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"The Zombies" by Donald Barthelme
Donald Barthelme (7 April 1931--23 July 1989) was an American author known for his playful style of short fiction.

Picture subject: Zombies

In a high wind the leaves fall from the trees. The zombies are standing about talking. "Beautiful day!" "Certainly is!" The zombies have come to buy wives from the people of this village, the only village around that will sell wives to zombies. "Beautiful day!" "Certainly is!" The zombies have brought many cattle. The bride price to a zombie is exactly twice that asked of an ordinary man. The cattle are also zombies and the zombies are in terror lest the people of the village understand this. These are good zombies. Gris Grue said so. They are painted white all over. Bad zombies are unpainted and weep with their noses, their nostrils spewing tears. The village chief calls the attention of the zombies to the fine brick buildings of the village, some of them one thousand bricks high -- daughters peering from the windows, green plants in some windows and, in others, daughters. "You must promise not to tell the Bishop," say the zombies, "promise not to tell the Bishop, beautiful day, certainly is." The white-painted zombies chatter madly, in the village square, in an impersonation of gaiety. "Bought a new coat!" "You did!" "Yes, bought a new coat, this coat I'm wearing, I think it's very fine!" "Oh it is, it is, yes, I think so!" The cattle kick at the chain-link fence of the corral. The kiss of a dying animal, a dying horse or dog, transforms an ordinary man into a zombie. The owner of the icecream shop has two daughters. The crayfish farmer has five daughters, and the captain of the soccer team, whose parents are dead, has a sister. Gris Grue is not

here. He is away in another country, seeking a specific for deadly nightshade. A zombie with a rectal thermometer is creeping around in the corral, under the bellies of the large, bluish-brown animals. Someone says the Bishop has been seen riding in his car at full speed toward the village. If a bad zombie gets you, he will weep on you, or take away your whiskey, or hurt your daughter's bones. There are too many daughters in the square, in the windows of the buildings, and not enough husbands. If a bad zombie gets you, he will scratch your white paint with awls and scarifiers. The good zombies skitter and dance. "Did you see that lady? Would that lady marry me? I don't know! Oh what a pretty lady! Would that lady marry me? I don't know!" The beer distributor has set up a keg of beer in the square. The local singing teacher is singing. The zombies say: "Wonderful time! Beautiful day! Marvelous singing! Excellent beer! Would that lady marry me? I don't know!" In a high wind the leaves fall from the trees, from the trees. The zombie hero Gris Grue said: "There are good zombies and bad zombies, as there are good and bad ordinary men." Gris Grue said that many of the zombies known to him were clearly zombies of the former kind and thus eminently fit, in his judgment, to engage in trade, lead important enterprises, hold posts in the government, and participate in the mysteries of Baptism, Confirmation, Ordination, Marriage, Penance, the Eucharist, and Extreme Unction. The Bishop said no. The zombies sent many head of cattle to the Bishop. The Bishop said, everything but Ordination. If a bad zombie gets you, he will create insult in your bladder. The bad zombies banged the Bishop's car with a dead cow, at night. In the morning the Bishop had to pull the dead zombie cow from the windshield of his car, and cut his hand. Gris Grue decides who is a good zombie and who is a bad zombie; when he is away, his wife's mother decides. A zombie advances toward a group of thin blooming daughters and describes, with many motions of his hands

and arms, the breakfasts they may expect in a zombie home. "Monday!" he says. "Sliced oranges boiled grits fried croakers potato croquettes radishes watercress broiled spring chicken batter cakes butter syrup and cafe au lait! Tuesday! Grapes hominy broiled tenderloin of tout steak French-fried potatoes celery fresh rolls butter and cafe au lait! Wednesday! Iced figs Wheatena porgies with sauce tartare potato chips broiled ham scrambled eggs French toast and cafe au lait! Thursday! Bananas with cream oatmeal broiled patassas fried liver with bacon poached eggs on toast waffles with syrup and cafe au lait! Friday! Strawberries with cream broiled oysters on toast celery fried perch lyonnaise potatoes cornbread with syrup and cafe au lait! Saturday! Muskmelon on ice grits stewed tripe herb omelette olives snipe on toast flannel cakes with syrup and cafe au lait!" The zombie draws a long breath. "Sunday!" he says. "Peaches and cream cracked wheat with milk broiled Spanish mackerel with sauce maitre d'hotel creamed chicken beaten biscuits broiled woodcock on English muffin rice cakes potatoes a la duchesse eggs Benedict oysters on the half shell broiled lamb chops pound cake with syrup and cafe au lait! And imported champagne!" The zombies look anxiously at the women to see if this prospect is pleasing. A houngan (zombie-maker) grasps a man by the hair and forces his lips close to those of a dying cat. If you do heavy labor for a houngan for ten years, then you are free, but still a zombie. The Bishop's car is working well. No daughter of this village has had in human memory a true husband, or anything like it. The daughters are tired of kissing each other, although some are not. The fathers of the village are tired of paying for their daughters' sewing machines, lowboys, and towels. A bald zombie says, "Oh what a pretty lady! I would be nice to her! Yes I would! I think so!" Bad zombies are leaning against the walls of the buildings, watching. Bad zombies are allowed, by law, to mate only with sheep ticks. The women do not want the zombies, but zombies are their portion. A woman says to

another woman: "These guys are zombies!" "Yes," says the second woman, "I saw a handsome man, he had his picture in the paper, but he is not here." The zombie in the corral finds a temperature of one hundred and ten degrees. The villagers are beating upon huge drums with mops. The Bishop arrives in his great car with white episcopal flags flying from the right and left fenders. "Forbidden, forbidden, forbidden!" he cries. Gris Grue appears on a silver sled and places his hands over the Bishop's eyes. At the moment of sunset the couples, two by two, are wed. The corral shudders as the cattle collapse. The new wives turn to their new husbands and say: "No matter. This is what we must do. We will paste photographs of the handsome man in the photograph on your faces, when it is time to go to bed. Now let us cut the cake." The good zombies say, "You're welcome! You're very welcome! I think so! Undoubtedly!" The bad zombies place sheep ticks in the Bishop's ear. If a bad zombie gets you, he will scarify your hide with chisels and rakes. If a bad zombie gets you, he will make you walk past a beautiful breast without even noticing. PRE-READING Read the title of the story. • What do you think this story is about? • Can you guess what happens? • What kind of story is it? Is it a newspaper article or a novel? READING VOCABULARY Playful.- full of fun, wanting to play Zombie.- person who seems only partly alive Cattle.- cows and bulls that are kept as farm animals. Village.- very small town situated in a country area. Nostril.- either of the two openings into the nose Spew.-come out in a stream Tears .-move somewhere very quickly

Madly.- adverb of mad, mentally ill, insane. Gaiety.- the state of being cheerful. Fence.- a wall made of wood or wire Crayfish.- also crawfish, a small lobster like animal that lives in rivers and streams Bluish.- having a blue tinge. Scratch.- score or mark with a sharp or pointed object. Awls.- a small pointed tool used for piercing holes. Scarifiers.- cut and remove debris from (a lawn). Skitter.- move lightly and quickly or hurriedly. Judgment.- a decision of a law court or judge. Lowboys- a low chest or table with drawers. Undoubtedly.- not questioned or doubted by anyone. Bald.- having a scalp wholly or partly lacking hair. POST-READING COMPREHENSION 1.- Circle the letter of the best answer. 1.- What is the color of the Zombies a.- Brown b.- White c.- Black 2.- The good zombies say a.- You're welcome! b.- You’re boring! c.- You’re funny! 3.- The zombies have brought many……. a.- Sheep b.- flowers c.- cattle 2.- Write a little summary about this reading. 3.- How do you imagine a zombie? Make a drawing and describe it.

