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English pages for Kids and Children.

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English pages for Kids and Children.

Babs Bell (Bishop) Hajdusiewicz and her books

Bestselling author Babs Bell Hajdusiewicz

Bestselling author Babs Bell Hajdusiewicz, Ms.Ed. is the author of more than 100 books and 350 poems for children, including: Dont Go Out in Your Underwear!; Phonics through Poetry: Teaching Phonemic Awareness Using Poetry; MORE Phonics through Poetry: Teaching Phonemic Awareness Using Poetry; Rhythm & Rhyme Reader Series; Questions and Answers Series; Jacks and More Jacks, Words! Words! Words!; Words and More Words. She is also author of Steppingstone Stories Series; Peaceful Me and Sometimes I Feel Happy, Sometimes I Feel Sad; three Poetry Works! collections for early childhood through intermediate grades; middle-grades biography Mary Carter Smith: African-American Storyteller; and the Dainty Dinosaur Series.

Hajdusiewicz stars in the Wright Group staff-development video Developing Oral Language and Phonemic Awareness through Rhythm and Rhyme. She has written numerous children's stories, articles for teachers and parents, and has contributed to and edited many elementary textbooks.

An educator for 40 years, Hajdusiewicz taught early childhood, elementary, and special education at all levels, served school districts in Indiana and Michigan as director of special education, and taught graduate and undergraduate education courses at Eastern Michigan and Cleveland State Universities. She founded Booking the Future: Reader to Reader, a community-involvement literacy program that placed books in the hands and homes of more than 16,000 four, five, and six year olds, and Pee Wee Poetry, a language development program for children aged two through nine. Hajdusiewicz is a frequent conference keynoter for educators and parents and a popular visiting author in schools across the country and abroad.

Specialties: Poetry for kids; humor; parenting for literacy; school staff development; author of numerous classroom materials; emphasis on phonemic awareness before phonics instruction; building love of learning from infancy onward

(Babs Bell Hajdusiewicz , . 100 350 . , , , . . .)


Nursery rhymes
For early learning counting fun
Describe 2D shapes
http://s3.uploads.ru/t/XPfDo.gif Learn English for free
Nursery rhymes & Education
Children songs

Picture Comprehension

Reading Comprehension for Kids

Reading Comprehension is suitable for Kindergarten students or beginning readers.
This product is helping children to sharpen reading and comprehension.


Gather around and listen well, for we have a fabled story to tell. Today is National Tell a Fairy Tale Day and a great opportunity to read to your kids. We are encouraged to explore myths, fantasy and fables, old, new or imagined by you on the spot. A fairy tale is a fictional story that may feature fairies, trolls, giants and talking animals. These stories often include enchantments and far-fetched events.





English Traditions

Every country and every nation has its own customs and traditions. You cannot speak about England without speaking about its traditions and customs. Englishmen are proud of their traditions and carefully keep them up.
The English are stay-at-home people. There is no place like home, they say. When they dont work they like to spend their days off at home with their families.
Englishmen are very fond of fireplaces, thats why many of them prefer the open fire to central heating.
They like to live in small houses with a small garden. People all over the world know the saying The Englishmans home is his castle.
They say that English people keep to their traditions even in meals. Porridge is the dish Englishmen are very fond of. Many of them eat porridge with milk and sugar for breakfast. As for the Scots, for example, they never put sugar in their porridge, they always put salt in it.
By the way, breakfast time in England is between seven and nine. Then, between 12 and 2 there comes lunch time. In some English houses lunch is the biggest meal of the day they have meat or fish, vegetables, fruit or pudding.
In the afternoon, at tea-time the English like to have a cup of tea with milk.
Some Englishmen have their dinner late in the evening. For dinner they have soup, fish or meat, vegetables, pudding or fruit. For supper they usually have a glass of milk and a cake or a cup of tea and a sandwich.
The English are tea-drinkers. They have it many times a day. Some Englishmen have tea for breakfast, tea at lunch time, tea after dinner, tea at tea-time and tea with supper. Some English families have high tea or big tea and no supper. For high tea they may have cold meat, bread and butter, cakes, and, of course, a lot of tea. The Englishmen always drink tea out of cups, never out of glasses.

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Yorkshire pudding

    Yorkshire pudding is a dish that originated in Yorkshire but attained wider popularity. It is made from batter and most often served with roast beef, chicken, or any meal in which there is gravy served with it, or on its own. Gravy is considered an essential accompaniment by many, and when the pudding is eaten as a starter (see below), onion gravy is usually favoured above other alternatives. It is often claimed that the purpose of the dish was to provide a cheap way to fill the diners - the Yorkshire pudding being much cheaper than the other constituents of the meal - thus stretching a lesser amount of the more expensive ingredients as the Yorkshire pudding was traditionally served first.

    Yorkshire pudding is cooked by pouring batter into a preheated greased baking tin containing very hot oil and baking at very high heat until it has risen.

    Traditionally, it is cooked in a large tin underneath a roasting joint of meat in order to catch the dripping fat and then cut appropriately. Yorkshire pudding may also be made in the same pan as the meat, after the meat has been cooked and moved to a serving platter, which also takes advantage of the meat's fat that is left behind. It is not uncommon to cook them in muffin tins, using 2+ tbs batter per muffin, with 1-2 tsp oil in each tin before preheating pan to very hot. Wrapped tightly, Yorkshire Puddings freeze and reconstitute very well.

    Today individual round puddings (baked in bun trays or baking tins like Popovers, or in small skillets) are increasingly prevalent, and can be bought frozen.

    The Yorkshire pudding is a staple of the British Sunday dinner and in some cases is eaten as a separate course prior to the main meat dish. This was the traditional method of eating the pudding and is still common in parts of Yorkshire today, having arisen in poorer times to provide a filling portion before the more expensive meat course. "Them 'at eats t'most pudding gets t'most meat" is the common saying. Because the rich gravy from the roast meat drippings was used up with the first course, the main meat and vegetable course was often served with a parsley or white sauce.

    When baked with sausages (within the batter), it is known as toad in the hole. In pub cuisine, Yorkshire puddings may be offered with a multitude of fillings, with the pudding acting as a bowl. The pudding can also be eaten as a sweet dish, with jam, golden syrup, or sugar.



A Dark Brown Dog

by Stepahn Crane

A child was standing on a street-corner. He leaned with one shoulder against a high board-fence and swayed the other to and fro, the while kicking carelessly at the gravel.

Sunshine beat upon the cobbles, and a lazy summer wind raised yellow dust which trailed in clouds down the avenue. Clattering trucks moved with indistinctness through it. The child stood dreamily gazing.

After a time, a little dark-brown dog came trotting with an intent air down the sidewalk. A short rope was dragging from his neck. Occasionally he trod upon the end of it and stumbled.

He stopped opposite the child, and the two regarded each other. The dog hesitated for a moment, but presently he made some little advances with his tail. The child put out his hand and called him. In an apologetic manner the dog came close, and the two had an interchange of friendly pattings and waggles. The dog became more enthusiastic with each moment of the interview, until with his gleeful caperings he threatened to overturn the child. Whereupon the child lifted his hand and struck the dog a blow upon the head.

This thing seemed to overpower and astonish the little dark-brown dog, and wounded him to the heart. He sank down in despair at the childs feet. When the blow was repeated, together with an admonition in childish sentences, he turned over upon his back, and held his paws in a peculiar manner. At the same time with his ears and his eyes he offered a small prayer to the child.

He looked so comical on his back, and holding his paws peculiarly, that the child was greatly amused and gave him little taps repeatedly, to keep him so. But the little dark-brown dog took this chastisement in the most serious way, and no doubt considered that he had committed some grave crime, for he wriggled contritely and showed his repentance in every way that was in his power. He pleaded with the child and petitioned him, and offered more prayers.

At last the child grew weary of this amusement and turned toward home. The dog was praying at the time. He lay on his back and turned his eyes upon the retreating form.

Presently he struggled to his feet and started after the child. The latter wandered in a perfunctory way toward his home, stopping at times to investigate various matters. During one of these pauses he discovered the little dark-brown dog who was following him with the air of a footpad.

The child beat his pursuer with a small stick he had found. The dog lay down and prayed until the child had finished, and resumed his journey. Then he scrambled erect and took up the pursuit again.

On the way to his home the child turned many times and beat the dog, proclaiming with childish gestures that he held him in contempt as an unimportant dog, with no value save for a moment. For being this quality of animal the dog apologized and eloquently expressed regret, but he continued stealthily to follow the child. His manner grew so very guilty that he slunk like an assassin.

When the child reached his door-step, the dog was industriously ambling a few yards in the rear. He became so agitated with shame when he again confronted the child that he forgot the dragging rope. He tripped upon it and fell forward.

The child sat down on the step and the two had another interview. During it the dog greatly exerted himself to please the child. He performed a few gambols with such abandon that the child suddenly saw him to be a valuable thing. He made a swift, avaricious charge and seized the rope.

He dragged his captive into a hall and up many long stairways in a dark tenement. The dog made willing efforts, but he could not hobble very skilfully up the stairs because he was very small and soft, and at last the pace of the engrossed child grew so energetic that the dog became panic-stricken. In his mind he was being dragged toward a grim unknown. His eyes grew wild with the terror of it. He began to wiggle his head frantically and to brace his legs.

The child redoubled his exertions. They had a battle on the stairs. The child was victorious because he was completely absorbed in his purpose, and because the dog was very small. He dragged his acquirement to the door of his home, and finally with triumph across the threshold.

No one was in. The child sat down on the floor and made overtures to the dog. These the dog instantly accepted. He beamed with affection upon his new friend. In a short time they were firm and abiding comrades.

When the childs family appeared, they made a great row. The dog was examined and commented upon and called names. Scorn was leveled at him from all eyes, so that he became much embarrassed and drooped like a scorched plant. But the child went sturdily to the center of the floor, and, at the top of his voice, championed the dog. It happened that he was roaring protestations, with his arms clasped about the dogs neck, when the father of the family came in from work.

The parent demanded to know what the blazes they were making the kid howl for. It was explained in many words that the infernal kid wanted to introduce a disreputable dog into the family.

A family council was held. On this depended the dogs fate, but he in no way heeded, being busily engaged in chewing the end of the childs dress.

The affair was quickly ended. The father of the family, it appears, was in a particularly savage temper that evening, and when he perceived that it would amaze and anger everybody if such a dog were allowed to remain, he decided that it should be so. The child, crying softly, took his friend off to a retired part of the room to hobnob with him, while the father quelled a fierce rebellion of his wife. So it came to pass that the dog was a member of the household.

He and the child were associated together at all times save when the child slept. The child became a guardian and a friend. If the large folk kicked the dog and threw things at him, the child made loud and violent objections. Once when the child had run, protesting loudly, with tears raining down his face and his arms outstretched, to protect his friend, he had been struck in the head with a very large saucepan from the hand of his father, enraged at some seeming lack of courtesy in the dog. Ever after, the family were careful how they threw things at the dog. Moreover, the latter grew very skilful in avoiding missiles and feet. In a small room containing a stove, a table, a bureau and some chairs, he would display strategic ability of a high order, dodging, feinting and scuttling about among the furniture. He could force three or four people armed with brooms, sticks and handfuls of coal, to use all their ingenuity to get in a blow. And even when they did, it was seldom that they could do him a serious injury or leave any imprint.

But when the child was present, these scenes did not occur. It came to be recognized that if the dog was molested, the child would burst into sobs, and as the child, when started, was very riotous and practically unquenchable, the dog had therein a safeguard.

However, the child could not always be near. At night, when he was asleep, his dark-brown friend would raise from some black corner a wild, wailful cry, a song of infinite lowliness and despair, that would go shuddering and sobbing among the buildings of the block and cause people to swear. At these times the singer would often be chased all over the kitchen and hit with a great variety of articles.

Sometimes, too, the child himself used to beat the dog, although it is not known that he ever had what could be truly called a just cause. The dog always accepted these thrashings with an air of admitted guilt. He was too much of a dog to try to look to be a martyr or to plot revenge. He received the blows with deep humility, and furthermore he forgave his friend the moment the child had finished, and was ready to caress the childs hand with his little red tongue.

When misfortune came upon the child, and his troubles overwhelmed him, he would often crawl under the table and lay his small distressed head on the dogs back. The dog was ever sympathetic. It is not to be supposed that at such times he took occasion to refer to the unjust beatings his friend, when provoked, had administered to him.

He did not achieve any notable degree of intimacy with the other members of the family. He had no confidence in them, and the fear that he would express at their casual approach often exasperated them exceedingly. They used to gain a certain satisfaction in underfeeding him, but finally his friend the child grew to watch the matter with some care, and when he forgot it, the dog was often successful in secret for himself.

