agnes Taylor Ketchum & Ida M. Jorgensen
ONLY ON THE LOWER East Side of New York do the Houses of Capulet and Montague survive. There they do not fight by the book of arithmetic. If you but bite your thumb at an upholder of your opposing house you have work cut out for your steel. On Broadway you may drag your man along a dozen blocks by his nose, and he will only bawl for the watch; but in the domain of the East Side Tybalts and Mercutios you must observe the niceties of deportment to the wink of an eyelash and to an inch of elbowroom at the bar when its patrons include foes of your house and kin.
So, when Eddie McManus, known to the Capulets as Cork McManus, drifted into Dutch Mike’s for a stein of beer, and came upon a bunch of Montagues making merry with the suds, he began to observe the strictest parliamentary rules. Courtesy forbade his leaving the saloon with his thirst unslaked; caution steered him to a place at the bar where the mirror supplied the cognizance of the enemy’s movements that his indifferent gaze seemed to disdain; experience whispered to him that the finger of trouble would be busy among the chattering steins at Dutch Mike’s that night. Close by his side drew Brick Cleary, his Mercutio, companion of his perambulations. Thus they stood, four of the Mulberry Hill Gang and two of the Dry Dock Gang minding their P’s and Q’s so solicitously that Dutch Mike kept one eye on his customers and the other on an open space beneath his bar in which it was his custom to seek safety whenever the ominous politeness of the rival associations congealed into the shapes of bullets and cold steel.
But we have not to do with the wars of the Mulberry Hills and the Dry Docks. We must to Rooney’s, where, on the most blighted dead branch of the tree of life, a little pale orchid shall bloom.
Overstrained etiquette at last gave way. It is not known who first overstepped the bounds of punctilio; but the consequences were immediate. Buck Malone, of the Mulberry Hills, with a Dewey-like swiftness, got an eight-inch gun swung round from his
‘Indeed, she is a charming and admirable life companion,’ agreed the editor. ‘I remember what inseparable friends she and Mrs. Westbrook once were. We are both lucky chaps, Shack, to have such wives. You must bring Mrs. Dawe up some evening soon, and we’ll have one of those informal chafing-dish suppers that we used to enjoy so much.’
‘Later,’ said Dawe. ‘When I get another shirt. And now I’ll tell you my scheme. When I was about to leave home after breakfast – if you can call tea and oatmeal breakfast – Louise told me she was going to visit her aunt in Eighty-ninth Street. She said she would return home at three o’clock. She is always on time to a minute. It is now- ‘ Dawe glanced toward the editor’s watch pocket. ‘Twenty-seven minutes to three,’ said Westbrook, scanning his timepiece.
‘We have just enough time,’ said Dawe. ‘We will go to my flat at once. I will write a note, address it to her and leave it on the table where she will see it as she enters the door. You and I will be in the dining-room concealed by the portieres. In that note I’ll say that I have fled from her for ever with an affinity who understands the needs of my artistic soul as she never did. When she reads it we will observe her actions and hear her words. Then we will know which theory is the correct one – yours or mine.’
‘Oh, never!’ exclaimed the editor, shaking his head. ‘That would be inexcusably cruel. I could not consent to have Mrs. Dawe’s feelings played upon in such a manner.’ ‘Brace up,’ said the writer. ‘I guess I think as much of her as you do. It’s for her benefit as well as mine. I’ve got to get a market for my stories in some way. It won’t hurt Louise. She’s healthy and sound. Her heart goes as strong as a ninety-eight-cent watch. It’ll last for only a minute, and then I’ll step out and explain to her. You really owe it to me to give me the chance, Westbrook.’ Editor Westbrook at length yielded, though but half willingly. And in the half of him that consented lurked the vivisectionist that is in all of us. Let him who has not used the scalpel rise and stand in his place. Pity ’tis that there are not enough rabbits and guinea-pigs to go around.
The two experimenters in Art left the Square and hurried eastward and then to the south until they arrived in the Gramercy neighbourhood. Within its high iron railings the little park had put on its smart coat of vernal green, and was admiring itself in its fountain minor. Outside the railings the hollow square of crumbling houses, shells of a bygone gentry, leaned as if in ghostly gossip over the forgotten doings of the vanished quality. Sic transit gloria urbis.
