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"Книга для чтения на английском языке"

Учебное пособие «Книга для чтения на английском языке» по дисциплине «Иностранный язык» для студентов всех специальностей
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государственное бюджетное профессиональное образовательное учреждение

«Златоустовский индустриальный колледж им. П.П. Аносова»

 

 

 

 

 

 

Книга для чтения

на английском языке 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

          2019

Учебное пособие «Книга для чтения на английском языке»

по дисциплине «Иностранный язык» для студентов

всех специальностей

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Составил: Симонова С.Г. – преподаватель ГБПОУ «ЗлатИК  им П.П. Аносова»

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Рекомендовано к использованию решением методического совета

ГБПОУ «ЗлатИК им П.П. Аносова»

(протокол №__________ от_________20____г.)


ПОЯСНИТЕЛЬНАЯ ЗАПИСКА

 

Современная зарубежная художественная литература стала широко известна в России лишь в XVIII-XIX веках. Особый интерес вызывает литература англо-говорящих стран                из-за распространённости изучения английского языка. На сегодняшний день существует множество переводов английских прозаических и поэтических текстов, но, к сожалению, перевод не может передать особую красоту, пластичность, легкость и необычайную лаконичность английского языка.                                                                                                                                             Книга для чтения знакомит читателя с девятью лучшими образцами творчества писателей XIXXX вв., где представлены интересные и мало знакомые произведения, написанные с юмором и долей иронии, дающие представления о культуре стран, их традициях.                                                                                                                Книга для чтения предназначена всем, кто изучает и совершенствует английский язык.  Основным достоинством данной книги является то, что в текстах много неадаптированной лексики, что способствует расширению словарного запаса, и много интересных заданий к текстам, что поможет читателю усовершенствовать свой английский.                                                                                                          Все произведения, представленные в данном сборнике можно читать, пересказывать, а также выполнять задания к текстам, работая дома или в аудитории, как устно, так и письменно, под руководством преподавателя и самостоятельно.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Municipal Report

         by O. Henry

It was raining as I got off the train in Nashville, Tennessee — a slow, gray rain. I was tired so I went straight to my hotel.                                                                                     A big, heavy man was walking up and down in the hotel lobby. Something about the way he moved made me think of a hungry dog looking for a bone. He had a big, fat, red face and a sleepy expression in his eyes. He introduced himself as Wentworth Caswell — Major Wentworth Caswell — from «a fine southern family». Caswell pulled me into the hotel’s barroom and yelled for a waiter. We ordered drinks. While we drank, he talked continually about himself, his family, his wife and her family. He said his wife was rich. He showed me a handful of silver coins that he pulled from his coat pocket.                                                                                     By this time, I had decided that I wanted no more of him*. I said good night.               I went up to my room and looked out the window. It was ten o’clock but the town was silent. «A nice quiet place». I said to myself as I got ready for bed. Just an ordinary, sleepy southern town».                                                                                                                                I was born in the south myself. But I live in New York now. I write for a large magazine. My boss had asked me to go to Nashville. The magazine had received some stories and poems from a writer in Nashville, named Azalea Adair. The editor liked her work very much. The publisher asked me to get her to sign an agreement to write only for his magazine. I left the hotel at nine o’clock the next morning to find Miss Adair. It was still raining. As soon as I stepped outside I met Uncle Caesar. He was a big, old black man with fuzzy gray hair.                                           Uncle Caesar was wearing the strangest coat I had ever seen. It must have been a military officer’s coat. It was very long and when it was new it had been gray. But now rain, sun and age had made it a rainbow of colors. Only one of the buttons was left**. It was yellow and as big as a fifty cent coin.                                                         Uncle Caesar stood near a horse and carriage. He opened the carriage door and said softly, «Step right in, sir. I’ll take you anywhere in the city».                                           «I want to go to eight-sixty-one Jasmine Street», I said, and I started to climb into the carriage. But the old man stopped me. «Why do you want to go there, sir»?                                                                                                                                                                         «What business is it of yours»? I said angrily. Uncle Caesar relaxed and smiled. «Nothing, sir. But it’s a lonely part of town. Just step in and I’ll take you there right away».                                                                                                                                                           Eight-sixty-one Jasmine Street had been a fine house once, but now it was old and dying. I got out of the carriage.                                                                                                                 «That will be two dollars, sir», Uncle Caesar said. I gave him two one-dollar bills. As I handed them to him, I noticed that one had been torn in half and fixed with a piece of blue paper. Also, the upper right hand corner was missing.                                           Azalea Adair herself opened the door when I knocked. She was about fifty years old. Her white hair was pulled back from her small, tired face. She wore a pale yellow dress. It was old, but very clean.                                                                                     Azalea Adair led me into her living room. A damaged table, three chairs and an old red sofa were in the center of the floor.                                                                                     Azalea Adair and I sat down at the table and began to talk. I told her about the magazine’s offer and she told me about herself. She was from an old southern family. Her father had been a judge.                                                                                                                 Azalea Adair told me she had never traveled or even attended school. Her parents taught her at home with private teachers. We finished our meeting. I promised to return with the agreement the next day, and rose to leave.                             At that moment, someone knocked at the back door. Azalea Adair whispered a soft apology and went to answer the caller. She came back a minute later with bright eyes and pink cheeks. She looked ten years younger. «You must have a cup of tea before you go», she said. She shook a little bell on the table, and a small black girl about twelve years old ran into the room.                                                                       Azalea Adair opened a tiny old purse and took out a dollar bill. It had been fixed with a piece of blue paper and the upper right hand corner was missing. It was the dollar I had given to Uncle Caesar. «Go to Mister Baker’s store, Impy», she said, «and get me twenty-five cents’ worth of tea and ten cents’ worth of sugar cakes. And please hurry».                                                                                                                               The child ran out of the room. We heard the back door close. Then the girl screamed. Her cry mixed with a man’s angry voice. Azalea Adair stood up. Her face showed no emotion as she left the room. I heard the man’s rough voice and her gentle one. Then a door slammed and she came back into the room.                             «I am sorry, but I won’t be able to offer you any tea after all», she said. «It seems that Mister Baker has no more tea. Perhaps he will find some for our visit tomorrow».                                                                                                                                                                         We said good-bye. I went back to my hotel.                                                                                     Just before dinner, Major Wentworth Caswell found me. It was impossible to avoid him. He insisted on buying me a drink and pulled two one-dollar bills from his pocket. Again I saw a torn dollar fixed with blue paper, with a corner missing. It was the one I gave Uncle Caesar. How strange, I thought. I wondered how Caswell got it.                                                                                                                                             Uncle Caesar was waiting outside the hotel the next afternoon. He took me to Miss Adair’s house and agreed to wait there until we had finished our business.              Azalea Adair did not look well. I explained the agreement to her. She signed it. Then, as she started to rise from the table, Azalea Adair fainted and fell to the floor. I picked her up and carried her to the old red sofa. I ran to the door and yelled to Uncle Caesar for help. He ran down the street. Five minutes later, he was back with a doctor.                                                                                                                                             The doctor examined Miss Adair and turned to the old black driver. «Uncle Caesar», he said, «run to my house and ask my wife for some milk and some eggs. Hurry»!                                                                                                                                                                         Then the doctor turned to me. «She does not get enough to eat», he said. «She has many friends who want to help her, but she is proud. Misses Caswell will accept help only from that old black man. He was once her family’s slave». «Misses Caswell». I said in surprise. «I thought she was Azalea Adair».                             «She was», - the doctor answered, «until she married Wentworth Caswell twenty years ago. But he’s a hopeless drunk who takes even the small amount of money that Uncle Caesar gives her»                                                                                                                After the doctor left I heard Caesar’s voice in the other room. «Did he take all the money I gave you yesterday, Miss Azalea»? «Yes, Caesar», I heard her answer softly. «He took both dollars».                                                                                                                 I went into the room and gave Azalea Adair fifty dollars. I told her it was from the magazine. Then Uncle Caesar drove me back to the hotel.                                                         A few hours later, I went out for a walk before dinner. A crowd of people were talking excitedly in front of a store. I pushed my way into the store. Major Caswell was lying on the floor. He was dead.                                                                       Someone had found his body on the street. He had been killed in a fight. In fact, his hands were still closed into tight fists. But as I stood near his body, Caswell’s right hand opened. Something fell from it and rolled near my feet. I put my foot on it, then picked it up and put it in my pocket.                                                                       People said they believed a thief had killed him. They said Caswell had been showing everyone that he had fifty dollars. But when he was found, he had no money on him.                                                                                                                                                                        I left Nashville the next morning. As the train crossed a river I took out of my pocket the object that had dropped from Caswell’s dead hand. I threw it into the river below.                                                                                                                                                           It was a button. A yellow button… the one from Uncle Caesar’s coat.

 

 

 

Words:

Municipal Report - [ mjuːˈnɪs.ɪ.pəl ] [ rɪˈpɔːt ]

gray rain – серый, монотонный, скучный дождь

I was tired so I went straight to my hotelЯ устал, поэтому я пошел прямо (сразу) в свой отель.

the hotel lobbyлобби-бар расположен в центральном холле гостиницы, зачастую имеет стильную и спокойную уютную атмосферу, позволяющую обсудить текущие дела или просто неспешно перекусить в течение дня.

a sleepy expression – сонное выражение

yelled – скандируемый, провозглашенный, объявленный

handful – горсть

town was silent – город молчал

button – пуговица

fuzzy gray hair – пушистые, седые волосы

It must have been a military officer’s coat – Должно быть, это было пальто офицера (шинель)

a tiny old purse – крошечный старый кошелек

to avoid – избежать

insisted on buying – настоял на покупке

amount – количество, сумма

I pushed my way into the store – я протолкнулся в магазин

threw – кинул, бросил

People said they believed a thief had killed him – Люди говорили, что верили, что вор убил его

his hands were still closed into tight fists – его руки всё ещё были сжаты в кулаки

below – ниже, внизу

 

Task 1 Read and understand

Task 2 Write out complex words and phrases with transcription

Task 3 Complete the short annotation (5-7)

Task 4 Logic work

  1. It was raining as I got off the train in Nashville, Tennessee — a slow, gray rain. I was tired so I went straight to my hotel
  2. A big, heavy man was walking up and down in the hotel lobby
  3. He showed me a handful of silver coins that he pulled from his coat pocket
  4. He introduced himself as Wentworth Caswell
  5. He said his wife was rich.
  6. I left the hotel at nine o’clock
  7. As soon as I stepped outside I met Uncle Caesar
  8. He opened the carriage door and said softly.
  9. He showed me a handful of silver coins.
  10. I said good night. I went up to my room and looked out the window.
  11. I left Nashville the next morning I threw it into the river below.
  12. It was a button. A yellow button… the one from Uncle Caesar’s coat.
  13. A few hours later, I went out for a walk before dinner.
  14. A crowd of people were talking excitedly in front of a store.  

