“2 stories coming from Eng.-Am.

Writers”

Title: “Back windows” story

Author: Louisa May Alcott (American writer)

As I sit working at my back window, I look out on a long row of other people's back windows; and it is
quite impossible for me to help seeing and being interested in my neighbours. There are a good many
children in those houses; and though I don't know one of their names, I know them a great deal better
than they think I do. I never spoke a word to any of them, and never expect to do so; yet I have my likes
and dislikes among them, and could tell them things that they have said and done, which would astonish
them very much, I assure you.

First, the babies,--for there are three: the aristocratic baby, the happy-go-lucky baby, and the forlorn
baby. The aristocratic baby lives in a fine, well-furnished room, has a pretty little mamma, who wears
white gowns, and pink ribbons in her cap; likewise, a fond young papa, who evidently thinks _this_ the
most wonderful baby in Boston. There is a stout, motherly lady, who is the grandma, I fancy, for she is
always hovering about 'the dear' with cups, blankets, or a gorgeous red worsted bird to amuse it. Baby is
a plump, rosy, sweet-faced little creature, always smiling and kissing its hand to the world in general. In
its pretty white frocks, with its own little pink or blue ribbons, and its young mamma proudly holding it up
to see and be seen, my aristocratic neighbour has an easy life of it, and is evidently one of the little lilies
who do nothing but blossom in the sunshine.

The happy-go-lucky baby is just able to toddle; and I seldom pull up my curtain in the morning without
seeing him at his window in his yellow flannel night-gown, taking a look at the weather. No matter
whether it rains or shines, there he is, smiling and nodding, and looking so merry, that it is evident he has
plenty of sunshine bottled up in his own little heart for private use. I depend on seeing him, and feel as if
the world was not right until this golden little sun rises to shine upon me. He don't seem to have any one
to take care of him, but trots about all day, and takes care of himself. Sometimes he is up in the
chambers with the girl, while she makes beds, and he helps; then he takes a stroll into the parlour, and
spins the gay curtain-tassels to his heart's content; next, he dives into the kitchen (I hope he does not
tumble downstairs, but I dare say he wouldn't mind if he did), and he gets pushed about by all the busy
women, as they 'fly round.' I rather think it gets too hot for him there about dinner-time; for he often
comes out into the yard for a walk at noon, and seems to find endless wonders and delights in the ash
barrel, the water-but, two old flower-pots, and a little grass plat, in which he plants a choice variety of
articles, in the firm faith they will come up in full bloom. I hope the big spoon and his own red shoe _will_
sprout and appear before any trouble is made about their mysterious disappearance. At night I see a little
shadow bobbing about on the curtain, and watch it, till with a parting glimpse at a sleepy face at the
window, my small sun sets, and I leave him to his dreams.

The forlorn baby roars all day, and I don't blame him; for he is trotted, shaken, spanked, and scolded by a very cross nurse, who treats
him like a meal bag. I pity that little neighbour, and don't believe he will stand it long; for I see him double up his tiny fists, and spar
away at nothing, as if getting ready for a good tussle with the world by and by, if he lives to try it.

Then the boys,--bless their buttons!--how amusing they are. One young man, aged about ten, keeps hens; and the trials of that boy are
really pathetic. The biddies get out every day or two, and fly away all over the neighbourhood, like feathers when you shake a pillow.
They cackle and crow, and get up on sheds and fences, and trot down the streets, all at once, and that poor fellow spins round after
them like a distracted top. One by one he gets them and comes lugging them back, upside down, in the most undignified attitude, and
shuts them up, and hammers away, and thinks they are all safe, and sits down to rest, when a triumphant crow from some
neighbouring shed tells him that that rascally black rooster is out again for another promenade. I'm not blood-thirsty; but I really do
long for Thanksgiving that my neighbour Henry may find rest for the sole of his foot; for, not till his poultry are safely eaten will he
ever know where they are.

Another boy has a circus about once a week, and tries to break his neck jumping through hoops, hanging
to a rope by his heels, turning somersaults in the air, and frightening his mother out of her wits by his
pranks. I suspect that he has been to see Leotard, and I admire his energy, for he is never discouraged;
and, after tumbling flat, half-a-dozen times, he merely rubs his elbows and knees, and then up and takes
another.

