The Luncheon by Somerest Maugham and its summary .......

                               The Luncheon

                                    ----by Somerest Maugham                                            

                        I caught sight of her at the play and, in answer to her
beckoning, I went over during the interval and sat down
beside her. It was long since I had last seen her and if
someone had not mentioned her name I hardly think I would
have recognised her. She addressed me brightly.
‘Well, it’s many years since we first met. How time
does fly! We’re none of us getting any younger. Do you
remember the first time I saw you? You asked me to
luncheon.’
Did I remember?

                                                         

It was twenty years ago and I was living in Paris. I had
a tiny apartment in the Latin quarter overlooking a
cemetery and I was earning barely enough money to keep
the body and soul together. She had read a book of mine
and had written to me about it. I answered, thanking her,
and presently I received from her another letter saying
that she was passing through Paris and would like to have
a chat with me; but her time was limited and the only free
moment she had was on the following Thursday; she was
spending the morning at the Luxembourg and would I give
her a little luncheon at Foyot’s afterwards? Foyot’s is a
restaurant at which the French senators eat and it was so
far beyond my means that I had never even thought of
going there. But I was flattered and I was too young to have 
learned to say no to a woman. Few men, I may add, learn
this until they are too old to make it of any consequence to
a woman what they say. I had eighty francs (gold francs) to
last me the rest of the month, and a modest luncheon
should not cost more than fifteen. If I cut out coffee for the
next two weeks I could manage well enough.
I answered that I would meet my friend—by
correspondence—at Foyot’s on Thursday at half-past twelve.
She was not so young as I expected and in appearance
imposing rather than attractive. She was, in fact, a woman
of forty (a charming age, but not one that excites a sudden
and devastating passion at first sight), and she gave me
the impression of having more teeth, white and large and
even, than were necessary for any practical purpose. She
was talkative but since she seemed inclined to talk about
me I was prepared to be an attentive listener.
I was startled when the bill of fare was brought for the
prices were a great deal higher than I had anticipated. But
she reassured me.
‘I never eat anything for luncheon.’ She said.
‘Oh, don’t say that!’ I answered generously.
‘I never eat more than one thing. I think people eat far
too much nowadays. A little fish, perhaps. I wonder if they
have any salmon.’
Well, it was early in the year for salmon and it was not
on the bill of fare, but I asked the waiter if there was any.
Yes, a beautiful salmon had just come in, it was the first
they had had. I ordered it for my guest. The waiter asked
her if she would have something while it was being cooked.
‘No,’ she answered, ‘I never eat more than one thing.
Unless you have a little caviare. I never mind caviare.’
My heart sank a little. I knew I could not afford caviare
but I could not very well tell her that. I told the waiter by
all means to bring caviare. For myself I chose the cheapest
dish on the menu and that was a mutton chop.
‘I think you are unwise to eat meat,’ she said. ‘I don’t
know how you can expect to work after eating heavy things
like chops. I don’t believe in overloading my stomach.’
Then came the question of drink.
‘I never drink anything for luncheon,’ she said
‘Neither do I,’ I answered promptly.
‘Except white wine,’ she proceeded as though I had not
spoken.
‘These French white wines are so light. They’re
wonderful for the digestion.’
‘What would you like?’ I asked, hospitable still, but not
exactly effusive.
She gave me a bright and amicable flash of her white
teeth.
‘My doctor won’t let me drink anything but Champagne.’
I fancy I turned a trifle pale. I ordered half a bottle. I
mentioned casually that my doctor had absolutely forbidden
me to drink Champagne.
‘What are you going to drink, then?’
‘Water.’ She ate the caviare and she ate the salmon.
She talked gaily of art and literature and music. But I
wondered what the bill would come to. When my mutton
chop arrived she took me quite seriously to task.
‘I see that you’re in the habit of eating a heavy luncheon.
I’m sure it’s a mistake. Why don’t you follow my example
and just eat one thing? I’m sure you’d feel ever so much
better for it.’
‘I am only going to eat one thing,’ I said, as the waiter
came again with the bill of fare.
She waved him aside with an airy gesture.
‘No, no, I never eat anything for luncheon. Just a bite,
I never want more than that, and I eat that more as an
excuse for conversation than anything else. I couldn’t
possibly eat anything more—unless they had some of those
giant asparagus. I should be sorry to leave Paris without
having some of them.’
My heart sank. I had seen them in the shops and I
knew that they were horribly expensive. My mouth had
often watered at the sight of them.
‘Madame wants to know if you have any of those giant
asparagus,’ I asked the waiter.
I tried with all my might to will him to say no. A happy
smile spread over his broad, priest-like face and he assured
me that they had some so large, so splendid, so tender,
that it was a marvel.
‘I’m not in the least hungry,’ my guest sighed, ‘but if
you insist I don’t mind having some asparagus.’
I ordered them.
‘Aren’t you going to have any?’
‘No, I never eat asparagus.’
‘I know there are people who don’t like them. The fact
is, you ruin your palate by all the meat you eat.’
We waited for the asparagus to be cooked. Panic seized
me: it was not a question now how much money I should
have left over for the rest of the month but whether I had
enough to pay the bill. It would be mortifying to find myself
ten francs short and be obliged to borrow from my guest. I
could not bring myself to do that. I knew exactly how much
I had and if the bill came to me I made up my mind that I
would put my hand in my pocket and with a dramatic cry
start up and say it had been picked. Of course, it would be
awkward if she had not money enough either to pay the
bill; then the only thing would be to leave my watch and
say I would come back and pay later.