So the dog prospered. He developed a large bark, which came wondrously from such a small rug of a dog. He ceased to howl persistently at night. Sometimes, indeed, in his sleep, he would utter little yells, as from pain, but that occurred, no doubt, when in his dreams he encountered huge flaming dogs who threatened him direfully.

His devotion to the child grew until it was a sublime thing. He wagged at his approach; he sank down in despair at his departure. He could detect the sound of the childs step among all the noises of the neighborhood. It was like a calling voice to him.

The scene of their companionship was a kingdom governed by this terrible potentate, the child; but neither criticism nor rebellion ever lived for an instant in the heart of the one subject. Down in the mystic, hidden fields of his little dog-soul bloomed flowers of love and fidelity and perfect faith.

The child was in the habit of going on many expeditions to observe strange things in the vicinity. On these occasions his friend usually jogged aimfully along behind. Perhaps, though, he went ahead. This necessitated his turning around every quarter-minute to make sure the child was coming. He was filled with a large idea of the importance of these journeys. He would carry himself with such an air! He was proud to be the retainer of so great a monarch.

One day, however, the father of the family got quite exceptionally drunk. He came home and held carnival with the cooking utensils, the furniture and his wife. He was in the midst of this recreation when the child, followed by the dark-brown dog, entered the room. They were returning from their voyages.

The childs practised eye instantly noted his fathers state. He dived under the table, where experience had taught him was a rather safe place. The dog, lacking skill in such matters, was, of course, unaware of the true condition of affairs. He looked with interested eyes at his friends sudden dive. He interpreted it to mean: Joyous gambol. He started to patter across the floor to join him. He was the picture of a little dark-brown dog en route to a friend.

The head of the family saw him at this moment. He gave a huge howl of joy, and knocked the dog down with a heavy coffee-pot. The dog, yelling in supreme astonishment and fear, writhed to his feet and ran for cover. The man kicked out with a ponderous foot. It caused the dog to swerve as if caught in a tide. A second blow of the coffee-pot laid him upon the floor.

Here the child, uttering loud cries, came valiantly forth like a knight. The father of the family paid no attention to these calls of the child, but advanced with glee upon the dog. Upon being knocked down twice in swift succession, the latter apparently gave up all hope of escape. He rolled over on his back and held his paws in a peculiar manner. At the same time with his eyes and his ears he offered up a small prayer.

But the father was in a mood for having fun, and it occurred to him that it would be a fine thing to throw the dog out of the window. So he reached down and grabbing the animal by a leg, lifted him, squirming, up. He swung him two or three times hilariously about his head, and then flung him with great accuracy through the window.

The soaring dog created a surprise in the block. A woman watering plants in an opposite window gave an involuntary shout and dropped a flower-pot. A man in another window leaned perilously out to watch the flight of the dog. A woman, who had been hanging out clothes in a yard, began to caper wildly. Her mouth was filled with clothes-pins, but her arms gave vent to a sort of exclamation. In appearance she was like a gagged prisoner. Children ran whooping.

The dark-brown body crashed in a heap on the roof of a shed five stories below. From thence it rolled to the pavement of an alleyway.

The child in the room far above burst into a long, dirgelike cry, and toddled hastily out of the room. It took him a long time to reach the alley, because his size compelled him to go downstairs backward, one step at a time, and holding with both hands to the step above.

When they came for him later, they found him seated by the body of his dark-brown friend.




(Advanced). , .

Beginners Luck

by Chris Rose

James Milners hands were shaking as he sat down at his desk. The man sitting at the computer terminal next to him laughed.

First time on one of these machines, is it?
No! lied James, as convincingly as he could. I could use one of these things in my sleep! James looked at the computer screen in front of him with its mysterious programme, and hoped that he was a convincing liar.
Thats a good job then laughed his new colleague, because I often do! They both laughed again. James hoped that his laugh would cover up how nervous he was. His new colleague sitting next to him turned back to his computer screen and started typing furiously, then shouting lots of instructions into the telephone headset he had. James put on the telephone headset he had by the side of his desk. At least if I put this on Ill look like I know what Im doing, he thought. Then he stared at the computer screen in front of him with the mysterious programme. There were hundreds of numbers and dates and names of cities written on it, as well as lots of strange names like NYSE and CAC40 and other things. He had no idea what any of it meant.

The telephone headset was ok though. At least he knew what that was. His only other job ever had been in a fast food restaurant in London. They used the telephone headsets there too. But in the fast food restaurant it was easy. The instructions he heard through his telephone headset in the fast food restaurant were nothing more complicated than two cheeseburgers without ketchup!, extra french fries now!, triple special burger with extra cheese!. All he had had to do was listen to the instructions, put the pieces of frozen food in the microwave oven, then pull them out again after a few seconds, put them in a little box and give them to the person next to him. That had been easy. This job, his new job, his first real job, he now realised, was going to be a lot more difficult.

When he put the telephone headset on here he didnt hear orders for extra french fries and different types of hamburgers, but excited men in faraway places shouting orders at him like 2000 Taipei heavy! Sell! Sell!! Sell!!! or Drop coming up on the NYSE! Buy! Buy!! Buy!!! At first he sat there and tried to pretend he knew what he was doing. He tried pressing a few keys on the computer in front of him, but nothing seemed to happen to the screen. Lots of numbers appeared, frequently. Then they disappeared. After the first couple of hours on his new job, he turned round to the man sitting next to him, and tried to laugh again.
Phew! This is pretty tiring, isnt it?
This is nothing! said the other man. Youd better be thankful that today is a quiet day!! He laughed his big laugh again. Then he held out a big hand to James and said Davy. Davy Peterson. Good to meet you. Sorry I didnt introduce myself before, but it always a bit busy here first thing in the morning, catching the late end of the Asian marketsyou know how it is!!!
Yeah, sure! laughed James, even though he didnt have a clue about how it was.

James Milner had always been an average boy. At school he had never done very well, but he hadnt done very badly either. When it came to the end of the year, he always just passed his exams, though he never got great marks. When his teachers wrote their annual reports, James knew that the teachers didnt even know who he was.

After he had left school, he had gone to university, one of those universities which is just ok, not a great university, but not a bad one either. He had studied economics and commerce there, and got a degree. He didnt have a great mark, but he didnt have a bad one either. James didnt really want to be a great businessman, a fantastic entrepreneur, an accountant or even a politician, even though his father pushed him a lot. James Milner came from quite a wealthy family, and he had always felt the pressure of his fathers expectations breathing down his neck. James didnt really want to do very much at all in life really. He liked to take it easy, sleep a lot, and to travel. His father, however, had great expectations for his son. James father thought that he should become a great businessman, an entrepreneur, at least an accountant, or if he couldnt even become an accountant then that he should go into politics. The problem was that James just didnt care.

After he left university, he worked in the fast food restaurant for a while. It was ok there. No, the money wasnt great, but his colleagues were friendly, and the work wasnt difficult, even though the shifts were terrible. James hated working late at night or early in the morning. He really just wanted to sleep. And to travel, to go to other places. The problem was that James was too lazy to travel. He had never actually ever been further than Brighton, about an hour from where he was born and lived. Still he liked the idea of travel.

After a year, James father was desperate. You must do something with your life, James! he said. And so he telephoned his brother, James uncle. James uncle was the head of a very important bank in the city of London.

James knew what was happening. He had listened at the door while his father called his brother.
..yesyoung Jamesha ha hayes, hes a good boy..yesgot his degree last yearyesyou know how it isnow he wants to have a gap yearor something like thatyesha ha hayes..very bright, very intelligent..needs encouragementa little push.. a little help

Next Monday James was sitting there in front of a computer which he had no idea how to use, apparently controlling the financial fortunes of Western Europe.

Even though he was worried at first, James soon learned how to use the computer and how to do his new job. It wasnt that difficult after all, he soon learned. The people around him werent all that intelligent or clever, he realised. He even thought that it wasnt really that different to working in the fast food restaurant. Instructions came through either on his telephone headset or on his computer screen and he followed them when he understood them. Mostly the work consisted of buying and selling things. It was like a market. Instead of stocks and shares and personal fortunes, James imagined that he was selling carrots and cabbages and cauliflowers. When he had to make his own decisions, James took a coin out of his pocket, threw it up in the air, and depending on which side it landed on, he bought or sold.

It was amazing, he couldnt believe it, but he started to be successful. After two weeks on the job, one of his bosses came up to him and said Great work James! James didnt even know what he had done. He just kept on doing the same thing, buying or selling when he felt like it. Beginners luck! laughed his friend Davy next to him, every time that James seemed to manage to earn or save a fortune just by clicking the right keys on his computer.

James began to get more courageous. He put bigger and bigger numbers into his computer. Bigger numbers seemed to create even bigger numbers. It was great fun, he thought. The bigger the number, the bigger the reward. Buy 1000 shares! Sell 100 000! Buy a million, then sell them again ten minutes later.

Then his boss came to his desk holding a huge bottle of vintage champagne. This is for you James! Great work on the Singapore bank takeover there! We were risking a lot, but I was following you and I cold see that you knew exactly what you were doing! You kept cool throughout it all!

James and Davy and the boss opened the champagne right there and drank it all. Some of it spilled on his computer, but he didnt care. He felt great! After drinking all the champagne they all went to a bar and carried on drinking some more. It was nearly two oclock in the morning when the bar closed. Davy said that he was going back into the office seeing as he was still awake he thought he could get some work done on the Asian markets. James was still so happy he went into the office as well. He was so tired he couldnt see what he was doing, but he just kept on shouting buy! or sell and pushing all the buttons on his computer.

Sometime the next day James woke up feeling very bad. It was time to take a break, he thought. He phoned up his boss and said that he wouldnt be in for a few days. He was going to take a holiday. No problem! said his boss. You deserve a holiday! You take care of yourself and relax! And I want you back here in top form again next week! James had always wanted to travel, and now was his chance. He walked to the nearest travel agents and bought a ticket to Thailand.

Two days later, James was sitting on a beach in Thailand. He felt great, he felt fantastic. This was what he had always wanted. He was sitting on a beautiful beach, looking at the beautiful sea with nothing to do and nothing to worry about. Success! he thought, then fell asleep again.

Later that evening he walked into the small town to find a bar. He noticed that there was a small stand selling English-language newspapers. Something about the headline he saw on the International Herald Tribune made him stop. Wait a second, he thought, thats the name of my bank. He picked up the newspaper and started to read the article. At first he didnt really understand what was happening. But it didnt take long for him to understand. He didnt bother buying the newspaper, but walked off and found a bar quickly.

In the bar there were some other Westerners, talking in English. Have you heard about this bank thats collapsed? they were saying. It looks like the entire London Stock Exchange might collapse!!!
Its incredible said one of the other people. Some idiot sold 100 000 shares for 10p each, instead of buying 10 for 100 000 pounds! And that was only one of the mistakes he made

James left the bar immediately and went to the nearest cash machine. He took all the money that he could from the cash machine. Then he went back to the bar and asked if they needed a new barman.
Yes he told the owner, Ive got lots of experience! I used to work in a fast food restaurant in London! The owner of the bar offered him a job immediately.

By the way, said James, My names Fernandojust in case anyone ever comes looking for me





(Advanced). , .


by Saki

Rex Dillot was nearly twenty-four, almost good-looking and quite penniless. His mother was supposed to make him some sort of an allowance out of what her creditors allowed her, and Rex occasionally strayed into the ranks of those who earn fitful salaries as secretaries or companions to people who are unable to cope unaided with their correspondence or their leisure. For a few months he had been assistant editor and business manager of a paper devoted to fancy mice, but the devotion had been all on one side, and the paper disappeared with a certain abruptness from club reading-rooms and other haunts where it had made a gratuitous appearance. Still, Rex lived with some air of comfort and well-being, as one can live if one is born with a genius for that sort of thing, and a kindly Providence usually arranged that his week-end invitations coincided with the dates on which his one white dinner-waistcoat was in a laundry-returned condition of dazzling cleanness.

He played most games badly, and was shrewd enough to recognise the fact, but he had developed a marvellously accurate judgement in estimating the play and chances of other people, whether in a golf match, billiard handicap, or croquet tournament. By dint of parading his opinion of such and such a players superiority with a sufficient degree of youthful assertiveness he usually succeeded in provoking a wager at liberal odds, and he looked to his week-end winnings to carry him through the financial embarrassments of his mid-week existence. The trouble was, as he confided to Clovis Sangrail, that he never had enough available or even prospective cash at his command to enable him to fix the wager at a figure really worth winning.

Some day, he said, I shall come across a really safe thing, a bet that simply cant go astray, and then I shall put it up for all Im worth, or rather for a good deal more than Im worth if you sold me up to the last button.

It would be awkward if it didnt happen to come off, said Clovis.