There is a good, domestic boy, who brushes and curls his three little sisters' hair every morning, and must
do it very gently, for they seem to like it; and I often see them watch at the back gate for him, and clap
their hands, and run to meet him, sure of being welcomed as little sisters like to be met by the big
brothers whom they love. I respect that virtuous boy.

The naughty boy is very funny; and the running fight he keeps up with the cross cook is as good as a
farce. He _is_ a torment, but I think she could tame him, if she took the right way. The other day she
wouldn't let him in because she had washed up her kitchen and his boots were muddy. He wiped them on
the grass, but that wouldn't do; and, after going at her with his head down, like a battering ram, he gave
it up, or seemed to; for, the minute she locked the door behind her and came out to take in her clothes,
that sly dog whipped up one of the low windows, scrambled in, and danced a hornpipe all over the
kitchen, while the fat cook scolded and fumbled for her key, for _she_ couldn't follow through the window.
Of course he was off upstairs by the time she got in; but I'm afraid he had a shaking, for I saw him
glowering fiercely as he came out later with a basket, going some 'confounded errand.' Occasionally his
father brings him out and whips him for some extra bad offence, during which performance he howls
dismally; but when he is left sitting despondently and miraculously on an old chair without any seat, he
soon cheers up, boos at a strange cat, whistles to his dog,--who is just like him,--or falls back on that
standing cure for all the ills that boys are heir to, and whittles vigorously. I know I ought to frown upon
this reprehensible young person, and morally close my eyes to his pranks; but I really can't do it, and am
afraid I find this little black sheep the most interesting of the flock.

The girls have tea-parties, make calls, and play mother, of course; and the sisters of the good boy have
capital times up in a big nursery, with such large dollies that I can hardly tell which are the babies and
which the mammas. One little girl plays about at home with a dirty face, tumbled hair, and an old pinafore
on. She won't be made tidy, and I see her kick and cry when they try to make her neat. Now and then
there is a great dressing and curling; and then I see her prancing away in her light boots, smart hat, and
pretty dress, looking as fresh as a daisy. But I don't admire her; for I've been behind the scenes, you see,
and I know that she likes to be fine rather than neat.

So is the girl who torments her kitty, slaps her sister, and runs away when her mother tells her not to go
out of the yard. But the house-wifely little girl who tends the baby, washes the cups, and goes to school
early with a sunshiny face and kiss all round, _she_, now, is a neighbour worth having, and I'd put a good
mark against her name if I knew it.

I don't know as it would be proper for me to mention the grown-up people over the way. They go on very
much as the children do; for there is the lazy, dandified man, who gets up late, and drinks; the cross
man, who swears at the shed-door when it won't shut; the fatherly man, who sits among his children
every evening, and the cheery old man up in the attic, who has a flower in his window, and looks out at
the world with very much the same serene smile as my orange-coloured baby.
The women, too, keep house, make calls, and play mother; and some don't do it well either. The forlorn
baby's mamma never seems to cuddle and comfort him; and some day, when the little fist lies cold and
quiet, I'm afraid she'll wish she had. Then the naughty boy's mother. I'm very sure, if she put her arms
round him sometimes, and smoothed that rough head of his, and spoke to him as only mothers can
speak, that it would tame him far better than the scoldings and thrashings: for I know there is a true
boy's heart, warm and tender, somewhere under the jacket that gets dusted so often. As for the fine lady
who lets her children do as they can, while she trims her bonnet, or makes panniers, I wouldn't be
introduced to her on any account. But as some might think it was unjustifiable curiosity on my part to see
these things, and an actionable offence to speak of them, I won't mention them.

I sometimes wonder if the kind spirits who feel an interest in mortals ever take a look at us on the shady
side which we don't show the world, seeing the trouble, vanities, and sins which we think no one knows. If
they love, pity, or condemn us? What records they keep, and what rewards they prepare for those who
are so busy with their work and play that they forget who may be watching their back windows with
clearer eyes and truer charity than any inquisitive old lady with a pen in her hand?

Title: "Thou Art The Man!” story

Author: T.S. Arthur (American writer)

"HOW can you reconcile it to your conscience to continue in your present business, Mr. Muddler?" asked a
venerable clergyman of a tavern-keeper, as the two walked home from the funeral of a young man who
had died suddenly.

