28 februarie 2013

Un cantec despre martisor | Ti-am luat un martisor

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Frumosul cantec al lui Nicolae Nitescu "Ti-am luat un martisor" este destul de armonios si inocent pentru a fi gustat atat de oameni mari, cat si de copii. Vi-l ofer, cu dragoste si pretuire, de 1 martie, intr-un frumos video clip pe care l-am gasit pe YouTube.

 

Iata si versurile cantecului...

Primavara bate la fereastra
Cu buchete mici de ghiocei,
Si zambila inflorita-n glastra
Te-ndeamna s-o iei...
Scumpe sau modeste martisoare
Te atrag pe rand, zambind discret,
Si cu ele, dragostea mea mare
Se leaga cochet.
Martisoare dragi ca inimioare
Orice-ndragostit a daruit...

Ti-am luat un martisor,
Ca sa-l porti la tine tot mereu,
Si sa stii ca-n el e dorul meu,
Si-ti va purta noroc.

Ti-am luat un martisor,
Ca sa-l porti cand nu ne-o mai vedea,
Si sa-ti spuna el iubirea mea
Oricand si-n orice loc.

Din ochi mi-a picurat o perla mica
Sa fie ne-ncetat podoaba lui.

Ti-am luat un martisor,
Ca sa-l porti la tine tot mereu,
Si sa stii ca-n el e dorul meu,
Si-ti va purta noroc.


Articole din acelasi domeniu in blogul "Povesti pentru copii":

Martisor – Poezie de Ion Pillat

Un martisor pentru mama - Poveste de Diana Popescu

Legenda martisorului
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Care e baba ta?

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Copile, să nu uiţi niciodată tradiţiile româneşti!
Nu ştiu dacă altcineva în afară de români  mai sărbătorește atât de bine luna martie.
Primele 9 zile din luna martie sunt numite, în tradiţia populară Zilele babelor, pentru că aduc cu ele
o vreme capricioasă, schimbătoare, în care razele calde ale soarelui se întrepătrund cu ploaia, lapoviţa sau chiar cu viscolul. Din cauza acestui aspect nedefinit sau imprevizibil, se spunea că babele sunt bune.



Vremea incertă dintre 1 şi 9 martie se datorează celor 9 cojoace lepădate, zi de zi, de către Baba
Dochia. Odată dezbrăcate, cojoacele sunt însuşite de surorile Dochiei, care poartă drept nume
diminutivele numelor zilelor săptămânii: Lunica, Martica, Mărcuriana, Joiţa, Virița, Sitiţa, Domnica.

Potrivit unui străvechi obicei popular numit uneori Pusul babelor, copiii, iar în alte zone, femeile şi bărbaţii, îşi aleg câte o babă, adică una din zilele dintre 1 martie şi 9 martie .
Vremea dintr-o anumită zi sau “babă” are darul de a prezice cum va fi viaţa celui care a ales-o, în
anul în curs: vreme frumoasă- fericire, belşug, împliniri; vreme urâtă: necazuri, sărăcie, dificultăţi.

Pe de altă parte, există superstiţia că evenimentele meteorologice din ziua respectivă mărturisesc, de fapt, caracterul, sufletul sau personalitatea celui care a ales-o drept babă.

În unele regiuni ale României există credinţa că, baba selectată de către un flăcău îi putea dezvălui acestuia felul în care îi va fi nevasta: urâtă, frumoasă, bogată, săracă, fertilă sau stearpă, rea sau binevoitoare, acră ori veselă.
Cele mai multe dintre superstiţiile legate de babe se referă la ziua de 1 martie, ziua babei Dochia sau ziua Capului de primăvară.
Potrivit tradiţiei, dacă în această zi este vreme frumoasă, atunci vom avea parte de o primăvară şi o vară la fel de plăcute ori rodnice.
În vechile obiceiuri româneşti, în ziua Dochiei nu se muncea, în caz contrar Baba cea rea aducând vreme friguroasă în următoarele zile ale lui mărţişor sau necazuri, mai ales asupra femeilor. Nu se toarcea, pentru că, de întâi martie, Babei Dochia i-au îngheţat mâinile pe furcă și nu se scoteau vitele la păşunat pentru a avea parte de viaţă, în acel an .
Unele femei încercau să o înduplece pe Baba Dochia să le lase să lucreze, fierbând în ziua de 1 martie un bostan alb pe care îl dădeau de sufletul babei. Ziua Babei Dochia era respectată cu sfinţenie, pentru ca frigul să nu aducă pagube pe câmpii şi oamenii să fie ocrotiţi de furtuni, pentru ca ploaia să nu fie zgârcită cu ţarinele sătenilor şi anul să se împlinească în belşug de roade.
Baba Dochia avea și puterea de a feri de înec, de a ajuta animalele să se îngraşe sau de a apăra vitele de boală .
Aşadar, care e baba ta?