                                                   

The asparagus appeared. They were enormous,
succulent, and appetizing. The smell of the melted butter
tickled my nostrils as the nostrils of Johovah were tickled
by the burned offerings of the virtuous Semites. I watched
the abandoned woman thrust them down her throat in
large voluptuous mouthfuls, and, in my polite way, I
discoursed on the condition of the drama in the Balkans.
At last she finished.
‘Coffee,’ I said...
‘Yes, just an ice-cream and coffee,’ she answered.
I was past caring now, so I ordered coffee for myself
and ice-cream and coffee for her.
‘You know, there’s one thing I thoroughly believe in,’
she said, as she ate the ice-cream. ‘One should always get
up from a meal feeling one could eat a little more.’
‘Are you still hungry?’ I asked faintly.
‘Oh, no, I’m not hungry; you see, I don’t eat luncheon. I
have a cup of coffee in the morning and then dinner, but I
never eat more than one thing for luncheon. I was speaking
for you.’
‘Oh, I see!’
Then a terrible thing happened. While we were waiting
for the coffee, the headwaiter, with an ingratiating smile
on his false face, came up to us bearing a large basket full
of huge peaches. They had the blush of an innocent girl;
they had the rich tone of an Italian landscape. But surely
peaches were not in season then? Lord knew what they
cost. I knew too—a little later, for my guest, going on with
her conversation, absentmindedly took one.

                                                  

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‘You see, you’ve filled your stomach with a lot of meat’
—my one miserable little chop— ‘and you can’t eat any
more. But I’ve just had a snack and I shall enjoy a peach.’
The bill came and when I paid it I found that I had only
enough for a quite inadequate tip. Her eyes rested for an
instant on the three francs I left for the waiter and I knew
that she thought me mean. But when I walked out of the
restaurant I had the whole month before me and not a
penny in my pocket.
‘Follow my example,’ she said as we shook hands, ‘and
never eat more than one thing for luncheon.’
‘I’ll do better than that,’ I retorted. ‘I’ll eat nothing for
dinner tonight.’
‘Humorist’, she cried gaily, jumping into a cab. ‘You’re
quite a humorist!’

                                           

But I have had my revenge at last. I do not believe that
I am a vindictive man, but when the immortal gods take a
hand in the matter it is pardonable to observe the result
with complacency. Today she weighs twenty-one stone.

                                                        

Summary of  Luncheon 

                                   

                          Summary of 'The Luncheon' the writer of 'The Luncheon' William Somerset Maugham, 

in this short story, relates about a lady who is an admirer of his stories. 

She wins the author's favor and expresses her wish to meet him at a high class restaurant.

 William exposes the false motives of modest eating habits, of the middle classes with a touch of humor.

Twenty years ago the author was living in Paris, when he had met a lady,

 who is an admirer of his stories. She had met him at a play and relates to him the incident

 during the interval which had occurred at that time. She had read a book written by him, and had

 written a letter to him about her views. Another letter was posted, stating about her visit

 to Paris and her desire to have a little luncheon at the Foyots, a restaurant where French senators eat. 

William was not a rich man and had never even thought of visiting that restaurant, nor did he possess the art of refusing her request.

Estimating the cost of a luncheon, which should not cost more than fifteen Francs,

 he decided to cut down coffee from his menu, so that he could have enough for himself for the next two weeks.

 His meeting was fixed on Thursday, at half past twelve, through correspondence. 

The lady was in her Forties, talkative, and not attractive. She had ordered for Salmon,

 and Caviar, while the Salmon was being prepared. William had ordered for the cheapest dish mutton- chops.

After the meal, she had ordered for white champagne. She kept enjoying the meal, and chatting about art,

 literature, and music, while William kept wondering about the bill.

 The bill of fare was soaring above that which he had anticipated. 