"I find no difficulty on that score," replied the tavern-keeper, in a confident tone: "My business is as
necessary to the public as that of any other man."

"That branch of it, which regards the comfort and accommodation of travellers, I will grant to be
necessary. But there is another portion of it which, you must pardon me for saying, is not only uncalled
for by the real wants of the community, but highly detrimental to health and good morals."

"And pray, Mr. Mildman, to what portion of my business do you allude?"

"I allude to that part of it which embraces the sale of intoxicating drinks."

"Indeed! the very best part of my business. But, certainly, you do not pretend to say that I am to be held
accountable for the unavoidable excesses which sometimes grow out of the use of liquors as a beverage?"

"I certainly must say, that, in my opinions a very large share of the responsibility rests upon your
shoulders. You not only make it a business to sell liquors, but you use every device in your power to
induce men to come and drink them. You invent new compounds with new and attractive names, in order
to induce the indifferent or the lovers of variety, to frequent your bar-room. In this way, you too often
draw the weak into an excess of self-indulgence, that ends, alas! in drunkenness and final ruin of body
and soul. You are not only responsible for all this, Mr. Muddler, but you bear the weight of a fearful
responsibility!"
"I cannot see the subject in that light, Mr. Mildman," the tavern-keeper said, rather gravely. "Mine is an
honest and honourable calling, and it is my duty to my family and to society, to follow it with diligence and
a spirit of enterprise."

"May I ask you a plain question, Mr. Muddler?"

"Oh yes, certainly! as many as you please."

"Can that calling be an honest and honourable one which takes sustenance from the community, and
gives back nothing in return?"

"I do not know that I understand the nature of your question, Mr. Mildman."

"Consider then society as a man in a larger form, as it really is. In this great body, as in the lesser body of
man, there are various functions of use and a reciprocity between the whole. Each function receives a
portion of life from the others, and gives back its own proper share for the good of the whole. The hand
does not act for itself alone--receiving strength and selfishly appropriating it without returning its quota of
good to the general system. And so of the heart, and lungs, and every other organ in the whole body.
Reverse the order--and how soon is the entire system diseased! Now, does that member of the great body
of the people act honestly and honourably, who regularly receives his portion of good from the general
social system, and gives nothing back in return?"

To this the landlord made no reply, and Mr. Mildman continued--

"But there is still a stronger view to be taken. Suppose a member of the human body is diseased--a limb,
for instance, in a partial state of mortification. Here there is a reception of life from the whole system into
that limb, and a constant giving back of disease that gradually pervades the entire body; and, unless that
body possesses extraordinary vital energy, in the end destroys it. In like manner, if in the larger body
there be one member who takes his share of life from the whole, and gives back nothing but a poisonous
principle, whose effect is disease and death, surely he cannot be called a good member--nor honest, nor
honourable."

"And pray, Mr. Mildman," asked the tavern-keeper, with warmth, "where will you find, in society, such an
individual as you describe?"

The minister paused at this question, and looked his companion steadily in the face. Then raising his long,
thin finger to give force to his remark, he said with deep emphasis--

_"Thou art the man!"_

"Me, Mr. Mildman! me!" exclaimed the tavern-keeper, in surprise and displeasure. "You surely cannot be
in earnest."

"I utter but a solemn truth, Mr. Muddler: such is your position in society! You receive food, and clothing,
and comforts and luxuries of various kinds for yourself and family from the social body, and what do you
give back for all these? A poison to steal away the health and happiness of that social body. You are far
worse than a perfectly dead member--you exist upon the great body as a moral gangrene. Reflect calmly
upon this subject. Go home, and in the silence of your own chamber, enter into unimpassioned and
solemn communion with your heart. Be honest with yourself. Exclude the bias of selfish feelings and
selfish interests, and honestly define to yourself your true position.'

"But, Mr. Mildman--"

The two men had paused nearly in front of Mr. Muddler's splendid establishment, and were standing there
when the tavern-keeper commenced a reply to the minister's last remarks. He had uttered but the first
word or two, when he was interrupted by a pale, thinly-dressed female, who held a little girl by the hand.
She came up before him and looked him steadily in the face for a moment or two.

"Mr. Muddler, I believe," she said.

"Yes, madam, that is my name," was his reply.

"I have come, Mr. Muddler," the woman then said, with an effort to smile and affect a polite air, "to thank
you for a present I received last night."