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Poezia Mama de Nina Cassian

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Cate nu face o mamica pentru puiul ei! Poezia Mama de Nina Cassian  este creata anume pentru copilasi, si o puteti auzi adeseori, recitata de prichindei, cu enorme emotii si glas curat, la serbarile de Ziua Mamei de la gradinta...

M-a crescut mama in poala
Din leagan si pan' la scoala.
Zile-ntregi si nopti la randul
Mi-a vegheat somnul si gandul.

M-a invatat sa ganguresc,
Sa spun mama, sa zambesc,
M-a invatat apoi, prin casa
Primii pasi pana la masa.

M-a invatat ca sa nu mint,
M-a invatat sa nu m-alint.
Sa nu stiu ce este frica,
Toate m-a-nvatat mamica.

Mama buna, mama draga,
Te-as iubi o viata-ntreaga.
Pentru tot ce ai facut,
Pentru ca tu m-ai crescut.


Articole din acelasi domeniu in blogul "Povesti pentru copii":


Mama mea de Rudyard Kipling

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Mama vitrega - Poezie de George Cosbuc

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Ce-am zis eu? „Mi-e drag copilul,
Drag de parc-ar fi al meu!”
Ah, am zis, dar mai nainte
De-a fi mama insami eu.

Pan-a nu avea pe brate
Ingerelul care-l am
Da, atunci !
Zi si noapte-l desmierdam.

Incepu sa-mi zica mama
Si muream de dragul lui,
De mi-ai da tot bunul lumii
Niciodata n-am sa-i spui

Ca-i orfan, si niciodata
N-o sa stie ca-i strain,
Ca e moarta ma-sa biata,
Si ca eu de mila-l tin.

Da, am zis, dar mai nainte!
Astazi cand sunt mama eu,
Imi iubesc pe-al meu, dragutul,
Mult mai tare, ca-i al meu.

Eu acum stiu ce-i iubirea,
Si credeam c-o stiu de-atunci!
Doamne, ce de fericire
Poti tu-n suflet sa ne-arunci.


Vai de ea, sarmana-i mama,
Mila mi-e de ea acu,
Caci asa de scurta vreme
Parte de copil avu!

Nu! Mi-e drag si-acum ca ochii,
Tot de-al meu eu mi-l socot.
Sa se faca numai mare,
Am sa-i spui de ma-sa tot!

Ei, sarmanei mame moarte,
I-ar fi cerul prea pustiu
Daca i-as fura iubirea
Bietului ei singur fiu.

Cand o va chema pe nume,
Voi gandi la jalea ei,
Si-o sa-mi fie drag ca ochii
Fiul alteia femei !



Articole din acelasi domeniu in blogul "Povesti pentru copii":

Racul si mama sa – Fabula de Esop

Micul cerb si mama sa – Fabula de Esop

Un martisor pentru mama - Poveste de Diana Popescu
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Legenda martisorului in Bulgaria

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Legenda martisorului sau, cum i se zice in limba bulgara, martenita (martenitza), este legata de intemeierea Bulgariei in secolul al VII-lea, atunci cand neamul migrator din care provin bulgarii de astazi  s-a asezat la miazazi de Dunare. In anul 681, acest popor ratacitor a fost adus conducatorul sau, hanul Asparuh, pe meleagurile de la sudul Romaniei de astazi.

Sora lui, Huba, si fratele sau, pe nume Boian, fusesera luati prizonieri, iar hanul Asparuh i-a instiintat prin mijlocirea unui soim, ce purta la un picior o ata alba de lana, ca le va trimite curand ajutoare pentru a-i scapa din temnita. Cei doi frati au reusit sa evadeze, insa, chiar atunci cand ajunsesera in preajma Dunarii, Boian a fost ucis de dusmanii ce il urmareau, iar Huba a trimis degraba soimul inapoi catre Asparuh, cu firul alb de lana patat de sangele fratelui lor, pentru a-i da de stire astfel despre moartea lui Boian. Indurerat de aceasta veste, hanul Asparus a dat porunca ca toti ostasii sai sa poarte mereu un fir de lana alba, impletit cu un altul de lana rosie, astfel incat sa fie ocrotiti de rele si ghinioane. Se spune ca acest fapt s-a petrecut intr-o zi de 1 martie, in anul 681.