"The Evening Stenographer"by Cantara Christopher
Cantara Christopher is an award-winning American writer of fiction.

Picture subject: People dancing the waltz

She watched him with hopeless tenderness as he clicked shut his briefcase and put on his hat. "Good night, Mister Black," she said, picking up her purse and steno machine bag. "Good night, Miss Dale. And thanks for coming on such short notice," he answerujghed. "I'll let the agency know when I need you again." Though it was past midnight he didn’t offer her lift and it didn’t occur to her to ask. They left separately, he walking to his car around the corner, she headed for the bus stop. The new part of downtown where Mister Black had his office was all glass and steel, but just as quiet and deserted as the old part. The bus stop was in the old part, where the streetlights flickered when they worked at all. And there was a stretch between her and the stop where it was completely unlit, except for moonlight. She walked quickly through the dark streets, loudly clacking her heels on the pavement to keep away any skulking hoodlums. Soon she was approaching an old familiar block, where she noticed that the only illuminating lights were from the barbershop on the corner which had been vacant for years. Even the barber pole was slowly spinning in the dark. Curious, she crossed the street, clacking her heels even louder on the cobblestones, went up to the window and looked inside. To her astonishment, she saw a myriad of couples--waltzing. They were couples of all types, tall with short, fair with dark, old with young,

all in evening dress. It amazed her to see them weaving in progression around the barber chairs, turning and looping with graceful precision, rising and falling with the music like polished waves. How can so many people cram into such a tiny place? she wondered. As she watched them, the improbability of this feat, as well as the elegance of their evening dress, began to irritate her. It wasn't right, she decided. A plain old barbershop, even a vacant one, ought to remain a plain old barbershop. Spying a police box on the corner, she went up to it, and after a moment to summon up her determination, picked up the receiver. "First Precinct," said a bored voice. "They are dancing in the old barber shop on Pierce and Main," she said. There was no reply on the other end. "It is," she darkly intoned, "a fire hazard. At the very least it must be illegal. I doubt that they have a license." Again she waited a fruitless moment for response. "They're waltzing," she said, with emphasis. "We-ell, I don't know," the voice finally, lazily, drawled. "I guess we could send a squad car over. Can I have your name?" Startled by his impertinence, she hung up. The sounds from the barbershop were getting louder. The dancers had now graduated from the delicate flouncing of Lehar and von Suppe to the wild allegros of Strauss the Younger and the music from the orchestra was spilling out onto the street. She could see pins falling from the women’s upswept curls and the men’s ties loosening in their frenzy. The orchestra conductor himself was throwing back his head and shaking his unruly white mane with ecstatic delight. Suddenly she recognized him. "Mister Martinelli!" she cried out, and went inside. The music stopped; the orchestra and dancers stared at her.

The conductor broke into a wide smile. "Miss Dale, is that you? How wonderful to see you again. How big you've grown." "Mister Martinelli, whatever are you doing here? Didn't you go out of business years ago? Didn't I hear you took to freelance barbering?" "And so I did, Miss Dale. Even without my shop, I have continued to leave my mark on many a head in this city." "But Mister Martinelli, for heaven's sake, you're a terrible barber. For twenty-three years you butchered my father's hair, yet he kept coming back to you." "He appreciated the conversation." "Your haircuts broke my mother's heart. She couldn't bear to take my father anywhere. It saved our family when you lost this place." The aged man lowered his baton. "It's true," he said slowly, "I was not the most proficient with the scissors. But it was my father's trade, and his father before him..." He shrugged. "What could I do?" Members of the orchestra and several of the dancers nodded at this. He indicated them all with a sweep of his hand. "This is my way of making amends. Now I offer my best talents as recompense for my worst. Will you not join us? Ah, but we must find you a partner. Horst!" A gleaming young man in white tie and tails smiled at her flirtatiously. She blushed; then, with only a moment of hesitation, she put down her things and accepted the young man’s gloved hand. "And now," announced Mister Martinelli, "the mazurka!" He raised his baton to begin but was stopped in mid-count by the sudden flinging open of the door. In stepped two policemen, looking around bewilderedly. In deference to the elegance of their company, slowly, sheepishly, they removed their caps. Tufts of hair stuck wildly out from their crowns to behind their ears.

Mister Martinelli held out his arms expansively to them. "Gentlemen," he said, "I believe I owe you a dance." PRE-READING Read the title of the story. • Discuss about the type of text • What do you think about Stenographer? • What kind of story is it? READING VOCABULARY Award.- give as an official payment, reward, or prize. Tenderness.- gentle and sympathetic. Lift.- raise or be raised to a higher position or level. Downtown.- of, in, or towards the central area or main business area of a city. Steel.- a hard, strong grey or bluish-grey alloy of iron with carbon and usually other elements, used extensively as a structural and fabricating material. Streetlights.- a light illuminating a road, typically mounted on a tall post. Unlit.- not provided with lighting. Hoodlums.- a hooligan or gangster. Cobblestones.- a small round stone used to cover road surfaces. Astonishment.- surprise or impress greatly. Myriad.- an indefinitely great number, (chiefly in classical history) a unit of ten thousand. Graceful.- having or showing grace or elegance. Frenzy.- a state or period of uncontrolled excitement or wild behaviour. Freelance.- self-employed and hired to work for different companies on particular assignments. Stretch.- (of something soft or elastic) be made or be able to be made longer or wider without tearing or breaking. Cram.- study intensively just before an examination. Tiny.- very small. Feat.- an achievement requiring great courage, skill, or strength. Hazard.- a danger or risk. Hesitation .- the action of hesitating before saying or doing something. POST-READING COMPREHENSION



Reviewing the story.

1.- Complete each sentence. Then read the story again and check your answers. The new part of ……………….where Mister Black had his office was all glass and steel, but just as quiet and deserted as the old part. The ………………. was in the old part, where the ……………………….. flickered when they worked at all. And there was a stretch between her and the stop where it was completely unlit, except for …………………….. 2.- Write a short paragraph with the main ideas. ……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………… ……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………… ……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………… ……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………… 3.- Read, underline and write the verbs with ing form (gerund) Pick picking

"The Desert Cold"by David Tallerman
David Tallerman is an American author and reviewer of books and films.

