The Day the River Spoke
splashed: fell in
drops, making a
sound
slithered: moved
by sliding from
side to side
murmuring:
speaking in a
low voice
thicket: a dense
group of bushes
and trees
shrieked: made
a high-pitched
sound
startled:
surprised
A big bright tear splashed down her nose. And another.
A kingfisher swept down, its wings an arrow of blue in the
sunlight. And a green lizard slithered down to the river’s edge
to bask in the sun.
“Dear, dear!” said a sleepy, murmuring voice, “What’s the
matter?”
Jahnavi was startled, because she was sure she had been quite
alone. It couldn’t have been the lizard. And the kingfisher was
up in the thicket of bamboo eating the fish it had caught. It
couldn’t be the parrots, because parrots shrieked and this was
such a sleepy voice. She looked around her. There wasn’t a
soul in sight. She was rather scared and wanted to run away.
“You shouldn’t cry, you know,” the voice went on. “And you
really shouldn’t be scared, when you have been coming here
to see me every day, well, almost every day.”
She was puzzled. It was such a voice, like
the river. It couldn’t be the river!
“Well, tell me all about it,” said the River,
for it was the River. “I’ve got to hurry to reach
the sea, you know.”
“They won’t let me go to school,” said Jahnavi.
“I asked my mother, ‘Why can’t I go to school
like Ettan and Meena?’ And Mother had
replied, ‘You are too small, baby. Maybe
later.’ ” But when she was five, little
Ramu was born and Mother still said,
“Maybe next year. Jahnavi, mind your
little brother while I go to the fields.”
Now, she was nearly ten and minding
Little Appu, who was the smallest. “They
don’t want me. They only...”—she stopped with a sob...
“I am scared to go to school. And I’m so old now, they’ll never
let me go. But I want to go. I want to learn to read like Ettan
and Meena.” Jahnavi called her brother ‘Ettan’. Ettan means
‘Elder brother’, but his real name was Gopi. “I want to know
why spiders are yellow in yellow flowers, why bamboo
trees rustle, why the moon always comes from
behind the hills, never the other way, why
the baby fish in the field water become
frogs, why...”
“Stop!” said the River. “You make me
breathless. So many whys! I can tell
you where the moon goes,” the River
said conspiratorially. “It goes down
towards the sea. I’ve seen; it always
takes the same way—over the
mountains and down to the sea,
like me!”
rustle: light
sound made by
leaves rubbing
against each
other
conspiratorially:
secretly
Try Again
King Bruce of Scotland flung himself down
In a lonely mood to think;
‘Tis true he was monarch, and wore a crown,
But his heart was beginning to sink.
For he had been trying to do a great deed,
To make his people glad;
He had tried and tried, but couldn’t succeed
And so he became quite sad.
He flung himself down in low despair,
As grieved as man could be;
And after a while he pondered there,
“I’ll give it all up,” said he.
Now just at that moment a spider dropped,
With its silken, filmy clue;
And the King, in the midst of his thinking, stopped
To see what the spider would do.
‘Twas a long way up to the ceiling dome,
And it hung by a rope so fine;
That how it would get to its cobweb home,
King Bruce could not divine.
It soon began to cling and crawl
Straight up with strong endeavour;
But down it came with a slippery sprawl,
As near to the ground as ever.
Up, up it ran, not a second to stay,
To utter the least complaint;
Till it fell still lower, and there it lay,
A little dizzy and faint.
Its head grew steady — again it went,
And travelled a half-yard higher;
‘Twas a delicate thread it had to tread,
And a road where its feet would tire.
Again it fell and swung below,
But again it quickly mounted;
Till up and down, now fast, now slow,
Nine brave attempts were counted.
“Sure,” cried the King, “that foolish thing
Will strive no more to climb;
When it toils so hard to reach and cling,
And tumbles every time.”
But up the insect went once more,
Ah me! ‘tis an anxious minute;
He’s only a foot from his cobweb door,
Oh say, will he lose or win it?
Steadily, steadily, inch by inch,
Higher and higher he got;
And a bold little run at the very last pinch
Put him into his native cot.
“Bravo, bravo!” the King cried out,
“All honour to those who try;
The spider up there, defied despair;
He conquered, and why shouldn’t I?”
And Bruce of Scotland braced his mind,
And gossips tell the tale,
That he tried once more as he tried before,
And that time did not fail.
Eliza Cook
Three Days to See
symmetry:
evenness
birch: a slender
tree with thin
peeling bark
quiver: shiver
shaggy: hairy I, who cannot see, find hundreds of things to interest me through mere touch. I feel the delicate symmetry of a
leaf. I pass my hands lovingly about
the smooth skin of a silver birch, or
the rough, shaggy bark of a pine. In
spring, I touch the branches of trees
hopefully in search of a bud, the first
sign of awakening Nature after her
winter’s sleep. Occasionally, I am very
fortunate; I place my hand gently on a
small tree and feel the happy quiver of
a bird in full song.
At times, my heart cries out with
longing to see all these things. If I can
get so much pleasure from mere touch, how much more beauty must be revealed by sight. And I have imagined what I should most like to see if I were given the use of my eyes, say, for just three days. I should divide the period into three parts. On the first day, I should want to see the people whose kindness and companionship have made my life worth living. I do not know what it is to see into the heart of a friend through that ‘window of the soul’, the eye. I can only ‘see’ through my fingertips the outline of a face. I can detect laughter, sorrow and other obvious emotions. I know my friends from the feel of their faces. behold: see panorama: scene glimpse: brief look The next day I should arise with the dawn and see the thrilling miracle by which night is transformed into day. I should behold with awe the magnificent panorama of light with which the sun awakens the sleeping earth. This day I should devote to a hasty glimpse of the world, past and present. I should want to see the pageant of man’s progress, and so I should go to the museums. There my eyes would see the condensed history of the earth—animals and the races of men pictured in their native environment; gigantic carcasses of dinosaurs and mastodons that roamed the earth before man appeared, with his tiny stature and powerful brain, to conquer the animal kingdom. The following morning, I should again greet the dawn, anxious to discover new delights, new revelations of beauty. Today, this third day, I shall spend in the workaday world, amid the haunts of men going about the business of life. The city becomes my destination. First, I stand at a busy corner, merely looking at people, trying by sight of them to understand something of their daily
lives. I see smiles, and I am happy.
I see serious determination, and
I am proud. I see suffering, and I
am compassionate. pageant: display condensed: brief carcasses: remains stature: physique, build haunts: regular meeting places merely: just mastodons: a large animal similar to an elephant, but with fur At midnight, permanent night would close in on me again. Naturally in those three short days I should not have seen all I wanted to see. Only when darkness had again descended upon me should I realise how much I had left unseen. I who am blind can give one hint to those who can see: use your eyes as if tomorrow you would be stricken blind. And the same method can be applied to your other senses. Hear the music of voice, the song of a bird, the mighty strains of an orchestra, as if you would be stricken deaf tomorrow. Touch each object as if tomorrow your tactile sense would fail. Smell the perfume of flowers, taste with relish each morsel, as if tomorrow you could never smell and taste again. Make the most of every sense; glory in all the facets of pleasure and beauty, which the world reveals to you through the several means of contact, which Nature provides. But of all the senses, I am sure that sight must be the most delightful.
Helen Keller
strains: tunes
tactile sense:
sense of touch
morsel: a small
piece of food
facets: aspects