In Bulgaria, se pastreaza traditia de a se purta martisoarele, la incheietura mainii sau la reverul hainelor, intreaga luna martie. Fetele batrane obisnuiau sa poarte martisorul pe degetul mic al mainii stangi, iar cele inca tinere, dar inca necasatorite, in partea stanga a rochiei. Barbatii casatoriti purtau, se zice, un martisor agatat de ciorapul de pe piciorul drept. In mod asemanator ca si in Romania, martisoarele impodobeau adeseori pomii pe cale de a inflori.

Articole din acelasi domeniu in blogul "Povesti pentru copii":

Un martisor pentru mama - Poveste de Diana Popescu

Legenda martisorului
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Sosirea randunicii - Poezie de George Cosbuc

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Poezia Sosirea randunicii de George Cosbuc este  scrisa pentru copiii mici si nu numai.


Primavara este anuntata de randunica si cocorii care se intorc pe meleagurile noastre, pomii inmuguresc, gradinile sunt pline de flori ..






Randunica a sosit,
Primavara vine.
Iata mugurii-nfloresc,
Gradinitele-nfloresc,
Tot e viu si-ntinerit
Caci e cald si bine.
Ger, zapada, tot s-a dus
Primavara vine.
Rasarit-au mandre flori
Si prin zari se vad cocori
Verde-i jos, senin e sus
Caci e cald si bine!




Articole din acelasi domeniu in blogul "Povesti pentru copii":

Vestitorii primaverii de George Cosbuc


Printul fericit - Poveste de Oscar Wilde (II)

Soarele si Randunica-legenda populara romaneasca
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Cum am citit Doua loturi de Caragiale video cu Birlic

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Amintirile mele din copilarie cu bunica  sunt multe caci dansa avea pe atunci o vitalitate si un simt al umorului  cum rar intalnesti.
Inca nu-l gustam pe Caragiale si  era litera de lege sa-l citesc.
Mama ma pedepsea cu iubire daca nu citeam:  isi sacrifica saraca timpul si ma punea sa citesc cu voce tare minute in sir, pana imi amortea limba .., iar bunica-mea a vrut sa ma salveze intr-o zi cand aveam de citit Doua loturi si mi-a spus:
- Ia de aici pe Caragiale!
Si mi-a aratat o caseta video cu  scenetele lui Birlic, caci pe vremea aceea nu aveam calculator si nici internet, dupa cum v-am mai spus.



Am vizionat si chiar m-am amuzat!
Dar tot n-am scapat de citit: pe Caragiale il mai citesc, daca nu ma credeti si astazi, cu multa placere!






Dl.Goe de Caragiale-video
Vizita de Caragiale -video
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Povestea Privighetoarea si trandafirul de Wilde in engleza

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Fara nici o indoiala, Povestea Privighetoarea si trandafirul de Oscar Wilde este una din cele mai frumoase povesti din literatura universala.
Iubirea, prietenia sunt sentimentele cele mai profunde pe care oamenii pot sa si le impartaseasca in viata lor muritoare.
Fara ele, nimic nu are sens.


The Nightingale and the Rose

"She said that she would dance with me if I brought her red roses," cried the young Student; "but in all my garden there is no red rose."

From her nest in the holm-oak tree the Nightingale heard him, and she looked out through the leaves, and wondered.

"No red rose in all my garden!" he cried, and his beautiful eyes filled with tears. "Ah, on what little things does happiness depend! I have read all that the wise men have written, and all the secrets of philosophy are mine, yet for want of a red rose is my life made wretched."

"Here at last is a true lover," said the Nightingale. "Night after night have I sung of him, though I knew him not: night after night have I told his story to the stars, and now I see him. His hair is dark as the hyacinth-blossom, and his lips are red as the rose of his desire; but passion has made his face like pale ivory, and sorrow has set her seal upon his brow."

"The Prince gives a ball to-morrow night," murmured the young Student, "and my love will be of the company. If I bring her a red rose she will dance with me till dawn. If I bring her a red rose, I shall hold her in my arms, and she will lean her head upon my shoulder, and her hand will be clasped in mine. But there is no red rose in my garden, so I shall sit lonely, and she will pass me by. She will have no heed of me, and my heart will break."

"Here indeed is the true lover," said the Nightingale. "What I sing of, he suffers - what is joy to me, to him is pain. Surely Love is a wonderful thing. It is more precious than emeralds, and dearer than fine opals. Pearls and pomegranates cannot buy it, nor is it set forth in the marketplace. It may not be purchased of the merchants, nor can it be weighed out in the balance for gold."

"The musicians will sit in their gallery," said the young Student, "and play upon their stringed instruments, and my love will dance to the sound of the harp and the violin. She will dance so lightly that her feet will not touch the floor, and the courtiers in their gay dresses will throng round her. But with me she will not dance, for I have no red rose to give her"; and he flung himself down on the grass, and buried his face in his hands, and wept.