     

A Pair of Silk Stockings

by Kate Chopin

Little Missus Sommers one day found herself the unexpected owner of fifteen dollars. It seemed to her a very large amount of money. The way it filled up her worn money holder gave her a feeling of importance that she had not enjoyed for years.                                                                                                                                                                         The question of investment was one she considered carefully. For a day or two she walked around in a dreamy state as she thought about her choices. She did not wish to act quickly and do anything she might regret. During the quiet hours of the night she lay awake considering ideas.                                                                                                   A dollar or two could be added to the price she usually paid for her daughter Janie’s shoes. This would guarantee they would last a great deal longer than usual. She would buy cloth for new shirts for the boys. Her daughter Mag should have another dress. And still there would be enough left for new stockings – two pairs per child. What time that would save her in always repairing old stockings! The idea of her little family looking fresh and new for once in their lives made her restless with excitement.                                                                                                                                             The neighbors sometimes talked of the «better days» that little Missus Sommers had known before she had ever thought of being Missus Sommers. She herself never looked back to her younger days. She had no time to think about the past. The needs of the present took all her energy.                                                                                     Missus Sommers knew the value of finding things for sale at reduced prices. She could stand for hours making her way little by little toward the desired object that was selling below cost. She could push her way if need be.                                           But that day she was tired and a little bit weak. She had eaten a light meal- no! She thought about her day. Between getting the children fed and the house cleaned, and preparing herself to go shopping, she had forgotten to eat at all!               When she arrived at the large department store, she sat in front of an empty counter. She was trying to gather strength and courage to push through a mass of busy shoppers. She rested her hand upon the counter.                                                                       She wore no gloves. She slowly grew aware that her hand had felt something very pleasant to touch. She looked down to see that her hand lay upon a pile of silk stockings. A sign nearby announced that they had been reduced in price. A young girl who stood behind the counter asked her if she wished to examine the silky leg coverings.                                                                                                                                                                         She smiled as if she had been asked to inspect diamond jewelry with the aim of purchasing it. But she went on feeling the soft, costly items. Now she used both hands, holding the stockings up to see the light shine through them.                                           Two red marks suddenly showed on her pale face. She looked up at the shop girl.

«Do you think there are any size eights-and-a-half among these»?

There were a great number of stockings in her size. Missus Sommers chose a black pair and looked at them closely.

         «A dollar and ninety-eight cents», she said aloud. «Well, I will buy this pair».

She handed the girl a five dollar bill and waited for her change and the wrapped box with the stockings. What a very small box it was! It seemed lost in her worn old shopping bag.                                                                                                                                             Missus Sommers then took the elevator which carried her to an upper floor into the ladies’ rest area. In an empty corner, she replaced her cotton stockings for the new silk ones.                                                                                                                                                          For the first time she seemed to be taking a rest from the tiring act of thought. She had let herself be controlled by some machine-like force that directed her actions and freed her of responsibility.                                                                                                   How good was the touch of the silk on her skin! She felt like lying back in the soft chair and enjoying the richness of it. She did for a little while. Then she put her shoes back on and put her old stockings into her bag. Next, she went to the shoe department, sat down and waited to be fitted.                                                                                     The young shoe salesman was unable to guess about her background. He could not resolve her worn, old shoes with her beautiful, new stockings. She tried on a pair of new boots.                                                                                                                                            She held back her skirts and turned her feet one way and her head another way as she looked down at the shiny, pointed boots. Her foot and ankle looked very lovely. She could not believe that they were a part of herself. She told the young salesman that she wanted an excellent and stylish fit. She said she did not mind paying extra as long as she got what she desired.                                                                       After buying the new boots, she went to the glove department. It was a long time since Missus Sommers had been fitted with gloves. When she had bought a pair they were always «bargains», so cheap that it would have been unreasonable to have expected them to be fitted to her hand.                                                                                    Now she rested her arm on the counter where gloves were for sale. A young shop girl drew a soft, leather glove over Missus Sommers’ hand. She smoothed it down over the wrist and buttoned it neatly. Both women lost themselves for a second or two as they quietly praised the little gloved hand.                                                        There were other places where money might be spent. A store down the street sold books and magazines. Missus Sommers bought two costly magazines that she used to read back when she had been able to enjoy other pleasant things. She lifted her skirts as she crossed the street. Her new stockings and boots and gloves had worked wonders for her appearance. They had given her a feeling of satisfaction, a sense of belonging to the well-dressed crowds.                                                         She was very hungry. Another time she would have ignored the desire for food until reaching her own home. But the force that was guiding her would not permit her to act on such a thought.                                                                                                                There was a restaurant at the corner. She had never entered its doors. She had sometimes looked through the windows. She had noted the white table cloths, shining glasses and waiters serving wealthy people.                                                                       When she entered, her appearance created no surprise or concern, as she had half feared it might.                                                                                                                                             She seated herself at a small table. A waiter came at once to take her order. She ordered six oysters, a chop, something sweet, a glass of wine and a cup of coffee. While waiting to be served she removed her gloves very slowly and set them beside her. Then she picked up her magazine and looked through it.                                           It was all very agreeable. The table cloths were even more clean and white than they had seemed through the window. And the crystal drinking glasses shined even more brightly. There were ladies and gentlemen, who did not notice her, lunching at the small tables like her own.                                                                                                  A pleasing piece of music could be heard, and a gentle wind was blowing through the window. She tasted a bite, and she read a word or two and she slowly drank the wine. She moved her toes around in the silk stockings. The price of it all made no difference.                                                                                                                                             When she was finished, she counted the money out to the waiter and left an extra coin on his tray. He bowed to her as if she were a princess of royal blood.              There was still money in her purse, and her next gift to herself presented itself as a theater advertisement. When she entered the theater, the play had already begun. She sat between richly dressed women who were there to spend the day eating sweets and showing off their costly clothing. There were many others who were there only to watch the play.                                                                                                                 It is safe to say there was no one there who had the same respect that Missus Sommers did for her surroundings. She gathered in everything – stage and players and people – in one wide sensation. She laughed and cried at the play. She even talked a little with the women. One woman wiped her eyes with a small square of lace and passed Missus Sommers her box of candy.                                                                       The play was over, the music stopped, the crowd flowed outside. It was like a dream ended. Missus Sommers went to wait for the cable car.                                                         A man with sharp eyes sat opposite her. It was hard for him to fully understand what he saw in her expression. In truth, he saw nothing – unless he was a magician. Then he would sense her heartbreaking wish that the cable car would never stop anywhere, but go on and on with her forever.

Words:

Missus – миссис, хозяйка, жена

the unexpected– неожиданный, внезапный, нежданный

owner – владелец

she might regretона может сожалеть

awake – просыпаться, будить, осознать, понять

cloth – ткать, полотно, сукно, скатерть

empty – пустой, холостой, голодный, бессодержательный

to gather strength and courageнабраться сил и мужества

pleasant – приятный, шутливый, славный, милый

а sign – знак 

nearby – рядом

to inspectинспектировать, проверять, осматривать, изучать

diamond jewelryювелирные изделия с бриллиантами

announce – объявлять, заявлять, анонсировать, докладывать, извещать

waited – ждал, ожидал

to be fitted – быть установленным

suddenly – вдруг, внезапно, скоропостижно

unable – не в состоянии, неспособный

bargain – сделка, заключать сделку

extra coinлишняя (дополнительная) монета

on his trayна его подносе

unreasonable – необоснованный, безрассудный, чрезмерный

smooth – гладкий, плавный

well-dressed crowds – хорошо одетые группы людей (толпы, народ)

praise – хвалить

the desire – желание

permit – разрешение, пропуск, путёвка

oyster – устрица

lace – шнурок

 

Tasks

Task 1 Read and understand

Task 2 Write out complex words and phrases with transcription

Task 3 Complete the short annotation (5-7)

Task 4 Logic work

  1.               The neighbors sometimes talked of the «better days» that little Missus Sommers had known before she had ever thought of being Missus Sommers.
  2.               She held back her skirts and turned her feet one way and her head another way as she looked down at the shiny, pointed boots.
  3.               When she was finished, she counted the money out to the waiter and left an extra coin on his tray.
  4. She would buy cloth for new shirts for the boys. Her daughter Mag should not have another dress. And still there would be enough left for new stockings – two pairs per child.
  5. What time that would save her in always repairing old stockings!
  6. The idea of her little family looking fresh and new for once in their lives made her restless with excitement.
  7. She wore no gloves.
  8. She slowly grew aware that her hand had felt something very pleasant to touch. A pleasing piece of music could be heard, and a gentle wind was blowing through the window.
  9. She tasted a bite, and she read a word or two and she slowly drank the wine. She moved her toes around in the silk stockings.
  10.          The price of it all made no difference. Little Missus Sommers one day found herself the unexpected owner of fifteen dollars

Task 5 True or False

1. The question of investment was not one she considered carefully.

2. For a day or two she walked around in a dreamy state as she thought about her choices.

  1. She wished to act quickly and do anything she might regret. During the quiet hours of the night she lay awake considering ideas.
  2. A dollar or two could be added to the price she usually paid for her daughter Janie’s shoes.
  3. This would guarantee they would not last a great deal longer than usual.
  4. Two black marks suddenly showed on her pale face. She looked up at the shop girl.
  5. There were not stockings in her size.
  6. «A dollar and ninety-five cents», she said aloud.
  7. After buying the new boots, she went to the dress department.
  8.  She was very hungry. Another time she would have ignored the desire for food until reaching her own home. But the force that was guiding her would not permit her to act on such a thought.
  9. There was a restaurant in the middle of the square.
  10. She ordered six oysters, a chop, something sweet, a glass of wine and a cup of tea.
  11. When she was finished, she counted the money out to the waiter and left an extra coin on his table.
  12. It was all very agreeable. The table cloths were even more clean and white than they had seemed through the window. And the crystal drinking glasses shined even more brightly. There were ladies and gentlemen, who did not notice her, lunching at the small tables like her own.
  13. A man with sharp eyes sat near her. It was hard for him to fully understand what he saw in her expression. In truth, he saw nothing – unless he was a magician. Then he would sense her heartbreaking wish that the cable car would never stop anywhere, but go on and on with her forever.