When the waiter had come with the bill she waived him aside with an air of gesture and ordered for Asparagus, 

the horribly expensive dish. William’s heart sank, his mouth watered, and yet he had to quell his emotions. 

Adding to worsen the situation, she ordered for ice-cream and then coffee, all the same announcing that

 'she never ate anything for luncheon - just a bite' Thoughts kept reeling through William's mind about

 how he was going to pay the exorbitant bill or how could he feign an act of his pocket having been picked.

To his utter dismay, the head waiter walked up to the table with a large basket full of huge Peaches.

 She picked up one protesting that her meal was just a snack, and that she could certainly enjoy the Peach.

The bill was finally paid, and William found himself with just a few Francs for the tips,

 and not a penny left in his pocket for the whole month. William believes, that he had had his revenge for then,

 when the Twenty years had passed by, he met her weighing One Hundred and Thirty -Six Kilograms. 

                            -----by Rituraj singh

MY MOTHER FULL POEM BY APJ ABDUL KALAM AND SUMMARY...........

                                                                                      MY MOTHER     

                                                                                                                                                    ----BY APJ ABDUL KALAM

                                                              Sea waves ,Golden Sands pilgrims faith

                                                       Rameshwaram Mosque Street, all merge into one,

                                                       My mother !

                                                       You come to me like Heaven's caring arm

                                                       I remember the war days when life was challenge and toil ---

                                                       Miles to walk , hour before sunrise,

                                                     

                                                       

                                                             Walking to take lessons from the saintly teachers near the temple .

                                                      Again miles to the Arab teaching School

                                                      Climb Sandy Hills to Railway stand road

                                                      Collect distribute newspaper to temple city citizens

                                                      Few hours after sunrise going to school

                                                      Evening business times before I study at night

                                                      All the pain of the young boy

                                                      My mother you transformed into pious strength

                                                      With; kneeling and bowing five times ; 

                                                       For the grace of the almighty only my mother

                                                     Your strong piety is your children's strength, 

                                                      You always shared your best with; whoever needed the most ,

                                                     You always gave and game with faith in Him.

                                                      I still remember the day when I was Ten.

                                                     Sleeping on your lap to the envy of my elder brothers and sisters 

                                                     It was full moon night my world only you knew

                                                     Mother ! My mother !

                                                    Oven at midnight I woke with tears falling on my knee

                                                     You knew the pain of your child my mother 

                                                        

                                                                              

                                                            You caring hands tenderly removing the pain

                                                             Your love your care your faith give me strength

                                                            To face the world without fears and with his strength .

                                                            We will meet again on the great Judgement Day my mother ! 

                                                                                                          ----- by APJ KALAM

             

                                                                                    SUMMARY  

                                                       Dr. Abdul Kalam, was very closely bonded with his family,

                                                  especially his mother. Hailing from a very poor family,

                                                   his mother made many sacrifices to raise the children.

                                                 Hence Kalam has written poems depicting his mother's pains at many times.

                                                 In this particular poem he describes as to how loved he is to his mother, 

                                                 than his rest of brothers and sisters, who envy him for being loved more. 

                                                He says he was only 10 years old and he remembers very clearly how she wept in the night,

                                                 grieving about the pains his son has to endure everyday.

                                                Only his mother understood the beautiful world of the poet,

                                                 which he weaved around himself, and only she knew his pains.

                                                                   

                                     

                                      And he was consoled only in the lap of her mother,

                                      when she moved her caring hands on his head, 

                                      all his pains were washed away.

                                                                                         

His mother gave him constant hope and strength in times of need and she was the only source of encouragement to him     

The author remembers that all that he is today is because of his mother, 

for the courage and perseverance that he possesses has been bestowed on him only by his mother.

 And finally the author hopes that he meets his dead mother once again on the great Judgement day.  

  

                      ---------- SUMMARY BY RITURAJ SINGH

OWNER OF THIS BLOG SITE AND  BLOG CON TAINT IS RITURAJ SINGH ...

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Father's help. By R.K Narayan.

        FATHER'S  HELP 

                            BY R.K NARAYAN.

Lying in bed, Swami realised with a shudder that it was
Monday morning. It looked as though only a moment ago
it had been the last period on Friday. Already Monday was
here. He hoped that an earthquake would reduce the school
building to dust, but that good building—Albert Mission
School—had withstood similar prayers for over a hundred
years now. At nine o’clock Swaminathan wailed, ‘I have a
headache.’ His mother said, ‘Why don’t you go to school
in a jutka?’
‘So that I may be completely dead at the other end? Have
you any idea what it means to be jolted in a jutka?’
‘Have you many important lessons today?’