Picture Subject: Desert

Everyone knows the great desert is hot by day and cold by night. But that heat and cold is something you must know to understand. The midday sun seems to burn through your eyelids, so that outside the shade you cannot escape it; it pricks at your skin like a thousand needles, and sweat offers no relief because you could never sweat enough. It is harsh and cruel, and without water and a good guide you will not live long. But I had both of those things, and I could weather the days at least. Anticipation, too, had offered some protection. I had arranged my journey hurriedly, I grant you, for I was the victim of circumstance. Yet only a fool goes out upon the sands expecting anything but scalding heat. The nights, however, were a different matter. We had been travelling for eight days, my guide and I, and I had carried myself stoically beneath the dreadful sun, which bleaches color from everything and saps life from the world. I knew well enough to hurry, and not to complain, when my survival depended on our haste. But when the sun set, when the rocks cooled and cracked and the air became breatheable again, then I was afraid. The first night had terrified me; I had been so completely unprepared. There is no cold anywhere on earth like the cold of the great desert. It is like death, like the loss of love, a bleakness and a heartbreak. Each following night my fear grew, and by the eighth I could stand no more. I could imagine the chill inside my bones, I could conceive of no strength that would resist

it. It must have shown—in my step, my posture, my face. I think I would have died then if he’d let me. His name was Harad, and his skin was tanned almost black from countless treks across the sand. He had said so very little throughout our journey that I was startled when he spoke. "It is not weakness,"he said, "but a lack of perspective.” I didn’t understand, of course, and I stared at him foolishly. "You are afraid of the night’s cold?” There was no good in denying it. "Yes,"I admitted, "I am very afraid.” He stopped abruptly and stared into my eyes. His face was expressionless, except for his gaze, which was as hypnotic as a hawk’s. "Your thinking is wrong. It will kill you.” "How so?” "The cold is nothing. It is the absence of the day’s heat, no more. If you lose something that will soon return, you have lost nothing at all. Do you understand?” I nodded hesitantly. Now, a week later, a stranger amidst the comforts of a strange town, and with the great desert only a memory, I ask myself the same question: did I understand? Do I understand now? I know that I fear the desert and that I could not cross it again. Yet it is an undeniable truth that I am still alive to write this. But despite the blaze in the hearth I remember that cold still; I can sense it among the dunes, like a beast that waits for me. And the spirit I left there will seek its vengeance as well, should I ever try to return. He was old and patient and his shade will be the same. If it cannot take me in life then it will find me in the grave. Still, I have gained perhaps a little understanding of my own. Harad was more astute than I, for he had survived a hundred treks through that barren place protected by his truth. But I am here, alive and safe before my fire, while he lies dead beneath the sands that he made his home.

He was protected from the cold, it is true, but not from a knife between the shoulder blades. He will not return home to guide my enemies, and no other knew my course. I grieve for my family, on whom vengeance will surely have been exacted in my absence. I grieve for my first crime, which has left me an exile, fleeing the punishment of death and left to live with a fate that is barely kinder. But more, in this instant of writing, I grieve for Harad, who was a good companion, a good guide, a wise and fearless man. If one were to follow his own logic then perhaps there is nothing so terrible in death. For death is no more than the absence of life; and life, it may be, is something we shall return to, just as the sun rises by dawn and sheds new warmth on the earth. I wish that this might be true; but I am no philosopher, only a petty criminal of some little notoriety and wealth. Whatever my hopes or fears, they are neither knowledge nor truth, and I can say with certainty only this of Harad: For all his wisdom, for all his fearlessness, his bones still lie frozen now in the cold of the desert night. PRE-READING Read the title of the story. • Can you explain about “What is a cold desert?” • Who is the author? • Do you know the author? Can you talk about the author! READING VOCABULARY Shade.- a position of relative inferiority or obscurity. Needles.- a very fine, slender piece of metal with a point at one end and a hole or eye for thread at the other, used in sewing. Harsh.- cruel or severe.

Fool.- a person who acts unwisely. Stoically.- enduring pain and hardship without showing one's feelings or complaining. Heartbreak.- overwhelming distress. Afraid.- (often afraid of/to do) feeling fear or anxiety; frightened. Gaze.- look steadily and intently. Punishment.- a penalty inflicted. Heat.- the quality of being hot; high temperature. Matter.- physical substance or material in general; (in physics) that which occupies space and possesses mass, especially as distinct from energy. Survival.- an object or practice that has survived from an earlier time. Chill.- an unpleasant feeling of coldness. Hesitantly.- slow to act or speak through indecision or reluctance. Undeniable.- unable to be denied or disputed. Dunes.- a mound or ridge of sand or other loose sediment formed by the wind, especially on the sea coast or in a desert. Beneath.- extending or directly underneath. Foolishly.- lacking good sense or judgement; silly or unwise. Strength.- the quality or state of being strong. Fearlessness.- an unpleasant emotion caused by the threat of danger, pain, or harm.

POST-READING 1.- Read and find the past of the following verbs. have can offer arrange know depend become grow speak admit stop 2.- Read and find the opposites of the words. Hot Day Life Live 3.- Draw, show and describe a desert picture to your classmates.

STEPHEN CRANE VISITS THE DOCTOR by Rodger Jacobs Rodger Jacobs is an American author and screenwriter.
The young doctor entered the exam room without knocking. He had the chart in one hand and an affixed smile that sent Stephen’s heart racing at first; he knew that sometimes doctors approached bad news with a smile to mask their own horror. But Stephen quickly ascertained that the smile was genuine, one of pure amusement, and he figured the prognosis couldn’t be that bad. “Mr. Crane.” The doctor politely nodded, still smiling, and sat down in a rickety desk chair on rollers across from the exam table. He opened Stephen’s chart on his lap, glanced at it briefly, and then looked at the name on the index tab of the folder. “Crane. Stephen Crane. That’s your real name?” “For seventy-two years now.” “Any relation?” “To…?” “Stephen Crane. The writer.” “Not that I know of, no.” The smile refused to dissolve from the doctor’s thin lips. “Is there something amusing in my chart?” “Only your name. It’s just, well, sort of funny. I wrote a dissertation on Stephen Crane; in fact, it made the dean’s list.” “You look barely old enough to be out of high school,” Stephen said. “Trust me, Mr. Crane, high school was a long, long time ago in a galaxy far away.” The doctor tapped a pencil to his lips and gazed out the exam room window. His eyes glassed over in reverent thought. “Red.” “I beg your pardon?” “Crane. He was fixated on the color red. The Red Badge of Courage, of course, being the most glaring example.” The doctor stood, gently tossed Stephen’s chart on the desk chair, and thrust his hands into his hip pockets. He ambled over to the window. The smile had long since

departed and Stephen thought that he looked very sad all of a sudden. “Maggie had red hair. Maggie in Maggie: A Girl of the Streets. She had flaming red hair. Crane called war ‘the blood-swollen god.’ Blood. Red. It’s everywhere in his work. You want to hear something, Mr. Crane?” Stephen shrugged his bony shoulders. He really wanted to hear the results of his exam. “Sure.” “It’s a passage from Red Badge of Courage. My favorite passage, actually.” The doctor turned away from the window and closed his eyes as he recited: “At nightfall the column broke into regimental pieces, and the fragments went into the fields to camp. Tents sprang up like strange plants. Camp fires, like red, peculiar blossoms, dotted the night... From this little distance the many fires, with the black forms of men passing to and fro before the crimson rays, made weird and satanic effects.” The doctor retrieved Stephen’s chart, sat down in the chair once again, and crossed his legs. “Irony is not the word I’m looking for here… But Crane, he died from tuberculois in a sanatorium in the Black Forest. Twenty-eight years old. He died coughing up these huge globules of bright red blood, according to one of his attending physicians.” Good Lord, Stephen thought, is he trying to tell me I have tuberculosis? Is that what’s been causing the weakness and shortage of breath? “I guess ‘irony’ is the correct word, in this case,” the doctor continued. “Who would’ve thought that Crane’s fixation on the color red would manifest itself in his own life in such a dramatic fashion?” Stephen’s patience suddenly evaporated like rain on a hot desert blacktop. “Goddamnit,” he snapped. “What are the results of my tests?” When the doctor leaned his face in close to Stephen, he could smell the distinct aroma of bourbon on the young man’s breath. “It’s a beautiful thing,” the doctor said in a half-whisper that scared Stephen. “It’s a rhyming sequence deserving of a novel. Are you ready for this?” Stephen’s teeth clenched. “Just—tell—me—the—results, doctor.” “Okay. Stephen Crane, the first Stephen Crane, I mean, the writer, fixates on the color red, dies coughing up streams of the color red. Now you, the other Stephen Crane, the

other white meat, as it were, well, the results of your tests reveal that you are anemic, Mr. Crane. You’re anemic! From the Greek, meaning ‘without blood’. A deficiency of red blood cells. You know what?” “What?” “Most days, life doesn’t get any more amusing than that.” PRE-READING Read the title of the story. • • • Why do you think Stephen Crane visits the doctor? What do you think this story is about? Can you guess the end of the story?