 

Task 6

 

  1. Who was Missus Sommers?
  2. Did she have a family?
  3. How many children did she have?
  4. Did she spend her money for children?
  5. Did she visit a lot of stores? Why?

 

 

 

 

The selfish giant

by Oscar Wilde

 

 Every afternoon, as they were coming from school, the children used to go and play in the Giant’s garden. It was a large lovely garden, with soft green grass. Here and there over the grass stood beautiful flowers like stars and there were twelve peach-trees that in the spring-time broke out into delicate blossoms of pink and pearl, and in the autumn bore rich fruit. The birds sat on the trees and sang so sweetly that the children used to stop their games in order to listen to them. “How happy we are here!” they cried to each other.

 One day the Giant came back. He had been to visit his friend the Cornish ogre, and had stayed with him for seven years. After the seven year were over he had said all that he had to say, for his conversation was limited, and he determined to return to his own castle. When he arrived he saw the children playing in the garden.

 “What are you doing here?” he cried in a very gruff voice, and the children ran away.

 “My own garden is my own garden,” said the Giant; “any one can understand that, and I will allow nobody to play in it but myself.” So he built a high wall all round it, and put up a notice-board.

 TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED.

 He was a very selfish Giant.

 The poor children had now nowhere to play. They tried to play on the road, but the road was very dusty and full of hard stones, and they did not like it. They used to wander round the high walls when their lessons were over, and talk about the beautiful garden inside. “How happy we were there!” they said to each other.

 Then the Spring came, and all over the country there were little blossoms and little birds. Only in the garden of the Selfish Giant it was still winter. The birds did not care to sing in it as there were no children, and the trees forgot to blossom. Once a beautiful flower put its head out from the grass, but when it saw the notice-boards it was so sorry for the children that it slipped back into the ground again, and went off to sleep. The only people who were pleased were the Snow and the Frost. “Spring has forgotten this garden,” they cried, “so we will live here all the year round.” The Snow covered up the grass with her great white cloak, and the Frost painted all the trees silver. Then they invited the North Wind to stay with them, and he came. He was wrapped in furs, and he roared all day about the garden, and blew the chimney-pots down. “This is a delightful spot,” he said, “we must ask the Hail on a visit.” So the Hail came. Every day for three hours he rattled on the roof of the castle till he broke most of the slates, and then he ran round and round the garden as fast as he could go. He was dressed in grey, and his breath was like ice.

 “I cannot understand why the Spring is so late in coming,” said the Selfish Giant, as he sat at the window and looked out at is cold, white garden; “I hope there will be a change in the weather.”

 But the Spring never came, nor the Summer. The Autumn gave golden fruit to every garden, but to the Giant’s garden she gave none. “He is too selfish,” she said. So it was always Winter there, and the North Wind and the Hail, and the Frost, and the Snow danced about though the trees.

 One morning the Giant was lying awake in bed when he heard some lovely music. It sounded so sweet to his ears that he thought it must be the King’s musicians passing by. It was really only a little linnet singing outside his window, but it was so long since he had heard a bird sing in his garden that it seemed to him to be the most beautiful music in the world. Then the Hail stopped dancing over his head, and the North Wind ceased roaring, and a delicious perfume came to him through the open casement. “I believe the Spring has come at last,” said the Giant; and he jumped out of bed and looked out.

 What did he see?

 He saw a most wonderful sight. Through a little hole in the wall the children had crept in, and they were sitting in the branches of the trees. In every tree that he could see there was a little child. And the trees were so glad to have the children back again that they had covered themselves with blossoms, and were waving their arms gently above the children’s heads. The birds were flying about and twittering with delight, and the flowers were looking up through the green grass and laughing. It was a lovely scene, only in one corner it was still winter. It was the farthest corner of the garden and in it was standing a little boy. He was so small that he could not reach up to the branches of the tree, and he was wandering all round it, crying bitterly. The poor tree was still covered with frost and snow, and the North Wind was blowing and roaring above it. “Climb up! Little boy,” said the Tree and it bent its branches down as low as it could; but the boy was too tiny.

 And the Giant’s heart melted as he looked out. “How selfish I have been!” he said; “now I know why the Spring would not come here. I will put that poor little boy on the top of the tree, and then I will knock down the wall, and my garden shall be the children’s playground for ever and ever.” He was really very sorry for what he had done.

 So he crept downstairs and opened the front door quite softly, and went out into the garden. But when the children saw him they were so frightened that they all ran away and the garden became winter again. Only the little boy did not run for his eves were so full of tears that he did not see the Giant coming. And the Giant stole up behind him and took him gently in his hand and put him up into the tree. And the tree broke at once blossom, and the birds came and sang on it, and the little boy stretched out his two arms and flung them round the Giant’s neck, and kissed him. And the other children when they saw that the Giant was not wicked any longer, came running back, and with them came the Spring.

 “It is your garden now, little children,” said the Giant, and he took a great axe and knocked down the wall.”

 And when the people were going to market at twelve o’clock they found the Giant playing with the children in the most beautiful garden they had ever seen.

 All day long they played, and in the evening they came to the Giant to bid1 him good-bye.

 “But where is your little companion?” he said: “the boy I put into the tree.” The Giant loved him the best because he had kissed him.

 “We don’t know,” answered the children; “he has gone away.”

 “You must tell him to be sure and come tomorrow,” said the Giant. But the children said that they did not know where he lived, and had never seen him before; and the Giant felt very sad.

 Every afternoon, when school was over, the children came and played with the Giant. But the little boy whom the Giant loved was never seen again. The Giant was very kind to all the children, yet he longed for his first little friends, and often spoke of him.

 “How I would like to see him!” he used to say. Years went over, and the Giant grew very old and feeble. He could not play about any more, so he sat in a huge arm-chair, and watched the children at their games, and admired are the most beautiful flowers of all!”

 One winter morning he looked out of his window as he was dressing. He did not hate the Winter now, for he knew that it was merely the Spring asleep, and that the flowers were resting.

 Suddenly he rubbed his eves in wonder and looked and looked. It certainly was a marvelous sight. In the farthest corner of the garden was a tree quite covered with lovely while blossoms. Its branches were golden, and silver fruit hung down from them, and underneath it stood the little boy he had loved.

 Downstairs ran the Giant in great job, and out into the garden. He hastened across the grass, and came near to the child. And when he came quite close his face grew red with anger, and he said, “Who hath dared to wound thee?”

 For on the palms of the child’s hands were the prints of two nails, and the prints of two nails were on the little feet.

 “Who hath dare d to wound thee?” cried the Giant; “tell me, that I may take my big sword and slay him.”

 “Nay,” answered the child, “but these are the wounds of Love.”

 “Who art thou?” said the Giant, and a strange awe fell on him, and he knelt before the little child.

 And the child smiled on the Giant, and said to him, “You let me play once in your garden, to-day you shall come with me to my garden, which is Paradise.”

 And when the children ran in that afternoon, they found the Giant lying dead under the tree, all covered with white blossoms.

 

Words

Blossom – цветок, цветение

the Cornish ogre – корнуэльский людоед

Determine – определить, измерять, решать

gruff voice – грубый голос

wrap –обёртка, плед, заворачивать

admire – восхищаться

the notice-board – доска объявлений

great white cloak – большой белый плащ

awake – бодрствующий, будить, осознавать

crept in – подкрался

hasten – спешить, торопиться

anger – гнев, ярость, злость

the prints of two nails – отпечатки двух ногтей (когтей)

 

Task 1 Read and understand

Task 2 Write out complex words and phrases with transcription

Task 3 Complete the short annotation (5-7)

Task 4 Logic work

What did he see?

He was so small that he could not reach up to the branches of the tree, and he was wandering all round it, crying bitterly. The poor tree was still covered with frost and snow, and the North Wind was blowing and roaring above it. “Climb up! Little boy,” said the Tree and it bent its branches down as low as it could; but the boy was too tiny.

One morning the Giant was lying awake in bed when he heard some lovely music. It sounded so sweet to his ears that he thought it must be the King’s musicians passing by. It was really only a little linnet singing outside his window, but it was so long since he had heard a bird sing in his garden that it seemed to him to be the most beautiful music in the world. Then the Hail stopped dancing over his head, and the North Wind ceased roaring, and a delicious perfume came to him through the open casement. “I believe the Spring has come at last,” said the Giant; and he jumped out of bed and looked out.

 And the Giant’s heart melted as he looked out. “How selfish I have been!” he said; “now I know why the Spring would not come here. I will put that poor little boy on the top of the tree, and then I will knock down the wall, and my garden shall be the children’s playground for ever and ever.” He was really very sorry for what he had done.

The birds were flying about and twittering with delight, and the flowers were looking up through the green grass and laughing. It was a lovely scene, only in one corner it was still winter. It was the farthest corner of the garden and in it was standing a little boy.

