PORTOFOLIO

ENGLISH
SMK BINTANG PELAJAR

DisusunOleh :

NAMA : RAHMAT HIDAYAT

KELAS : XII

B. KEAHLIAN : PEMASARAN

YAYASAN PENDIDIKAN PEMBANGUNAN ISLAM (YPPI)

SMK BINTANG PELAJAR
Jl. Cibadak Karang Mas RT.02/03 Desa CibadakKec. CiampeaKab.Bogor
Kode Pos : 16620 No Tlp :0857 – 8196 – 33304
Email : Smksbintangpelajar@gmail.com
TAHUN AJARAN 2021/2022

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 KATA PENGANTAR

In the Name of Allah, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful

First of all the writer's deepest thank To Allah SWT, the lord of the
universe an to our prophet Muhammad SAW, may peace and blessing be upon
him, his family and his followers.

I would like to express my gratitude to my beloved mother Suzana and my

father Johan for eternal pray, love, patience an all supports.

To my supervisor, Eva Laila M.Hum thank you for the great patient and
contributions in finishing this thesis. Maay Allah always bless her and her family.

I also would like to express my deepest gratidude to all of my friends

especially; Agung, Jeni, Aries, Suryo, Nurul etc. Thank you for always giving
inspiration an motivating me to finish this thesis may Allah blesses them all.

Bogor, 31 Januari 2022

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 TABLE OF CONTENT

KATA PENGANTAR…………………………………………………………...2
TABLE OF CONTENT………………………………………………………….3
CHAPTER I INTRODUCTION………………………………………………....4
1.1 BACKROUND………………………………………………………4
1.2 QUESTIONS OF THE PROBLEMS………………………………..4
1.3 OBJECTIVES………………………………………………………..4
CHAPTER II THEORETICAL STUDY……………………………….………..5
A. CONCEP OF THE TEXT…………………………………………….………..5
2.1 NARRATIVE TEXT……………………………………………….……...5
CHAPTER III CLOSING……………………………………………………...22
3.1 CONCLUSION…………………………………………………….22
3.2 RECOMMENDATIONS………………………………………….,22

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 CHAPTER I
INTRODUCTION

1.1 BACKROUND

Because the various types of texts that exist in English may indicate
that many know about the text itself.

There are various types of text in English, such as:

 Teks narrative
 Teks recouny
 Teks procedure

1.2 QUESTIONS OF THE PROBLEMS

 What are the types of text in English?
 What is the meaning of the type of text itself?
 What is the structure in the text?
 What are the provisions in each of these texts?

1.3 OBJECTIVES

a. To know types from text

b. To know meaning from text
c. To know structure from text
d. To know provisions from text

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 CHAPTER II

THEORETICAL STUDY

A. CONCEP OF THE TEXT

 Text can be classified into several types. The term of type is sometime stated as
genre. Thesetypes of text are1;
1. Narrative text
2. Recount text
3. Procedure text

These classification on type of text are based on analysis of three main elements

of text.These elements of the text are:
1. The purpose of the text; why is the text made? Why is the text made for by its
writer.
2. The generic structure of the text; analyzing the used structure in composing the
text, in whatway is the text constructed by its writer.
3. The language feature; taking a look at the linguistic characterizations of the
text, what kind oflanguage feature is used to build the text by its writer.

2.1 Narrative text

a. Definition of Narrative
  Narrative is the text focusing specific participants. Its social function is its tell
stories or pastevents and entertain the readers.

b. Generic structure of Narrative 
 A narrative text consists if the following structure:
Orientation: Introducing the participants and informing the time and the place.
Complication: Describing the rising crises which the participants have to
do with.
Resolution: showing the way of participant to solve the crises, better or worse. 
 

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c. Language feature of Narrative
Using processes verbs
Using simple past tense
Using temporal conjunction

d. Example of the text

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 1. The Locked Door (Thriller horror theme)

This story contains themes or mentions of physical violence, gore, or abuse.