‘Important! That geography teacher has been teaching the
same lesson for over a year now. And we have arithmetic,
which means for a whole period we are going to be beaten
by the teacher… important lessons!’
And Mother generously suggested that Swami might stay
at home.
At 9.30, when he ought to have been shouting in the
school prayer hall, Swami was lying on the bench in
Mother’s room. Father asked him, ‘Have you no school
today?’
‘Headache,’ Swami replied.
‘Nonsense! Dress up and go.’
‘Headache.’
‘Loaf about less on Sundays and you will be without a
headache on Monday.’
Swami knew how stubborn his father could be and
changed his tactics. ‘I can’t go so late to the class.’
‘I agree, but you’ll have to; it is your own fault. You should
have asked me before deciding to stay away.’
‘What will the teacher think if I go so late?’
‘Tell him you had a headache and so are late.’
‘He will beat me if I say so.’
‘Will he? Let us see. What is his name?’
‘Samuel.’
‘Does he beat the boys?’
‘He is very violent, especially with boys who come late.
Some days ago a boy was made to stay on his knees for a
whole period in a corner of the class because he came late
and that too after getting six cuts from the cane and having
his ears twisted. I wouldn’t like to go late to Samuel’s class.’
‘If he’s so violent, why not tell your headmaster about it?’
‘They say that even the headmaster is afraid of him. He is
such a violent man.’
And then Swami gave a lurid account of Samuel’s
violence; how when he started caning he would not stop
till he saw blood on the boy’s hand, which he made the
boy press to his forehead like a vermilion marking. Swami
hoped that with this his father would be made to see that
he couldn’t go to his class late. But Father’s behaviour
took an unexpected turn. He became excited. ‘What do
these teachers mean by beating our children? They must
be driven out of service. I will see…’
The result was that he proposed to send Swami late to
his class as a kind of challenge. He was also going to send
a letter with Swami to the headmaster. No amount of
protest from Swami was of any avail.
Swami had to go to school.

By the time he was ready, Father had composed a letter
to the headmaster, put it in an envelope and sealed it.
‘What have you written, Father?’ Swaminathan asked
apprehensively.
‘Nothing for you. Give this to your headmaster and go to
your class.’
‘Have you written anything about our teacher, Samuel?’
‘Plenty of things about him. When your headmaster reads
it, he will probably dismiss Samuel from the school and
hand him over to the police.’
‘What has he done, Father?’
‘Well, there is a full account of everything he has done in
the letter. Give it to your headmaster. You must bring an
acknowledgement from him in the evening.’
Swami went to school feeling that he was the worst
perjurer on earth. His conscience bothered him: he wasn’t
at all sure if he had been accurate in his description of
Samuel. He could not decide how much of what he had
said was imagined and how much of it was real. Hestopped for a moment on the roadside to make up his
mind about Samuel: he was not such a bad man after all.
Personally he was much more genial than the rest; often
he cracked a joke or two centering around Swami’s
inactions and Swami took it as a mark of Samuel’s
personal regard for him. But there was no doubt that he
treated pupils badly…. His cane skinned pupils’ hands.
Swami cast his mind about for an instance of this. There
was none within his knowledge. Years and years ago he
was reputed to have skinned the knuckles of a boy in
first standard and made him smear the blood on his face.
No one had actually seen it. But year after year the story
persisted among the boys.... Swami’s head was dizzy with
confusion in regard to Samuel’s character—whether he
was good or bad, whether he deserved the allegations in
the letter or not.... Swami felt an impulse to run home
and beg his father to take back the letter. But Father was
an obstinate man.
. As he approached the yellow building he realised that he
was perjuring himself and was ruining his teacher.
Probably the headmaster would dismiss Samuel and then
the police would chain him and put him in jail. For all
this disgrace, humiliation and suffering, who would be
responsible? Swami shuddered. The more he thought of
Samuel, the more he grieved for him—the dark face, his
small red-streaked eyes, his thin line of moustache, his
unshaven cheek and chin, his yellow coat; everything
filled Swami with sorrow. As he felt the bulge of the letter
in his pocket, he felt like an executioner. For a moment he
was angry with his father and wondered why he should
not fling into the gutter the letter of a man so unreasonable
and stubborn.
As he entered the school gate an idea occurred to him, a
sort of solution. He wouldn’t deliver the letter to the
headmaster immediately, but at the end of the day—to
that extent he would disobey his father and exercise his
independence. There was nothing wrong in it and Father
would not know it anyway. If the letter was given at the
end of the day there was a chance that Samuel might do
something to justify the letter.
 Swami stood at the entrance to his class. Samuel was
teaching arithmetic. He looked at Swami for a moment.
Swami stood hoping that Samuel would fall on him and
tear his skin off. But Samuel merely asked, ‘Are you just
coming to the class?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You are half an hour late.’
‘I know it.’ Swami hoped that he would be attacked now.
He almost prayed: ‘God of Thirupathi, please make
Samuel beat me.’
‘Why are you late?’
Swami wanted to reply, ‘Just to see what you can do.’ But
he merely said, ‘I have a headache, sir.’
‘Then why did you come to the school at all?’
A most unexpected question from Samuel. ‘My father said
that I shouldn’t miss the class, sir,’ said Swami.
This seemed to impress Samuel. ‘Your father is quite right;
a very sensible man. We want more parents like him.’
‘You don’t know what my father has done to you,’ Swami
thought. He was more puzzled than ever about Samuel’s
character.
‘All right, go to your seat. Have you still a headache?’
‘Slightly, sir.’
 Swami went to his seat with a bleeding heart. He had
never met a man so good as Samuel. The teacher was
inspecting the home lessons, which usually produced (at
least, according to Swami’s impression) scenes of great
violence. Notebooks would be flung at faces, boys would
be abused, caned and made to stand up on benches. But
today Samuel appeared to have developed more tolerance
and gentleness. He pushed away the bad books, just
touched people with the cane, never made anyone stand
up for more than a few minutes. Swami’s turn came. He
almost thanked God for the chance.