 He saw a most wonderful sight. Through a little hole in the wall the children had crept in, and they were sitting in the branches of the trees. In every tree that he could see there was a little child. And the trees were so glad to have the children back again that they had covered themselves with blossoms, and were waving their arms gently above the children’s heads.

 

 

The Blue Cross

         by G.K. Chesterton

The man who got off the boat at Harwich had a short black beard. There was nothing to show that he had a gun in his coat pocket, and nothing to show that he was one of the cleverest men in Europe. He was Valentin, the chief of the Paris police, and the most famous detective in the world. He was coming from Brussels to London to make the most important arrest of the century. Flambeau was in England. and the police of three countries were trying to catch this famous thief.               In London there was a big meeting of priests from all over the world, and Valentin was guessing that Flambeau would use this meeting for some criminal plan or other. Flambeau was strong and clever, and he enjoyed a joke. Once, he ran down the Rue de Rivoli with a policeman under one arm.                                                         But how was Valentin to find Flambeau? There was one thing to help him. Flambeau could put on other clothes, or change the way he looked, but he was a very tall man and could not hide it. Because of this, Valentin was sure that Flambeau was not on the boat.                                                                                                                               He was also sure that Flambeau did not get on the train going from Harwich to London. Only six other people got on during the journey. One short railwayman, three short farmers, one very short woman, and a very short priest going up to London from an Essex village.                                                                                                                               When Valentin saw this last person, he almost laughed. The little priest had a round, simple face. He had several parcels which he found difficult to keep together, and a large umbrella which often fell to the floor. Many priests would be coming to London that day, Valentin thought. Coming from their quiet little towns and villages. This one was explaining to everyone that he must be careful because he was carrying something made of real silver “with blue stones” in one of the parcels.                                                                                                                                                                         He got off the train at Stratford in east London with all his parcels, and came back for his umbrella. When he did, Valentin warned him not to tell everyone about his silver “with blue stones”.                                                                                                                 The detective was looking for people who were at least two metres tall, because Flambeau was several centimetres taller than this. He got off the train in central London and went to the London police to ask for help if he needed it. Then he went for a long walk.                                                                                                                                             He stopped suddenly in a quiet square. On one side the buildings were higher than the rest, and there was a small restaurant between the tall houses. It stood high above the street, with steps going up to the front door. Valentin stood looking at it, smoking a cigarette. When he was looking for a criminal, if he had a clue, he followed it. If he had no clue at all, he followed his own feelings. A man must begin somewhere. And something about the quiet little restaurant made Valentin want to start there. He went up the steps, sat down by the window, and asked for a cup of coffee.                                                                                                                               A few minutes later, Valentin was lifting the cup to his lips. But he put it down quickly. “I’ve put salt in it,” he said, and he looked at the bowl of silvery powder. It was a sugar bowl. So why did they keep salt in it? There were two full salt-cellars on his table. What was in them? He tasted it. It was sugar.                             He looked around. Except for one or two dark wet stains on the white wall, there was nothing at all strange in that place. Valentin called the waiter and asked him to taste the sugar. The waiter was half-asleep, but he woke up when he tasted the sugar.                                                                                                                                                                         “Do you play this joke on your customers every morning?” asked Valentin. The waiter did not know what to say. Then, suddenly, he said, “It was the two priests.”                                                                                                                                                                         “What two priests?” said Valentin.                                                                                                   “The two priests who threw soup at the wall over there,” replied the waiter. Valentin looked again at the dark wet stains.                                                                                     “The two of them came in and drank soup here very early this morning,” the waiter explained. “They were both very quiet. One of them paid the bill and went out. The other took several more minutes to get his things together. Then he picked up his cup, which was only half empty, and threw it at the wall. I was in the back room, but I ran out to find the restaurant empty. I tried to catch them in the street, but they were too far away. They went round the corner into Carstairs Street.”                             The detective jumped to his feet, put on his hat, and paid his bill. A moment later, he was outside.                                                                                                                                             He walked round into the next street. Although he was excited and in a hurry, Valentin saw something in the front of a shop that made him stop. The shop sold fruit, and then were some oranges and some nuts at the front. They each had cards with writing on them. The card on the nuts said “Best oranges, two for a penny.”                                                                                                                                                                                      The card on the oranges said: “Best nuts, four pence for a bag.”                             Valentin looked at the two cards. “I’ve seen this kind of joke before,” he thought.                                                                                                                                                                         He told the man in the shop about the cards. The man said nothing, but he put the cards in the right places.                                                                                                                 “Can I ask you a question?” said Valentin. “If two cards in a shop are in the wrong places, how are they like a priest’s hat that has come to London for a holiday? Or, why do nuts that are said to be oranges make me think of two priests, one tall and the other short?”                                                                                                                               The man in the shop looked angry. “Are you a friend of theirs?” he said. “If you are, you can tell them that I’ll bang their stupid heads together if they knock over my apples again!”                                                                                                                                             “Did they knock over your apples?” asked the detective. “One of them did,” said the man.                                                                                                                                             “Which way did they go?” asked Valentin.                                                                                     “Up that second road on the left-hand side, and then across the square,” answered the man.                                                                                                                               “Thanks,” said Valentin, and hurried away. On the other side of the second square, he found a policeman. “Have you seen two priests?” he asked.                             The policeman laughed. “I have, sir. One of them stood in the middle of the road, dropping parcels everywhere.”                                                                                                                 “Which way did they go?” asked Valentin.                                                                                     “They went on one of those yellow buses over there,” answered the policeman. “Those that go to Hampstead.” Valentin told the policeman who he was, then said, “Call two of your men to come with me.”                                                         In two minutes, an inspector and another detective arrived. “Well, sir,” began the inspector. “How..?”                                                                                                                                “I’ll tell you on the top of that bus,” said Valentin.                                                         When the three of them were sitting on the top seats, the inspector said, “A taxi is quicker.”                                                                                                                                                          “True,” said Valentin. “But we don’t know where we’re going. All we can do is look for some strange thing.”                                                                                                                 “What kind of strange thing?” asked the inspector.                                                         “Any kind of strange thing,” replied Valentin. The yellow bus went slowly up the roads to the north of the city. The French detective became quiet. Lunch-time came and went, and the long roads seemed to go on for ever. Valentin sat silently and watched everything that went by. The two other detectives were almost asleep when he suddenly shouted. They quickly followed Valentin off the bus without knowing why.                                                                                                                                             “Over there!” said Valentin.                                                                                                                 “The place with the broken window!” He was looking at a restaurant. It had a large window with a hole in the middle of the glass.                                                                       “How do we know that the window has anything to do with them?” asked the inspector.                                                                                                                                             Valentin became angry. “Know?” he said. “We can’t know. But don’t you understand? We must either follow one wild chance, or go home to bed.”                             They followed him into the restaurant where the three of them ate a meal at a small table. Valentin looked at the little star of broken glass, but learned nothing from it. “Your window is broken,” he said, paying his bill.                                                         “Yes, sir,” replied the waiter. “It was very strange how it happened.”                             “Tell me,” said Valentin.                                                                                                                 “Two of those priests came in,” said the waiter.                                                                       “Those foreign priests who are in the city at the moment. They had a cheap and quiet little lunch, and one of them paid for it and went out. The other was just going to follow him when I realized something. “Wait!” - I said to the one who was nearly out of the door. “You’ve paid too much.” And I picked up the bill to show him. But I got a surprise.”                                                                                                                 “What do you mean?” asked Valentin.                                                                                     “I was sure that I’d put four shillings on that bill,” said the waiter. “But now I saw that it was fourteen.”                                                                                                                               “Then what happened?” said Valentin.                                                                                     “The priest at the door said, “That will pay for the window.” “What window?” I asked. “The one that I’m going to break,” he said. And he broke the window with his umbrella! I went after him, but I wasn’t quick enough. They went up Bullock Street so fast, I couldn’t catch them.”                                                                       “Bullock Street!” said Valentin, and he ran up that road as quickly as the strange pair that he was following. Their journey took them through dark, narrow streets, and the inspector guessed that they would finally reach some part of Hampstead Heath. Suddenly, Valentin stopped in front of a small, brightly-lit sweet-shop. After a moment, he went inside and bought some chocolate. He began to ask the shop woman a question, but she spoke first.                                                                       She saw the inspector behind him and immediately said. “If you’re the police and you’ve come about that parcel, I’ve already sent it off.”                             “Parcel!” repeated Valentin.                                                                                                                 “I mean the parcel that the priest left,” said the woman.                                           “Quickly!” said Valentin. “Tell us what happened!”

‘They came in half an hour ago,’ said the woman. ‘They bought some sweets, and then went off towards the Heath. Then one ran back into the shop and said, «Did I leave a parcel?» I looked around but couldn’t see one. He said. «Never mind. But if you do find it, please send it to this address.» He left the address, and a shilling for me. But after he went, I looked again and found that there was a parcel, so I posted it. I can’t remember the address now, but it was somewhere in Westminster.’                                                                                                                                                          ‘Is Hampstead Heath near here?’ asked Valentin. ‘Straight on for fifteen minutes,’ said the woman. Valentin hurried out and began to run. The others followed him. The street they went through was full of evening shadows. Then they were out on the open Heath, and Valentin saw the two black shapes that he was looking for.                                                                                                                                                           They were a long way away, but Valentin saw that one was smaller than the other, and that the bigger man was over two metres tall. He hurried on. As he got closer, he saw something surprising, but something which he had already guessed. The small man was the priest from the Harwich train, the one who had talked about his parcels.                                                                                                                                                                         Earlier that day, Valentin had discovered that a Father Brown from Essex was bringing a very old silver cross, with valuable blue jewels, to show to some of the foreign priests who were meeting in London. Valentin was sure that if be was able to find out about this, then Flambeau was able to find out, too. He was also sure that Flambeau planned to steal the cross. And it was not surprising that Flambeau, looking and talking like a priest, had been able to make the simple little man come to Hampstead Heath. What Valentin could not understand were the strange clues that had brought him there too. Soup on a wall, nuts called oranges, and broken windows.                                                                                                                                             The detectives followed the two across the wilder part of the Heath, then lost them for a few minutes. When they saw them again, the two priests were sitting on a seat, having a serious conversation. Valentin and his friends hid behind a tree and listened to them talking.                                                                                                                                             It was then that Valentin began to wonder if he was right. The two men on the seat were talking calmly about the ideas of their church. Valentin could almost hear the other two detectives laughing at him. They had come all this way, only to listen to the talk of two gentle old priests!                                                                                                                 Father Brown was speaking. ‘Look at the stars, like jewels in the sky. But even in those other worlds, there must be some laws of reason and goodness.’ Valentin was about to move away, but the words of the tall priest stopped him. ‘Who can understand the mystery of the stars?’ Then he added calmly, ‘Just give me the silver cross, will you? We’re all alone here, and I could pull you to pieces easily.’                                                                                                                                                                         The small priest did not move. He continued to look up at the stars. Perhaps he had not understood. Or perhaps he was too afraid to move.                                                        ‘Yes,’ said the tall priest, in the same low voice. ‘I am Flambeau. Now, give me that cross.’