The kids are small enough to fit together in the bathtub. They splash each
other and try to stand up. I tell them over and over they need comfy butts in the
tub. I have a recurring fear of them falling, swallowing water, and dry drowning
hours later while asleep. I read about it in a mommy blog once. To keep them
occupied, I wave a bubble wand over their heads. The opaque bubbles float down
to pop in their outstretched hands. The glee something so simple can bring lifts
my mouth into a smile.

I bundle them in towels, swipe q-tips in their ears, and dance electric
toothbrushes across their teeth. When I open the bathroom door, they burst forth
into the living room unashamed of their nakedness. I decide to let them toddle
until they’re dry enough to put pajamas on.

“Bedtime! Pick out your book.”

I start bedtime by going to each of the windows, checking and rechecking

the locks, closing the blinds, pulling the curtains. When I move to the backdoor, I
hold my palm over the broken bolt. There’s a pain in my chest, a gnawing. A
picture of a dark beast, eyes black, humanity absent. An enormous, destructive
body pushing against the door, screaming in whispers, “Let me in!.” The vision
feels alive, chomping, snarling at the door.

I reach for the screwdriver sitting on the dryer and move it to make it look
less like a hidden weapon, more like I forgot to put it away. A shovel crusted with
mud is next to the front door, leaning against the kids’ rubber boots and my
garden gloves. In every room, I’ve identified innocuous household objects to be
used as weapons. A shard of glass expertly swept under the oven, sharpened
pencils in windowsills above the kids’ reach, a pyrex dish left near the couch.
Materials designed to throw, maim, stab all choreographed to look like a mess.

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 I gather both babies, dress them in footie pajamas, and lay them in my bed.
We each have a spot for falling asleep. The older one sleeps with his stomach
pressed to my spine, toes touching the back of my legs; the younger one sleeps
with my arm as a pillow. His curdled milk breath hot against my face. I close my
eyes and steady my breathing, will my heart to a regular rhythm, so they believe
I’m asleep and stop fidgeting and rest their eyes.

Tonight, there’s an unease inside me, siphoning my energy. I wake up hot,

my heart pounding, thinking I heard a scratch outside. Could be the wind, a
branch, a dream. I wiggle from between the babies and reach for my phone. No
texts or calls. I listen closely. No sounds from the door. It’s quiet except for the
pounding of my heart, the blood behind my ears, the anxiety punctuating my
thoughts.

I tiptoe into the kitchen and turn on a light, then flip it off. Best to look
like I’m sleeping. I microwave a cup of water and pour in a packet of hot
chocolate, then sit by the heater. My phone clock says it’s barely midnight. The
darkness of the living room with the blinds and curtains drawn is stifling after
staring at my phone. Shadows seem to breathe on the walls as cars drive by, the
faint flicker of their headlights peaking through the cracks. I’m tired to the bone,
but I know sleep is impossible unless I can relax. Tomorrow is Friday, so I have to
work. I go through my to-do list; the mental repetition of the tasks a salve. As
soon as the anxiety creeps in, eating at my gut, stealing my breath, I start from the
beginning again, again, and over again.

Wake up, shower, pack diaper bags—

Wake up, shower, pack diaper bags, breakfast, get dressed—

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 Wake up, shower, pack—Scratch.

My body jolts. Was it a key? A credit card trying to find purchase between
the door and the latch? A safety pin inserted into the keyhole or a paper clip? I
squint, my eyes searching through the shadowed darkness to find the lock. Is it
locked if it’s up or flat? My tired brain can’t remember. Did I lock the bolt? The
back door? How about the windows? The questions have a visceral effect. My
body aches with panic. It rakes through my gut, blisters into my chest, squeezes
my skull. I gulp the hot chocolate, trying to ground myself. It warms me.

Only the wind, I resolve. We are safe.

I hear a car stop nearby.

It’s nothing. Just the neighbors.

The sound of a car door opening convulses through the silence.