‘Absurdly inappropriate words,’ said Westbrook, ‘presenting an anti-climax – plunging the story into hopeless bathos. Worse yet; they mirror life falsely. No human being ever uttered banal colloquialisms when confronted by sudden tragedy.’ ‘Wrong,’ said Dawe, closing his unshaven jaws doggedly. ‘I say no man or woman ever spouts highfalutin talk when they go up against a real climax. They talk naturally, and a little worse.’ The editor rose from the bench with his air of indulgence and inside information.
‘Say, Westbrook,’ said Dawe, pinning him by the lapel, ‘would you have accepted “The Alarum of the Soul” if you had believed that the actions and words of the characters were true to life in the parts of the story that we discussed?’ ‘It is very likely that I would, if I believed that way,’ said the editor. ‘But I have explained to you that I do not.’ ‘If I could prove to you that I am right?’ ‘I’m sorry, Shack, but I’m afraid I haven’t time to argue any further just now.’
‘I don’t want to argue,’ said Dawe. ‘I want to demonstrate to you from life itself that my view is the correct one.’ ‘How could you do that?’ asked Westbrook in a surprised tone. ‘Listen,’ said the writer seriously. ‘I have thought of a way. It is important to me that my theory of true-to-life fiction be recognized as correct by the magazines. I’ve fought for it for three years, and I’m down to my last dollar, with two months’ rent due.’ ‘I have applied the opposite of your theory,’ said the editor, ‘in selecting the fiction for the Minerva Magazine. The circulation has gone up from ninety thousand to- ‘ ‘Four hundred thousand,’ said Dawe. ‘Whereas it should have been boosted to a million.’
‘You said something to me just now about demonstrating your pet theory.’ ‘I will. If you’ll give me about half an hour of your time I’ll prove to you that I am right. I’ll prove it by Louise.’ ‘Your wife!’ exclaimed Westbrook. ‘How?’ ‘Well, not exactly by her, but with her,’ said Dawe. ‘Now, you know how devoted and loving Louise has always been. She thinks I’m the only genuine preparation on the market that bears the old doctor’s signature. She’s been fonder and more faithful than ever, since I’ve been cast for the neglected genius part.’
‘My dear Shack,’ said he, ‘if I know anything of life I know that every sudden, deep and tragic emotion in the human heart calls forth an apposite, concordant, conformable, and proportionate expression of feeling? How much of this inevitable accord between expression and feeling should be attributed to nature, and how much to the influence of art, it would be difficult to say. The sublimely terrible roar of the lioness that has been deprived of her cubs is dramatically as far above her customary whine and purr as the kingly and transcendent utterances of Lear are above the level of his senile vapourings. But it is also true that all men and women have what may be called a subconscious dramatic sense that is awakened by a sufficiently deep and powerful emotion – a sense unconsciously acquired from literature and the stage that prompts them to express those emotions in language befitting their importance and histrionic value.’
‘And in the name of seven sacred saddle-blankets of Sagittarius, where did the stage and literature get the stunt?’ asked Dawe. ‘From life,’ answered the editor triumphantly. The story-writer rose from the bench and gesticulated eloquently but dumbly. He was beggared for words with which to formulate adequately his dissent. On a bench near by a frowsy loafer opened his red eyes and perceived that his moral support was due to a down-trodden brother.
‘Punch him one, Jack,’ he called hoarsely to Dawe. ‘Wat’s he come makin’ a noise like a penny arcade for amongst gen’lemen that comes in the Square to set and think?’ Editor Westbrook looked at his watch with an affected show of leisure. ‘Tell me,’ asked Dawe, with truculent anxiety, ‘what especial faults in “The Alarum of the Soul” caused you to throw it down.’ ‘When Gabriel Murray,’ said Westbrook, ‘goes to his telephone and is told that his fiancée has been shot by a burglar, he says – I do not recall the exact words, but- ‘
‘I do,’ said Dawe. ‘He says: “Damn Central; she always cuts me off.” (And then to his friend): “Say, Tommy, does a thirty-two bullet make a big hole? It’s kind of hard luck, ain’t it? Could you get me a drink from the sideboard, Tommy? No; straight; nothing on the side.” ‘
‘And again,’ continued the editor, without pausing for argument, ‘when Berenice opens the letter from her husband informing her that he has fled with the manicure girl, her words are – let me see- ‘ ‘She says,’ interposed the author: ‘ “Well, what do you think of that!” ‘
تعداد صفحات : 13
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