It would be more than awkward, said Rex; it would be a tragedy. All the same, it would be extremely amusing to bring it off. Fancy awaking in the morning with about three hundred pounds standing to ones credit. I should go and clear out my hostesss pigeon-loft before breakfast out of sheer good-temper.

Your hostess of the moment mightnt have a pigeon-loft, said Clovis.

I always choose hostesses that have, said Rex; a pigeon-loft is indicative of a careless, extravagant, genial disposition, such as I like to see around me. People who strew corn broadcast for a lot of feathered inanities that just sit about cooing and giving each other the glad eye in a Louis Quatorze manner are pretty certain to do you well.

Young Strinnit is coming down this afternoon, said Clovis reflectively; I dare say you wont find it difficult to get him to back himself at billiards. He plays a pretty useful game, but hes not quite as good as he fancies he is.

I know one member of the party who can walk round him, said Rex softly, an alert look coming into his eyes; that cadaverous-looking Major who arrived last night. Ive seen him play at St. Moritz. If I could get Strinnit to lay odds on himself against the Major the money would be safe in my pocket. This looks like the good thing Ive been watching and praying for.

Dont be rash, counselled Clovis, Strinnit may play up to his self-imagined form once in a blue moon.

I intend to be rash, said Rex quietly, and the look on his face corroborated his words.

Are you all going to flock to the billiard-room? asked Teresa Thundleford, after dinner, with an air of some disapproval and a good deal of annoyance. I cant see what particular amusement you find in watching two men prodding little ivory balls about on a

Oh, well, said her hostess, its a way of passing the time, you know.

A very poor way, to my mind, said Mrs. Thundleford; now I was going to have shown all of you the photographs I took in Venice last summer.

You showed them to us last night, said Mrs. Cuvering hastily.

Those were the ones I took in Florence. These are quite a different lot.

Oh, well, some time tomorrow we can look at them. You can leave them down in the drawing-room, and then everyone can have a look.

I should prefer to show them when you are all gathered together, as I have quite a lot of explanatory remarks to make, about Venetian art and architecture, on the same lines as my remarks last night on the Florentine galleries. Also, there are some verses of mine that I should like to read you, on the rebuilding of the Campanile. But, of course, if you all prefer to watch Major Latton and Mr. Strinnit knocking balls about on a table

They are both supposed to be first-rate players, said the hostess.

I have yet to learn that my verses and my art causerie are of second-rate quality, said Mrs. Thundleford with acerbity. However, as you all seem bent on watching a silly game, theres no more to be said. I shall go upstairs and finish some writing. Later on, perhaps, I will come down and join you.

To one, at least, of the onlookers the game was anything but silly. It was absorbing, exciting, exasperating, nerve-stretching, and finally it grew to be tragic. The Major with the St. Moritz reputation was playing a long way below his form, young Strinnit was playing slightly above his, and had all the luck of the game as well. From the very start the balls seemed possessed by a demon of contrariness; they trundled about complacently for one player, they would go nowhere for the other.

A hundred and seventy, seventy-four, sang out the youth who was marking. In a game of two hundred and fifty up it was an enormous lead to hold. Clovis watched the flush of excitement die away from Dillots face, and a hard white look take its place.

How much have you go on? whispered Clovis. The other whispered the sum through dry, shaking lips. It was more than he or anyone connected with him could pay; he had done what he had said he would do. He had been rash.

Two hundred and six, ninety-eight.

Rex heard a clock strike ten somewhere in the hall, then another somewhere else, and another, and another; the house seemed full of striking clocks. Then in the distance the stable clock chimed in.

In another hour they would all be striking eleven, and he would be
listening to them as a disgraced outcast, unable to pay, even in
part, the wager he had challenged.

Two hundred and eighteen, a hundred and three. The game was as good as over. Rex was as good as done for. He longed desperately for the ceiling to fall in, for the house to catch fire, for anything to happen that would put an end to that horrible rolling to and fro of red and white ivory that was jostling him nearer and nearer to his doom.

Two hundred and twenty-eight, a hundred and seven.

Rex opened his cigarette-case; it was empty. That at least gave him a pretext to slip away from the room for the purpose of refilling it; he would spare himself the drawn-out torture of watching that hopeless game played out to the bitter end. He backed away from the circle of absorbed watchers and made his way up a short stairway to a long, silent corridor of bedrooms, each with a guests name written in a little square on the door. In the hush that reigned in this part of the house he could still hear the hateful click-click of the balls; if he waited for a few minutes longer he would hear the little outbreak of clapping and buzz of congratulation that would hail Strinnits victory. On the alert tension of his nerves there broke another sound, the aggressive, wrath-inducing breathing of one who sleeps in heavy after-dinner slumber. The sound came from a room just at his elbow; the card on the door bore the announcement Mrs. Thundleford. The door was just slightly ajar; Rex pushed it open an inch or two more and looked in.

The august Teresa had fallen asleep over an illustrated guide to Florentine art-galleries; at her side, somewhat dangerously near the edge of the table, was a reading-lamp. If Fate had been decently kind to him, thought Rex, bitterly, that lamp would have been knocked over by the sleeper and would have given them something to think of
besides billiard matches.

There are occasions when one must take ones Fate in ones hands. Rex took the lamp in his.

Two hundred and thirty-seven, one hundred and fifteen. Strinnit was at the table, and the balls lay in good position for him; he had a choice of two fairly easy shots, a choice which he was never to decide. A sudden hurricane of shrieks and a rush of stumbling feet sent every one flocking to the door. The Dillot boy crashed into the room, carrying in his arms the vociferous and somewhat dishevelled Teresa Thundleford; her clothing was certainly not a mass of flames, as the more excitable members of the party afterwards declared, but the edge of her skirt and part of the table-cover in which she had been hastily wrapped were alight in a flickering, half-hearted manner. Rex flung his struggling burden on the billiard table, and for one breathless minute the work of beating out the sparks with rugs and cushions and playing on them with soda-water syphons engrossed the energies of the entire company.

It was lucky I was passing when it happened, panted Rex; someone had better see to the room, I think the carpet is alight.

As a matter of fact the promptitude and energy of the rescuer had prevented any great damage being done, either to the victim or her surroundings. The billiard table had suffered most, and had to be laid up for repairs; perhaps it was not the best place to have chosen for the scene of salvage operations; but then, as Clovis remarked, when one is rushing about with a blazing woman in ones arms one cant stop to think out exactly where one is going to put her.





(Advanced). , .

The Ultimate Experiment

by Thornton DeKy

No living soul breathed upon the

earth. Only robots, carrying on the

last great order.

THEY were all gone now, The Masters, all dead and their atoms scattered to the never ceasing winds that swept the great crysolite city towers in ever increasing fury. That had been the last wish of each as he had passed away, dying from sheer old age. True they had fought on as long as they could to save their kind from utter extinction but the comet that had trailed its poisoning wake across space to leave behind it, upon Earth, a noxious, lethal gas vapor, had done its work too well.

No living soul breathed upon the Earth. No one lived here now, but Kiron and his kind.

And, so thought Kiron to himself, he might as well be a great unthinking robot able to do only one thing instead of the mental giant he was, so obsessed had he become with the task he had set himself to do.

Yet, in spite of a great loneliness and a strong fear of a final frustration, he worked on with the others of his people, hardly stopping for anything except the very necessities needed to keep his big body working in perfect coordination.

Tirelessly he worked, for The Masters had bred, if that is the word to use, fatigue and the need for restoration out of his race long decades ago.

Sometimes, though, he would stop his work when the great red dying sun began to fade into the west and his round eyes would grow wistful as he looked out over the great city that stretched in towering minarets and lofty spires of purest crystal blue for miles on every side. A fairy city of rarest hue and beauty. A city for the Gods and the Gods were dead. Kiron felt, at such times, the great loneliness that the last Master must have known.

They had been kind, The Masters, and Kiron knew that his people, as they went about their eternal tasks of keeping the great city in perfect shape for The Masters who no longer needed it, must miss them as he did.

Never to hear their voices ringing, never to see them again gathered in groups to witness some game or to play amid the silver fountains and flowery gardens of the wondrous city, made him infinitely saddened. It would always be like this, unless.

But thinking, dreaming, reminiscing would not bring it all back for there was only one answer to still the longing: work. The others worked and did not dream, but instead kept busy tending to the thousand and one tasks The Masters had set them to dohad left them doing when the last Master perished. He too must remember the trust they had placed in his hands and fulfill it as best he could.

From the time the great red eye of the sun opened itself in the East until it disappeared in the blue haze beyond the crysolite city, Kiron labored with his fellows. Then, at the appointed hour, the musical signals would peal forth their sweet, sad chimes, whispering goodnight to ears that would hear them no more and all operations would halt for the night, just as it had done when The Masters were here to supervise it.

Then when morning came he would start once more trying, testing, experimenting with his chemicals and plastics, forever following labyrinth of knowledge, seeking for the great triumph that would make the work of the others of some real use.

His hands molded the materials carefully, lovingly to a pattern that was set in his mind as a thing to cherish. Day by day his experiments in their liquid baths took form under his careful modeling. He mixed his chemicals with the same loving touch, the same careful concentration and painstaking thoroughness, studying often his notes and analysis charts.

Everything must be just so lest his experiment not turn out perfectly. He never became exasperated at a failure or a defect that proved to be the only reward for his faithful endeavors but worked patiently on toward a goal that he knew would ultimately be his.

Then one day, as the great red sun glowed like an immense red eye overhead, Kiron stepped back to admire his handiwork. In that instant the entire wondrous city seemed to breathe a silent prayer as he stood transfixed by the sight before him. Then it went on as usual, hurrying noiselessly about its business. The surface cars, empty though they were, fled swiftly about supported only by the rings of magnetic force that held them to their designated paths. The gravoships raised from the tower-dromes to speed silently into the eye of the red sun that was dying.

No one now, Kiron thought to himself as he studied his handiwork. Then he walked unhurriedly to the cabinet in the laboratory corner and took from it a pair of earphones resembling those of a long forgotten radio set. Just as unhurriedly, though his mind was filled with turmoil and his being with excitement, he walked back and connected the earphones to the box upon his bench. The phones dangled into the liquid bath before him as he adjusted them to suit his requirements.

Slowly he checked over every step of his experiments before he went farther. Then, as he proved them for the last time, his hand went slowly to the small knife switch upon the box at his elbow. Next he threw into connection the larger switch upon his laboratory wall bringing into his laboratory the broadcast power of the crysolite city.

The laboratory generators hummed softly, drowning out the quiet hum of the city outside. As they built up, sending tiny living electrical impulses over the wires like minute currents that come from the brain, Kiron sat breathless; his eyes intent.

Closer to his work he bent, watching lovingly, fearful least all might not be quite right. Then his eyes took on a brighter light as he began to see the reaction. He knew the messages that he had sent out were being received and coordinated into a unit that would stir and grow into intellect.

Suddenly the machine flashed its little warning red light and automatically snapped off. Kiron twisted quickly in his seat and threw home the final switch. This, he knew, was the ultimate test. On the results of the flood of energy impulses that he had set in motion rested the fulfillment of his successor failure.

He watched with slight misgivings. This had never been accomplished before. How could it possibly be a success now? Even The Masters had never quite succeeded at this final test, how could he, only a servant? Yet it must work for he had no desire in life but to make it work.

Then, suddenly, he was on his feet, eyes wide. From the two long, coffin-like liquid baths, there arose two perfect specimens of the Homo sapiens. Man and woman, they were, and they blinked their eyes in the light of the noonday sun, raised themselves dripping from the baths of their creation and stepped to the floor before Kiron.

The man spoke, the woman remained silent.

I am Adam Two, he said. Created, by you Kiron from a formula they left, in their image. I was created to be a Master and she whom you also have created is to be my wife. We shall mate and the race of Man shall be reborn through us and others whom I shall help you create.

The Man halted at the last declaration he intoned and walked smilingly toward the woman who stepped into his open arms returning his smile.

Kiron smiled too within his pumping heart. The words the Man had intoned had been placed in his still pregnable mind by the tele-teach phones and record that the last Master had prepared before death had halted his experiments. The actions of the Man toward the Woman, Kiron knew, was caused by the natural constituents that went to form his chemical body and govern his humanness.

He, Kiron, had created a living man and woman. The Masters lived again because of him. They would sing and play and again people the magnificent crysolite city because he loved them and had kept on until success had been his. But then why not such a turnabout? Hadnt they, The Masters, created him a superb, thinking robot?



Sayings and proverbs in Englishhttp://s0.uploads.ru/t/PV6Im.gif

proverb: a piece of common-sense wisdom expressed in practical, homely terms ("A stitch in time saves nine")

A saying is a short, clever expression that usually contains advice or expresses some obvious truth.

Sayings beginning with C

Charity begins at home

Our first responsibility is to our own family and friends.

Crime doesn't pay

If you engage in illegal activities, you will not make money in the long run.