I pull my body to the door, legs sliding beneath me, and press my ear
against the cool wood. There’s a sliver of air seeping from the cracks. I shiver. A
deep voice and laughter. I can feel my anxiety metastasize. My legs grow numb,
immobile.

The sound of a door slamming shut.

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 My eyes press closed, tears hot down my cheeks. I hear erratic footsteps.
Stumbling. Feet thump toward the door. My eyes are squeezed so tightly, there’s a
brightness to the blankness. My body is on fire, the viscous terror igniting through
my veins. I wish I could amputate it from me, then slash through the phantom
webs left behind. My phone is on the floor by the heater. How long would it take
for the police to get here? Ten, twenty, or thirty minutes? Would they arrest him
or send him away to punish me later?

It is astonishing how easy it was to be fooled by a monster, to start a

family with a beast, a creature you’re not supposed to love. It is surprising what
you’ll accept to be wanted, needed, and desired—to want, need, and desire. But
love can be corrupted, twisting and grisly. Violent. It makes you swallow your
needs and diminish your feelings for the sake of sparing another the
inconvenience of your humanity. Love swallows you whole, slowly dissolving
your bones with acid. Repairing yourself is painful. You’re once full and electric,
then told to bleed dry until you’re empty.

My eyes bind together with tears, and memories flash in the blankness.
Bright and hot. Stinging and scalding. Venomous words sprayed from fangs, a
squeezing hold from not a hand, but five fingers snaked around my neck. The
thump, thump, thump of my heartbeat in my ears. Gasping. Crying. Someone
laughing, smiling. Giving in, giving up. The feeling of cool metal pressed to my
forehead. Monstrous eyes staring through me. I’m a toy. A thing. Fists pushing
into my body, aching all over. My muscles separate themselves from my bones;
my vessels slither from my pores. I want to hide. I want to sleep. To disappear.

I push my eyes open.

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 He’s wiggling the doorknob. A chill wraps itself around me, slithering up
my spine and curling around my neck. I hear him cursing, growing angry, blaming
me for a locked door. He pounds on the wood. My terror immobilizes me. I can’t
breathe or move. The noise ceases, and the silence feels like a gut punch. I hear
him moving away from the door. I make myself small, pushing my ear closer.

There is a tap-tap coming from the bedroom window. More ringing. He

begins pounding the glass. I imagine the glass shattering on my sleeping babies’
heads, picking bloodied shards from their glowing skin. A vicious phantom
hovering above me whispering that it’s my fault. If I had just unlocked the door.
A lawless swell burns through me, igniting like gasoline in my veins. It feels raw
and shocking. My body bursts upright, and my hand grips the doorknob. I feel
disembodied. As if my bones are acting of their own accord, outside of the pulsing
terror ebbing through my veins. For a moment, I’m too shaken to do anything,
even breathe. Hot tears drip down my cheeks. I wipe them away with my palm
and pull the shovel to my side, the metal raking nails against the floor. Violent
shivers wrack my body. I release my jaw to keep my teeth from chattering. Panic
combs my veins. I hear the distinct click of the deadbolt turn. The doorknob
twists, and the door swings open. I feel an enormous, suffocating fear.

He looks through me, his eyes blackened, and smiles sheepishly, “Doing
some gardening?”

2. Sapphire Hour( Fiction Story)

The Great Conjunction, Jupiter and Saturn – December 21, 2020

I hug my elbows tight into my sides and slide my hands as deep into my
pockets as they'll go. It's freezing tonight.

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 “I think it should be acclimated by now. We can start with the globular
cluster in Lepus if you want,” he says.

I laugh. “You always start with the globular cluster in Lepus.”

It's an eight-inch Dobsonian telescope, no frills, nothing fancy. Except the

tube, which is a deep metallic red and glitters softly in the corner of our bedroom
when it's not under the faint smudge of the Milky Way. It's the conjunction of
Jupiter and Saturn tonight – the closest they've been in 400 years. To everyone
else, they'll appear to touch. To us, they'll be keeping a cordial distance, like two
strangers queuing at the grocery store.