‘No,’ replied the other priest.

Flambeau suddenly laughed. ‘No, you won’t give it to me, you simple little priest,’ he said, ‘because I already have it in my pocket!’

The small man looked at him. ‘Are you sure?’

Flambeau laughed again. ‘Yes, you stupid man. I knew which of your parcels contained the jewelled cross, so I made a careful copy of the parcel. And now you, my friend, have that copy parcel and I have the jewels. It’s easily done, Father Brown, easily done!’                                                                                                                               Father Brown did not look worried. ‘Yes, very easily. I remember another man who used copy parcels for many years,’ he said. ‘I remembered him when I began to wonder about you.’

‘Wonder about me?’ said Flambeau. ‘When did you begin to wonder about me? When I brought you up to the Heath?’

‘No, no,’ said Father Brown. ‘When we first met. I saw that little shape under the arm of your coat, where you keep your knife.’

‘How did you know that?’ cried Flambeau.

‘When I was a priest in Hartlepool,’ said Father Brown, ‘there were three men who hid their knives in the same way. So I watched you. I saw you change the parcels… and I changed them back. Then I left the right one behind.’

‘Left it behind?’ repeated Flambeau.

‘I went back to the sweet-shop,’ explained Father Brown, ‘and asked the woman if she saw me leave a parcel. Then I gave her an address if it was found. I knew I hadn’t left a parcel, but when I went away again, I did leave one. She has posted it to a friend of mine in Westminster.’ He went on sadly, ‘I learnt that from a man in Hartlepool, too. He did it with handbags which he stole at railway stations, but he’s a good man now. People tell priests things, you see.’

Flambeau pulled a parcel from his pocket and opened it. There was only paper and stones inside it. He jumped up angrily and shouted, ‘I don’t believe you. You’ve got the silver cross on you, and I’m going to take it from you!’

‘No,’ said Father Brown, and he stood up. ‘You won’t take it from me. First, because I really haven’t got it. And second, because we are not alone. Behind that tree are two strong policemen and the cleverest detective alive. How did they come here? I’ll tell you. I wasn’t sure if you were a thief, so I tried several things. A man usually says if he finds salt in his coffee. If he doesn’t, he has a reason for keeping quiet. I changed the salt and sugar, and you kept quiet. A man usually says if his bill is too big. If he doesn’t, he has a reason for saying nothing. I changed your bill, and you paid it.’

Flambeau did not seem to be able to move.

‘I wanted to be sure the police could follow us,’ Father Brown went on. ‘At every place we went to, I did something which people would talk about. Only little things — a soup stain on a wall, some apples that were knocked over, a broken window. But I saved the cross.’

‘How do you know all these things?’ cried Flambeau.

The shadow of a smile went across the round face of Father Brown. ‘By being a simple little priest, I suppose,’ he said. ‘If you listen to enough men telling you about their crimes, you are sure to learn something.’

The three policemen moved out from behind the tree.

Flambeau knew when he had lost a battle, and he was famous for his politeness. He took off his hat to Valentin and smiled.

‘Do not take your hat off to me, my friend,’ said Valentin. ‘Let us both take them off to Father Brown.’

And they both stood with their hats off while the little Essex priest looked around for his umbrella.

Task 1 Read and understand

Task 2 Write out complex words and phrases with transcription

Task 3 Complete the short annotation (5-7)

 

 

 

Is he living or is he dead

by Mark Twain    

A long time ago I was a young artist and came to France where I was travelling from place to place making sketches. One day I met two French artists who were also moving from place to place making sketches and I joined them. We were as happy as we were poor, or as poor as we were happy, as you like it.                             Claude and Carl — these are the names of those boys — were always in good spirits and laughed at poverty. We were very poor. We lived on the money which we got from time to time for our sketches. When nobody wanted to buy our sketches we had to go hungry.                                                                                                                               Once, in the north of France, we stopped at a village. For some time things had been very difficult for us. A young artist, as poor as ourselves, lived in that village. He took us into his house, and saved us from starvation. The artist’s name was Francois Millet.                                                                                                                                             He wasn’t greater than we were, then. He wasn’t famous even in his own village; and he was so poor that very often he hadn’t anything for dinner but cabbage, and sometimes he could not even get cabbage. We lived and worked together for over two years. One day Claude said:

“Boys, we’ve come to the end. Do you understand that? Everybody is against us. I’ve been all around the village and they do not want to sell food until we pay all the money”. There was a long silence. At last Millet said, “What shall we do? I can’t think of anything. Can you, boys?”                                                                                                  We made no answer. Then Carl began to walk up and down the room. Suddenly he stopped in front of a picture and said: ‘It’s a shame! Look at these pictures! They are good, as good as the pictures of any well-known artist. Many people had said so too.’                                                                                                                                             “But they don’t buy our pictures,” said Millet.

“Carl sat down and said, ‘I know now how we can become rich”.

“Rich! You have lost your mind”.

“No, I haven’t.”

“Yes, you have — you’ve lost your mind. What do you call rich?”

“A hundred thousand francs for a picture”.

“He has lost his mind. I knew it”.

“Yes, he has. Carl, these troubles have been too much for you, and…”

“Carl, you must take some medicine and go to bed”.

“Stop it!” said Millet seriously, “and let the boy say what he wants to. Now, then — go on with hour plan, Carl. What is it?”

«‘Well, then, to begin with, I will ask you to note this fact in human history: many great artists die of starvation. And only after their death people begin to buy their pictures and pay large sums of money for them. So the thing is quite clear”, he added, “one of us must die. Let us draw lots”. We laughed and gave Carl some medical advice, but he waited quietly, then went on again with his plan.

«‘Yes, one of us must die, to save the others — and himself. We will draw lots. He will become famous and all of us will become rich. Here is the idea. During the next three months the man who must die will paint as many pictures as he can, sketches, parts of pictures, fragments of pictures with his name on them, and each must have some particulars of his that could be easily seen. Such things are sold too and collected at high prices for the world’s museums, after the great man is dead. At the same time the others of us will inform the public that a great artist is dying, that he won’t live over three months.

“But what if he doesn’t die?” we asked Carl.

“Oh, he won’t really die, of course; he will only change his name and disappear, we bury a dummy and cry over it and all the world will help us. And —‘But he wasn’t allowed to finish. Everybody applauded him, we ran about the room, and fell on each others’ necks, and were happy. For hours we talked over the great plan and quite forgot that we were hungry.                                                                                                   At last we drew lots and Millet was elected to die. We collected the few things we had left and pawned them. So we got a little money for travel and for Millet to live on for a few days. The next morning Claude, Carl and I left the village. Each had some of Millet’s small pictures and sketches with him. We took different roads. Carl went to Paris, where he would begin the work of building Millet’s fame. Claude and I were going abroad.                                                                                     On the second day I began to sketch a villa near a big town because I saw the owner standing on the veranda. He came down to look on. I showed him my sketch and he liked it. Then I took out a picture by Millet and pointed to the name in the corner.

“Do you know the name?” I said proudly. “Well, he taught me!” I finished.

The man looked confused.

“Don’t you know the name of Francois Millet?” I asked him.

“Of course it is Millet. I recognise it now”, said the man, who had never heard of Millet before, but now pretended to know the name. Then he said that he wanted to buy the picture. At first I refused to sell it, but in the end I let him have it for eight hundred francs. I made a very nice picture of that man’s house and wanted to offer it to him for ten francs, but remembered that I was the pupil of such a master, so I sold it to him for a hundred. I sent the eight hundred francs straight back to Millet from that town and was on the road again next day.                                           Now that I had some money in my pocket, I did not walk from place to place. I rode. I continued my journey and sold a picture a day. I always said to the man who bought it, “I’m a fool to sell a picture by François Millet. The man won’t live three months. When he dies, his pictures will be sold at a very high price”.                             The plan of selling pictures was successful with all of us. I walked only two days. Claude walked two — both of us afraid to make Millet famous too near the village where he lived — but Carl walked only half a day and after that he travelled like a king. In every town that we visited, we met the editor of the newspaper and asked him to publish a few words about the master’s health. We never called Millet a genius. The readers understood that everybody knew Millet. Sometimes the words were hopeful, sometimes tearful. We always marked these articles and sent the papers to all the people who had bought pictures of us.                                           Carl was soon in Paris. He made friends with the journalists and Millet’s condition was reported to England and all over the continent, and America, and everywhere.                                                                                                                                                           At the end of six weeks from the start, me three met in Paris and decided to stop asking for more pictures from Millet. We saw that is was time to strike. So we wrote Millet to go to bed and begin to prepare for his death. We wanted him to die in ten days, if he could get ready. Then we counted the money and found that we had sold eighty-five small pictures and sketches and had sixty-nine thousand francs. How happy we were!                                                                                                                               Claude and I packed up and went back to the village to look after Millet in his last days and keep people out of the house. We sent daily bulletins to Carl in Paris for the papers of several continents with the information for a waiting world. The sad end came at last, and Carl came to the village to help us. Large crowds of people from far and near attended the funeral. We four carried the coffin. There was only a wax figure in it. Millet was disguised as a relative and helped to carry his own coffin.                                                                                                                                                           After the funeral we continued selling Millet’s pictures. We got so much money that we did not know what to do with it. There is a man in Paris today who has seventy Millet’s pictures. He paid us two million francs for them.