READING VOCABULARY Amusement.- the state or experience of finding something funny. Rickety.- poorly made and likely to collapse. Blood.- The red liquid that circulates in the arteries and veins, carrying oxygen to and carbon dioxide from the tissues of the body. Weird.- informal very strange; bizarre. Weakness.- a person or thing that one is unable to resist. Breath.- an inhalation or exhalation of air from the lungs. Whisper.- speak very softly using one's breath rather than one's throat. Briefly.- concise; using few words. Sort.- a category of people or things with a common feature. Funny.- causing laughter or amusement. Thrust.- push suddenly or violently in the specified direction. Shrugged.- raise (one's shoulders) slightly and momentarily to express doubt, ignorance, or indifference. Blacktop.- asphalt, or other black material used for surfacing roads. Fact.- information used as evidence or as part of a report. Pocket.- a small bag sewn into or on clothing so as to form part of it, used for carrying small articles. Field.- an area of open land, especially one planted with crops or pasture. Irony.- the expression of meaning through the use of language signifying the opposite, typically for humorous effect. Tuberculosis.- an infectious bacterial disease characterized by the growth of nodules (tubercles) in the tissues, especially the lungs. Shortage.- a state or situation in which something needed cannot be obtained in sufficient amounts. Reveal.- make known to humans by divine or supernatural means

POST-READING REMEMBERING DETAILS 1.- Read the sentences. One word in each sentence is not correct. Find the word and cross it out. Write the correct word.
young

1.- The old doctor entered the exam room without knocking. 2.- He closed Stephen’s chart on his lap. 3.- He was fixated on the color yellow. 4.- Maggie had blond hair 5.- He lived coughing up these huge globules of bright red blood, according to one of his attending physicians.” 2.- Name the main characters. 3.- Write the end of the story.

OUR NEIGHBORHOOD by Wendy Rawlings Wendy Rawlings is an American writer living in Alabama. When we walk our dogs at night we see a blue ten-speed bike locked to a telephone pole in our neighborhood. In the morning it’s locked to a different pole. The neighbor in the enormous house behind ours is a lawyer named Shambie who rides his European bicycle or gathers pomegranates in his back yard. Next door to Shambie lives a woman from France who teaches children to speak French. I’ve been told she helps heals people’s grief with oils. Next door to the Frenchwoman lives a German couple, one with a strong accent and the other with no accent at all. The mock Tudor across the street has been uninhabited for nearly a year. According to the recent census, the number of foreign-born persons in our town is 2.5%. Jews live across the street from the Germans. They host Shabbat dinners every Friday. An undetermined number of white, middle-aged men live in the large house on the corner. All of the men jog; all of them smoke. I have never seen any of them behind the wheel of a car. The couple who bought the big gray house across the street only stays there the odd weekend. They have cut down all the trees on the property. On the next block over there’s a hollow carpeted in the summer months with kudzu. The gay man who lives on the corner has one bumper sticker on his truck: “Sarah!” One yard contains three dogs: a shaggy one, a Lab, and a little terrier. At first the Lab was friendly, but now when we walk by with our dogs, he barks furiously and attacks the terrier. The neighbor in the house on the other corner walks around the block repeatedly with a phone set in his ear, his right hand shaking uncontrollably. He always wears a blue shirt.

Carrots won’t grow in our backyard garden. The tree in front of our next-door neighbor’s house has a metal loop embedded in it. Attached to the metal loop is an ancient padlock. The percentage of homes in our town in which a language other than English is spoken is 5.3%. Every morning at exactly 6:15 our neighbor Dr. Bobo drives away in his tan Lexus. Less than two minutes later, he passes us driving home. Harvard Medical School is studying a way to use kudzu to treat alcoholic cravings. A gray cat lives on our front porch. Our next-door neighbors say the Cavanaghs left her behind when they moved to Mexico. At night we can hear the cat crying. When I ask again, the neighbors say they’re going to adopt her. The people who live in one of the nicer houses have an all-terrain vehicle in their driveway. Even in the hottest weather, they sit out on their porch and cool themselves with cardboard fans. On football game days, people park bumper to bumper down our street and drink from cans and flasks. People call the stone house at the foot of the block, “The Frank Lloyd Wright house.” People call the woman who lives there, “The Lady Pilot.” The woman’s husband lives in an apartment a few blocks over. People say that the husband is gay. The Germans have a dog named Hemmy. When our dogs get his scent, they start snarling. I saw one of the white, middle-aged men who lives in the house on the corner at an AA meeting. AA is located just down the hill from our street. There’s a neon sign right on the building that says AA. A young guy with long blonde hair walks his dog without a leash. Other times he walks through the neighborhood by himself: shirtless, wearing headphones, and singing rock songs loudly. Dr. Bobo was once very much in the newspapers, convicted for conspiracy to defraud a health care program. We have also heard he

was a hit with his nurses. The famous writer John Cheever’s brother-in-law lives down the street. He told me that after he asked what I did, and I said I was a writer. He’s ninety and bent over like a question mark. We drink wine on our porch, together and alone. Kudzu, called by some the “foot-a-night vine,” is almost ineradicable. Other than our own, we have been inside one house in our neighborhood. The Jews had us for Shabbat when we first moved here. That was a decade ago. PRE-READING Read the title of the story. • • • What do you think this story is about? Do you live in a neighborhood? Can you guess the end of the story?

READING VOCABULARY Grief.- intense sorrow, especially caused by someone's death. Jews.- a member of the people whose traditional religion is Judaism and who trace their origins to the ancient Hebrew people of Israel. Property.- a thing or things belonging to someone. Padlock.- a detachable lock hanging by a pivoted hook on the object fastened. Driveway.- a short private road leading to a house. Flasks.- a narrow-necked conical or spherical glass container. Defraud.- illegally obtain money from (someone) by deception. Porch.- a covered shelter projecting in front of the entrance of a building. Neighborhood.- a district or community within a town or city. Neighbor.- a person living next door to or very near to another. Foreign.- dealing with or relating to other countries. Wheel.- a circular object that revolves on an axle, fixed below a vehicle to enable it to move over the ground or forming part of a machine. Shaggy.- (of hair or fur) long, thick, and unkempt. Porch.- a covered shelter projecting in front of the entrance of a building. Hill.- a naturally raised area of land, not as high or craggy as a mountain. Weather.- the state of the atmosphere at a place and time as regards temperature, wind, rain, etc. Jog.- run at a steady, gentle pace, especially as a form of exercise.