"Why is he weeping?" asked a little Green Lizard, as he ran past him with his tail in the air.

"Why, indeed?" said a Butterfly, who was fluttering about after a sunbeam.

"Why, indeed?" whispered a Daisy to his neighbour, in a soft, low voice.

"He is weeping for a red rose," said the Nightingale.

"For a red rose?" they cried; "how very ridiculous!" and the little Lizard, who was something of a cynic, laughed outright.

But the Nightingale understood the secret of the Student's sorrow, and she sat silent in the oak-tree, and thought about the mystery of Love.

Suddenly she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air. She passed through the grove like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed across the garden.

In the centre of the grass-plot was standing a beautiful Rose-tree, and when she saw it she flew over to it, and lit upon a spray.

"Give me a red rose," she cried, "and I will sing you my sweetest song."

But the Tree shook its head.

"My roses are white," it answered; "as white as the foam of the sea, and whiter than the snow upon the mountain. But go to my brother who grows round the old sun-dial, and perhaps he will give you what you want."

So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing round the old sun-dial.

"Give me a red rose," she cried, "and I will sing you my sweetest song."

But the Tree shook its head.

"My roses are yellow," it answered; "as yellow as the hair of the mermaiden who sits upon an amber throne, and yellower than the daffodil that blooms in the meadow before the mower comes with his scythe. But go to my brother who grows beneath the Student's window, and perhaps he will give you what you want."

So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing beneath the Student's window.

"Give me a red rose," she cried, "and I will sing you my sweetest song."

But the Tree shook its head.

"My roses are red," it answered, "as red as the feet of the dove, and redder than the great fans of coral that wave and wave in the ocean-cavern. But the winter has chilled my veins, and the frost has nipped my buds, and the storm has broken my branches, and I shall have no roses at all this year."

"One red rose is all I want," cried the Nightingale, "only one red rose! Is there no way by which I can get it?"

"There is away," answered the Tree; "but it is so terrible that I dare not tell it to you."

"Tell it to me," said the Nightingale, "I am not afraid."

"If you want a red rose," said the Tree, "you must build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with your own heart's-blood. You must sing to me with your breast against a thorn. All night long you must sing to me, and the thorn must pierce your heart, and your life-blood must flow into my veins, and become mine."

"Death is a great price to pay for a red rose," cried the Nightingale, "and Life is very dear to all. It is pleasant to sit in the green wood, and to watch the Sun in his chariot of gold, and the Moon in her chariot of pearl. Sweet is the scent of the hawthorn, and sweet are the bluebells that hide in the valley, and the heather that blows on the hill. Yet Love is better than Life, and what is the heart of a bird compared to the heart of a man?"

So she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air. She swept over the garden like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed through the grove.

The young Student was still lying on the grass, where she had left him, and the tears were not yet dry in his beautiful eyes.

"Be happy," cried the Nightingale, "be happy; you shall have your red rose. I will build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with my own heart's-blood. All that I ask of you in return is that you will be a true lover, for Love is wiser than Philosophy, though she is wise, and mightier than Power, though he is mighty. Flame- coloured are his wings, and coloured like flame is his body. His lips are sweet as honey, and his breath is like frankincense."

The Student looked up from the grass, and listened, but he could not understand what the Nightingale was saying to him, for he only knew the things that are written down in books.

But the Oak-tree understood, and felt sad, for he was very fond of the little Nightingale who had built her nest in his branches.

"Sing me one last song," he whispered; "I shall feel very lonely when you are gone."

So the Nightingale sang to the Oak-tree, and her voice was like water bubbling from a silver jar.

When she had finished her song the Student got up, and pulled a note-book and a lead-pencil out of his pocket.

"She has form," he said to himself, as he walked away through the grove - "that cannot be denied to her; but has she got feeling? I am afraid not. In fact, she is like most artists; she is all style, without any sincerity. She would not sacrifice herself for others. She thinks merely of music, and everybody knows that the arts are selfish. Still, it must be admitted that she has some beautiful notes in her voice. What a pity it is that they do not mean anything, or do any practical good." And he went into his room, and lay down on his little pallet-bed, and began to think of his love; and, after a time, he fell asleep.

And when the Moon shone in the heavens the Nightingale flew to the Rose-tree, and set her breast against the thorn. All night long she sang with her breast against the thorn, and the cold crystal Moon leaned down and listened. All night long she sang, and the thorn went deeper and deeper into her breast, and her life-blood ebbed away from her.