Sayings beginning with D

Death keeps no calendar

In this saying, "Death" is personified as a spiritual being who may call upon us at any time - he has no appointment book. We never know when we will die.

Death is a remedy for all ills

When we die, all our problems are solved.

Don't bite the hand that feeds you

It is not be a good idea to hurt the person (or company) that pays you or takes care of you.

Don't put all your eggs in one basket

If all your eggs are in one basket and you drop the basket, you lose everything. Don't put all your money in one bank. Don't put all your faith in one person.

Don't rock the boat

This saying advises people not to upset the status quo (or try to change a comfortable, existing situation).

Dumb dogs are dangerous

People who say little or nothing are more dangerous than people who speak a lot.

Dying men speak true

When people are about to die, they usually tell the truth.



For little ones

Bunnies Bunnies are brown
Bunnies are white
Bunnies are always
An Easter delight.
Bunnies are funny
Large and small.
But I like chocolate bunnies
Most of all.



. . .

Jingle Bells.

Easter Eggs

Easter eggs,
Easter eggs
They are orange and blue.
There are a lot of eggs
All for me and you.

, . .

Hop, Hop, Hop

Hop, hop, hop,
Hop, my bunny, hop,
Hop with me my little bunny
You look sweet and very funny

, ,

, , . , , , , . .

Chocolate Rabbit

I got a chocolate rabbit
As an Easter treat,
A big chocolate rabbit,
Good enough to eat.
I ate his ears on Sunday,
I ate him all on Monday.


, , , . , .



Animal idioms in use:


1. .

    elephant, rat, lion, dog, ox, hare, wolf, bull, cat, monkey

    That night I slept like a ________and didnt hear the burglars break into the house.
    The new general manager seems to have taken the ________ by the horns.
    This car's engine is as strong as an _______.
    Ted took part in a highly dangerous expedition. They lost three climbers in an avalanche. Therefore, Ted turned back having seen the ___________.
    Theres no use doing this its just _________ business.
    The couple have been keeping the _______ from the door for the last few years but in vain! Now they live in complete poverty.
    Alan will never find a girlfriend. He is afraid even to speak with girls. He is as timid as a _______.
    If you want to know all the latest gossips talk to Fred he is a real barbers _______.
    She said she had been at home last night but I smelled a ________ as I had seen her in the park.
    I see only one __________ in your path your unwilling to practice.

2. .

    elephant, horse, lions, dog, sheep, pig, bear, bull, cat, monkey

    Mr. Johnson treats his poor wife like a ________.
    Unfortunately, Greg had a terrible addiction he had a ___________in the back.
    John was the black __________ of the family, because he was always in trouble with the law.
    Stop playing the ___________ with Helen she may get upset.
    In that enormous dress Kate felt like a _________ in a china shop still she had to dance and she did it perfectly.
    Toms joke was funny enough to make a _______ laugh.
    We considered him a dark ________ at the recent gubernatorial elections.
    A new house of Greg's was a white ___________.
    Buying this was like buying a _________ in a poke.
    Having arrived in London Mollys first wish was to see the __________.

3. .

    kissing the hare's foot, dog's dinner, dogs days, cock-and-bull story, pigging out, straw that broke the camels back, bull session, horse opera, raining cats and dogs, working like a dog

    So he went on with his ________________ with me listening to him politely
    Marge was ______________ on strawberry ice-cream.
    Greg's refusal to help was the __________________ . After it Molly decided to divorce him.
    It was during the _______________ last August that I first met him.
    The boss is angry with Greg because hes constantly ___________________.
    Honey! Let us stay alone. The conversation wont be interesting for you its just a__________.
    Did Alan get the job? No, he made a __________ of the job-interview.
    Since morning Ive been ______________and now I need a rest.
    Don't forget to take the umbrella. Its ________________.
    My wonderful Clementine is a ________________ known to everybody in the U.S.

4. .

    casting sheeps eyes, leading a cat and dog life, paper tiger, kissing the hares foot, to let the cat out of the bag, bullhead, leading a dogs life, rat race, in the doghouse, dead horse

    Im not going to beat the __________, Ken.
    Our attorney is more than a __________ now with all the power hes gained recently.
    Kevind rather go to Kansas instead of ________________ here.
    After working so hard for the company, Alan found himself ________________.
    Is Wendy in? No, she is _____________________ again.
    It was mean of Kevin _____________________ without Alans permission.
    Though Helen and Den are ______________________ still they even dont think about divorce.
    During the party Molly was _____________________ at Greg, but he didnt even notice it.
    Jack is a real ______________. He failed his exams again.
    Our business is a real ____________. You have to work hardly and compete with other companies.



    dog, 2. bull, 3. ox, 4. elephant, 5. monkey, 6. wolf, 7 hare, 8. cat, 9. rat,10. lion.


     dog, 2. monkey, 3. sheep, 4. bear, 5. bull, 6. cat, 7. horse, 8. elephant, 9. pig, 10. lions


    cock-and-bull story,2. pigging out, 3. straw that broke the camels back, 4. dogs days, 5. Kissing the hare's foot, 6. a bull session, 7. dog's dinner, 8. working like a dog, 9. raining cats and dogs, 10. horse opera


    dead horse, 2.paper tiger, 3. leading a dogs life, 4. in the doghouse, 5. kissing the hares foot 6.  to let the cat out of the bag, 7. leading a cat and dog life, 8. casting sheeps eyes, 9. bullhead, 10. rat race.




Sonnet 141

In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes,
For they in thee a thousand errors note,
But 'tis my heart that loves what they despise,
Who in despite of view is pleased to dote.
Nor are mine ears with thy tongue's tune delighted,
Nor tender feeling to base touches prone,
Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited
To any sensual feast with thee alone;
But my five wits nor my five senses can
Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee,
Who leaves unswayed the likeness of a man,
Thy proud heart's slave and vassal wretch to be.
Only my plague thus far I count my gain,
That she that makes me sin awards me pain.

141. .:

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Sulphur Mountain (Alberta)

Mountain in Banff National Park in the Canadian Rocky Mountains overlooking the town of Banff, Alberta, Canada. The mountain was named in 1916 for the hot springs on its lower slopes.

    2 451 .

Sulphur Mountain is located near Banff Alberta in the Canadian Rockies.
Sulphur Mountain is at the end of a ridge that is over 3.5 kilometers long and starts at the summit of Sanson Peak.
Most of us just use it as a trail run.


Banff and Tunnel Mountain seen from
Sulphur Mountain (Sanson's Peak)

Two hot springs have been commercially developed. The lowest is the Cave and Basin National Historic Site and the highest is the Banff Upper Hot Springs.

A gondola on the eastern slope goes to the summit ridge which has an upper terminal containing two restaurants, a gift shop, and multiple observation decks. The summit ridge provides views both westward up and east down the Bow Valley. A boardwalk can be followed on the north side to the top of Sanson's Peak (2,256 m or 7,402 ft).

The true summit of Sulphur Mountain can be found on the southern side on a scrambler's route. For purists not wanting to claim a summit without the effort, a wide trail (an old road) can be followed from the Banff Hot Springs parking lot to the upper gondola terminal. Purists should note that the gondola ride down is no longer free in the summer. There is also a 5.5 km switchback trail on the eastern slope that leads to the eastern summit.

The view from the summit of Sulphur Mountain

Scientific importance

Meteorological observatory building

The mountain has been the site of two research facilities. In 1903, a meteorological observatory building was completed atop Sanson Peak. This building still exists and visitors can look through a window to see its interior complete with rustic furnishings. In the winter of 1956-57, the National Research Council built a small laboratory on Sanson's Peak in order to study cosmic rays as part of Canada's contribution to the International Geophysical Year (IGY). The Sulphur Mountain Cosmic Ray Station remained in operation until 1978 and the building was removed in 1981. A plaque now marks the site's location.

The hot springs at the base of Sulphur Mountain are home to the endangered Banff Springs snail and the now-extinct Banff longnose dace.



Questions in English. Sulphur Mountain

1 Does it cost money to hike Sulphur mountain? Is there parking available and if so do you know if there is a fee? I am taking a trip to Banff next month and everyone tells me to go on this hike. I want to make sure I have my bases covered, so if you have answers to those questions that would be great! Thanks! :)

2 If you were taking one half day hike (no more than 5 hours) closer to the Banff townsite, what would it be? We are planning to take the Plain of Six Glaciers in Lake Louise.

3 Is the hike worth taking for the hike itself or just a cost savings? I understand the end view is spectacular. If hiking up, how much time for casual hikers?

4 Hi, I can't seem to find the Ice Walk tour site to book

Could anyone guide me?

Thank you!



Make Eurovision Song Contest revise the results of the song contest 2016

This petition is dedicated to European Broadcasting Union from all the fans that not agree with the results from Eurovision Song Contest 2016. We understand that jury voting and televoting process is a hard and emotional one, but the amount of people who've signed this shows that how many people are sure that this year's "winner" is not the one who should really win the contest. We have no doubt on the justice and privacy of contest that's why we think that there's need to revise the results.