Yard.- a square or cubic yard, especially of sand or other building materials. Friendly.- kind and pleasant; of or like a friend. Hollow.- having a hole or empty space inside. POST-READING COMPREHENSION MAKING CONNECTIONS 1.- Find the best way to complete each sentence. Write the letter of your answer on the line.
1.- The neighbor in the enormous house behind ours is a lawyer named ………………. 2.- The couple who bought the big gray house across the street only stays there the odd…………….. 3.- A gray cat lives on our front………………. 4.- The people who live in one of the nicer houses have an all-terrain vehicle in their …………… 5.- A young guy with long blonde hair walks his dog without a ……………….. A.leash

b.- driveway C.d.e.porch Shambie weekend

2.- Read, find and write 5 sentences in present time. 3.- Write a few sentences about your neighborhood.

PHRASES AND PHILOSOPHIES FOR THE USE OF THE YOUNG by Oscar Wilde Oscar Wilde (16 October 1854 – 30 November 1900) was an Irish novelist, playwright, wit, and poet, considered by many to be one of Britain's greatest authors.
The first duty in life is to be as artificial as possible. What the second duty is no one has as yet discovered. Wickedness is a myth invented by good people to account for the curious attractiveness of others. If the poor only had profiles there would be no difficulty in solving the problem of poverty. Those who see any difference between soul and body have neither. A really well-maded buttonhole is the only link between Art and Nature. Religions die when they are proved to be true. Science is the record of dead religions. The well-bred contradict other people. The wise contradict themselves. Nothing that actually occurs is of the smallest importance. Dullness is the coming of age of seriousness. In all unimportant matters, style, not sincerity, is the essential. In all important matters, style, not sincerity, is the essential. If one tells the truth, one is sure, sooner or later, to be found out. Pleasure is the only thing one should live for. Nothing ages like happiness. It is only by not paying one's bills that one can hope to live in the memory of the commercial classes. No crime is vulgar, but all vulgarity is crime. Vulgarity is the conduct of others. Only the shallow know themselves. Time is a waste of money. One should always be a little improbable.

There is a fatality about all good resolutions. They are invariably made too soon. The only way to atone for being occasionally a little over-dressed is by being always absolutely over-educated. To be premature is to be perfect. Any preoccupation with ideas of what is right and wrong in conduct shows an arrested intellectual development. Ambition is the last refuge of the failure. A truth ceases to be true when more than one person believes in it. In examinations the foolish ask questions that the wise cannot answer. Greek dress was in its essence inartistic. Nothing should reveal the body but the body. One should either be a work of art, or wear a work of art. It is only the superficial qualities that last. Man's deeper nature is soon found out. Industry is the root of all ugliness. The ages live in history through their anachronisms. It is only the gods who taste of death. Apollo has passed away, but Hyacinth, whom men say he slew, lives on. Nero and Narcissus are always with us. The old believe everything: the middle-aged suspect everything: the young know everything. The condition of perfection is idleness: the aim of perfection is youth. Only the great masters of style ever succeed in being obscure. There is something tragic about the enormous number of young men there are in England at the present moment who start life with perfect profiles, and end by adopting some useful profession. To love oneself is the beginning of a life-long romance.

PRE-READING

Read the title of the story. • • • What do you think this story is about? Read the first and second line of the story and analyze about the duties of the our life. Can you guess the end of the story?

READING VOCABULARY Playwright.- a person who writes plays. Duty.- a moral or legal obligation. Wickedness.- playfully mischievous. Shallow.- of little depth. Development.- a specified state of growth or advancement. Failure.- an unsuccessful person or thing. Ugliness.- unpleasant or repulsive in appearance. Anachronisms.- a thing belonging or appropriate to a period other than that in which it exists. Idleness.- avoiding work; lazy. Account.- a service through a bank or similar organization by which funds are held on behalf of a client or goods or services are supplied on credit. Profiles.- a short descriptive article about someone. Attractiveness.- relating to attraction between physical objects. Seriousness.- solemn or thoughtful. Truth.- the quality or state of being true. Bills.- a printed or written statement of the money owed for goods or services. Waste.- unusable or unwanted material. Inartistic.- lacking skill or talent in art. Reveal.- cause or allow to be seen. Youth.- the period between childhood and adult age. Slew.- turn or slide violently or uncontrollably.

POST-READING COMPREHENSION 1.- Say if the following statements are true or false. 1.- If the poor only had profiles there would be no difficulty in solving the problem of liberty.

2.- Religions die when they are proved to be true. Science is the record of dead religions. 3.- No crime is vulgar, but all vulgarity is crime. Vulgarity is theconduct of others. 4.- Ambition is the last refuge of the happiness. 5.- To love oneself is the beginning of a life-long romance.

2.- Write and tell a little message about this story. 3.- Recognize grammatical structures in the text (present, past…………..).

SNAKES by Ron Arias Ron Arias is an American journalist, novelist and nominee for a National Book Award.
It's 4:40 AM in Managua and I'm shivering. I'm waiting in the entryway of the place where I'm staying, waiting for someone to pick me up and take me to interview the country's young leader, Daniel Ortega. All I'm told is to be ready to run. I'm wearing sneakers, t-shirt and shorts, and I have a small tape recorder, notebook and pen. Outside it's dark and except for a few distant dog barks and rooster crows, very quiet. At 5:04 a rooflessmilitary Jeep arrives to pick me up. I climb in, glad that it's finally 1going to happen. After more than a week of asking for time with Ortega, I'm getting my hour with the man who's at the moment defying Ronald Reagan and the Contras. Unfortunately, I'll be doing the interview literally on the run. The two armed soldiers--one beside me and the other in front—say nothing, but the driver tells me to hang on. As the Jeep moves forward, I grab a handhold at my side and focus on the dog in the headlights crossing the street. We bounce along more empty streets, through the city, and then go about five miles on a highway until we reach the rendezvous place, once a private golf resort now owned by the state. We drive up on one of the fairways, where the young driver tells me to hop out. Now that the sky has brightened, I can see the serious faces of the soldiers. "Get ready," one of them says. "Here he comes." I nod and jump down. I'm not cold anymore. Just then another Jeep appears alongside us, and I see Harry, the photographer on assignment with me, sitting in the back. We trade good mornings and then suddenly Ortega jogs into view. He's accompanied by seven big men in running sweats, all carrying Kalishnikovs. Next to these guys, the comandante, who's wearing a shirt and shorts, looks small. He hurriedly shakes my hand, barely slowing his stride. "Let's go," he tells me in Spanish.