“How much longer til we can see the conjunction?” I ask. My teeth knock
against each other in a hushed, sustained drum roll.

“Maybe an hour? It's still pretty light in the west.”

The western horizon is toothed and uneven like the edges of a ripped piece
of paper. Just above the mountains the sky is a melted creamsicle, and above that
an expanse of sapphire studded with those first, brave stars. Our breath swirls
around us in fleeting clouds, but the sky is otherwise clear and the stars
unblinking. That's what you want, I've learned. Twinkling stars might be poetic,
but the quiet ones – the ones who stare back at you with unyielding intensity –
those indicate ideal atmospheric conditions.

“Good conditions tonight,” he says.

He swivels the telescope into position. Lepus, the hare, hides near the
southern horizon at Orion's feet. Canis Major snarls at its side. I shiver, imagining
the hare, forever suspended at the panicked edge of attack. The springs on the
telescope's base creak as he adjusts and checks, adjusts and checks, adjusts and
checks again. He nods, steps back from the telescope, and gestures to the
eyepiece.

The globular cluster fills the field of view, countless points of white and
yellow and pink light suspended in a creamy cosmic stew. It slowly travels across
the eyepiece until it disappears entirely, consumed by the black void defining the

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limits of the optics. I lift my naked eyes to the sky and try to make out the cluster
unaided, but it's gone. An apparition that inhabits a separate plane of existence
contained by the telescope.

The Perseid Meteor Shower – August 12, 2010

Before I knew what Messier objects or globular clusters were, there were
the Perseids. We made the “bug box” that year – a ridiculous enclosure of lath and
screen designed to protect us from the onslaught of hungry insects. Shoulder to
shoulder, hip to hip, hand in hand, we sprawled across grass slicked with evening
condensation, the screen rubbing our outside elbows and hovering just over our
noses. The sky was thick with frustrated mosquitoes and the stars warbled above.
Not ideal atmospheric conditions.

“When is it going to start?” I had asked him.

“I'm not sure,” he answered.

The dim glow of a waxing crescent moon had just peaked over the pines,
sending fractured blue light across our legs. Spring peepers were singing from the
creek down back and the screech owls' rejoinder provided a haunting, hymnal
chorus. We laid there an hour, waiting for the meteor shower to streak across the
sky, watching that faceted sapphire light color the shadows. The Perseids forgot to
show up, but we didn't care.

Comet PanSTARRS, C/2011 L4 – March 10, 2013

The bug box only survived a few seasons. It provided cover for our hens
one year while we undertook repairs to their coop, but was effectively obsoleted
by the telescope. As Comet PanSTARRS C/2011 L4 tore a run in the gossamer of
the evening sky, it lay moldering under the last of the winter snow drifts. But the
telescope was new – a bright, shiny thing. He pulled me in toward it, warm hand
lingering on the small of my back.

“If you squint really hard you might be able to see the ion tail,” he said. He
tucked an unruly piece of hair behind my ear as I bent over the eyepiece. I

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squinted really hard. The nucleus of the comet fluoresced an eerie blue-green and
a puff of gas whispered its trajectory across the Andromeda galaxy.

“Pretty cool, huh?”

“Pretty cool,” I nodded.

“We could try to find the globular cluster in Lepus again,” he suggested,
swiveling the telescope south. The elusive group of stars, bound together by its
own gravity, had become his white whale.

“Or we could just watch the comet,” I suggested. “The globular cluster
isn't going anywhere.”

We stood, shoulder grazing shoulder, hip grazing hip, hands in pockets.

Heads craned upward, unaided eyes straining. We watched C/2011 L4, like a
fuzzy star, move imperceptibly across a field of inky black. A transitory, fleeting
thing that would be gone before the first buds opened on the beech trees.