‘Swaminathan, where is your homework?’
‘I have not done any homework, sir,’ he said blandly.
There was a pause.
‘Why—headache?’ asked Samuel.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘All right, sit down.’ Swami sat down, wondering what had
come over Samuel. The period came to an end, and Swami
felt desolate. The last period for the day was again taken
by Samuel. He came this time to teach them Indian History.
The period began at 3.45 and ended at 4.30. Swaminathan
had sat through the previous periods thinking acutely. He
could not devise any means of provoking Samuel. When
the clock struck four, Swami felt desperate. Half an hour
more. Samuel was reading the text, the portion describing
Vasco da Gama’s arrival in India. The boys listened in half-
languor. Swami suddenly asked at the top of his voice, ‘Why
did not Columbus come to India, sir?’
‘He lost his way.’
‘I can’t believe it, it is unbelievable, sir.’
‘Why?’
‘Such a great man. Would he have not known the way?’
‘Don’t shout. I can hear you quite well.’
‘I am not shouting, sir, this is my ordinary voice, which
God has given me. How can I help it?’
‘Shut up and sit down.’
Swaminathan sat down, feeling slightly happy at his
success. The teacher threw a puzzled, suspicious glance
at him and resumed his lessons.
11. His next chance occurred when Sankar of the first bench
got up and asked, ‘Sir, was Vasco da Gama the very first
person to come to India?’
Before the teacher could answer, Swami shouted from the
back bench, ‘That’s what they say.’
The teacher and all the boys looked at Swami. The teacher
was puzzled by Swami’s obtrusive behaviour today.
‘Swaminathan, you are shouting again.’
‘I am not shouting, sir. How can I help my voice, given by
God?’ The school clock struck a quarter-hour. A quarter
more. Swami must do something drastic in fifteen
minutes. Samuel had scowled at him and snubbed him,
but it was hardly adequate. Swami felt that with a little
more effort Samuel could be made to deserve dismissal
and imprisonment.
The teacher came to the end of a section in the textbook
and stopped. He proposed to spend the remaining few
minutes putting questions to the boys. He ordered the
whole class to put away their books, and asked someone
in the second row, ‘What’s the date of Vasco da Gama’s
arrival in India?’
Swaminathan shot up and screeched, ‘1648, December 20.’
‘You needn’t shout,’ said the teacher. He asked, ‘Has your
headache made you mad?’
‘I have no headache now, sir,’ replied the thunderer
brightly.
‘Sit down, you idiot.’ Swami was thrilled at being called
an idiot. ‘If you get up again I will cane you,’ said the
teacher. Swami sat down, feeling happy at the promise.
The teacher then asked, ‘I am going to put a few questions
on the Mughal period. Among the Mughal emperors,
whom would you call the greatest, whom the strongest
and whom the most religious emperor?’
Swami got up. As soon as he was seen, the teacher said
emphatically, ‘Sit down.’
‘I want to answer, sir.’
‘Sit down.’
‘No, sir, I want to answer.’
‘What did I say I’d do if you got up again?’
‘You said you would cane me and peel the skin off my
knuckles and make me press it on my forehead.’
‘All right, come here.’
13. Swaminathan left his seat joyfully and hopped onto
the platform. The teacher took out his cane from the
drawer and shouted angrily, ‘Open your hand, you little
devil.’ He whacked three wholesome cuts on each palm.
Swami received them without blenching. After half a
dozen the teacher asked, ‘Will these do, or do you want
some more?’
Swami merely held out his hand again and received
two more; and the bell rang. Swami jumped down from
the platform with a light heart, though his hands were
smarting. He picked up his books, took out the letter lying
in his pocket and ran to the headmaster’s room. He found
the door locked.
He asked the peon, ‘Where is the headmaster?’
‘Why do you want him?’
‘My father has sent a letter for him.’