She sang first of the birth of love in the heart of a boy and a girl. And on the top-most spray of the Rose-tree there blossomed a marvellous rose, petal following petal, as song followed song. Pale was it, at first, as the mist that hangs over the river - pale as the feet of the morning, and silver as the wings of the dawn. As the shadow of a rose in a mirror of silver, as the shadow of a rose in a water-pool, so was the rose that blossomed on the topmost spray of the Tree.

But the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn. "Press closer, little Nightingale," cried the Tree, "or the Day will come before the rose is finished."

So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and louder and louder grew her song, for she sang of the birth of passion in the soul of a man and a maid.

And a delicate flush of pink came into the leaves of the rose, like the flush in the face of the bridegroom when he kisses the lips of the bride. But the thorn had not yet reached her heart, so the rose's heart remained white, for only a Nightingale's heart's-blood can crimson the heart of a rose.

And the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn. "Press closer, little Nightingale," cried the Tree, "or the Day will come before the rose is finished."

So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and the thorn touched her heart, and a fierce pang of pain shot through her. Bitter, bitter was the pain, and wilder and wilder grew her song, for she sang of the Love that is perfected by Death, of the Love that dies not in the tomb.

And the marvellous rose became crimson, like the rose of the eastern sky. Crimson was the girdle of petals, and crimson as a ruby was the heart.

But the Nightingale's voice grew fainter, and her little wings began to beat, and a film came over her eyes. Fainter and fainter grew her song, and she felt something choking her in her throat.

Then she gave one last burst of music. The white Moon heard it, and she forgot the dawn, and lingered on in the sky. The red rose heard it, and it trembled all over with ecstasy, and opened its petals to the cold morning air. Echo bore it to her purple cavern in the hills, and woke the sleeping shepherds from their dreams. It floated through the reeds of the river, and they carried its message to the sea.

"Look, look!" cried the Tree, "the rose is finished now"; but the Nightingale made no answer, for she was lying dead in the long grass, with the thorn in her heart.

And at noon the Student opened his window and looked out.

"Why, what a wonderful piece of luck!" he cried; "here is a red rose! I have never seen any rose like it in all my life. It is so beautiful that I am sure it has a long Latin name"; and he leaned down and plucked it.

Then he put on his hat, and ran up to the Professor's house with the rose in his hand.

The daughter of the Professor was sitting in the doorway winding blue silk on a reel, and her little dog was lying at her feet.

"You said that you would dance with me if I brought you a red rose," cried the Student. "Here is the reddest rose in all the world. You will wear it to-night next your heart, and as we dance together it will tell you how I love you."

But the girl frowned.

"I am afraid it will not go with my dress," she answered; "and, besides, the Chamberlain's nephew has sent me some real jewels, and everybody knows that jewels cost far more than flowers."

"Well, upon my word, you are very ungrateful," said the Student angrily; and he threw the rose into the street, where it fell into the gutter, and a cart-wheel went over it.

"Ungrateful!" said the girl. "I tell you what, you are very rude; and, after all, who are you? Only a Student. Why, I don't believe you have even got silver buckles to your shoes as the Chamberlain's nephew has"; and she got up from her chair and went into the house.

"What I a silly thing Love is," said the Student as he walked away. "It is not half as useful as Logic, for it does not prove anything, and it is always telling one of things that are not going to happen, and making one believe things that are not true. In fact, it is quite unpractical, and, as in this age to be practical is everything, I shall go back to Philosophy and study Metaphysics."

So he returned to his room and pulled out a great dusty book, and began to read.

Povestile lui Oscar Wilde
Racheta formidabila de Oscar Wilde in engleza

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Poezia Mamei mele de Edgar Allan Poe in engleza

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Poezia Mamei mele de Edgar Allan Poe este un omagiu adus  femeilor create sa iubeasca, sa aline, maternitatii, in general. 
Daca nu stiati, Poe nu si-a cunoscut bine parintii biologici, dar a cunoscut iubirea maternala a matusii sale, o femeie calda, cu suflet bun, care a avut grija de el in copilarie. Ce caz fericit! 
In ciuda disparitiei lor, Poe si-a iubit nespus parintii si a tanjit intreaga viata dupa stabilitatea emotionala  si dragostea pe care doar familia o poate darui unui copil.
Enjoy the poem!


To My Mother


Because I feel that, in the Heavens above,
The angels, whispering to one another,
Can find, among their burning terms of love,
None so devotional as that of “Mother,
Therefore by that dear name I long have called you—
You who are more than mother unto me,
And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you,
In setting my Virginia’s spirit free.
My mother—my own mother, who died early,
Was but the mother of myself; but you
Are mother to the one I loved so dearly,
And thus are dearer than the mother I knew
By that infinity with which my wife
Was dearer to my soul than its soul-life.