"Thank me, madam! There certainly must be some mistake. I never made you a present. Indeed, I have
not the pleasure of your acquaintance."

"You said your name was Muddler, I believe?"

"Yes, madam, as I told you before, that is my name."

"Then you are the man. You made my little girl, here a present also, and we have both come with our
thanks."

"You deal in riddles, madam, Speak out plainly."

"As I said before," the woman replied, with bitter irony in her tones, "I have come with my little girl to
thank you for the present we received last night;--a present of wretchedness and abuse."

"I am still as far from understanding you as ever," the tavern-keeper said--I never abused you, madam. I
do not even know you."

"But you know my husband, sir! You have enticed him to your bar, and for his money have given him a
poison that has changed him from one of the best and kindest of men, into a demon. To you, then, I owe
all the wretchedness I have suffered, and the brutal treatment I shared with my helpless children last
night. It is for this that I have come to thank you."

"Surely, madam, you must be beside yourself. I have nothing to do with your husband."

"Nothing to do with him!" the woman exclaimed, in an excited tone. "Would to heaven that it were so!
Before you opened your accursed gin palace, he was a sober man, and the best and kindest of husbands--
but, enticed by you, your advertisement and display of fancy drinks, he was tempted within the charmed
circle of your bar-room. From that moment began his downfall; and now he is lost to self-control--lost to
feeling--lost to humanity!"

As the woman said this, she burst into tears, and then turned and walked slowly away.

"To that painful illustration of the truth of what I have said," the minister remarked, as the two stood once
more alone, "I have nothing to add. May the lesson sink deep into your heart. Between you and that
woman's husband existed a regular business transaction. Did it result in a mutual benefit? Answer that
question to your own conscience."

How the tavern-keeper answered it, we know not. But if he received no benefit from the double lesson, we
trust that others may; and in the hope that the practical truth we have endeavoured briefly to illustrate,
will fall somewhere upon good ground, we cast it forth for the benefit of our fellow-men.
 2 sonnets

Happy ye leaves! whenas those lily hands by Edmund Spenser (English writer)

Happy ye leaves! whenas those lily hands,

Which hold my life in their dead doing might,
Shall handle you, and hold in love's soft hands,
Like captives trembling at the victor's sight.
And happy lines on which, with starry light,
Those lamping eyes will deign sometimes to look,
And read the sorrows of my dying sprite,
Written with tears in heart's close bleeding book.
And happy rhymes! bathed in the sacred brook
Of Helicon, whence she derived is,
When ye behold that angel's blessed look,
My soul's long lacked food, my heaven's bliss.
Leaves, lines, and rhymes seek her to please alone,
Whom if ye please, I care for other none.

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun by William Shakespear ( English writer )

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;

Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.
 2 lyric poem

The Green Linnet by William Surprised by Joy--Impatient as the

Wordswort. Wind by William Wordsworth.
( Amerikan writer ) ( Amerikan witer )

Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that
shed
Their snow-white blossoms on my head,
With brightest sunshine round me spread
Of spring's unclouded weather,
In this sequestered nook how sweet
To sit upon my orchard-seat!
And birds and flowers once more to
greet,
My last year's friends together.
One have I marked, the happiest guest
In all this covert of the blest:
Hail to Thee, far above the rest
In joy of voice and pinion!
Thou, Linnet! in thy green array,
Presiding Spirit here today,
Dost lead the revels of the May;
And this is thy dominion.
While bird, and butterflies, and flowers,
Make all one band of paramours,
Thou, ranging up and down the bowers,
Art sole in thy employment:
A Life, a Presence like the Air,
Scattering thy gladness without care,
Too blest with any one to pair;
Thyself thy own enjoyment.
Surprised by joy -- impatient as the Wind
I turned to share the transport -- Oh! with
whom
But Thee, deep buried in the silent tomb,
That spot which no vicissitude can find?
Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my
mind --
But how could I forget thee? Through
what power,
Even for the least division of an hour,
Have I been so beguiled as to be blind
To my most grievous loss? -- That
thought's return
Was the worst pang that sorrow ever
bore,
Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,
Knowing my heart's best treasure was no
more;
That neither present time, nor years
unborn
Could to my sight that heavenly face
restore.