The Undefeated
written by Ernest Hemingway

MANUEL GARCIA climbed the stairs to Don Miguel Retanas office. He set down his suitcase and knocked on the door. There was no answer. Manuel, standing in the hallway, felt there was someone in the room. He felt it through the door.
Retana, he said, listening.
There was no answer.
Hes there, all right, Manuel thought.
Retana, he said and banged the door.
Whos there? said someone in the office.
Me, Manolo, Manuel said.
What do you want? asked the voice.
I want to work, Manuel said.
Something in the door clicked several times and it swung open. Manuel went in, carrying his suitcase.
A little man sat behind a desk at the far side of the room. Over his head was a bulls head, stuffed by a Madrid taxidermist; on the walls were framed photographs and bull-fight posters.
The little man sat looking at Manuel.
I thought theyd killed you, he said.
Manuel knocked with his knuckles on the desk. The little man sat looking at him across the desk.
How many corridas you had this year? Retana asked.
One, he answered.
Just that one? the little man asked.
Thats all.
I read about it in the papers, Retana said. He leaned back in the chair and looked at Manuel.
Manuel looked up at the stuffed bull. He had seen it often before. He felt a certain family interest in it. It had killed his brother, the promising one, about nine years ago. Manuel remembered the day. There was a brass plate on the oak shield the bulls head was mounted on. Manuel could not read it, but he imagined it was in memory of his brother. Well, he had been a good kid.
The plate said: The Bull Mariposa of the Duke of Veragua, which accepted 9 varas for 7 caballos, and caused the death of Antonio Garcia, Novillero, April 27, 1909.
Retana saw him looking at the stuffed bulls head.
The lot the Duke sent me for Sunday will make a scandal, he said. Theyre all bad in the legs. What do they say about them at the Café?
I dont know, Manuel said. I just got in.
Yes, Retana said. You still have your bag.
He looked at Manuel, leaning back behind the big desk.
Sit down, he said. Take off your cap.
Manuel sat down; his cap off, his face was changed. He looked pale, and his coleta pinned forward on his head, so that it would not show under the cap, gave him a strange look.
You dont look well, Retana said.
I just got out of the hospital, Manuel said.
I heard theyd cut your leg off, Retana said.
No, said Manuel. It got all right.
Retana leaned forward across the desk and pushed a wooden box of cigarettes toward Manuel.
Have a cigarette, he said.
Manuel lit it.
Smoke? he said, offering the match to Retana.
No, Retana waved his hand, I never smoke.
Retana watched him smoking.
Why dont you get a job and go to work? he said.
I dont want to work, Manuel said. I am a bullfighter.
There arent any bullfighters any more, Retana said.
Im a bullfighter, Manuel said.
Yes, while youre in there, Retana said.
Manuel laughed.
Retana sat, saying nothing and looking at Manuel.
Ill put you in a nocturnal if you want, Retana offered.
When? Manuel asked.
Tomorrow night.
I dont like to substitute for anybody, Manuel said. That was the way they all got killed. That was the way Salvador got killed. He tapped with his knuckles on the table.
Its all Ive got, Retana said.
Why dont you put me on next week? Manuel suggested.
You wouldnt draw, Retana said. All they want is Litri and Rubito and La Torre. Those kids are good.
Theyd come to see me get it, Manuel said, hopefully.
No, they wouldnt. They dont know who you are any more.
Ive got a lot of stuff, Manuel said.
Im offering to put you on tomorrow night, Retana said. You can work with young Hernandez and kill two novillos after the Charlots.
Whose novillos? Manuel asked.
I dont know. Whatever stuff theyve got in the corrals. What the veterinaries wont pass in the daytime.
I dont like to substitute, Manuel said.
You can take it or leave it, Retana said. He leaned forward over the papers. He was no longer interested. The appeal that Manuel had made to him for a moment when he thought of the old days was gone. He would like to get him to substitute for Larita because he could get him cheaply. He could get others cheaply too. He would like to help him though. Still he had given him the chance. It was up to him.
How much do I get? Manuel asked. He was still playing with the idea of refusing. But he knew he could not refuse.
Two hundred and fifty pesetas, Retana said. He had thought of five hundred, but when he opened his mouth it said two hundred and fifty.
You pay Villalta seven thousand, Manuel said.
Youre not Villalta, Retana said.
I know it, Manuel said.
He draws it, Manolo, Retana said in explanation.
Sure, said Manuel. He stood up. Give me three hundred, Retana.
All right, Retana agreed. He reached in the drawer for a paper.
Can I have fifty now? Manuel asked.
Sure, said Retana. He took a fifty-peseta note out of his pocket-book and laid it, spread out flat, on the table.
Manuel picked it up and put it in his pocket.
What about a cuadrilla? he asked.
Theres the boys that always work for me nights, Retana said. Theyre all right.
How about picadors? Manuel asked.
Theyre not much, Retana admitted.
Ive got to have one good pic, Manuel said.
Get him then, Retana said. Go and get him.
Not out of this, Manuel said. Im not paying for any cuadrilla out of sixty duros.
Retana said nothing but looked at Manuel across the big desk.
You know Ive got to have one good pic, Manuel said.
Retana said nothing but looked at Manuel from a long way off.
It isnt right, Manuel said.
Retana was still considering him, leaning back in his chair, considering him from a long way away.
Therere the regular pics, he offered.
I know, Manuel said. I know your regular pics.
Retana did not smile. Manuel knew it was over.
All I want is an even break, Manuel said reasoningly. When I go out there I want to be able to call my shots on the bull. It only takes one good picador.
He was talking to a man who was no longer listening.
If you want something extra, Retana said, go and get it. There will be a regular cuadrilla out there. Bring as many of your own pics as you want. The charlotada is over by 10.30.
All right, Manuel said. If thats the way you feel about it.
Thats the way, Retana said.
Ill see you tomorrow night, Manuel said.
Ill be out there, Retana said.
Manuel picked up his suitcase and went out.
Shut the door, Retana called.
Manuel looked back. Retana was sitting forward looking at some papers. Manuel pulled the door tight until it clicked.
He went down the stairs and out of the door into the hot brightness of the street. It was very hot in the street and the light on the white buildings was sudden and hard on his eyes. He walked down the shady side of the steep street toward the Puerta del Sol. The shade felt solid and cool as running water. The heat came suddenly as he crossed the intersecting streets. Manuel saw no one he knew in all the people he passed.
Just before the Puerta del Sol he turned into a café.
It was quiet in the café. There were a few men sitting at tables against the wall. At one table four men played cards. Most of the men sat against the wall smoking, empty coffee-cups and liqueur-glasses before them on the tables. Manuel went through the long room to a small room in back. A man sat at a table in the corner asleep. Manuel sat down at one of the tables.
A waiter came in and stood beside Manuels table.
Have you seen Zurito? Manuel asked him.
He was in before lunch, the waiter answered. He wont be back before five oclock.
Bring me some coffee and milk and a shot of the ordinary, Manuel said.
The waiter came back into the room carrying a tray with a big coffee-glass and a liqueur-glass on it. In his left hand he held a bottle of brandy. He swung these down to the table and a boy who had followed him poured coffee and milk into the glass from two shiny, spouted pots with long handles.
Manuel took off his cap and the waiter noticed his pigtail pinned forward on his head. He winked at the coffee-boy as he poured out the brandy into the little glass beside Manuels coffee. The coffee-boy looked at Manuels pale face curiously.
You fighting here? asked the waiter, corking up the bottle.
Yes, Manuel said. Tomorrow.
The waiter stood there, holding the bottle on one hip.
You in the Charlie Chaplins? he asked.
The coffee-boy looked away, embarrassed.
No. In the ordinary.
I thought they were going to have Chaves and Hernandez, the waiter said.
No. Me and another.
Who? Chaves or Hernandez?
Hernandez, I think.
Whats the matter with Chaves?
He got hurt.
Where did you hear that?
Hey, Looie, the waiter called to the next room, Chaves got cogida.
Manuel had taken the wrapper off the lumps of sugar and dropped them into his coffee. He stirred it and drank it down, sweet, hot, and warming in his empty stomach. He drank off the brandy.
Give me another shot of that, he said to the waiter.
The waiter uncorked the bottle and poured the glass full, slopping another drink into the saucer. Another waiter had come up in front of the table. The coffee-boy was gone.
Is Chaves hurt bad? the second waiter asked Manuel.
I dont know, Manuel said, Retana didnt say.
A hell of a lot he cares, the tall waiter said. Manuel had not seen him before. He must have just come up.
If you stand in with Retana in this town, youre a made man, the tall waiter said. If you arent in with him, you might just as well go out and shoot yourself.
You said it, the other waiter who had come in said. You said it then.
Youre right I said it, said the tall waiter. I know what Im talking about when I talk about that bird.
Look what hes done for Villalta, the first waiter said.
And that aint all, the tall waiter said. Look what hes done for Marcial Lalanda. Look what hes done for Nacional.
You said it, kid, agreed the short waiter.
Manuel looked at them, standing talking in front of his table. He had drunk his second brandy. They had forgotten about him. They were not interested in him.
Look at that bunch of camels, the tall waiter went on. Did you ever see this Nacional II?
I seen him last Sunday, didnt I? the original waiter said.
Hes a giraffe, the short waiter said.
What did I tell you? the tall waiter said. Those are Retanas boys.
Say, give me another shot of that, Manuel said. He had poured the brandy the waiter had slopped over in the saucer into his glass and drank it while they were talking.
The original waiter poured his glass full mechanically, and the three of them went out of the room talking.
In the far corner the man was still asleep, snoring slightly on the intaking breath, his head back against the wall.
Manuel drank his brandy. He felt sleepy himself. It was too hot to go out into the town. Besides there was nothing to do. He wanted to see Zurito. He would go to sleep while he waited. He kicked his suitcase under the table to be sure it was there. Perhaps it would be better to put it back under the seat, against the wall. He leaned down and shoved it under. Then he leaned forward on the table and went to sleep.
When he woke there was someone sitting across the table from him. It was a big man with a heavy brown face like an Indian. He had been sitting there some time. He had waved the waiter away and sat reading the paper and occasionally looking down at Manuel, asleep, his head on the table. He read the paper laboriously, forming the words with his lips as he read. When it tired him he looked at Manuel. He sat heavily in the chair, his black Cordoba hat tipped forward.
Manuel sat up and looked at him.
Hello, Zurito, he said.
Hello, kid, the big man said.
Ive been asleep. Manuel rubbed his forehead with the back of his fist.
I thought maybe you were.
Hows everything?
Good. How is everything with you?
Not so good.
They were both silent. Zurito, the picador, looked at Manuels white face. Manuel looked down at the picadors enormous hands folding the paper to put away in his pocket.
I got a favor to ask you, Manos, Manuel said.
Manosduros was Zuritos nickname. He never heard it without thinking of his huge hands. He put them forward on the table self-consciously.
Lets have a drink, he said.
Sure, said Manuel.
The waiter came and went and came again. He went out of the room looking back at the two men at the table.
Whats the matter, Manolo? Zurito set down his glass.
Would you pic two bulls for me tomorrow night? Manuel asked, looking up at Zurito across the table.
No, said Zurito. Im not pic-ing.
Manuel looked down at his glass. He had expected that answer; now he had it. Well, he had it.
Im sorry, Manolo, but Im not pic-ing. Zurito looked at his hands.
Thats all right, Manuel said.
Im too old, Zurito said.
I just asked you, Manuel said.
Is it the nocturnal tomorrow?
Thats it. I figured if I had just one good pic, I could get away with it.
How much are you getting?
Three hundred pesetas.
I get more than that for pic-ing.
I know, said Manuel. I didnt have any right to ask you.
What do you keep on doing it for? Zurito asked. Why dont you cut off your coleta, Manolo?
I dont know, Manuel said.
Youre pretty near as old as I am, Zurito said.
I dont know, Manuel said. I got to do it. If I can fix it so that I get an even break, thats all I want. I got to stick with it, Manos.
No, you dont.
Yes, I do. Ive tried keeping away from it.
I know how you feel. But it isnt right. You ought to get out and stay out.
I cant do it. Besides, Ive been going good lately.
Zurito looked at his face.
Youve been in the hospital.
But I was going great when I got hurt.
Zurito said nothing. He tipped the cognac out of his saucer into his glass.
The papers said they never saw a better faena, Manuel said.
Zurito looked at him.
You know when I get going Im good, Manuel said.
Youre too old, the picador said.
No, said Manuel. Youre ten years older than I am.
With me its different.
Im not too old, Manuel said.
They sat silent, Manuel watching the picadors face.
I was going great till I got hurt, Manuel offered.
You ought to have seen me, Manos, Manuel said, reproachfully.
I dont want to see you, Zurito said. It makes me nervous.
You havent seen me lately.
Ive seen you plenty.
Zurito looked at Manuel, avoiding his eyes.
You ought to quit it, Manolo.
I cant, Manuel said. Im going good now, I tell you.
Zurito leaned forward, his hands on the table.
Listen. Ill pic for you and if you dont go big tomorrow night, youll quit. See? Will you do that?
Zurito leaned back, relieved.
You got to quit, he said. No monkey business. You got to cut the coleta.
I wont have to quit, Manuel said. You watch me. Ive got the stuff.
Zurito stood up. He felt tired from arguing.
You got to quit, he said. Ill cut your coleta myself.
No, you wont, Manuel said. You wont have a chance.
Zurito called the waiter.
Come on, said Zurito. Come on up to the house.
Manuel reached under the seat for his suitcase. He was happy. He knew Zurito would pic for him. He was the best picador living. It was all simple now.
Come on up to the house and well eat, Zurito said.