Trifecta: Super Blue Blood Moon Lunar Eclipse – January 31, 2018

The night sky of the northern hemisphere hibernates through deep winter,
and telescopes with it. Favored nebulae and star clusters and supernova remnants
dip below the horizon with promises to return, resplendent, come spring. Only
dramatic, generational events rouse the telescope from its slumber, and the trifecta
offered that opportunity. It showed no sign of upset at having been prematurely
awoken and readily shook off a film of grey dust dulling its glossy red tube.

We shoveled bare a landing pad for the telescope, snow arcing around us
in untidy piles. The pines creaked and swayed overhead as he considered the
merits of a moon filter – the internet had been divided on that point. Turning the
telescope south pre-umbra, I watched him deftly trace a line from Orion's feet
downward toward the globular cluster in Lepus.

“Got it,” he said. “First try.”

His hand hovered over my waist as he offered the eyepiece, stepping away
from the telescope and I toward it. Two bodies pulled apart by opposing gravity.

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As the moon rose and darkened and retreated in the shadow of the earth, too large
to be contained by its field of view, we stepped back from the telescope.
Shoulders cold, hips turned, hands fidgeting hems and zippers.

The Great Conjunction, Jupiter and Saturn – December 21, 2020

The sapphire bleeds downward toward the horizon, consuming the

creamsicle in a final, yawning gulp. There are no mountains now, only little silver
pegs scattered across the sky. Above the western horizon, Jupiter and Saturn
appear to embrace, individual features dissolving into one glowing point of light.
When I squint, they are just barely distinct – the two celestial fingers of God and
Adam on the Sistine chapel, stretching to meet.

He trains the telescope on the two gas giants and yields the eyepiece to me.
I remember the first time he showed me Saturn – how very like my childhood
View-Master it felt. A perfect slide in miniature, rings and striations, even a
coterie of white pinprick moons. She's there now, Saturn. Jupiter too. But they're
not embracing – not even reaching for each other. The telescope magnifies the
infinity between them as they drift, slowly, into the black void defining the limits
of the optics. First Jupiter, then Saturn, until the field of view contains only empty
space.

“Do you see it?” he asks, keeping a cordial distance, like a stranger
queuing at the grocery store.

“Yeah,” I choke, “I see it.”

3. Lion and Jackal( Folklore Story)

The Lion and the Jackal agreed to hunt on shares, for the purpose of
laying in a stock of meat for the winter months for their families.

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 As the Lion was by far the more expert hunter of the two, the Jackal
suggested that he (himself) should be employed in transporting the game to their
dens, and that Mrs. Jackal and the little Jackals should prepare and dry the meat,
adding that they would take care that Mrs. Lion and her family should not want.

This was agreed to by the Lion, and the hunt commenced.

After a very successful hunt, which lasted for some time, the Lion returned
to see his family, and also to enjoy, as he thought, a plentiful supply of his spoil;
when, to his utter surprise, he found Mrs. Lion and all the young Lions on the
point of death from sheer hunger, and in a mangy state. The Jackal, it appeared,
had only given them a few entrails of the game, and in such limited quantities as
barely to keep them alive; always telling them that they (i. E., the Lion and
himself) had been most unsuccessful in their hunting; while his own family was
reveling in abundance, and each member of it was sleek and fat.

This was too much for the Lion to bear. He immediately started off in a
terrible fury, vowing certain death to the Jackal and all his family, wherever he
should meet them. The Jackal was more or less prepared for a storm, and had
taken the precaution to remove all his belongings to the top of a krantz (i. E., a
cliff), accessible only by a most difficult and circuitous path, which he alone
knew.

When the Lion saw him on the krantz, the Jackal immediately greeted him
by calling out,

Good morning, Uncle Lion.”

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 “How dare you call me uncle, you impudent scoundrel,” roared out the
Lion, in a voice of thunder,” after the way in which you have behaved to my
family?”