Articole din acelasi domeniu in blogul "Povesti pentru copii":

Mama mea poezie de Rudyard Kipling


Un martisor pentru mama - Poveste de Diana Popescu

Mama vitrega - Poezie de Geroge Cosbuc


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Mama mea poezie de Rudyard Kipling in engleza

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Rudyard Kipling, autorul binecunoscutelor aventuri ale lui Mowgliclr gif
din Cartile junglei a scris si multe poezii frumoase.
Mama mea cu titlul original O mother o’ mine,este o poezie  dedicata mamei, fiinta care- si  iubeste copilul neconditionat.
Cand este fericit, dar mai ales cand vitregiile sortii il apasa o mama
adevarata este  cu sufletul tot timpul langa  copilul ei.



O mother o’ mine
 
 If I were hanged on the highest hill,
Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine
I know whose love would follow me still,
   Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine!

If I were drowned in the deepest sea,
   Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine
I know whose tears would come down to me,
   Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine!

If I were damned of body and soul,
I know whose prayers would make me whole,
   Mother o’ mine, 0 mother o’ mine!




Articole din acelasi domeniu in blogul "Povesti pentru copii":

Micul cerb si mama sa – Fabula de Esop

Un martisor pentru mama - Poveste de Diana Popescu

Mama vitrega - Poezie de Geroge Cosbuc
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Musca si boul - Fabula de Esop

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Odata, o musca a intrebat un bou, „De ce porti ca un natarau? Esti atat de mare si puternic, dar accepti fara cracnire toate chinurile venite din partea oamenilor si muncesti ca un sclav pentru ei zi de zi, in vreme ce eu, asa mica cum sunt, ma hranesc fara mila din carnea lor si le beau cu nesat sangele?”

Boul i-a raspuns, „Nu vreau sa fiu nerecunoscator! Oamenii ma iubesc si ma ingrijesc, si, adeseori, ma bat prietenie  pe cap si umeri.”

„Vai mie!” a exclamat musca, „aceasta bataie ce tie iti place atat de mult, ma duce la o moarte sigura, atunci cand e indreptata impotriva mea.”

Morala: Ce pentru unii e muma, pentru altii e ciuma.


Articole din acelasi domeniu in blogul "Povesti pentru copii":

Broasca si boul - Fabula de La Fontaine in romana/franceza

Boul si vitelul – Fabula de Esop

Chelul si musca - Fabula de Esop
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27 februarie 2013

Iarna si primavara - Fabula de Esop

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Iarna radea de Primavara si isi batea joc de ea pentru ca, de indata ce soarele primaverii isi facea aparitia, nimeni nu mai avea astampar: unii oameni mergeau pe pajisti ori in paduri pentru a culege flori, crini si trandafiri, bucurosi sa si le prinda in par. In acelasi timp, altii se imbarcau pe corabii, si strabateau marile pentru a intalni alte neamuri omenesti. Nimeni nu se mai temea de furtuni sau de torentele venite din ceruri.

"Chiar daca ma aseman cu un despot ori un dictator," a spus iarna, "eu le poruncesc tuturor sa se uite nu catre cer, ci spre pamant. Ii inspaimant pe oameni, ii fac sa tremure, si, uneori, ii fac sa se simta bine si multumiti de ei insisi in timp ce sunt siliti sa stea in case toata ziua."

Primavara i-a raspuns, "Adevar graiesti, din aceasta pricina oamenii abia asteapta sa scape de tine, pe cand, numai simpla pronuntare a numelui meu este indeajuns pentru a-i face fericiti. Pe Zeus, nimeni nu este  mai placut decat mine! Din acest motiv, oamenii se gandesc cu drag la mine dupa ce plec, si imi aduc multumiri atunci cand imi fac iarasi aparitia."


Articole din acelasi domeniu in blogul "Povesti pentru copii":

Primavara - Poezie de Vasile Alecsandri

Ghicitori cu Primavara

Vestitorii primaverii - Poezie de George Cosbuc

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Racul, broasca si stiuca fabula de Alexandru Donici

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Racul, broasca si stiuca sunt cele trei personaje ale acestei fabule ale lui Donici.
Si impreuna se hotarasc sa urneasca un sac cu grau ce cazuse in iaz.
Desi cu totii se straduiesc ei nu reusesc pentru ca nu isi unesc fortele.
Alecu Donici critica in aceasta fabula lipsa solidaritatii oamenilor,individualismul si indeamna la unitate si fratie.