‘He has taken the afternoon off and won’t come back for a
week. You can give the letter to the assistant headmaster.
He will be here now.’
‘Who is he?’
‘Your teacher, Samuel. He will be here in a second.’
Swaminathan fled from the place. As soon as Swami went
home with the letter, Father remarked, ‘I knew you
wouldn’t deliver it, you coward.’
‘I swear our headmaster is on leave,’ Swaminathan began.
Father replied, ‘Don’t lie in addition to being a coward…’
Swami held up the envelope and said, ‘I will give this to
the headmaster as soon as he is back.’ Father snatched it
from his hand, tore it up and thrust it into the waste-
paper basket under his table. He muttered, ‘Don’t come
to me for help even if Samuel throttles you. You deserve
your Samuel.’

              The END     

                The fun they had

                           By Isaac Asimov.

                                                                                   

                                                                                                       MARGIE even wrote about it that night in her diary. On the page headed 17 May 2155, she wrote, 

“Today Tommy found a real book!”

It was a very old book. Margie’s grandfather once said that when he was a little boy his grandfather told him that there was a time when all stories were printed on paper.

They turned the pages, which were yellow and crinkly, and it was awfully funny to read words that stood still instead of moving the way they were supposed to — on a screen, you know.
And then when they turned back to the page before, it had the same words on it that it had had when they read it the first time.

“Gee,” said Tommy, “what a waste. When you’re through with the book, you just throw it away, I guess. Our television screen must have had a million books on it and it’s good for plenty more. I wouldn’t throw it away.”


“Same with mine,” said Margie. She was eleven and hadn’t seen as many telebooks as Tommy had.He was thirteen.
She said, “Where did you find it?”
“In my house.” He pointed without looking,because he was busy reading. “In the attic”.
“What’s it about?”
“School”
Margie was scornful.

“School?  What’s there to write about school? I hate school.”

  Margie always hated school, but now she hated it more than ever.

The mechanical teacher had been giving her test after test in geography and she had been doing worse and worse until her mother had shaken her head sorrowfully and sent for the County Inspector.

He was a round little man with a red face and a whole box of tools with dials and wires. He smiled at Margie and gave her an apple, then took the teacher apart.
Margie had hoped he wouldn’t know how to put it together again, but he knew how allright, and, after an hour or so, there it was again,large and black and ugly, with a big screen on which all the lessons were shown and the questions were asked.
That wasn’t so bad. The part Margie hated most was the slot where she had to put homework and test papers.
She always had to write them out in a punch code they made her learn when she was six years old, and the mechanical teacher calculate the marks in no time.
The Inspector had smiled after he was finished and patted Margie’s head. He said to her mother,“It’s not the little girl’s fault, Mrs Jones. I think the geography sector was geared a little too quick.
Those things happen sometimes. I’ve slowed it up to an average ten-year level.
 Actually, the overall pattern of her progress is quite satisfactory.” And he patted Margie’s head again.
Margie was disappointed. She had been hoping they would take the teacher away altogether.
They had once taken Tommy’s teacher away for nearly a month because the history sector had blanked out completely.
So she said to Tommy, Why would anyone write about school?'

Tommy looked at her with very superior eyes. 'Because it's not our kind of school, stupid.
This is the old kind of school that they had hundreds and hundreds of years ago.' He
added loftily, pronouncing the words carefully, 'Centuries ago."

Margie was hurt. Well, I don't know what kind of school they had all that time ago. She
read the book over his shoulder for a while, then said. Anyway, they had a teacher.

"Sure they had a teacher. but it wasnt a reguilar teacher. It was a man'.
"A man? How could a man be a teacher?'
Well. he just told the boys and girls things and gave them homework and asked them questions.


'A man isn't smart enogh.'

"Sure he is. My father knows as much as my teacher.'

He can't. A man can't know as much as a teacher.

He knows almost as much, I bet.

Margie wasn't prepared to dispute that. She said, I wouldn't want a strange man in myhouse to teach me.

Tommy screamed with laughter, "You don't know much, Margie. The teachers didn't livein the house. They had a special building and all the kids went there.'
And all the kids learned the same thing?
Sure, if they were the same age.'

But my mother says a teacher had to be adjusted to
fit the mind of each boy and girl it teaches and thateach kid has to be taught differently.'


