Horton Hatches the Egg (3)
So poor Horton sat there
The whole winter through …
And then came the springtime
With troubles anew!
His friends gathered round
And they shouted with glee.
“Look! Horton the Elephant’s
Up in a tree!”
They taunted. They teased him.
They yelled, “How absurd!”
“Old Horton the Elephant
Thinks he’s a bird!”
They laughed and they laughed. Then they all ran away.
And Horton was lonely. He wanted to play.
But he sat on the egg and continued to say:
“I meant what I said
And I said what I meant …
An elephant’s faithful
One hundred per cent!”
“No matter WHAT happens,
This egg must be tended!”
But poor Horton’s troubles
Were far, far from ended.
For, while Horton sat there
So faithful, so kind,
Three hunters came sneaking
Up softly behind!
He heard the men’s footsteps!
He turned with a start!
Three rifles were aiming
Right straight at his heart!
Did he run?
He did not!
HORTON STAYED ON THAT NEST!
He held his head high
And he threw out his chest
And he looked at the hunters
As much as to say:
“Shoot if you must
But I won’t run away!
I meant what I said
And I said what I meant …
An elephant’s faithful
One hundred per cent!”
But the men didn’t shoot!
Much to Horton’s surprise,
They dropped their three guns
And they stared with wide eyes!
“Look!” they all shouted,
“Can such a thing be?
An elephant sitting on top of a tree … ”
“It’s strange! It’s amazing! It’s wonderful! New!
Don’t shoot him! We’ll CATCH him. That’s just what we’ll do!
Let’s take him alive. Why, he’s terribly funny!
We’ll sell him back home to a circus, for money!”
Horton Hatches the Egg (2)
“H-m-m-m … the first thing to do,” murmured Horton,
“Let’s see …
The first thing to do is to prop up this tree
And make it much stronger. That has to be done
Before I get on it. I must weigh a ton.”
Then carefully,
Tenderly,
Gently he crept
Up the trunk to the nest where the little egg slept.
Then Horton the elephant smiled. “Now that’s that … ”
And he sat
and he sat
and he sat
and he sat …
And he sat all that day
And he kept the egg warm …
And he sat all that night
Through a terrible storm.
It poured and it lightninged!
It thundered! It rumbled!
“This isn’t much fun,”
The poor elephant grumbled.
“I wish she’d come back
’Cause I’m cold and I’m wet.
I hope that that Mayzie bird doesn’t forget.”
But Mayzie, by this time, was far beyond reach,
Enjoying the sunshine way off in Palm Beach,
And having such fun, such a wonderful rest,
Decided she’d NEVER go back to her nest!
So Horton kept sitting there, day after day.
And soon it was Autumn. The leaves blew away.
And then came the Winter … the snow and the sleet!
And icicles hung
From his trunk and his feet.
But Horton kept sitting, and said with a sneeze,
“I’ll stay on this egg and I won’t let it freeze.
I meant what I said
And I said what I meant …
An elephant’s faithful
One hundred per cent!”
(Dr Seuss)
Horton Hatches the Egg (1)
Sighed Mayzie, a lazy bird hatching an egg:
“I’m tired and I’m bored
And I’ve kinks in my leg
From sitting, just sitting here day after day.
It’s work! How I hate it!
I’d much rather play!
I’d take a vacation, fly off for a rest
If I could find someone to stay on my nest!
If I could find someone, I’d fly away – free … ”
Then Horton, the Elephant, passed by her tree.
“Hello!” called the lazy bird, smiling her best,
“You’ve nothing to do and I do need a rest.
Would YOU like to sit on the egg in my nest?”
The elephant laughed
“Why, of all silly things!
I haven’t feathers and I haven’t wings.
ME on you egg? Why, that doesn’t make sense …
Your egg is so small, ma’m, and I’m so immense!”
“Tut, tut,” answered Mayzie. “I know you’re not small
But I’m sure you can do it. No trouble at all.
Just sit on it softly. You’re gentle and kind.
Come, be a good fellow. I know you won’t mind.”
“I can’t,” said the elephant.
“PL-E-E-ASE!” begged the bird.
“I won’t be gone long, sir. I give you my word.
I’ll hurry right back. Why, I’ll never be missed … ”
“Very well,” said the elephant, “since you insist …
You want a vacation. Go fly off and take it.
I’ll sit on your egg and I’ll try not to break it.
I’ll stay and be faithful. I mean what I say.”
“Toodle-oo!” sang out Mayzie and fluttered away.
(Dr Seuss)
Thou shalt not despise thy nation
Andrew Marr’s A History of Modern Britain is a book to devour, at bedtime or otherwise. The 600-page volume follows a BBC television series and covers nearly sixty years of the recent story of the island we unavoidably tend to refer to in our job. Decade by decade, from Britain after the war to the latest Polish workers invasion, Marr makes sure that the reader gets not only in-depth information and commentary, but also the emotional background, an enormous account of collective consciousness and mood behind events, affairs and conflicts, all delivered in sensual, witty, lucid prose. A sample below illustrates well how, within the span of few sentences, he manages to combine criticism, irony, pride, a sense of belonging and affection to his own pack.