Manuel stood in the patio de caballos waiting for the Charlie Chaplins to be over. Zurito stood beside him. Where they stood it was dark. The high door that led into the bull-ring was shut. Above them they heard a shout, then another shout of laughter. Then there was silence. Manuel liked the smell of the stables about the patio de caballos. It smelt good in the dark. There was another roar from the arena and then applause, prolonged applause, going on and on.
You ever seen these fellows? Zurito asked, big and looming beside Manuel in the dark.
No, Manuel said.
Theyre pretty funny, Zurito said. He smiled to himself in the dark.
The high, double, tight-fitting door into the bull-ring swung open and Manuel saw the ring in the hard light of the arc-lights, the plaza, dark all the way around, rising high; around the edge of the ring were running and bowing two men dressed like tramps, followed by a third in the uniform of a hotel bell-boy who stooped and picked up the hats and canes thrown down onto the sand and tossed them back up into the darkness.
The electric light went on in the patio.
Ill climb onto one of those ponies while you collect the kids, Zurito said.
Behind them came the jingle of the mules, coming out to go into the arena and be hitched onto the dead bull.
The members of the cuadrilla, who had been watching the burlesque from the runway between the barrera and the seals, came walking back and stood in a group talking, under the electric light in the patio. A good-looking lad in a silver-and-orange suit came up to Manuel and smiled.
Im Hernandez, he said and put out his hand.
Manuel shook it.
Theyre regular elephants weve got tonight, the boy said cheerfully.
Theyre big ones with horns, Manuel agreed.
You drew the worst lot, the boy said.
Thats all right, Manuel said. The bigger they are, the more meat for the poor.
Where did you get that one? Hernandez grinned.
Thats an old one, Manuel said. You line up your cuadrilla, so I can see what Ive got.
Youve got some good kids, Hernandez said. He was very cheerful. He had been on twice before in nocturnals and was beginning to get a following in Madrid. He was happy the fight would start in a few minutes.
Where are the pics? Manuel asked.
Theyre back in the corrals fighting about who gets the beautiful horses, Hernandez grinned.
The mules came through the gate in a rush, the whips snapping, bells jangling and the young bull ploughing a furrow of sand.
They formed up for the paseo as soon as the bull had gone through.
Manuel and Hernandez stood in front. The youths of the cuadrillas were behind, their heavy capes furled over their arms. In back, the four picadors, mounted, holding their steel-tipped push-poles erect in the half-dark of the corral.
Its a wonder Retana wouldnt give us enough light to see the horses by, one picador said.
He knows well be happier if we dont get too good a look at these skins, another pic answered.
This thing Im on barely keeps me off the ground, the first picador said.
Well, theyre horses.
Sure, theyre horses.
They talked, sitting their gaunt horses in the dark.
Zurito said nothing. He had the only steady horse of the lot. He had tried him, wheeling him in the corrals and he responded to the bit and the spurs. He had taken the bandage off his right eye and cut the strings where they had tied his ears tight shut at the base. He was a good, solid horse, solid on his legs. That was all he needed. He intended to ride him all through the corrida. He had already, since he had mounted, sitting in the half-dark in the big, quilted saddle, waiting for the paseo, pic-ed through the whole corrida in his mind. The other picadors went on talking on both sides of him. He did not hear them.
The two matadors stood together in front of their three peones, their capes furled over their left arms in the same fashion. Manuel was thinking about the three lads in back of him. They were all three Madrileños, like Hernandez, boys about nineteen. One of them, a gypsy, serious, aloof, and dark-faced, he liked the look of. He turned.
Whats your name, kid? he asked the gypsy.
Fuentes, the gypsy said.
Thats a good name, Manuel said.
The gypsy smiled, showing his teeth.
You take the bull and give him a little run when he comes out, Manuel said.
All right, the gypsy said. His face was serious. He began to think about just what he would do.
Here she goes, Manuel said to Hernandez.
All right. Well go.
Heads up, swinging with the music, their right arms swinging free, they stepped out, crossing the sanded arena under the arc-lights, the cuadrillas opening out behind, the picadors riding after, behind came the bull-ring servants and the jingling mules. The crowd applauded Hernandez as they marched across the arena. Arrogant, swinging, they looked straight ahead as they marched.
They bowed before the president, and the procession broke up into its component parts. The bull-fighters went over to the barrera and changed their heavy mantles for the light fighting capes. The mules went out. The picadors galloped jerkily around the ring, and two rode out the gate they had come in by. The servants swept the sand smooth.
Manuel drank a glass of water poured for him by one of Retanas deputies, who was acting as his manager and sword-handler. Hernandez came over from speaking with his own manager.
You got a good hand, kid, Manuel complimented him.
They like me, Hernandez said happily.
How did the paseo go? Manuel asked Retanas man.
Like a wedding, said the handler. Fine. You came out like Joselito and Belmonte.
Zurito rode by, a bulky equestrian statue. He wheeled his horse and faced him toward the toril on the far side of the ring where the bull would come out. It was strange under the arc-light. He pic-ed in the hot afternoon sun for big money. He didnt like this arc-light business. He wished they would get started.
Manuel went up to him.
Pic him, Manos, he said. Cut him down to size for me.
Ill pic him, kid, Zurito spat on the sand. Ill make him jump out of the ring.
Lean on him, Manos, Manuel said.
Ill lean on him, Zurito said. Whats holding it up?
Hes coming now, Manuel said.
Zurito sat there, his feet in the box-stirrups, his great legs in the buckskin-covered armor gripping the horse, the reins in his left hand, the long pic held in his right hand, his broad hat well down over his eyes to shade them from the lights, watching the distant door of the toril. His horses ears quivered. Zurito patted him with his left hand.
The red door of the toril swung back and for a moment Zurito looked into the empty passageway far across the arena. Then the bull came out in a rush, skidding on his four legs as he came out under the lights, then charging in a gallop, moving softly in a fast gallop, silent except as he woofed through wide nostrils as he charged, glad to be free after the dark pen.
In the first row of seats, slightly bored, leaning forward to write on the cement wall in front of his knees, the substitute bull-fight critic of El Heraldo scribbled: Campagnero, Negro, 42, came out at 90 miles an hour with plenty of gas
Manuel, leaning against the barrera, watching the bull, waved his hand and the gypsy ran out, trailing his cape. The bull, in full gallop, pivoted and charged the cape, his head down, his tail rising. The gypsy moved in a zigzag, and as he passed, the bull caught sight of him and abandoned the cape to charge the man. The gyp sprinted and vaulted the red fence of the barrera as the bull struck it with his horns. He tossed into it twice with his horns, banging into the wood blindly.
The critic of El Heraldo lit a cigarette and tossed the match at the bull, then wrote in his note-book, large and with enough horns to satisfy the cash customers, Campagnero showed a tendency to cut into the terrain of the bull-fighters.
Manuel stepped out on the hard sand as the bull banged into the fence. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Zurito sitting the white horse close to the barrera, about a quarter of the way around the ring to the left. Manuel held the cape close in front of him, a fold in each hand, and shouted at the bull. Huh! Huh! The bull turned, seemed to brace against the fence as he charged in a scramble, driving into the cape as Manuel side-stepped, pivoted on his heels with the charge of the bull, and swung the cape just ahead of the horns. At the end of the swing he was facing the bull again and held the cape in the same position close in front of his body, and pivoted again as the bull recharged. Each time, as he swung, the crowd shouted.
Four times he swung with the bull, lifting the cape so it billowed full, and each time bringing the bull around to charge again. Then, at the end of the fifth swing, he held the cape against his hip and pivoted, so the cape swung out like a ballet dancers skirt and wound the bull around himself like a belt, to step clear, leaving the bull facing Zurito on the white horse, come up and planted firm, the horse facing the bull, its ears forward, its lips nervous, Zurito, his hat over his eyes, leaning forward, the long pole sticking out before and behind in a sharp angle under his right arm, held half-way down, the triangular iron point facing the bull.
El Heraldos second-string critic, drawing on his cigarette, his eyes on the bull, wrote: The veteran Manolo designed a series of acceptable verónicas, ending in a very Belmontistic recorte that earned applause from the regulars, and we entered the tercio of the cavalry.
Zurito sat his horse, measuring the distance between the bull and the end of the pic. As he looked, the bull gathered himself together and charged, his eyes on the horses chest. As he lowered his head to hook, Zurito sunk the point of the pic in the swelling hump of muscle above the bulls shoulder, leaned all his weight on the shaft, and with his left hand pulled the white horse into the air, front hoofs pawing, and swung him to the right as he pushed the bull under and through so the horns passed safely under the horses belly and the horse came down, quivering, the bulls tail brushing his chest as he charged the cape Hernandez offered him.
Hernandez ran sideways, taking the bull out and away with the cape, toward the other picador. He fixed him with a swing of the cape, squarely facing the horse and rider, and stepped back. As the bull saw the horse he charged. The picadors lance slid along his back, and as the shock of the charge lifted the horse, the picador was already half-way out of the saddle, lifting his right leg clear as he missed with the lance and falling to the left side to keep the horse between him and the bull. The horse, lifted and gored, crashed over with the bull driving into him, the picador gave a shove with his boots against the horse and lay clear, waiting to be lifted and hauled away and put on his feet.
Manuel let the bull drive into the fallen horse; he was in no hurry, the picador was safe; besides, it did a picador like that good to worry. Hed stay on longer next time. Lousy pics! He looked across the sand at Zurito a little way out from the barrera, his horse rigid, waiting.
Huh! he called to the bull, Tomar! holding the cape in both hands so it would catch his eye. The bull detached himself from the horse and charged the cape, and Manuel, running sideways and holding the cape spread wide, stopped, swung on his heels, and brought the bull sharply around facing Zurito.
Campagnero accepted a pair of varas for the death of one rosinante, with Hernandez and Manolo at the quites, El Heraldos critic wrote. He pressed on the iron and clearly showed he was no horse-lover. The veteran Zurito resurrected some of his old stuff with the pike-pole, notably the suerte
Olé! Olé! the man sitting beside him shouted. The shout was lost in the roar of the crowd, and he slapped the critic on the back. The critic looked up to see Zurito, directly below him, leaning far out over his horse, the length of the pic rising in a sharp angle under his armpit, holding the pic almost by the point, bearing down with all his weight, holding the bull off, the bull pushing and driving to get at the horse, and Zurito, far out, on top of him, holding him, holding him, and slowly pivoting the horse against the pressure, so that at last he was clear. Zurito felt the moment when the horse was clear and the bull could come past, and relaxed the absolute steel lock of his resistance, and the triangular steel point of the pic ripped in the bulls hump of shoulder muscle as he tore loose to find Hernandezs cape before his muzzle. He charged blindly into the cape and the boy took him out into the open arena.
Zurito sat patting his horse and looking at the bull charging the cape that Hernandez swung for him out under the bright light while the crowd shouted.
You see that one? he said to Manuel.
It was a wonder, Manuel said.
I got him that time, Zurito said. Look at him now.
At the conclusion of a closely turned pass of the cape the bull slid to his knees. He was up at once, but far out across the sand Manuel and Zurito saw the shine of the pumping flow of blood, smooth against the black of the bulls shoulder.
I got him that time, Zurito said.
Hes a good bull, Manuel said.
If they gave me another shot at him, Id kill him, Zurito said.
Theyll change the thirds on us, Manuel said.
Look at him now, Zurito said.
I got to go over there, Manuel said, and started on a run for the other side of the ring, where the monos were leading a horse out by the bridle toward the bull, whacking him on the legs with rods and all, in a procession, trying to get him toward the bull, who stood, dropping his head, pawing, unable to make up his mind to charge.
Zurito, sitting his horse, walking him toward the scene, not missing any detail, scowled.
Finally the bull charged, the horse leaders ran for the barrera, the picador hit too far back, and the bull got under the horse, lifted him, threw him onto his back.
Zurito watched. The monos, in their red shirts, running out to drag the picador clear. The picador, now on his feet, swearing and flopping his arms. Manuel and Hernandez standing ready with their capes. And the bull, the great, black bull, with a horse on his back, hooves dangling, the bridle caught in the horns. Black bull with a horse on his back, staggering short-legged, then arching his neck and lifting, thrusting, charging to slide the horse off, horse sliding down. Then the bull into a lunging charge at the cape Manuel spread for him.
The bull was slower now, Manuel felt. He was bleeding badly. There was a sheen of blood all down his flank.
Manuel offered him the cape again. There he came, eyes open, ugly, watching the cape. Manuel stepped to the side and raised his arms, tightening the cape ahead of the bull for the verónica.
Now he was facing the bull. Yes, his head was going down a little. He was carrying it lower. That was Zurito.
Manuel flopped the cape; there he comes; he side-stepped and swung in another verónica. Hes shooting awfully accurately, he thought. Hes had enough fight, so hes watching now. Hes hunting now. Got his eye on me. But I always give him the cape.
He shook the cape at the bull; there he comes; he side-stepped. Awful close that time. I dont want to work that close to him.
The edge of the cape was wet with blood where it had swept along the bulls back as he went by.
All right, heres the last one.
Manuel, facing the bull, having turned with him each charge, offered the cape with his two hands. The bull looked at him. Eyes watching, horns straight forward, the bull looked at him, watching.
Huh! Manuel said, Toro! and leaning back, swung the cape forward. Here he comes. He side-stepped, swung the cape in back of him, and pivoted, so the bull followed a swirl of cape and then was left with nothing, fixed by the pass, dominated by the cape. Manuel swung the cape under his muzzle with one hand, to show the bull was fixed, and walked away.
There was no applause.
Manuel walked across the sand toward the barrera, while Zurito rode out of the ring. The trumpet had blown to change the act to the planting of the banderillas while Manuel had been working with the bull. He had not consciously noticed it. The monos were spreading canvas over the two dead horses and sprinkling sawdust around them.
Manuel came up to the barrera for a drink of water. Retanas man handed him the heavy porous jug.
Fuentes, the tall gypsy, was standing holding a pair of banderillas, holding them together, slim, red sticks, fish-hook points out. He looked at Manuel.
Go on out there, Manuel said.
The gypsy trotted out. Manuel set down the jug and watched. He wiped his face with his handkerchief.
The critic of El Heraldo reached for the bottle of warm champagne that stood between his feet, took a drink, and finished his paragraph.
the aged Manolo rated no applause for a vulgar series of lances with the cape and we entered the third of the palings.
Alone in the center of the ring the bull stood, still fixed. Fuentes, tall, flat-backed, walking toward him arrogantly, his arms spread out, the two slim, red sticks, one in each hand, held by the fingers, points straight forward. Fuentes walked forward. Back of him and to one side was a peon with a cape. The bull looked at him and was no longer fixed.
His eyes watched Fuentes, now standing still. Now he leaned back, calling to him. Fuentes twitched the two banderillas and the light on the steel points caught the bulls eye.
His tail went up and he charged.
He came straight, his eyes on the man. Fuentes stood still, leaning back, the banderillas pointing forward. As the bull lowered his head to hook, Fuentes leaned backward, his arms came together and rose, his two hands touching, the banderillas two descending red lines, and leaning forward drove the points into the bulls shoulder, leaning far in over the bulls horns and pivoting on the two upright sticks, his legs tight together, his body curving to one side to let the bull pass.
Olé! from the crowd.
The bull was hooking wildly, jumping like a trout, all four feet off the ground. The red shaft of the banderillas tossed as he jumped.
Manuel, standing at the barrera, noticed that he looked always to the right.
Tell him to drop the next pair on the right, he said to the kid who started to run out to Fuentes with the new banderillas.
A heavy hand fell on his shoulder. It was Zurito.
How do you feel, kid? he asked.
Manuel was watching the bull.
Zurito leaned forward on the barrera, leaning the weight of his body on his arms. Manuel turned to him.
Youre going good, Zurito said.
Manuel shook his head. He had nothing to do now until the next third. The gypsy was very good with the banderillas. The bull would come to him in the next third in good shape. He was a good bull. It had all been easy up to now. The final stuff with the sword was all he worried over. He did not really worry. He did not even think about it. But standing there he had a heavy sense of apprehension. He looked out at the bull, planning his faena, his work with the red cloth that was to reduce the bull, to make him manageable.
The gypsy was walking out toward the bull again, walking heel-and-toe, insultingly, like a ballroom dancer, the red shafts of the banderillas twitching with his walk. The bull watched him, not fixed now, hunting him, but waiting to get close enough so he could be sure of getting him, getting the horns into him.
As Fuentes walked forward the bull charged. Fuentes ran across the quarter of a circle as the bull charged and, as he passed running backward, stopped, swung forward, rose on his toes, arms straight out, and sunk the banderillas straight down into the tight of the big shoulder muscles as the bull missed him.
The crowd were wild about it.
That kid wont stay in this night stuff long, Retanas man said to Zurito.
Hes good, Zurito said.
Watch him now.
They watched.
Fuentes was standing with his back against the barrera. Two of the cuadrilla were back of him, with their capes ready to flop over the fence to distract the bull.