Just the same, they didn't do it that way then. If youdon't like it, you don't have to read the book.
I didn't say I didntt like it,' Margie said quickly. She wanted to read about thoes funny
schools.
They weren't even half finished when Margie's mother called, 'Margiel School'
Margie looked up. Not yet, mamma. '
Now. said Mrs Jones. And t's probably time for Tommy, too.
Margie said to Tommy, Can I read the book some more with  you after school?
Maybe, he said, monchalantly. He walked away whistling, the dusty tucked beabth his  arm .
Margie went into the schoolroom . it was right next to her bedroom and the mechanical teacher was on and waiting for her it was always on at the same time everyday except Saturday and Sunday because her mother said little girl learned better if they learned at regular hours.
The screen was lit up and it said Today's arithmetic lesson is one the addition of proper fraction Please insert yesterday's homework in the proper slot.
Margie did so with a sigh. she  was thinking about the old schools they had win her grandfather's grandfather was a little boy .All the kids from the whole neighbourhood come laughing and shouting in the schoolyard sitting together in the classroom going home together at the end of the day they learned the same thing so they could help one another in the homework and talk about it.
 and the teacher were people...............
The mechanical teacher was flashing on the screen:' when we add the fraction 1/2 and 1/4-------'
Margie  was thinking about how the kids must have loved in the old days.  She was thinking about the fun they had.

      Granny's tree climbing

                               ...... by Ruskin bond.

Now read Ruskin Bond's poem 'Granny's tree climbing'

My grandmother was a genius. You'd e to know why?
Because she could climb trees. Spreading or high,
She'd be up their branches in a trice. And mind you,
When last she climbed a tree, she was sixty-two.
Ever since childhood, she'd had this gift
For being happier in a tree than in a lift:

And though, as years went by, she would be told

That climbing trees should stop when one grew old

And that growing old should be gone about gracefully

She'd laugh and say. Well, I'll grow old disgracefully
I can do it better.' And we had to agree;
For in all the garden there wasn't a tree
She hadn't been up, at one time or another
(Having arned to climb from a loving brother
When she was six) but it was feared by all
That one day she'd have a terrible fall.
The outcome was different while we were in town
She climbed a tree and couldn't come down!
We went to the rescue, and then the doctor took

Granny's temperature and said,
'I  strongly recommended a quite week in a bed.'
we sighted with relief and tucked her up well .
Poor Granny!For her, it was like a brief season in hell.

tonight.

I strongly recommend a quiet week in bed."

We sighed with relief and tucked her up well.
poor Granny! For her, it was like a brief season in hell,
Confined to her bedroom, while every breeze
Whispered of summer and dancing leaves.
But she held her peace till she felt stronger,
Then sat up and said, I'll lie here no longer!'
And she called for my father and told him undaunted
That a house in a tree-top was what she now wanted.
My Dad knew his duties. He said, 'That's all right -

You'll have what you want, dear. I'll start work Tonight. '

With my expert assistance
, he soon finished the chore:

Made her a tree-house with windows under a door.

So Granny moved up and now every day
I climb to her room with glasses and a tray.
She sits there in state and drinks sheery with me,
Upholding her right to reside in a tree.

The end.
Thanks.

The three questions. (Story by Leo Tolstoy )

       The three questions. 

                              ........Leo Tolstoy. 

 
It once occurred to a certain king that if he always knew the right time to begin everything; if he knew who were the right people to listen to, and whom to avoid; and, above all, if he always knew what was the most important thing to do, he would never fail in anything he might undertake.

And this thought having occurred to him, he had it proclaimed throughout his kingdom that he would give a great reward to anyone who would teach him what was the right time for every action, and who were the most necessary people, and how he might know what was the most important thing to do.

And learned men came to the king, but they all answered his questions differently.

In reply to the first question, some said that to know the right time for every action, one must draw up in advance a table of days, months, and years, and must live strictly according to it. Only thus, said they, could everything be done at its proper time. Others declared that it was impossible to decide beforehand the right time for every action, but that, not letting oneself be absorbed in idle pastimes, one should always attend to all that was going on, and then do what was most needful. Others, again, said that however attentive the king might be to what was going on, it was impossible for one man to decide correctly the right time for every action, but that he should have a council of wise men who would help him to fix the proper time for everything.

But then again others said there were some things which could not wait to be laid before a council, but about which one had at once to decide whether to undertake them or not. But in order to decide that, one must know beforehand what was going to happen. It is only magicians who know that; and, therefore, in order to know the right time for every action, one must consult magicians.

Equally various were the answers to the second question. Some said the people the king most needed were his councilors; others, the priests; others, the doctors; while some said the warriors were the most necessary.

To the third question, as to what was the most important occupation, some replied that the most important thing in the world was science. Others said it was skill in warfare; and others, again, that it was religious worship.