Words

Sketch – эскиз

large sums – большие суммы

fragment – фрагмент, осколок

many great artists die of starvation – многие известные художники умирают от голода

tearful – плачущий, полный слёз

pawn – пешка, залог, заклад

count – счёт, считать, иметь значение, принимать во внимание

 

Task 1 Read and understand

Task 2 Write out complex words and phrases with transcription

Task 3 Complete the short annotation (5-7)

Task 4 Logic work

Carl was soon in Paris. He made friends with the journalists and Millet’s condition was reported to England and all over the continent, and America, and everywhere.                                                                                                                                                           Now that I had some money in my pocket, I did not walk from place to place. I rode. I continued my journey and sold a picture a day. I always said to the man who bought it, “I’m a fool to sell a picture by François Millet. The man won’t live three months. When he dies, his pictures will be sold at a very high price”.                             The plan of selling pictures was successful with all of us. I walked only two days. Claude walked two — both of us afraid to make Millet famous too near the village where he lived — but Carl walked only half a day and after that he travelled like a king. In every town that we visited, we met the editor of the newspaper and asked him to publish a few words about the master’s health. We never called Millet a genius. The readers understood that everybody knew Millet. Sometimes the words were hopeful, sometimes tearful. We always marked these articles and sent the papers to all the people who had bought pictures of us.                                           Claude and I packed up and went back to the village to look after Millet in his last days and keep people out of the house. We sent daily bulletins to Carl in Paris for the papers of several continents with the information for a waiting world. The sad end came at last, and Carl came to the village to help us. Large crowds of people from far and near attended the funeral. We four carried the coffin. There was only a wax figure in it. Millet was disguised as a relative and helped to carry his own coffin.                                                                                                                                                           At the end of six weeks from the start, me three met in Paris and decided to stop asking for more pictures from Millet. We saw that is was time to strike. So we wrote Millet to go to bed and begin to prepare for his death. We wanted him to die in ten days, if he could get ready. Then we counted the money and found that we had sold eighty-five small pictures and sketches and had sixty-nine thousand francs. How happy we were!                                                                                                                                            After the funeral we continued selling Millet’s pictures. We got so much money that we did not know what to do with it. There is a man in Paris today who has seventy Millet’s pictures. He paid us two million francs for them.

 

The Legend of Sleepy Hollow

     by Washington Irving

             The valley known as Sleepy Hollow hides from the world in the high hills of New York state. There are many stories told about the quiet valley. But the story that people believe most is about a man who rides a horse at night. The story says the man died many years ago during the American revolutionary war. His head was shot off. Every night he rises from his burial place, jumps on his horse and rides through the valley looking for his lost head.                                                                                     Near Sleepy Hollow is a village called Tarry Town. It was settled many years ago by people from Holland. The village had a small school. And one teacher, named Ichabod Crane. Ichabod Crane was a good name for him, because he looked like a tall bird, a crane. He was tall and thin like a crane. His shoulders were small, joined two long arms. His head was small, too, and flat on top. He had big ears, large glassy green eyes and a long nose.                                                                       Ichabod did not make much money as a teacher. And although he was tall and thin, he ate like a fat man. To help him pay for his food he earned extra money teaching young people to sing. Every Sunday after church Ichabod taught singing.                            Among the ladies Ichabod taught was one Katrina Van Tassel. She was the only daughter of a rich Dutch farmer. She was a girl in bloom, much like a round red, rosy apple. Ichabod had a soft and foolish heart for the ladies, and soon found himself interested in Miss Van Tassel. Ichabod’s eyes opened wide when he saw the riches of Katrina’s farm: the miles of apple trees and wheat fields, and hundreds of fat farm animals. He saw himself as master of the Van Tassel farm with Katrina as his wife.                                                                                                                                             But there were many problems blocking the road to Katrina’s heart. One was a strong young man named Brom Van Brunt. Brom was a hero to all the young ladies. His shoulders were big. His back was wide. And his hair was short and curly. He always won the horse races in Tarry Town and earned many prizes. Brom was never seen without a horse.                                                                                     Sometimes late at night Brom and his friends would rush through town shouting loudly from the backs of their horses. Tired old ladies would awaken from their sleep and say: “Why, there goes Brom Van Brunt leading his wild group again!”                                                                                                                                                                         Such was the enemy Ichabod had to defeat for Katrina’s heart.                                                         Stronger and wiser men would not have tried. But Ichabod had a plan. He could not fight his enemy in the open. So he did it silently and secretly. He made many visits to Katrina’s farm and made her think he was helping her to sing better.               Time passed, and the town people thought Ichabod was winning. Brom’s horse was never seen at Katrina’s house on Sunday nights anymore.                                                         One day in autumn Ichabod was asked to come to a big party at the Van Tassel home. He dressed in his best clothes. A farmer loaned him an old horse for the long trip to the party.                                                                                                                               The house was filled with farmers and their wives, red-faced daughters and clean, washed sons. The tables were filled with different things to eat. Wine filled many glasses.                                                                                                                                                           Brom Van Brunt rode to the party on his fastest horse called Daredevil. All the young ladies smiled happily when they saw him. Soon music filled the rooms and everyone began to dance and sing.                                                                                                                Ichabod was happy dancing with Katrina as Brom looked at them with a jealous heart. The night passed. The music stopped, and the young people sat together to tell stories about the revolutionary war.                                                                                     Soon stories about Sleepy Hollow were told. The most feared story was about the rider looking for his lost head. One farmer told how he raced the headless man on a horse. The farmer ran his horse faster and faster. The horseman followed over bush and stone until they came to the end of the valley. There the headless horseman suddenly stopped. Gone were his clothes and his skin. All that was left was a man with white bones shining in the moonlight.                                                                       The stories ended and time came to leave the party. Ichabod seemed very happy until he said goodnight to Katrina. Was she ending their romance? He left feeling very sad. Had Katrina been seeing Ichabod just to make Brom Van Brunt jealous so he would marry her?                                                                                                                 Well, Ichabod began his long ride home on the hills that surround Tarry Town. He had never felt so lonely in his life. He began to whistle as he came close to the tree where a man had been killed years ago by rebels.                                                                      He thought he saw something white move in the tree. But no, it was only the moonlight shining and moving on the tree. Then he heard a noise. His body shook. He kicked his horse faster. The old horse tried to run, but almost fell in the river, instead. Ichabod hit the horse again. The horse ran fast and then suddenly stopped, almost throwing Ichabod forward to the ground.  There, in the dark woods on the side of the river where the bushes grow low, stood an ugly thing. Big and black. It did not move, but seemed ready to jump like a giant monster.                                           Ichabod’s hair stood straight up. It was too late to run, and in his fear, he did the only thing he could. His shaking voice broke the silent valley.                                                         “Who are you?” The thing did not answer. Ichabod asked again. Still no answer. Ichabod’s old horse began to move forward. The black thing began to move along the side of Ichabod’s horse in the dark. Ichabod made his horse run faster. The black thing moved with them. Side by side they moved, slowly at first. And not a word was said.                                                                                                                 Ichabod felt his heart sink. Up a hill they moved above the shadow of the trees. For a moment the moon shown down and to Ichabod’s horror he saw it was a horse. And it had a rider. But the rider’s head was not on his body. It was in front of the rider, resting on the horse. Ichabod kicked and hit his old horse with all his power. Away they rushed through bushes and trees across the valley of Sleepy Hollow. Up ahead was the old church bridge where the headless horseman stops and returns to his burial place.                                                                                                                               “If only I can get there first, I am safe,” thought Ichabod. He kicked his horse again. The horse jumped on to the bridge and raced over it like the sound of thunder. Ichabod looked back to see if the headless man had stopped. He saw the man pick up his head and throw it with a powerful force. The head hit Ichabod in the face and knocked him off his horse to the dirt below.              They found Ichabod’s horse the next day peacefully eating grass. They could not find Ichabod.                                           They walked all across the valley. They saw the foot marks of Ichabod’s horse as it had raced through the valley. They even found Ichabod’s old hat in the dust near the bridge. But they did not find Ichabod. The only other thing they found was lying near Ichabod’s hat.                                                                                                                 It was the broken pieces of a round orange pumpkin.                                                                       The town people talked about Ichabod for many weeks. They remembered the frightening stories of the valley. And finally they came to believe that the headless horseman had carried Ichabod away.                                                                                                   Much later an old farmer returned from a visit to New York City. He said he was sure he saw Ichabod there. He thought Ichabod silently left Sleepy Hollow because he had lost Katrina. As for Katrina, her mother and father gave her a big wedding when she married Brom Van Brunt. Many people who went to the wedding saw that Brom smiled whenever Ichabod’s name was spoken. And they wondered why he laughed out loud when anyone talked about the broken orange pumpkin found lying near Ichabod’s old dusty hat.

Task 1 Read and understand

Task 2 Write out complex words and phrases with transcription

Task 3 Complete the short annotation (5-7)

 

                                     The Adventure of  Shoscombe

                       by Arthur Conan Doyle

 

Sherlock Holmes looked impatiently at his watch.

'I am waiting for a new client,' he said, 'but he is late. By the way, Watson, do you know anything about horse - racing?'

'Yes, I do,' I answered.

'What do you want to know?'

'I should like to know something about Sir Robert Norberton. Does the name tell you anything?'

'Well, yes,' I answered. 'Sir Robert Norberton lives in Shoscombe Old Place. He is the most daredevil rider in England. He is also a boxer and an athlete. But people say he is a dangerous man.'

'How is that?' said Holmes.