The bull, with his tongue out, his barrel heaving, was watching the gypsy. He thought he had him now. Back against the red planks. Only a short charge away. The bull watched him.
The gypsy bent back, drew back his arms, the banderillas pointing at the bull. He called to the bull, stamped one foot. The bull was suspicious. He wanted the man. No more barbs in the shoulder.
Fuentes walked a little closer to the bull. Bent back. Called again. Somebody in the crowd shouted a warning.
Hes too damn close, Zurito said.
Watch him, Retanas man said.
Leaning back, inciting the bull with the banderillas, Fuentes jumped, both feet off the ground. As he jumped the bulls tail rose and he charged. Fuentes came down on his toes, arms straight out, whole body arching forward, and drove the shafts straight down as he swung his body clear of the right horn.
The bull crashed into the barrera where the flopping capes had attracted his eye as he lost the man.
The gypsy came running along the barrera toward Manuel, taking the applause of the crowd. His vest was ripped where he had not quite cleared the point of the horn. He was happy about it, showing it to the spectators. He made the tour of the ring. Zurito saw him go by, smiling, pointing at his vest. He smiled.
Somebody else was planting the last pair of banderillas. Nobody was paying any attention.
Retanas man tucked a baton inside the red cloth of a muleta, folded the cloth over it, and handed it over the barrera to Manuel. He reached in the leather sword-case, took out a sword, and holding it by its leather scabbard, reached it over the fence to Manuel. Manuel pulled the blade out by the red hilt and the scabbard fell limp.
He looked at Zurito. The big man saw he was sweating.
Now you get him, kid, Zurito said.
Manuel nodded.
Hes in good shape, Zurito said.
Just like you want him, Retanas man assured him.
Manuel nodded.
The trumpeter, up under the roof, blew for the final act, and Manuel walked across the arena toward where, up in the dark boxes, the president must be.
In the front row of seats the substitute bull-fight critic of El Heraldo took a long drink of the warm champagne. He had decided it was not worth while to write a running story and would write up the corrida back in the office. What the hell was it anyway? Only a nocturnal. If he missed anything he would get it out of the morning papers. He took another drink of the champagne. He had a date at Maxims at twelve. Who were these bull-fighters anyway? Kids and bums. A bunch of bums. He put his pad of paper in his pocket and looked over toward Manuel, standing very much alone in the ring, gesturing with his hat in a salute toward a box he could not see high up in the dark plaza. Out in the ring the bull stood quiet, looking at nothing.
I dedicate this bull to you, Mr. President, and to the public of Madrid, the most intelligent and generous of the world, was what Manuel was saying. It was a formula. He said it all. It was a little long for nocturnal use.
He bowed at the dark, straightened, tossed his hat over his shoulder, and, carrying the muleta in his left hand and the sword in his right, walked out toward the bull.
Manuel walked toward the bull. The bull looked at him; his eyes were quick. Manuel noticed the way the banderillas hung down on his left shoulder and the steady sheen of blood from Zuritos pic-ing. He noticed the way the bulls feet were. As he walked forward, holding the muleta in his left hand and the sword in his right, he watched the bulls feet. The bull could not charge without gathering his feet together. Now he stood square on them, dully.
Manuel walked toward him, watching his feet. This was all right. He could do this. He must work to get the bulls head down, so he could go in past the horns and kill him. He did not think about the sword, not about killing the bull. He thought about one thing at a time. The coming things oppressed him, though. Walking forward, watching the bulls feet, he saw successively his eyes, his wet muzzle, and the wide, forward-pointing spread of his horns. The bull had light circles about his eyes. His eyes watched Manuel. He felt he was going to get this little one with the white face.
Standing still now and spreading the red cloth of the muleta with the sword, pricking the point into the cloth so that the sword, now held in his left hand, spread the red flannel like the jib of a boat, Manuel noticed the points of the bulls horns. One of them was splintered from banging against the barrera. The other was sharp as a porcupine quill. Manuel noticed while spreading the muleta that the white base of the horn was stained red. While he noticed these things he did not lose sight of the bulls feet. The bull watched Manuel steadily.
Hes on the defensive now, Manuel thought. Hes reserving himself. Ive got to bring him out of that and get his head down. Always get his head down. Zurito had his head down once, but hes come back. Hell bleed when I start him going and that will bring it down.
Holding the muleta, with the sword in his left hand widening it in front of him, he called to the bull.
The bull looked at him.
He leaned back insultingly and shook the wide-spread flannel.
The bull saw the muleta. It was a bright scarlet under the arc-light. The bulls legs tightened.
Here he comes. Whoosh! Manuel turned as the bull came and raised the muleta so that it passed over the bulls horns and swept down his broad back from head to tail. The bull had gone clean up in the air with the charge. Manuel had not moved.
At the end of the pass the bull turned like a cat coming around a corner and faced Manuel.
He was on the offensive again. His heaviness was gone. Manuel noted the fresh blood shining down the black shoulder and dripping down the bulls leg. He drew the sword out of the muleta and held it in his right hand. The muleta held low down in his left hand, leaning toward the left, he called to the bull. The bulls legs tightened, his eyes on the muleta. Here he comes, Manuel thought. Yuh!
He swung with the charge, sweeping the muleta ahead of the bull, his feet firm, the sword following the curve, a point of light under the arcs.
The bull recharged as the pase natural finished and Manuel raised the muleta for a pase de pecho. Firmly planted, the bull came by his chest under the raised muleta. Manuel leaned his head back to avoid the clattering banderillo shafts. The hot, black bull body touched his chest as it passed.
Too damn close, Manuel thought. Zurito, leaning on the barrera, spoke rapidly to the gypsy, who trotted out toward Manuel with a cape. Zurito pulled his hat down low and looked out across the arena at Manuel.
Manuel was facing the bull again, the muleta held low and to the left. The bulls head was down as he watched the muleta.
If it was Belmonte doing that stuff, theyd go crazy, Retanas man said.
Zurito said nothing. He was watching Manuel out in the center of the arena.
Where did the boss dig this fellow up? Retanas man asked.
Out of the hospital, Zurito said.
Thats where hes going damn quick, Retanas man said.
Zurito turned on him.
Knock on that, he said, pointing to the barrera.
I was just kidding, man, Retanas man said.
Knock on the wood.
Retanas man leaned forward and knocked three times on the barrera.
Watch the faena, Zurito said.
Out in the center of the ring, under the lights, Manuel was kneeling, facing the bull, and as he raised the muleta in both hands the bull charged, tail up.
Manuel swung his body clear and, as the bull recharged, brought around the muleta in a half-circle that pulled the bull to his knees.
Why, that ones a great bull-fighter, Retanas man said.
No, hes not, said Zurito.
Manuel stood up and, the muleta in his left hand, the sword in his right, acknowledged the applause from the dark plaza.
The bull had humped himself up from his knees and stood waiting, his head hung low.
Zurito spoke to two of the other lads of the cuadrilla and they ran out to stand back of Manuel with their capes. There were four men back of him now. Hernandez had followed him since he first came out with the muleta. Fuentes stood watching, his cape held against his body, tall, in repose, watching lazy-eyed. Now the two came up. Hernandez motioned them to stand one at each side. Manuel stood alone, facing the bull.
Manuel waved back the men with the capes. Stepping back cautiously, they saw his face was white and sweating.
Didnt they know enough to keep back? Did they want to catch the bulls eye with the capes after he was fixed and ready? He had enough to worry about without that kind of thing.
The bull was standing, his four feet square, looking at the muleta. Manuel furled the muleta in his left hand. The bulls eyes watched it. His body was heavy on his feel. He carried his head low, but not too low.
Manuel lifted the muleta at him. The bull did not move. Only his eyes watched.
Hes all lead. Manuel thought. Hes all square. Hes framed right. Hell take it.
He thought in bull-fight terms. Sometimes he had a thought and the particular piece of slang would not come into his mind and he could not realize the thought. His instincts and his knowledge worked automatically, and his brain worked slowly and in words. He knew all about bulls. He did not have to think about them. He just did the right thing. His eyes noted things and his body performed the necessary measures without thought. If he thought about it, he would be gone.
Now, facing the bull, he was conscious of many things at the same time. There were the horns, the one splintered, the other smoothly sharp, the need to profile himself toward the left horn, lance himself short and straight, lower the muleta so the bull would follow it, and, going in over the horns, put the sword all the way into a little spot about as big as a five-peseta piece straight in back of the neck, between the sharp pitch of the bulls shoulders. He must do all this and must then come out from between the horns. He was conscious he must do all this, but his only thought was in words: Corto y derecho.
Corto y derecho, he thought, furling the muleta. Short and straight. Corto y derecho, he drew the sword out of the muleta, profiled on the splintered left horn, dropped the muleta across his body, so his right hand with the sword on the level with his eye made the sign of the cross, and, rising on his toes, sighted along the dipping blade of the sword at the spot high up between the bulls shoulders.
Corto y derecho he launched himself on the bull.
There was a shock, and he felt himself go up in the air. He pushed on the sword as he went up and over, and it flew out of his hand. He hit the ground and the bull was on him. Manuel, lying on the ground, kicked at the bulls muzzle with his slippered feet. Kicking, kicking, the bull after him, missing him in his excitement, bumping him with his head, driving the horns into the sand. Kicking like a man keeping a ball in the air, Manuel kept the bull from getting a clean thrust at him.
Manuel felt the wind on his back from the capes flopping at the bull, and then the bull was gone, gone over him in a rush. Dark, as his belly went over. Not even stepped on.
Manuel stood up and picked up the muleta. Fuentes handed him the sword. It was bent where it had struck the shoulder-blade. Manuel straightened it on his knee and ran toward the bull, standing now beside one of the dead horses. As he ran, his jacket flopped where it had been ripped under his armpit.
Get him out of there, Manuel shouted to the gypsy. The bull had smelled the blood of the dead horse and ripped into the canvas-cover with his horns. He charged Fuentess cape, with the canvas hanging from his splintered horn, and the crowd laughed. Out in the ring, he tossed his head to rid himself of the canvas. Hernandez, running up from behind him, grabbed the end of the canvas and neatly lifted it off the horn.
The bull followed it in a half-charge and stopped still. He was on the defensive again. Manuel was walking toward him with the sword and muleta. Manuel swung the muleta before him. The bull would not charge.
Manuel profiled toward the bull, sighting along the dipping blade of the sword. The bull was motionless, seemingly dead on his feet, incapable of another charge.
Manuel rose to his toes, sighting along the steel, and charged.
Again there was the shock and he felt himself being borne back in a rush, to strike hard on the sand. There was no chance of kicking this time. The bull was on top of him. Manuel lay as though dead, his head on his arms, and the bull bumped him. Bumped his back, bumped his face in the sand. He felt the horn go into the sand between his folded arms. The bull hit him in the small of the back. His face drove into the sand. The horn drove through one of his sleeves and the bull ripped it off. Manuel was tossed clear and the bull followed the capes.
Manuel got up, found the sword and muleta, tried the point of the sword with his thumb, and then ran toward the barrera for a new sword.
Retanas man handed him the sword over the edge of the barrera.
Wipe off your face, he said.
Manuel, running again toward the bull, wiped his bloody face with his handkerchief. He had not seen Zurito. Where was Zurito?
The cuadrilla had stepped away from the bull and waited with their capes. The bull stood, heavy and dull again after the action.
Manuel walked toward him with the muleta. He stopped and shook it. The bull did not respond. He passed it right and left, left and right before the bulls muzzle. The bulls eyes watched it and turned with the swing, but he would not charge. He was waiting for Manuel.
Manuel was worried. There was nothing to do but go in. Corto y derecho. He profiled close to the bull, crossed the muleta in front of his body and charged. As he pushed in the sword, he jerked his body to the left to clear the horn. The bull passed him and the sword shot up in the air, twinkling under the arc-lights, to fall red-hilted on the sand.
Manuel ran over and picked it up. It was bent and he straightened it over his knee.
As he came running toward the bull, fixed again now, he passed Hernandez standing with his cape.
Hes all bone, the boy said encouragingly.
Manuel nodded, wiping his face. He put the bloody handkerchief in his pocket.
There was the bull. He was close to the barrera now. Damn him. Maybe he was all bone. Maybe there was not any place for the sword to go in. The hell there wasnt! Hed show them.
He tried a pass with the muleta and the bull did not move. Manuel chopped the muleta back and forth in front of the bull. Nothing doing.
He furled the muleta, drew the sword out, profiled and drove in on the bull. He felt the sword buckle as he shoved it in, leaning his weight on it, and then it shot high in the air, end-over-ending into the crowd. Manuel had jerked clear as the sword jumped.
The first cushions thrown down out of the dark missed him. Then one hit him in the face, his bloody face looking toward the crowd. They were coming down fast. Spotting the sand. Somebody threw an empty champagne-bottle from close range. It hit Manuel on the foot. He stood there watching the dark, where the things were coming from. Then something whished through the air and struck by him. Manuel leaned over and picked it up. It was his sword. He straightened it over his knee and gestured with it to the crowd.
Thank you, he said. Thank you.
Oh, the dirty bastards! Dirty bastards! Oh, the lousy, dirty bastards! He kicked into a cushion as he ran.
There was the bull. The same as ever. All right, you dirty, lousy bastard!
Manuel passed the muleta in front of the bulls black muzzle.
Nothing doing.
You wont! All right. He stepped close and jammed the sharp peak of the muleta into the bulls damp muzzle.
The bull was on him as he jumped back and as he tripped on a cushion he felt the horn go into him, into his side. He grabbed the horn with his two hands and rode backward, holding tight onto the place. The bull tossed him and he was clear. He lay still. It was all right. The bull was gone.
He got up coughing and feeling broken and gone. The dirty bastards!
Give me the sword, he shouted. Give me the stuff.
Fuentes came up with the muleta and the sword.
Hernandez put his arm around him.
Go on to the infirmary, man, he said. Dont be a damn fool.
Get away from me, Manuel said. Get to hell away from me.
He twisted free. Hernandez shrugged his shoulders. Manuel ran toward the bull.
There was the bull standing, heavy, firmly planted.
All right, you bastard! Manuel drew the sword out of the muleta, sighted with the same movement, and flung himself onto the bull. He felt the sword go in all the way. Right up to the guard. Four fingers and his thumb into the bull. The blood was hot on his knuckles, and he was on top of the bull.
The bull lurched with him as he lay on, and seemed to sink; then he was standing clear. He looked at the bull going down slowly over on his side, then suddenly four feet in the air.
Then he gestured at the crowd, his hand warm from the bull blood.
All right, you bastards! He wanted to say something, but he started to cough. It was hot and choking. He looked down for the muleta. He must go over and salute the president. President hell! He was sitting down looking at something. It was the bull. His four feet up. Thick tongue out. Things crawling around on his belly and under his legs. Crawling where the hair was thin. Dead bull. To hell with the bull! To hell with them all! He started to get to his feet and commenced to cough. He sat down again, coughing. Somebody came and pushed him up.
They carried him across the ring to the infirmary, running with him across the sand, standing blocked at the gate as the mules came in, then around under the dark passageway, men grunting as they took him up the stairway, and then laid him down.
The doctor and two men in white were waiting for him. They laid him out on the table. They were cutting away his shirt. Manuel felt tired. His whole chest felt scalding inside. He started to cough and they held something to his mouth. Everybody was very busy.
There was an electric light in his eyes. He shut his eyes.
He heard someone coming very heavily up the stairs. Then he did not hear it. Then he heard a noise far off. That was the crowd. Well, somebody would have to kill his other bull. They had cut away all his shirt. The doctor smiled at him. There was Retana.
Hello, Retana! Manuel said. He could not hear his voice.
Retana smiled at him and said something. Manuel could not hear it.
Zurito stood beside the table, bending over where the doctor was working. He was in his picador clothes, without his hat.
Zurito said something to him. Manuel could not hear it.
Zurito was speaking to Retana. One of the men in white smiled and handed Retana a pair of scissors. Retana gave them to Zurito. Zurito said something to Manuel. He could not hear it.
To hell with this operating-table. Hed been on plenty of operating-tables before. He was not going to die. There would be a priest if he was going to die.
Zurito was saying something to him. Holding up the scissors.
That was it. They were going to cut off his coleta. They were going to cut off his pigtail.
Manuel sat up on the operating-table. The doctor stepped back, angry. Someone grabbed him and held him.
You couldnt do a thing like that, Manos, he said.
He heard suddenly, clearly, Zuritos voice.
Thats all right, Zurito said. I wont do it. I was joking.
I was going good, Manuel said. I didnt have any luck. That was all.
Manuel lay back. They had put something over his face. It was all familiar. He inhaled deeply. He felt very tired. He was very, very tired. They took the thing away from his face.
I was going good, Manuel said weakly. I was going great.
Retana looked at Zurito and started for the door.
Ill stay here with him, Zurito said.
Retana shrugged his shoulders.
Manuel opened his eyes and looked at Zurito.
Wasnt I going good, Manos? he asked, for confirmation.
Sure, said Zurito. You were going great.
The doctors assistant put the cone over Manuels face and he inhaled deeply. Zurito stood awkwardly, watching.