“Oh, Uncle! How shall I explain matters? That beast of a wife of mine!”
Whack, whack was heard, as he beat with a stick on dry hide, which was a mere
pretence for Mrs. Jackal’s back; while that lady was preinstructed to scream
whenever he operated on the hide, which she did with a vengeance, joined by the
little Jackals, who set up a most doleful chorus. “That wretch!” said the Jackal. “It
is all her doing. I shall kill her straight off,” and away he again belabored the hide,
while his wife and children uttered such a dismal howl that the Lion begged of
him to leave off flogging his wife. After cooling down a little, he invited Uncle
Lion to come up and have something to eat. The Lion, after several ineffectual
attempts to scale the precipice, had to give it up.

The Jackal, always ready for emergencies, suggested that a reim should be
lowered to haul up his uncle. This was agreed to, and when the Lion was drawn
about halfway up by the whole family of Jackals, the reim was cleverly cut, and
down went the Lion with a tremendous crash which hurt him very much. Upon
this, the Jackal again performed upon the hide with tremendous force, for their
daring to give him such a rotten reim, and Mrs. Jackal and the little ones
responded with some fearful screams and yells. He then called loudly out to his
wife for a strong buffalo reim which would support any weight. This again was
lowered and fastened to the Lion, when all bands pulled away at their uncle; and,
just when he had reached so far that he could look over the precipice into the pots
to see all the fat meat cooking, and all the biltongs hanging out to dry, the reim
was again cut, and the poor Lion fell with such force that he was fairly stunned for
some time. After the Lion had recovered his senses, the Jackal, in a most
sympathizing tone, suggested that he was afraid that it was of no use to attempt to
haul him up onto the precipice, and recommended, instead, that a nice fat piece of
eland’s breast be roasted and dropped into the Lion’s mouth. The Lion, half

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famished with hunger, and much bruised, readily accepted the offer, and sat
eagerly awaiting the fat morsel.

In the mean time, the Jackal had a round stone made red-hot, and wrapped
a quantity of inside fat, or suet, round it, to make it appear like a ball of fat. When
the Lion saw it held out, he opened his capacious mouth to the utmost extent, and
the wily Jackal cleverly dropped the hot ball right into it, which ran through the
poor old beast, killing him on the spot.

It need hardly be told that there was great rejoicing on the precipice that
night.

4. The Wolf & the Lion ( Fable Story)

A Wolf had stolen a Lamb and was carrying it off to his lair to eat it. But
his plans were very much changed when he met a Lion, who, without making any
excuses, took the Lamb away from him.

The Wolf made off to a safe distance, and then said in a much injured
tone:

“You have no right to take my property like that!”

The Lion looked back, but as the Wolf was too far away to be taught a
lesson without too much inconvenience, he said:

“Your property? Did you buy it, or did the Shepherd make you a gift of it?
Pray tell me, how did you get it?”

What is evil won is evil lost.

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 5. The Butterfly ( Fairytale Story)

A butterfly takes his time in deciding which flower he should marry.

This is a vintage fairy tale, and may contain violence. We would

encourage parents to read beforehand if your child is sensitive to such themes.

There was once a butterfly who wished for a bride, and, as may be
supposed, he wanted to choose a very pretty one from among the flowers. He
glanced, with a very critical eye, at all the flower-beds, and found that the flowers
were seated quietly and demurely on their stalks, just as maidens should sit before
they are engaged; but there was a great number of them, and it appeared as if his
search would become very wearisome. The butterfly did not like to take too much
trouble, so he flew off on a visit to the daisies. The French call this flower
“Marguerite,” and they say that the little daisy can prophesy. Lovers pluck off the
leaves, and as they pluck each leaf, they ask a question about their lovers; thus:
“Does he or she love me?—Ardently? Distractedly? Very much? A little? Not at
all?” and so on. Every one speaks these words in his own language. The butterfly
came also to Marguerite to inquire, but he did not pluck off her leaves; he pressed
a kiss on each of them, for he thought there was always more to be done by
kindness.