“If, by an act of science or magic, a small platoon of British people from 1945 could be time-travelled sixty or so years into the future, what would they make of us? They would be nudging one another and trying not to laugh. They would be shocked by the different colours of skin. They would be surprised by the crammed and busy roads, the garish shops, the lack of smoke in the air. They would be amazed at how big so many of us are – not just tall but shamefully fat. They would be impressed by the clean hair, the new-looking clothes and the youthful faces of the new British. But they would feel shock and revulsion at the gross wastefulness, the food flown here from Zambia or Peru then promptly thrown out of houses and supermarkets uneaten, the mountains of intricately designed and hurriedly discarded music players, television sets and fridges, clothes and furniture; the ugly marks of painted, distorted words on walls and the litter everywhere of plastic and coloured paper. They would wonder at our lack of church-going, our flagrant openness about sex, our divorce habit, alongside our amazingly warm and comfortable houses. They would then discuss it all in voices that might make us in turn laugh at them – insufferably posh or quaintly regional. Yet these alien people were us. They are us. The cropped-haired urchins of the forties are our pensioners now. The impatient lean young adults of 1947 with their imperial convictions or socialist beliefs are around us still in wheelchairs or hidden in care homes. It was their lives and the choices they made which led to here and now. So although they might stare at us and ask, ‘Who are these alien people?’ we could reply, ‘We are you, what you chose to become.’”
WW2 women conductors
What shall we put on next year?
Who could have expected that enthusiastic response to Romeo and Juliet show we took to the streets last month?! Now nobody wants to stop, they all want more. To start a new chapter and give a preview of what’s to come we document the event on a special page – gv_plays
From WP to GV
This time last year we turned to WordPress, a powerful editing tool for the web which has served us well for the last twelve months. We certainly don’t get over-excited, we are not computer geeks (yet), but it’s great to have support like that.
The Old Man
from Kazuo Ishiguro’s The Remains of the Day
I decided to step out and stretch my legs a little and when I did so, I received a stronger impression than ever of being perched on the side of a hill. On one side of the road, thickets and small trees rose steeply, while on the other I could now glimpse through the foliage the distant countryside.
I believe I had walked a little way along the roadside, peering through the foliage hoping to get a better view, when I heard a voice behind me. Until this point, of course, I had believed myself quite alone and I turned in some surprise. A little way further up the road on the opposite side, I could see the start of a footpath, which disappeared steeply up into the thickets. Sitting on the large stone that marked this spot was a thin, white-haired man in a cloth cap, smoking his pipe. He called to me again and though I could not quite make out his words, I could see him gesturing for me to join him. For a moment, I took him for a vagrant, but then I saw he was just some local fellow enjoying the fresh air and summer sunshine, and saw no reason not to comply.
Read more..
Pilgrims summer*
The teacher training season has begun and, invariably, we are bound for Pilgrims, Canterbury. Why do we bother? Why do we keep returning to Kent? Why do we climb that hill time and again?
Because it’s the place to unlock the abundant treasure of wonderful talents we possess.
Because our intellect is the greatest power enabling us to grasp the meaning of what we see.
Because as soon as we become masters of one thing, we become students of something new.
Because the sail, not the wind, determines our course.
Because perseverance is all.
* michał_t has just left for Creative Writing and Neuro-Linguistic Programming courses at Pilgrims, 6–19 July
basia_t joins Teaching Through Music and Visual Arts course there, 20 July–2 August
albs_t follows them to Skills of Teacher Training course, 3–16 August
Canterbury, a taste of pastoral England
Obscene scents of summer
A celebration of summer may well begin with an early morning trip to the farmer’s market, giving way to a whole series of events and experiences, all about senses.
Blood-red strawberries, uniformly and loosely packed in baskets, exposed to our voyeuristic look, are as good as they come: smallish, deeply flavoured and red right through, without that tasteless white core some varieties have these days. While still in the basket, their smell is reminiscent of a baby after an evening bath. But when you pile them on a plate, sprinkle with a pinch of salt, freshly ground black pepper and drizzle with the juice of half a lemon, they will release a flavour of unparalleled intensity.
Summer garlic is something else. Plump and white, its soft pliable skin faintly brushed with green and mauve hides the youngest, freshest, juiciest nuggets inside. So firm, crisp and mild you want to eat them raw, thinly sliced on a sandwich, or in mayonnaise. This is the sweet garlic of cautious romance, just don’t expect anyone to want to snog you afterwards.
Meanwhile, a seemingly humble Galia melon has been in the kitchen for a few days. It’s oozing its intoxicating scent, given each morning a gentle squeeze, sniffed and rolled over and over in hands. Heavy with juice and promise, it won’t last another day.
After the show
And it’s all over now. The students of Global Village celebrated the end of the school year on Wednesday. But how they did it! The performance was simply a hit. The audience – other students, parents, friends, and a great number of chance passers-by – all reacted spontaneously. You could hear laughter, giggling and applause every now and then. As for the actors, they did their best. The nervousness of the rehearsals disappeared the moment the drumming announced the beginning of the play. Later some of them said that they did actually miss a word or two, but it was hardly noticeable. To me they were professionals, and it was a double pleasure watching good performance played by good actors, as well as watching my own marvellous students – the shopkeeper, Capulets’ servant, Father Lawrence, Lord Montague, Tybalt, Benvolio, Prince Escalus, and many many others.
And to those who couldn’t come – don’t worry. You’ll still have a chance to see them next school year – in a student theatre, in one high school or another. They are too good actors to let them stop at the beginning of their careers :)
(basia_t)