'Everybody knows that he horsewhipped Sam Brewer once. He nearly killed the man.'

'And who is Sam Brewer?'

'Sam Brewer is a well-known money - lender,' I said.

'Ah,' said Holmes, 'that sounds interesting. Now, Watson, can you give me some idea of Shoscombe Old Place?'

'Only that it is in the centre of Shoscombe Park and that the famous Shoscombe stud and training quarters are there.'

'And the head trainer,' said Holmes, 'is John Mason. Don't look surprised at my

knowledge, Watson, for this is a letter from him which I have in my hand. But let us have some more about Shoscombe.'

'There are the Shoscombe spaniels,' I said. 'You hear of them at every dog show. The lady of Shoscombe Old place is very proud of them.'

'The lady of Shoscombe Old Place... Sir Robert Norberton's wife, I suppose,' Sherlock

Holmes said.

'No,' I said, 'Sir Robert has never married. He lives with his widowed sister, Lady

Beatrice Falder. The place belonged to her late husband, but when she dies it will go to her husband's brother. Norberton has no right to it at all. His sister draws the rents every year...'

'And brother Robert, I suppose, spends the money?' asked Holmes.

'Yes,' I said. 'He gives her a lot of trouble, and still I have heard that she is very fond of  him. But why do you ask me all these questions? What is wrong at Shoscombe?'

'Ah, that is just what I want to know. And here, I think, is the man who can tell us.'

The door opened and a tall, clean - shaven man with a firm, serious expression came in.

He bowed coldly and calmly and seated himself upon the chair which Holmes pointed to.

'You had my note, Mr. Holmes?' he said.

'Yes, but it explained nothing.'

'It was too difficult for me to put the details on paper,' said the man. 'It was only face to face I could do it.'

'Well, we are at your service.'

'First of all, Mr. Holmes,' went on the man, 'I think that my employer, Sir Robert, has gone mad.' Holmes raised his eyebrows. 'I am a detective, not a doctor,' he said. 'But why do you think so?'

'Well, sir, when a man does one queer thing, or two queer things, there may be a

meaning to it. But when everything he does is queer, then you begin to wonder.'

'What is wrong with your employer?' asked Holmes.

'I'll tell you everything, Mr. Holmes,' said the horse trainer. 'I know you are gentlemen of honour and I know that it won't go beyond the room. Sir Robert has got to win this Derby. You see, he is up to the neck in debt, and it's his last chance. He thinks of nothing but the Derby and his young horse — Shoscombe Prince. His whole life depends on it. If the horse wins the race, he is saved. If Shoscombe Prince does not win —his money lenders will tear him to pieces.'

'It seems really a difficult situation,' said Holmes, 'but why do you say he is mad?'

'Well, first of all, you have only to look at him, I don't believe he sleeps at night. His eyes are wild. And then he behaves very strangely to Lady Beatrice.'

'And how is that?'

'They have always been the best of friends. The two of them liked the same things, and she loved the horses as much as he did, and above all, she loved the Prince. But that's all over now.'

'Why?'

'Well, she seems to have lost all interest in the horses and never goes to the stable any longer.' 'Do you think there has been a quarrel?' asked Sherlock Holmes.

'I am sure they have quarrelled. If they had not, he would never have given away his sister's favourite spaniel. He gave it a few days ago to old Barnes who keeps the "Green Dragon" inn, three miles away.'

'That certainly does seem strange.'

'She couldn't go out with him because she was an invalid, but he spent two hours every evening in her room. That's all over, too, now. He never goes near her. And she takes it to heart. She is drinking like a fish now, Mr. Holmes.'

'Did she drink before this quarrel?' asked Holmes.

'Well, she drank her glass of wine. But now it's often a whole bottle an evening. The butler told me. But then, again, what is master doing down at the old church crypt at night? And who is the man that meets him there?'

'Go on, Mr.Mason,' said Holmes. 'You get more and more interesting.'

'It was the butler who saw him go,' the horse trainer went on. 'It was twelve o'clock at night and raining hard. So next night I went up to the house, and the butler and I went after him. We were afraid to get too near him. If he had seen us, it would have been a bad job, for he is a terrible man when he starts fighting. It was the church crypt that he was making for, and there was a man waiting for him there.'

'What is this church crypt?' asked Holmes.

'Well, sir, there is an old church in the park. And under this church there is a crypt which has a bad name among us. It's a dark, damp, lonely place by day, and there are few people who would not be frightened to go near it at night. But master is not afraid. He never feared anything in his life. But what is he doing there in the night-

time?'

'Wait a bit!' said Holmes. 'You say there is another man there. It must be one of your own stablemen, or somebody from the house. I'm sure you have only to find out who it is and question him.' 'It 's no one I know.' 'How can you say that?'

'Because I saw him, Mr. Holmes. It was on that second night. Sir Robert turned and passed us. while the butler and I were hiding in the bushes like two rabbits, because the moon was shining that night. But we could hear the other man going behind. We were not afraid of him. So we got up when Sir Robert had passed us. We pretended that we were just having a walk in the moonlight. We went straight towards him. "Oh, hullo," said I "who may you be?" I don't think he ha

d heard us coming, so he looked over his shoulder with a face as if he had seen the devil himself... He gave a loud cry and ran away as fast as he could in the darkness. Oh, yes, he could run! In a minute he was out of sight and hearing ... And who he was or what he was we never found.' 'But did you see him clearly in the moonlight?' asked Holmes. 'Oh, yes, I would recognize his yellow face again. What could he have in common with Sir Robert?'

Holmes sat for some time thinking hard.

'Who sits with Lady Beatrice?' asked Holmes.

'She has a devoted maid, who has been with her for five years.''

There was a pause.

'And then,' began Mr. Mason again, 'why should Sir Robert want to dig up a dead

body?'

Holmes sat up quickly.

'We only found it out yesterday —after I had written to you. Yesterday Sir Robert went to London, so the butler and I went down to the crypt. It was all in order, sir, except that in one corner there was a bit of a human body.'

'You informed the police, I suppose?'

'Well, sir,' answered the man with a grim smile, 'I don't think it will interest the police. It was just the head and a few bones od a mummy, maybe a thousand years old. But it wasn't there before. That I'll swear and so will the butler. It had been hidden away in a comer and coveredover with a board, but that corner had always been empty before.'

'What did you do with it?' asked Holmes.

'Well, we just left it there.'

'That was wise,' said Holmes. 'You say Sir Robert was away yesterday. Has he

returned?'

'We expect him back today.'

'When did Sir Robert give away his sister's dog?'

'It was just a week ago today.

The dog was howling and Sir Robert got very angry. He

caught it up and I thought he would kill it. Then he gave it to Sandy Bain, the jockey, and told him to take the dog to old Barnes at the "Green Dragon", for he never wished to see it again.'

Holmes lit his pipe and sat for some time in silent thought.

'It's not clear to me yet what you want me to do in this matter, Mr. Mason,' he said at last. 'Can't you make it more definite?''Perhaps this will make it more definite, Mr. Holmes,' said our visitor.

He took a paper from his pocket and, unwrapping it carefully, showed us a burned piece of bone.

Holmes examined it with interest.

'Where did you get it?'

'There is a central heating furnace in the cellar under Lady Beatrice's room. The boy who runs the furnace came to me this morning with this thing. He had found it in the furnace. He did not like the look of it.'

'Nor do I,' said Holmes. 'What do you ma

ke of it, Watson?'

'It is burned black,'said I, 'but there's no doubt that it is part of a human leg bone.'

'Exactly!' Holmes became very serious. 'When does the boy who runs the furnace leave the cellar?' 'He leaves it every evening,' said Mr.Mason.

'Then anyone could visit it during the night?'

'Yes, sir.''Can you enter it from outside?' asked Holmes again.

'There is one door from outside. There is another which leads up by a stair to the floor in which Lady Beatrice's room is situated.'

'You say, Mr. Mason, that Sir Robert was not at home last night?'

'No, sir, he wasn't.'

'Then whoever was burning bones in the furnace, it was not he,' said Holmes.

'That's true, sir,' said the horse trainer.

'What is the name of that inn you spoke of?'

'The "Green Drag on".'

'Is there good fishing in that part of the country?' The honest trainer showed very clearly upon his face that he was sure that Sherlock Holmes had gone mad, too.

'Well, sir,' he said, 'I've heard there are fish in the river not far from the "Green Dragon",

and in the Hull lake. It's in Shoscombe Park.'

'Very good! Watson and I are famous fishermen—are we not, Watson? We shall reach the inn to night. Of course I need not say that we don't want to see you, Mr, Mason. But a note will reach us, and I'm sure I can find vou if I want you.'

                                                           * * *

On a bright May evening Holmes and I were discussing our plans for fishing with Mr.

Barnes, the innkeeper.

'What about the Hull lake?' asked Holmes. 'Are there many fish in it?'

'Don't fish there, sir,' answered the innkeeper. 'You may find yourself in the lake before you have finished,' 'How is that?'

'It's Sir Robert, sir, he doesn't want any strangers to come near his park. Sir

Robert is the sort that strikes first and speaks afterwards. Keep away from the park,' 'Of course, Mr. Barnes,' said Holmes, 'we certainly shall. By the way, you have a beautiful spaniel here. We saw it in the hall.'