All the answers being different, the king agreed with none of them, and gave the reward to none. But still wishing to find the right answers to his questions, he decided to consult a hermit, widely renowned for his wisdom.

The hermit lived in a wood which he never quitted, and he received none but common folk. So the king put on simple clothes and, before reaching the hermit’s cell, dismounted from his horse. Leaving his bodyguard behind, he went on alone.

When the king approached, the hermit was digging the ground in front of his hut. Seeing the king, he greeted him and went on digging. The hermit was frail and weak, and each time he stuck his spade into the ground and turned a little earth, he breathed heavily.

The king went up to him and said: “I have come to you, wise hermit, to ask you to answer three questions: How can I learn to do the right thing at the right time? Who are the people I most need, and to whom should I, therefore, pay more attention than to the rest? And, what affairs are the most important and need my first attention?”

The hermit listened to the king, but answered nothing. He just spat on his hand and recommenced digging.

“You are tired,” said the king, “let me take the spade and work awhile for you.”

“Thanks!” said the hermit, and, giving the spade to the king, he sat down on the ground.

When he had dug two beds, the king stopped and repeated his questions. The hermit again gave no answer, but rose, stretched out his hand for the spade, and said:

“Now rest awhile – and let me work a bit.”



But the king did not give him the spade, and continued to dig. One hour passed, and another. The sun began to sink behind the trees, and the king at last stuck the spade into the ground, and said:

“I came to you, wise man, for an answer to my questions. If you can give menone, tell me so, and I will return home.”

“Here comes someone running,” said the hermit. “Let us see who it is.”

The king turned round and saw a bearded man come running out of the wood. The man held his hands pressed against his stomach, and blood was flowing from under them. When he reached the king, he fell fainting on the ground, moaning feebly. The king and the hermit unfastened the man’s clothing. There was a large wound in his stomach. The king washed it as best he could, and bandaged it with his handkerchief and with a towel the hermit had. But the blood would not stop flowing, and the king again and again removed the bandage soaked with warm blood, and washed and re-bandaged the wound. When at last the blood ceased flowing, the man revived and asked for something to drink. The king brought fresh water and gave it to him. Meanwhile the sun had set, and it had become cool. So the king, with the hermit’s help, carried the wounded man into the hut and laid him on the bed. Lying on the bed, the man closed his eyes and was quiet; but the king was so tired from his walk and from the work he had done that he crouched down on the threshold, and also fell asleep – so soundly that he slept all through the short summer night.

When he awoke in the morning, it was long before he could remember where he was, or who was the strange bearded man lying on the bed and gazing intently at him with shining eyes.

“Forgive me!” said the bearded man in a weak voice, when he saw that the king was awake and was looking at him.

“I do not know you, and have nothing to forgive you for,” said the king.

“You do not know me, but I know you. I am that enemy of yours who swore to revenge himself on you, because you executed his brother and seized his property. I knew you had gone alone to see the hermit, and I resolved to kill you on your way back. But the day passed and you did not return. So I came out from my ambush to find you, and came upon your bodyguard, and they recognized me, and wounded me. I escaped from them, but should have bled to death had you not dressed my wound. I wished to kill you, and you have saved my life. Now, if I live, and if you wish it, I will serve you as your most faithful slave, and will bid my sons do the same. Forgive me!”

The king was very glad to have made peace with his enemy so easily, and to have gained him for a friend, and he not only forgave him, but said he would send his servants and his own physician to attend him, and promised to restore his property.Having taken leave of the wounded man, the king went out into the porch and looked around for the hermit. Before going away he wished once more to beg an answer to the questions he had put. The hermit was outside, on his knees, sowing seeds in the beds that had been dug the day before.

The king approached him and said, “For the last time, I pray you to answer my questions, wise man.”

“You have already been answered!” said the hermit, still crouching on his thin legs, and looking up at the king, who stood before him.

“How answered? What do you mean?” 

asked the king.

“Do you not see?” replied the hermit. “If you had not pitied my weakness yesterday, and had not dug these beds for me, but had gone your way, that man would have attacked you, and you would have repented of not having stayed with me. So the most important time was when you were digging the beds; and I was the most important man; and to do me good was your most important business. Afterwards, when that man ran to us, the most important time was when you were attending to him, for if you had not bound up his wounds he would have died without having made peace with you. So he was the most important man, and what you did for him was your most important business. Remember then: there is only one time that is important – now! It is the most important time because it is the only time when we have any power. The most necessary person is the one with whom you are, for no man knows whether he will ever have dealings with anyone else: and the most important affair is to do that person good, because for that purpose alone was man sent into this life.”

              THE END . 

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