The Symbolism & Irony of the Short Story "The Undefeated"
by William Martin

Authors utilize symbols and irony to develop themes in their work. They are the building blocks of theme, so by deconstructing theme, these elements become more evident. To fully recognize and understand the use of symbols and irony in Ernest Hemingway's "The Undefeated," one should first identify the short story's possible themes. One possible theme of "The Undefeated" is "society's tendency to build celebrity, only to unceremoniously destroy it." This theme easily applies to Manuel Garcia, the protagonist of "The Undefeated." By keeping this theme in mind, it becomes easier to recognize symbolism and irony -- particularly verbal irony -- in Hemingway's "The Undefeated."

Beginning Verbal Irony

As Manuel visits Don Miguel Retana in order to secure a bullfight, he sees a bull's head stuffed and mounted on the wall. This is the bull that killed Manuel's brother -- "the promising one." The first verbal irony is found on the brass plate below the head. The bull's name, 'Mariposa,' comes before Manuel's brother's name. 'Mariposa" is also a feminine noun in Spanish and Manuel is doubly insulted by the verbal irony. In the scene, Manuel states he is "a bullfighter." Retana replies, "Yes, while you're in there," implying that Manuel is nothing outside the ring and is on his way to becoming nothing in the ring. The verbal irony continues when Manuel states hopefully that, "They'd come to see me 'get it.' " He then asks if Retana will provide a good 'picador' -- the bullfighter's assistant who uses a lance on the bull. However, in asking, Manuel realizes he "... was talking to a man who was no longer listening." The verbal irony establishes Retana as the promoter and primary profiteer of the bullfights. With Manuel's celebrity waning, Retana has little interest in his abilities, let alone his well-being.

Building on Verbal Irony

As Manuel waits in a cafe to meet Zurito, a picador he knows and trusts, the waiters question him -- without recognizing him -- about the bullfights. Besides the irony of lost recognition, the waiters ask if he is in the "Charlie Chaplins," a group that performs a burlesque of bullfighters by mirroring Chaplin's slapstick films. The irony of the waiters' question causes the coffee boy to look away, embarrassed. When the waiters find out that Manuel is replacing a more popular bullfighter, they immediately focus their concern in that direction -- an ironic slight to Manuel. The waiters continue, pointing out that bullfighters either "stand with" Retana the promoter and succeed or should just go out and shoot themselves. The inherent irony of the waiters' questions and conversation accentuate the theme of celebrity destroyed. In fact, they're oblivious to Manuel: "They had forgotten about him. They were not interested in him." Newer celebrity has replaced the older, established celebrity.

Verbal Irony Intensfies Conflict

Verbal irony further emphasizes conflict during Manuel's bullfight and also continues to promote the thesis of "celebrity destroyed." Before the bullfight, Manuel says to the picador, Zurito, "You ought to have seen me ..." Zurito replies with verbal irony and foreshadowing, "I don't want to see you ... It makes me nervous." Zurito continues with, "You got to quit ... No monkey business." Ironically, during their discussion, "monkey business" is happening with the "Charlie Chaplins" in the ring, which also foreshadows Manuel's fate.

Situational Irony

In "The Undefeated," situational irony not only accentuates verbal irony, but also promotes the theme of "celebrity destroyed." In the beginning, Manuel attempts to negotiate with Retana. Retana undercuts Manuel, who points out that Villalta, a more current bullfighting "celebrity," receives much more. Retana replies, "You're not Villalta ..." This situation forces Manuel to admit his celebrity is waning. Newer celebrities have greater opportunities. The greatest situational irony is the bullfight itself. Before Manuel begins, he must wait for the "Charlie Chaplins," who are met with a "... roar from the arena and then applause, prolonged applause, going on and on." The idea that the burlesque preceding the bullfight draws more spectator approval than the bullfight itself presents situational irony furthering the theme of celebrity lost. During the bullfight, Manuel becomes as comic as the Chaplins. The initial applause is not for him, but for another, younger bullfighter. Eventually, during the bullfight, Manuel is knocked down and reduced to kicking at the bull's muzzle, "... like a man keeping a ball in the air." Although Manuel eventually kills the bull -- despite being severely wounded himself -- he is a laughingstock. The situation and events strip him of what little celebrity remains.


Irony isn't as evident without the use of symbols, which accentuate verbal and situational irony. Symbols used in "The Undefeated" include the coleta, the small pigtail matadors cultivate to show their status. At the beginning, Manuel's coleta is "pinned forward ... so that it would not show ... [giving] him a strange look." Zurito also vows to cut off Manuel's coleta if he doesn't agree to quit. Another symbol, the "... substitute bullfight critic of El Heraldo ...," illustrates the disillusionment and disgust many have for older celebrities. The swords Manuel uses during the bullfight symbolize his impotence in maintaining his celebrity. The swords bounce ineffectively off bone; they bend and have to be straightened over Manuel's knee. All the while, the spectators laugh. Symbols augment verbal and situational irony to further strengthen the theme of celebrity destroyed by the society that helped create it.

About the Author

William Martin has earned degrees in English/language arts and education. His background includes teaching reading and writing, literature analysis, arts and culture, outdoor recreation, home repair and improvement. His first short story was published as a junior in high school; more years ago than he'd probably care to admit.



Lukas Graham - Seven Years Old

Once I was seven years old, my momma told me,
Go make yourself some friends or you'll be lonely.
Once I was seven years old.

It was a big big world, but we thought we were bigger.
Pushing each other to the limits, we won't learn them quicker.
By eleven smoking herb and drinking burning liquor
Never rich so we were out to make that steady figure

Once I was eleven years old, my daddy told me,
Go get yourself a wife or you'll be lonely.
Once I was eleven years old.

I always had that dream like my daddy before me
So I started writing songs, I started writing stories
Something about that glory, just always seemed to bore me,
Cause only those I really love will ever really know me

Once I was twenty years old, my story got told,
Before the morning sun, when life was lonely.
Once I was twenty years old.

I only see my goals, I don't believe in failure.
Cause I know the smallest voices, they can make it major.
I got my boys with me at least those in favour,
And if we don't see before I leave, I hope to see you later.

Once I was 20 years old, my story got told
I was writing about everything, I saw before me
Once I was 20 years old.

Soon we'll be 30 years old, our songs have been sold,
We've traveled around the world and we're still rolling.
Soon we'll be 30 years old.

I'm still learning about life
My woman brought children for me
So I can sing them all my songs
And I can tell them stories
Most of my boys are with me
Some are still out seeking glory
And some I had to leave behind
My brother I'm still sorry

Remember life and then your life becomes a better one
I made a man so happy when I wrote a letter once
I hope my children come and visit, once or twice a month

Soon I'll be 60 years old, will I think the world is cold?
Or will I have a lot of children who can bore me

Once I was seven years old

=Spoiler ():



Queen Elizabeth II speech to parliament 2013



The first televised Christmas Broadcast or 'Queen's Speech', filmed at Sandringham House in Norfolk.



In this years broadcast, also known as The Queens Speech, Her Majesty reflects on the years events, and encourages us to be grateful for all that brings light to our lives.



Time for Childrenhttp://s8.uploads.ru/t/YzwgN.jpg


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