Amid yon tuft of hazel trees,

That twinkle to the gusty breeze,
Behold him perched in ecstasies,
Yet seeming still to hover;
There! where the flutter of his wings
Upon his back and body flings
Shadows and sunny glimmerings,
That cover him all over.

My dazzled sight he oft deceives,

A Brother of the dancing leaves;
Then flits, and from the cottage eaves
Pours forth his song in gushes;
As if by that exulting strain
He mocked and treated with disdain
The voiceless Form he chose to feign,
While fluttering in the bushes.

2 ode poems

Ode on a Grecian Urn by John Keats

( Englis writer )
 Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fring'd legend haunt about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard

Are sweeter: therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal - yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed

Your leaves, nor ever bid the spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?

To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede

Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty," - that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know

ODE TO THE CONFEDERATE DEAD

Poetry of Allen Tate (English writer)

Row after row with strict impunity

The headstones yield their names to the element,
 The wind whirrs without recollection;
In the riven troughs the splayed leaves
Pile up, of nature the casual sacrament
To the seasonal eternity of death;
Then driven by the fierce scrutiny
Of heaven to their election in the vast breath,
They sough the rumour of mortality.

Autumn is desolation in the plot

Of a thousand acres where these memories grow
From the inexhaustible bodies that are not
Dead, but feed the grass row after rich row.
Think of the autumns that have come and gone!-
Ambitious November with the humors of the year,
With a particular zeal for every slab,
Staining the uncomfortable angels that rot
On the slabs, a wing chipped here, an arm there:
The brute curiosity of an angel's stare

Turns you, like them, to stone,

Transforms the heaving air
Till plunged to a heavier world below
You shift your sea-space blindly
Heaving, turning like the blind crab.

Dazed by the wind, only the wind

The leaves flying, plunge

You know who have waited by the wall

The twilight certainty of an animal,
Those midnight restitutions of the blood
You know-the immitigable pines, the smoky frieze
Of the sky, the sudden call: you know the rage,
 The cold pool left by the mounting flood,
Of muted Zeno and Parmenides.
You who have waited for the angry resolution
Of those desires that should be yours tomorrow,
You know the unimportant shrift of death
And praise the vision
And praise the arrogant circumstance
Of those who fall
Rank upon rank, hurried beyond decision-
Here by the sagging gate, stopped by the wall.

Seeing, seeing only the leaves

Flying, plunge and expire

Turn your eyes to the immoderate past,

Turn to the inscrutable infantry rising
Demons out of the earth-they will not last.
Stonewall, Stonewall, and the sunken fields of hemp,
Shiloh, Antietam, Malvern Hill, Bull Run.
Lost in that orient of the thick-and-fast
You will curse the setting sun.

Cursing only the leaves crying

Like an old man in a storm

You hear the shout, the crazy hemlocks point

With troubled fingers to the silence which
Smothers you, a mummy, in time.

The hound bitch

Toothless and dying, in a musty cellar
Hears the wind only.

Now that the salt of their blood

Stiffens the saltier oblivion of the sea,
Seals the malignant purity of the flood,

What shall we who count our days and bow

Our heads with a commemorial woe
In the ribboned coats of grim felicity,
What shall we say of the bones, unclean,
 Whose verdurous anonymity will grow?
The ragged arms, the ragged heads and eyes
Lost in these acres of the insane green?
The gray lean spiders come, they come and go;
In a tangle of willows without light
The singular screech-owl's tight
Invisible lyric seeds the mind
With the furious murmur of their chivalry.

We shall say only the leaves

Flying, plunge and expire

We shall say only the leaves whispering

In the improbable mist of nightfall
That flies on multiple wing;
Night is the beginning and the end
And in between the ends of distraction
Waits mute speculation, the patient curse
That stones the eyes, or like the jaguar leaps
For his own image in a jungle pool, his victim.

What shall we say who have knowledge

Carried to the heart? Shall we take the act
To the grave? Shall we, more hopeful, set up the
grave
In the house? The ravenous grave?

Leave now
The shut gate and the decomposing wall-
The gentle serpent, green in the mulberry bush,
Riots with his tongue through the hush-
Sentinel of the grave who counts us all!
 Project
In
English
Submitted by: Czarina Ruby-Ann G. Basco

Submitted to: Ms. Marites Lacsaron