As we trot up an inclined fairway, behind the Jeep with Harry in the back, I ask him how often he jogs. I'm holding up the tape recorder so that it's only a few feet fr photos. "Whenever I can," he says. "Sometimes every day..." "How far?" "About four or five miles," he answers. "You too, I see." He seems pleased I can handle the pace. "I try." I'm about to ask another question when Harry, who's hunkered down facing us in the rear of the Jeep, starts yelling at me. He's looking into one of his cameras and telling me to get out of his picture, to move away. He's a cantankerous Scotsman and he's cussing up a storm. We need pictures, so I veer to the right and into the weedy, tall grass, trying my best to keep up and not trip. "Get out of there!" Ortega shouts, waving his arm for me to leave the rough. "Poisonous snakes!" All this is in Spanish, which Harry doesn't understand. I move out of the weeds and run back to Ortega. But before I can ask another question, Harry's hollering at me again. So I return to the rough, thinking he'll snap a few more shots and then I'll be able to resume the questions. But Ortega shouts at me again, warning of snakes. I run back onto the fairway, trying my best to stay out of Harry's picture-taking. Ortega waves me in closer. "Go ahead, ask questions," he says, maybe enjoying the little tug of war with Harry. Over the next hour or so we run up and down at least fifteen fairways. I'm near exhaustion, though still asking questions in breathless spurts. I see Ortega's tiring too because his answers are getting shorter. Before the end, I've had it with Harry. I tell him where he can stick his camera, and I stay close to Ortega, squeezing in as many questions as I can. When we stop running, we're both soaked. So are the men with the Kalishnikovs. But once we all catch our breath, we're all smiles, relaxed and not so stiff and military. Harry's come up with another photo possibility: Ortega with a Mets baseball cap om his face. The soldiers have moved to the sides or dropped back in order to be out of Harry's

and tee-shirt, which we'd brought with us from New York. Ortega's a major league baseball fan. He immediately sheds his wet shirt and slips on the new one. Then he puts on the cap. Harry asks if he can take photos of him seated cross-legged in the rough, head and shoulders above the weeds. "Very well," Ortega says and eagerly moves to where Harry indicates. I look at the soldiers. They're amused and a few are chuckling and making attaboy comments. No one seems to be worried about the snakes.

PRE-READING Read the title of the story. • • • What do you think this story is about? Are you afraid with the snakes? Why? What do you think about the snakes?

READING VOCABULARY Award.- give as an official payment, reward, or prize. Bounce.- move or jump up and down repeatedly. Fairways.- a navigable channel in a river or harbor, a regular course followed by ships. Trade.- the buying and selling of goods and services. Poisonous.- producing or of the nature of poison, extremely unpleasant or malicious. Snap.- break with a sharp cracking sound. Tug.- pull hard or suddenly. Breath.- air taken into or expelled from the lungs. Stiff.- unable to move easily and without pain. Attaboy.- an informal expression of encouragement or admiration. Shivering.- a momentary trembling movement. Sneakers.- a soft shoe worn for sports or casual occasions. Roofless.- the structure forming the upper covering of a building or vehicle. Fairway.- the part of a golf course between a tee and the corresponding green, where the grass is kept short. Exhaustion.- the action or state of exhausting something or of being exhausted.

Resort.- turn to and adopt (a course of action) so as to resolve a difficult situation. Ready.- in a suitable state for an activity or situation; fully prepared. League.- a collection of people, countries, or groups that combine for mutual protection or cooperation. Rought.- having an uneven or irregular surface; not smooth or level. Breathless.- gasping for breath, typically due to exertion. POST-READING 1.- Change the end of the story, include new characters.

2.- Describe the main situations and settings of the story. 3.- underline all the verbs in the story.

TEACHING ERRORS by Jillian Schedneck Jillian Schedneck is an American writer and professor at Abu Dhabi in the United Arab Emirates.
I lean over Todd’s desk. His head is down, eyes concentrating on the tangle of words he’s produced. I read silently along with him, parsing out scribble and scratches. As my bitten fingernail zigzags over his sentences, I realize that even my fingers don’t match my image of a fourth grade teacher, who should be neat and composed, with a rosy complexion and trimmed, polished nails. She is not someone who must ask repeatedly for attention and good behavior, whose voice gets muffled in the chatter of children, who anxiously picks at her nails and tears at her cuticles until tiny red bumps appear. Todd has misspelled the word house. He has forgotten the e. I consider asking him what the correct spelling might be, imagine him looking up at me with big, brown eyes, searching the details of my face for the correct letter, but decide to just tell him what he needs instead. Alejandra is behind me. I can hear the clink and ping of her fiddling with the colored pencils. She’s probably doodling on the desk, her long, dark lashes cast down as she tries to escape the demands of the classroom and enter into the world of her drawing. I’m trying to ignore her insubordination—she should be writing a paragraph like the rest of the six students in my after school reading class—but clearly another one of my tactics has failed. I turn around, ready to demand she sit back in her seat, prepared to be heard and heeded this time, but she is looking at me, wide eyed. “Ms. Jillian,” she whispers. “Are you wearing a thong?” I realize that my thong is peeking out of my pants. As she rifled through the box of pencils, Alejandra must have also been watching my backside as I bent over Todd’s desk, pondering the thin line of flower-print elastic that clings to my waistline. I nod solemnly, mentally adding another dress code violation to my long list of teaching errors. But then she looks at me conspiratorially, as if this is a secret we share. Her head is cocked; her lovely brown complexion lifts into something close to a smile. She is no longer a manipulative ten year old who pouts when she wants permission to draw hearts on the chalkboard or be

excused to the lavatory for the third time in an hour. In a moment, Alejandra has become a young woman learning how to manage the intimate details of our gender. I turn back to Todd. He has dutifully added the e, but his composition—five sentences describing his home—is riddled with errors. I ignore them, focus on the correct word, and smile. He grins back at me, but there is something about his expression, the penetrating, hooded brown eyes, that tells me he knows I’m overlooking his other mistakes. Guilt ripples through me, coils in my chest. He’s experienced this kind of neglect before and forgives me all the same. PRE-READING Read the title of the story. + What do you think this story is about? • What do you think about teaching errors • Who is the author? • Read the first line of each paragraph and try to predict a title READING VOCABULARY Tangle.- twist together into a confused mass, informal a fight or argument. Scribble.- a piece of writing or a picture produced carelessly or hurriedly. Behavior.- the way in which an animal or person responds to a situation or stimulus: Clink.- a sharp ringing sound, such as that made when metal or glass are struck. Thong.- a narrow strip of leather or other material, used especially as a fastening or as the lash of a whip. Dutifully.- conscientiously or obediently fulfilling one's duty. Coils.- a length of something wound in a joined sequence of concentric rings. Neglect.- failure to do something. Lean.- be in or move into a sloping position. Fingernail.- the nail on the upper surface of the tip of each finger. Backside.- the reverse or rearward side. Waistline.- the measurement around a person's body at the waist. Mistakes.- something which is not correct; an inaccuracy. Bumps.- a light blow or a jolting collision.

Whispers.- speak very softly using one's breath rather than one's throat. Clings.- be hard to remove from; adhere to. Nod.- lower and raise one's head slightly and briefly, especially in greeting, assent, or understanding, or as a signal. Details.- a small individual feature, fact, or item. Chest.- the front surface of a person's or animal's body between the neck and the stomach. Overlooking.- ignore or disregard. POST-READING COMPREHENSION UNDERSTANDING SEQUENCE 1.- Order this paragraph. 1.- ……… but decide to just tell him what he needs instead. 2.- 1 Todd has misspelled the word house. 3.- …….. I consider asking him what the correct spelling might be 4.- …….. He has forgotten the e. 5.- …….. imagine him looking up at me with big, brown eyes, searching the details of my face for the correct letter

2.- Write a description about this reading, using the following time expressions Until Once As soon as The moment When By the time 3.- Name and describe the main characters.