Racul, broasca si o stiuca
intr-o zi s-au apucat
De pe mal in iaz s-aduca
Un sac cu grau incarcat.
si la el toţi se inhama:
Trag, intind, dar iau de sama
Ca sacul sta neclintit, 
Caci se tragea neunit.
Racul inapoi se da, 
Broasca tot in sus salta, 
stiuca foarte se izbea
si nimic nu ispravea.
Nu stiu cine-i vinovat;
insa, pe cat am aflat, 
Sacul in iaz nu s-a tras, 
Ci tot pe loc a ramas.

Asa-i si la omenire, 

Cand in obste nu-i unire:
Nici o treaba nu se face
Cu izbanda si cu pace. 


Stigletul si Ciocarlanul
Alecu Donici si Fabulele sale
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Pusculita purcelus - Poveste de Hans Christian Andersen

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Probabil ca nu ati citit (cel putin in limba romana) povestea Pusculita purcelus, si nici "Moara de vant", ambele scrise de Hans Christian Andersen. Daca va plac aceste povesti, va asigur ca veti gasi pe acest blog, in mod regulat, noi si noi opere ale lui Andersen, netraduse pana acum in romaneste!

Intr-o camera de joaca, deasupra multimii de jucarii imprastiate peste tot, statea, pe un dulap inalt, o pusculita. Era facuta din lut, in forma de purcelus, si fusese cumparata de la un olar. Pe spatele purcelusului se zarea o gaura ingusta, ce fusese largita cu cutitul, astfel incat marile monede de o coroana si banutii sa fie strecurati mai usor inauntru. In burta porcului de lut se adunasera chiar doua astfel de monede si o multime de maruntis. Pusculita era atat de plina incat nu mai putea zornai atunci cand o scuturai, ceea ce reprezenta cu adevarat un nivel de perfectiune ce putea fi atins numai de o pusculita in forma de purcelus. Ea statea pe dulap, la o inaltime impunatoare, privind in jos catre restul camerei. Stia ca avea indeajuns de multi bani in ea pentru a cumpara toate celelalte jucarii, iar acest fapt o facea sa aiba o foarte buna impresie despre ea. Jucariile gandeau la fel, dar nu dadeau glas acestui lucru, pentru ca aveau atatea altele despre care sa vorbeasca. O papusa mare, inca frumoasa, desi cam veche, al carei gat rupt fusese reparat cu acul si ata, statea intr-unul din sertarele intredeschise. Ea i-a chemat pe ceilalti, "Hai sa ne jucam de-a oamenii, este un joc nemaipomenit!"
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Primavara la tara a domnului Minulescu

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Sarbatoare  si bucurie  e peste tot, si la tara si la oras, atunci cand apare feciorelnica Primavara!

Primavara rurala

Primavara, fata mare,
A sosit in sat la noi,
Ca un cantec de cimpoi
Intr-o zi de sarbatoare...

A picat azi-dimineata
Si, abia intrata-n sat,
Satul tot s-a desteptat
in parfum de izma creata!..
.
Primavara, fata mare,
Vine-n fiecare an
in pantofi de magheran,
Daruiti de Sfantul Soare...


Si de’ndata ce-Si arata
Fecioria-mprospatata,
Toti in jurul ei fac roata!...
Toti copiii
Si batranii
Isi umfla, la fel, plamanii
Si-si fac cruce de-asa fata -
Doctorita fara plata...
Ii deschid ferestrele
Sa le-alunge boalele
Si dihonia din case...

O ridica-n osanale
Ca pe-o scara de matase,
Pana-n ceru-al Saptelea...
Si-apoi
O pornesc cu ea
Pe sosea,
Pana la fantana-n vale,
Ca s-o spele pe picioare,
Fiindca-n fiecare an
Cand soseste-n sat la noi,
In pantofi de magheran -
Primavara, fata mare,
Toata-i plina de... noroi!

Primavara de Vasile Alecsandri
Vestitorii primaverii de George Cosbuc
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Martisor – Poezie de Ion Pillat

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In poezia Martisor, Ion Pillat reia o tema favorita, cea a trecerii ireversibile a timpului pentru fiecare fiinta umana, si a eternitatii scurgerii anotimpurilor si revenirii inexorabile primaverii in fiecare an.

Poezia „Martisor” este structurata in 13 distihuri (strofe de cate doua versuri), iar folosirea persoanei a doua singular, ca si cum poetul s-ar adresa unui interlocutor, reflecta capacitatea eului liric de a se detasa de omul supus vremelniciei vremii.

In incheierea acestui sumar comantariu, as vrea sa subliniez simbolismul trenului, care, ca obiect artificial, produs de mintea si mainile omului, nu poate sa sugereze decat destinul efemer al fiintelor umane, opus nesfarsirii temporale a naturii. In ciuda naturii sale trecatoare fiecare om poate, totusi, fi cutremurat de fiorii nemuririi, de „adancul rost al vietii” caruia ii este supus, gratie efluviilor primaverii.