“Darling Marguerite daisy,” he said to her, “you are the wisest woman of
all the flowers. Pray tell me which of the flowers I shall choose for my wife.
Which will be my bride? When I know, I will fly directly to her, and propose.”But
Marguerite did not answer him; she was offended that he should call her a woman
when she was only a girl; and there is a great difference. He asked her a second
time, and then a third; but she remained dumb, and answered not a word. Then he
would wait no longer, but flew away, to commence his wooing at once. It was in
the early spring, when the crocus and the snowdrop were in full bloom.

P a g e 19 | 23
 “They are very pretty,” thought the butterfly; “charming little lasses; but
they are rather formal.”

Then, as the young lads often do, he looked out for the elder girls. He next
flew to the anemones; these were rather sour to his taste. The violet, a little too
sentimental. The lime-blossoms, too small, and besides, there was such a large
family of them. The apple-blossoms, though they looked like roses, bloomed to-
day, but might fall off to-morrow, with the first wind that blew; and he thought
that a marriage with one of them might last too short a time. The pea-blossom
pleased him most of all; she was white and red, graceful and slender, and
belonged to those domestic maidens who have a pretty appearance, and can yet be
useful in the kitchen. He was just about to make her an offer, when, close by the
maiden, he saw a pod, with a withered flower hanging at the end.

“Who is that?” he asked.

“That is my sister,” replied the pea-blossom.

“Oh, indeed; and you will be like her some day,” said he; and he flew
away directly, for he felt quite shocked.

A honeysuckle hung forth from the hedge, in full bloom; but there were so
many girls like her, with long faces and sallow complexions. No; he did not like
her. But which one did he like?

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 Spring went by, and summer drew towards its close; autumn came; but he
had not decided. The flowers now appeared in their most gorgeous robes, but all
in vain; they had not the fresh, fragrant air of youth. For the heart asks for
fragrance, even when it is no longer young; and there is very little of that to be
found in the dahlias or the dry chrysanthemums; therefore the butterfly turned to
the mint on the ground. You know, this plant has no blossom; but it is sweetness
all over,—full of fragrance from head to foot, with the scent of a flower in every
leaf.

“I will take her,” said the butterfly; and he made her an offer. But the mint
stood silent and stiff, as she listened to him. At last she said,—

“Friendship, if you please; nothing more. I am old, and you are old, but we
may live for each other just the same; as to marrying—no; don’t let us appear
ridiculous at our age.”

And so it happened that the butterfly got no wife at all. He had been too
long choosing, which is always a bad plan. And the butterfly became what is
called an old bachelor.

It was late in the autumn, with rainy and cloudy weather. The cold wind
blew over the bowed backs of the willows, so that they creaked again. It was not
the weather for flying about in summer clothes; but fortunately the butterfly was
not out in it. He had got a shelter by chance. It was in a room heated by a stove,
and as warm as summer. He could exist here, he said, well enough.

“But it is not enough merely to exist,” said he, “I need freedom, sunshine,
and a little flower for a companion.”

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 Then he flew against the window-pane, and was seen and admired by
those in the room, who caught him, and stuck him on a pin, in a box of curiosities.
They could not do more for him.

“Now I am perched on a stalk, like the flowers,” said the butterfly. “It is
not very pleasant, certainly; I should imagine it is something like being married;
for here I am stuck fast.” And with this thought he consoled himself a little.

“That seems very poor consolation,” said one of the plants in the room,
that grew in a pot.

“Ah,” thought the butterfly, “one can’t very well trust these plants in pots;
they have too much to do with mankind.”

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 CHAPTER III
CONCLUSION AND RECOMMENDATIONS
3.1 CONCLUSION
It turns out that after we peel a little bit, there are many types of text in
English, such as; Narrative text, descriptive text, recount text, expository text
(analytical & hortatory) and argument/discussion text and many others.

3.2 RECOMMENDATIONS
The paper that I made is still far from good, so I expect criticism and
suggestions from you to improve the papers for the future. Thank you for your
attention.

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