Task 1 Read and understand

Task 2 Write out complex words and phrases with transcription

Task 3 Complete the short annotation (5-7)

 

The romance of a busy broker

by O. Henry

Pitcher, confidential clerk in the office of Harvey Maxwell, broker, allowed a look of mild interest and surprise to visit his usually expressionless countenance when his employer briskly entered at half-past nine in company with his young lady stenographer. With a snappy «Good morning. Pitcher», Maxwell dashed at his desk as though he were intending to leap over it, and then plunged into the great heap of letters and telegrams waiting there for him.                                                                                    The young lady had been Maxwell’s stenographer for a year. She was beautiful in a way that was decidedly unstenographic. She forwent the pomp of the alluring pompadour. She wore no chains, bracelets or lockets. She had not the air of being about to accept an invitation to luncheon. Her dress was grey and plain, but it fitted her figure with fidelity and discretion. In her neat black turban hat was the gold-green wing of a macaw. On this morning she was softly and shyly radiant. Her eyes were dreamily bright, her cheeks genuinely peach blow, her expression a happy one, tinged with reminiscence.                                                                                                                              Pitcher, still mildly curious, noticed a difference in her ways this morning; instead of going straight into the adjoining room, where her desk was, she lingered, slightly irresolute, in the outer office. Once she moved over by Maxwell’s desk, near enough for him to be aware of her presence.                                                                                                  The machine sitting at that desk was no longer a man; it was a busy New York broker, moved by buzzing wheels and uncoiling springs.                                                                      «Well — what is it? Anything»? – asked Maxwell sharply. His opened mail lay like a bank of stage snow on his crowded desk. His keen grey eye, impersonal and brusque, flashed upon her half impatiently.                                                                                                  «Nothing», answered the stenographer moving away with a little smile.
«Mr. Pitcher», she said to the confidential clerk, «did Mr. Maxwell say anything yesterday about engaging another stenographer»?                                                                                     «He did», answered Pitcher. «He told me to get another one. I notified the agency yesterday afternoon to send over a few samples this morning. It’s 9.45 o’clock, and not a single picture hat or piece of pineapple chewing gum has showed up yet».                                                                                                                                                          «I will do the work as usual, then», said the young lady, «until someone comes to fill the place.» And she went to her desk at once and hung the black turban hat with the gold-green macaw wing in its accustomed place.
He who has been denied the spectacle of a busy Manhattan broker during a rush of business is handicapped for the profession of anthropology. The poet sings of the «crowded hour of glorious life». The broker’s hour is not only crowded, but the minutes are hanging to all the straps and packing both front and rear platforms.
And this day was Harvey Maxwell’s busy day. The ticker began to reel out jerkily its fitful coils of tape, the desk telephone had a chronic attack of buzzing. Men began to throng into the office and call at him over the railings, jovially, sharply, viciously, excitedly. Messenger boys ran in and out with messages and telegrams. The clerks in the office jumped about like sailors during a storm. Even Pitcher’s face relaxed into something resembling animation.                                                                                    On the Exchange there were hurricanes and landslides and snowstorms and glaciers and volcanoes, and those elemental disturbances were reproduced in miniature in the broker’s offices. Maxwell shoved his chair against the wall and transacted business after the manner of a toe-dancer. He jumped from ticker to phone, from desk to door with the trained agility of a harlequin.
In the midst of this growing and important stress the broker became suddenly aware of a high-rolled fringe of golden hair under a nodding canopy of velvet and ostrich tips, an imitation sealskin sacque and a string of beads as large as hickory nuts, ending near the floor with a silver heart. There was a self-possessed young lady connected with these accessories; and Pitcher was there to construe her.
«Lady from the Stenographer’s Agency to see about the position», said Pitcher.
Maxwell turned half around, with his hands full of papers and ticker tape.
«What position»? – he asked, with a frown.                     «Position of stenographer,» said Pitcher. «You told me yesterday to call them up and have one sent over this morning.                                                                                                  «You are losing your mind, Pitcher», said Maxwell. «Why should I have given you any such instructions? Miss Leslie has given perfect satisfaction during the year she has been here. The place is hers as long as she chooses to retain it. There’s no place open here, madam. Countermand the order with the agency, Pitcher, and don’t bring any more of’em in here».                                                                                                  The silver heart left the office, swinging and banging itself independently against the office furniture as it indignantly departed. Pitcher seized a moment to remark to the bookkeeper that the «old man» seemed to get more absent-minded and forgetful every day of the world.                                                                                                                              The rush and pace of business grew fiercer and faster. On the floor they were pounding half a dozen stocks in which Maxwell’s customers were heavy investors. Orders to buy and sell were coming and going as swift as the flight of swallows. Some of his own holdings were imperiled, and the man was working like some high-geared, delicate, strong machine – going at full speed, accurate, never hesitating, with the proper word and decision and act ready and prompt as clockwork. Stocks and bonds, loans and mortgages, margins and securities – here  was a world of finance, and there was no room in it for the human world or the world of nature.                                                                                                                                                                        When the luncheon hour drew near there came a slight lull in the uproar.
Maxwell stood by his desk with his hands full of telegrams and memoranda, with a fountain pen over his right ear and his hair hanging in disorderly strings over his forehead. His window was open, and through the window came a wandering -  perhaps a lost-odour — a delicate, sweet odour of lilac that fixed the broker for a moment immovable. For this odour belonged to Miss Leslie; it was her own, and hers only.                                                                                                                                                                                      The odour brought her vividly, almost tangibly before him. The world of finance dwindled suddenly to a speck. And she was in the next room — twenty steps away.                                                                                                                                                                                      «By George, I’ll do it now», said Maxwell, half aloud. «I’ll ask her now. I wonder I didn’t do it long ago».                                                                                                                              He dashed into the inner office with the haste of a short trying to cover. He charged upon the desk of the stenographer.                                                                                                                She looked up at him with a smile. A soft pink crept over her cheek, and her eyes were kind and frank. Maxwell leaned one elbow on her desk. He still clutched fluttering papers with both hands and the pen was above his ear.
«Miss Leslie,» he began hurriedly. «I have but a moment to spare. I want to say something in that moment. Will you be my wife? I haven’t had time to make love to you in the ordinary way, but I really do love you. Talk quick, please – those  fellows are clubbing the stuffing out of Union Pacific».                                                                                    «Oh, what are you talking about»? – exclaimed the young lady. She rose to her feet and gazed upon him round-eyed.                                                                                                                «Don’t you understand»? – said Maxwell restively. «I want you to marry me. I love you, Miss Leslie. I wanted to tell you, and I snatched a minute when things had slackened up a bit. They’re calling me for the phone now. Tell’em to wait a minute, Pitcher, Won’t you, Miss Leslie»?                                                                                                  The stenographer acted very queerly. At first she seemed overcome with amazement; then tears flowed from her wondering eyes; and then she smiled sunnily through them, and one of her arms slid tenderly about the broker’s neck.
«I know now,» she said softly. «It’s this old business that has driven everything out of your head for the time. I was frightened at first. Don’t you remember, Harvey? We were married last evening at eight o’clock in the Little Church Around the Corner».

Task 1 Read and understand

Task 2 Write out complex words and phrases with transcription

Task 3 Complete the short annotation (5-7)

 

 

 

The Ant and the Grasshopper

        W. S. Maugham

 

 When I was a small boy I was made to learn by heart soine fables of La Fontaine and the moral of each was carefully explained to me. Among them was “The Ant and the Grasshopper”. In spite of the moral of this fable my sympathies were with the grasshopper and for some time I never saw an ant without putting my foot on it.

 I couldn’t help thinking of this fable when the other day I saw George Ramsay lunching in a restaurant. I never saw an expression of such deep gloom. He was staring into space. I was sorry for him: I suspected at once that his unfortunate brother had been causing trouble again.

 I went up to him. “How are you?” I asked. “Is it Tom again?” He sighed. “Yes, it’s Tom again.”

 I suppose every family has a black sheep. In this family it had been Tom. He had begun life decently enough: he went into business, married and had two children. The Ramsays were respectable people and everybody supposed that Tom would have a good carrier. But one day he announced that he didn’t like work and that he wasn’t suited for marriage. He wanted to enjoy himself.                                                         He left his wife and his office. He spent two happy years in the various capitals of Europe. His relations were shocked and wondered what would happen when his money was spent. They soon found out: he borrowed. He was so charming that nobody could refuse him. Very often he turned to George. Once or twice he gave Tom considerable suns so that he could make a fresh start. On these Tom bought a motor-carand some jewelers. But when George washed his hands of him, Tom began to blackmail him. It was not nice for a respectable lawyer to find his brother shaking cocktails behind the bar of his favourite restaurant or driving a taxi. So George paid again.                                                                                                                               For twenty years Tom gambled, danced, ate in the most expensive restaurants and dressed beautifully. Though he was forty-six he looked not more than thirty-five. He had high spirits and incredible charm. Tom Ramsay knew everyone and everyone knew him. You couldn’t help liking him.                                           Poor George, only a year older than his brother, looked sixty. He had never taken more than a fortnight’s holiday in the year. He was in his office every morning at nine-thirty and never left it till six. He was honest and industrious. He had a good wife and four daughters to whom he was the best of fathers. His plan was to retire at fifty-five to a little house in the country. His life was blameless. He was glad that he was growing old because Tom was growing old, too. He used to say: “It was all well when Tom was young and good-looking. In four years he’ll be fifty. He won’t find life so easy then. I shall have thirty thousand pounds by the time I’m fifty. We shall see what is really best to work or to be idle.”                             Poor George! I sympathized with him. I wondered now what else Tom had done. George was very much upset. I was prepared for the worst. George could hardly speak. “A few weeks ago,” he said, “Tom became engaged to a woman old enough to be his mother. And now she has died and left him everything she had: half a million pounds, a yacht, a house in London and a house in the country. It is not fair, I tell you, it isn’t fair!”                                                                                                                               I couldn’t help it. I burst into laughter as I looked at George’s face; I nearly fell on the floor. George never forgave me. But Tom often asks me to dinners in his charming house and if he sometimes borrows money from me, it is simply from force of habit. 

Task 1 Read and understand

Task 2 Write out complex words and phrases with transcription

Task 3 Complete the short annotation (5-7)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Содержание

A Municipal Report (by O. Henry)

A Pair of Silk Stockings (by Kate Chopin) 

The selfish giant (by Oscar Wilde)

The Blue Cross (by G.K. Chesterton)

 Is he living or is he dead (by Mark Twain)

The Legend of Sleepy Hollow (by Washington Irving)

The Adventure of  Shoscombe  (by Arthur Conan Doyle)

 The romance of a busy broker (by O. Henry)

The Ant and the Grasshopper ( W. S. Maugham)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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