HOW IT FEELS TO BE COLORED ME Zora Neale Hurston PREVIEW In this essay, first published in 1928, the author describes her feelings about herself as an African American. She recalls her first 13 years growing up in an AfricanAmerican town in Florida. She also reflects upon the times in her later life when she was most aware of her race. Finally, she describes what she and all others have in common. I am colored but I offer nothing in the way of extenuating circumstances except the fact that I am the only Negro in the United States whose grandfather on the mother’s side was not an Indian chief. I remember the very day that I became colored. Up to my thirteenth year I lived in the little Negro town of Eatonville, Florida. It is exclusively a colored town. The only white people I knew passed through the town going to or coming from Orlando. The native whites rode dusty horses; the Northern tourists chugged down the sandy village road in automobiles. The town knew the Southerners and never stopped cane chewing when they passed. But the Northerners were something else again. They were peered at cautiously from behind curtains by the timid. The more venturesome would come out on the porch to watch them go past and got just as much pleasure out of the tourists as the tourists got out of the village. The front porch might seem a daring place for the rest of the town, but it was a gallery seat for me. My favorite place was atop the gatepost. Proscenium box for a born first-nighter. Not only did I enjoy the show, but I didn’t mind the actors knowing that I liked it. I usually spoke to them in passing. I’d wave at them and when they returned my salute, I would say something like this: “Howdy-do-well-I-thank-you-where-you-goin’?” Usually the automobile or the horse paused at this, and after a queer exchange of compliments, I would probably “go a piece of the way” with them, as we say in farthest Florida. If one of my family happened to come to the front in time to see me, of course negotiations would be rudely broken off. But even so, it is clear that I was the first “welcome-to-our-state” Floridian, and I hope the Miami Chamber of Commerce will please take notice. During this period, white people differed from colored to me only in that they rode through town and never lived there. They liked to hear me “speak pieces” and sing and wanted to see me dance the parse-me-la, and gave me generously of their small silver for doing these things, which seemed strange to me, for I wanted to do them so much that I needed bribing to stop. Only they didn’t know it. The colored people gave no dimes. They deplored any joyful tendencies in me, but I was their Zora nevertheless. I belonged to them, to the nearby hotels, to the countryeverybody’s Zora. But changes came in the family when I was thirteen, and I was sent to school in Jacksonville. I left Eatonville, the town of the oleanders, as Zora. When I disembarked from the riverboat at Jacksonville, she was no more. It seemed that I had suffered a sea change. I was not Zora of Orange Country any more, I was now a little colored girl. I found it out in certain ways. In my hearts as well as in the mirror, I became a fast brown – warranted no to rub nor run. But I am not tragically colored. There is no great sorrow dammed up in my soul, nor lurking behind my eyes. I do not mind at all. I do not belong to the sobbing school of Negrohood who hold that nature somehow has given them a lowdown dirty deal and whose

feelings are all hurt about it. Even in the helter-skelter skirmish that is my life, I have see that the world is to the strong regardless of a little pigmentation more or less. No, I do not weep at the world - I am too busy sharpening my oyster knife. Someone is always at my elbow reminding me that I am the granddaughter of slaves. It fails to register depression with me. Slavery is sixty years in the past. The operation was successful and the patient is doing well, thank you. The terrible struggle that made me an American out of a potential slave said, “One the line!” The Reconstruction said, “Get set!” and the generation before said, “Go!” I am off to a flying start and I must not halt in the stretch to look behind and weep. Slavery is the price I paid for civilization, and the choice was not with me. It is a bully adventure and worth all that I have paid through my ancestors for it. No one on earth ever had a greater chance for glory. The world to be won and nothing to be lost. It is thrilling to think – to know that for any act of mine, I shall get twice as much praise or twice as much blame. It is quite exciting to hold the center of the national stage, with the spectators not knowing whether to laugh or to weep. The position of my white neighbor is much more difficult. No brown specter pulls up a chair beside me when I sit down to eat. No dark ghost thrusts its leg against mine in bed. The game of keeping what one has is never so exciting as the game of getting. I do not always feel colored. Even now I often achieve the unconscious Zora of Eatonville before the Hegira. I feel most colored when I am thrown against a sharp white background. For instance at Barnard. “Beside the waters of the Hudson” I feel my race. Among the thousand white persons, I am a dark rock surged upon, and overswept, but through it all, I remain myself. When covered by the waters, I am; and the ebb but reveals me again. Sometimes it is the other way around. A white person is set down in our midst, but the contrast is just a sharp for me. For instance, when I sit in the drafty basement that is The New World Cabaret whit a white person, my color comes. We enter chatting about any little nothing that we have in common and are seated by the jazz waiters. In the abrupt way that jazz orchestras have, this one plunges into a number. It loses no time in circumlocutions, but gets right down to business. It constricts the thorax and splits the heart with its tempo and narcotic harmonies. This orchestra grows rambunctious, rears on its hind legs and attacks the tonal veil with primitive fury, rending it, clawing it until it breaks through to the jungle beyond. I follow those heathen – follow them exultingly. I dance wildly inside myself; I yell within, I whoop; I shake my assegai above my head, I hurl it true to the mark yeeeeooww! I am in the jungle and living in the jungle way. My face is painted red and yellow and my body is painted blue. My pulse is throbbing like a war drum. I want to slaughter something – give pain, give death to what, I do not know. But the piece ends. The men of the orchestra wipe their lips and rest their fingers. I creep back slowly to the veneer we call civilization with the last tone and find the white friend sitting motionless in his seat, smoking calmly. “Good music they have here,” he remarks, drumming the table with his fingertips. Music. The great blobs of purple and red emotion have not touched him. He has only heard what I felt. He is far away and I see him but dimly across the ocean and the continent that have fallen between us. He is so pale with his whiteness then and I am so colored. At certain times I have no race. I am me. When I set my hat at a certain angle and saunter down Seventh Avenue, Harlem City, feeling as snooty as the lions in front of the Forty – Second Street Library, for instance. So far as my feelings are concerned, Peggy Hopkins Joyce on the Boule Mich with her gorgeous raiment, stately carriage, knees knocking

together in a most aristocratic manner, has nothing on me. The cosmic Zora emerges. I belong to no race nor time. I am the eternal feminine with its string of beads. I have no separate feelings about being an American citizen and colored. I am merely a fragment of the Great Soul that surges within the boundaries. My country, right or wrong. Sometimes, I feel discriminated against, but it does not make me angry. It merely astonishes me. How can any deny themselves the pleasure of my company? It’s beyond me. But in the main, I feel like a brown bag miscellany propped against a wall. Against a wall in company with other bags, white, red, and yellow. Pour out the contents, and there is discovered a jumble of small things priceless and worthless. A first – water diamond, an empty spool, bits of broken glass, lengths of string, a key to a door long since crumbled away, a rusty knife blade, old shoes saved for a road that never was and never will be, a nail bent under the weight of things too heavy for any nail, a dried flower or two still a little fragrant. In your hands is the brown bag. On the ground before you is the jumble it held – so much like the jumble bags, could they be emptied, that all might be dumped in a single heap and the bags refilled without altering the content of any greatly. A bit of colored glass more or less would not matter. Perhaps that is how the Great Stuffer of Bags filled them in the first place – who knows? PRE-READING Read the title of the story. • • • What do you think this story is about? Read the first line of each paragraph and try to predict a title or theme for each one Can you guess what happens at the end of the story?

READING VOCABULARY Essay.- a piece of writing on a particular subject. Gatepost.- a post on which a gate is hinged, or against which it shuts. Joyful.-feeling or causing joy. Lowdown.-mean and unfair. Regardless.- despite the prevailing circumstances. Oyster.- a bivalve marine mollusc with a rough, flattened, irregularly oval shell, several kinds of which are farmed for food or pearls. Slaves.- a person who is excessively dependent upon or controlled by something Struggle.- have difficulty in gaining recognition or a living. Midst.-in the middle of. Drafty.- cold and uncomfortable because of draughts of air. Slaughter.- the killing of farm animals for food.

Race.- a competition between runners, horses, vehicles, etc. to see which is fastest over a set course. Way.- a method, style, or manner of doing something. Northerners.- a native or inhabitant of the north of a particular region or country. Curtains.- a piece of material suspended at the top to form a screen, typically movable sideways and found as one of a pair at a window. Compliments.- a polite expression of praise or admiration. Silver.- a precious shiny greyish-white metal. Soul.- the spiritual or immaterial part of a person, regarded as immortal. Skirmish.- an episode of irregular or unpremeditated fighting, especially between small or outlying parts of armies. Slaves.- a person who is the legal property of another and is forced to obey them. Spool.-a cylindrical device on which thread, film, magnetic tape, fishing line, etc. can be wound.

POST-READING

1.- What do think about the racism?

2.- Write the main ideas about this story.

3.- Design a graphic organizer with all the information you can get about “How it feels to be colored me”.

A VISION BEYOND TIME AND PLACE (1055 words) N. Scott Momaday When my father was a boy, an old man used to come to (my grandfather) Mammedaty’s house and pay his respects. He was a lean old man in braids and was impressive in his age and bearing. His name was Cheney, and he was an arrow-maker. Every morning, my father tells me, Cheney would paint his wrinkled face, go out, and pray aloud to the rising sun. In my mind I can see that man as if he were there now. I like to watch him as he makes his prayer. I know where he stands and where the sun comes up on the land. There, at dawn, you can feel the silence. It is cold and clear and deep like water. It takes hold of you and will not let you go. (From The Way to Rainy Mountain. The University of New Mexico Press.) I often think of old man Cheney, and of his daily devotion to the sun. He died before I was born, and I never knew where he came from or what of good and bad entered into his life. But I think I know who he was, essentially, and what his view of the world meant to

him and to me. He was a man who saw very deeply into the distance. I believe, one whose vision extended far beyond the physical boundaries of his time and place. He perceived the wonder and meaning of Creation itself. In his mind’s eye he could integrate all the realities and illusions of the earth and sky; they became for him profoundly intelligible and whole. Once, in the first light, I stood where Cheney has stood, next to the house which my grandfather Mammedaty had built on a rise of land near Rainy Mountain Creek, and watched the sun come out of the black horizon of the world. It was an irresistible and awesome emergence, as waters gather to the flood, of weather and of light. I could not have been more sensitive to the cold nor than to the heat which came upon it. And I could not have foreseen the break of day. The shadows on the rolling plains became large and luminous in a moment, impalpable, then faceted, dark and distinct again as they were run through with splinters of light. And the sun itself, when it appeared, was pale and immense, original in the deepest sense of the word. It is no wonder, I thought, that an old man should pray wonder is the principal part of such a vision. Cheney’s prayer was an affirmation of his wonder and regard, a testament to the realization of a quest for vision. This native vision, this gift of seeing truly, with wonder and delight, into the natural world, is informed by a certain attitude of reverence and self-respect. It is a matter of extrasensory as well as sensory perception. I believe. In addition to the eye, it involves the intelligence, the instinct, and the imagination. It is the perception not only of objects and forms but also of essences and ideals, as in this Chippewa song: as my eyes search the prairie I feel the summer in the spring

Even as the singer sees into the immediate landscape, he perceives a now and future dimension that is altogether remote, yet nonetheless real and inherent within it, a quality of evanescence and evolution, a state at once of being and of becoming. He beholds what is there; nothing of the scene is lost upon him. In the integrity of his vision he is wholly in possession of himself and of the world around him; he is quintessentially alive. Most Indian people are able to see in these terms. Their view of the world is peculiarly native and distinct, and it determines who and what they are to a great extent. It is indeed the basis upon which they identify themselves as individuals and as a race. There is something of genetic significance in such a thing, perhaps, an element of being which resides in the blood and which is, after all, they very nucleus of the self. When old man Cheney looked into the sunrise, he saw as far into himself. I suspect, as he saw into the distance. He knew certainly of his existence and of his place in the scheme of things. In contrast, most of us in this society are afflicted with a kind of cultural nearsightedness. Our eyes, it may be, have been trained too long upon the superficial, and artificial, aspects of our environment; we do not see beyond the buildings and billboards that seem at times to be the monuments of our civilization, and consequently we fail to see into the nature and meaning of our own humanity. Now, more than ever, we might do well to enter upon a vision quest of our own, that is, a quest after vision itself. And in this the Indian stands to lead by his example. For with respect to such things as a sense of heritage, of a vital continuity in terms of origin and of destiny, a profound investment of the mind and spirit in the oral traditions of literature, philosophy, and religion – those thing, in short, which constitute his vision of the world – the Indian is perhaps the most culturally secure of all Americans. As I see him, that old man, he walks very slowly to the place where he will make his prayer, and it is always the same place, a small mound where the grass is sparse and the hard red earth shows through. He limps a little, with age, but when he plants his feet he is tall and straight and hard. The bones are fine and prominent in his face and hands. And his face is painted. There are red and yellow bars under his eyes, neither bright nor

sharply defined on the dark, furrowed skin, but soft and organic, the colors of sandstone and of pollen. His eyes are deep and open to the wide world. At sunrise, precisely, they catch fire and close, having seen. The low light descends upon him. And when he lifts his voice, it enters upon the silence and carries there, like the call of a bird. PRE-READING Read the title of the story. • • • What do you think this story is about? Can you guess what happens at the end of the story? Listen to your teacher read the story. and retell the story.

READING VOCABULARY Lean.- be in or move into a sloping position. Owesome.- inspiring awe, informal excellent. Foreseen.- be aware of beforehand; predict. Splinters.- a small, thin, sharp piece of wood, glass, etc. broken off from a larger piece. Quest.- a long or arduous search. Delight.- a cause or source of great pleasure. Prairie.- (in North America) a large open area of grassland. Nonetheless.- in spite of that; nevertheless. Evanescence.- chiefly literary quickly fading from sight, memory, or existence. Beholds.- archaic or literary see or observe. Nearsightedness.- lacking imagination or foresight. Mound.- a raised mass of earth or other compacted material, especially one created for defence or burial. Weather.- the state of the atmosphere at a place and time as regards temperature, wind, rain. Shadow.- a dark area or shape produced by a body coming between light rays and a surface. Pray.- address a prayer to God or another deity. Truly.- in a truthful way. Landscape.- all the visible features of an area of land. Alive.- living, not dead. Sunrise.- the time in the morning when the sun rises. Environment.- the surroundings or conditions in which a person, animal, or plant lives or operates.

Straight.- extending uniformly in one direction only; without a curve or bend.

POST-READING 1.- Complete the sentences with your own point of view. 1.- When my father was a boy………………………… 2.- I like to watch …………………………………… 3.- Most Indian people are able to ………………………….. 4.- It is cold, clear and deep like …………………….. 2.- What is your personal opinion about this story? 3.- Find 10 adjectives of the text in the crossword. 0ld Cold Clear Deep Good Bad Large Hard Luminous straight

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