Privesti de pe poteca ce urca-n deal la noi,
Din zbor intaia barza cum cade pe zavoi.

Vezi trenul care intra incet de tot in gara
Si omul care sapa plugul care ara.

A nins cu nea de floare pe prunii din livezi
Si muntii de la Rucar cu iarna lor ii vezi

Auzi pe sub podgorii un caine care latra
Te simti legat de toate - nu poti urni o piatra.

Aceste lucruri simple ce vesnice iti sunt !
Ce sfanta bucurie descoperi pe pamant.

Ce limpede te cheama un cuc : o data, doua -
De fiecare data ti-e inima mai noua.

De fiecare data mai trainic te unesti
Cu farmecul acestor privelisti campenesti

In gara, iata trenul a inceput sa se miste.
Toti pomii ninsi, pe dealuri ii flutura batiste.

Galgaitor, din iarba un sipot s-a trezit
In tine si prin ramuri e cerul limpezit.

Ce rasete, ce chiot pe drumurile viei -
Pe unde-au mers parintii iti duci si tu copiii.

O noua viata astazi de viata veche legi,
Dau muguri pretutindeni din vestedele crengi.

Cu apa ei lumina ti-a botezat campia.
Ce pace e pe omul in alb ce sapa via,

Pe barza ce se duce pe Arges tot in sus,
Pe-adancul rost al vietii la care te-ai supus.


Articole din acelasi domeniu pe blogul "Povesti pentru copii":

Dochia- legenda

Legenda martisorului

Un martisor pentru mama - Poveste de Diana Popescu
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Musca si omul – Fabula de Esop

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Un om, extrem de sacait de o musca necuvincioasa, a reusit pana la urma sa o prinda si i-a zis, „Cine te crezi tu, de indraznesti sa ma necajesti atat, sa te infrupti din mainile si picioarele mele, si sa imi dai atata bataie de cap pentru a te prinde?”

Musca i-a raspuns, „Vai, draga domnule, te rog, cruta-mi viata si nu ma sorti pieirii, pentru ca nu am cum a-ti face vreun mare rau.”

Omul a ras in hohote si i-a spus, „ Cu siguranta vei muri de mana mea,  pentru ca (morala:) orice rau, fie mic, sau mare, trebuie sa fie starpit fara nici o ezitare.”


Articole din acelasi domeniu in blogul "Povesti pentru copii":

Chelul si musca - Fabula de Esop

Mustele si albina – Fabula de Alexandru Donici

Musca , fabula de Alexandru Donici
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Povestile lui Oscar Wilde

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"A dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that sees the dawn before the rest of the world."
"Visator este  doar acela care isi  poate urma calea la lumina lunii, iar pedeapsa lui este de a vedea zorile- rasaritul soarelui-inaintea lumii" spune Oscar Wilde si de aceea te provoc sa citesti povestile lui Oscar Wilde fara sa tin seama daca esti copil sau adult!



Povestile  sunt adevarate conversatii  spirituale cu sufletul unui om  care a trait intr-un spatiu ingust si frivol, epoca victoriana, dar care datorita unicitatii lor si-au pastrat  savoarea.
Vei fi  impresionat si amuzat cum te vor "prinde" aceste povesti si nu  vei regreta nicicand.


Prima editie  a povestilor pentru copii a fost cuprinsa in volumul
The Happy Prince and Other Tales in 1888 si cuprindea cinci povesti minunate:

"The Happy Prince"-Printul fericit
"The Nightingale and the Rose-"Privighetoarea si Trandafirul
"The Selfish Giant"- Uriasul cel egoist
"The Devoted Friend"- Prietenul devotat
"The Remarkable Rocket"-Racheta formidabila





Nota Dianei:
Pentru ca orice copil are dreptul de a  citi, a studia, ma straduiesc pe blogul meu sa aduc cele mai minunate povesti si poezii  spuse si scrise vreodata in lume, mai ales ca viata este scumpa la noi si cartile asijderea.
Multumesc.

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Racheta fenomenala | formidabila(2) de Oscar Wilde

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...Si scoase un oftat adinc, gandindu-se la cufarul de lemn de brad de care fusese indragostita. In schimb, Lumanarea Romana si Focul Bengal isi manifestasera indignarea, strigand mereu cat ii tinea gura: "Prostii! Prostii!".
 Erau fiinte extrem de practice si ori de cate ori nu le placea ceva spuneau "Prostii".
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Racheta fenomenala|formidabila(1) de Oscar Wilde

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Astazi, copile, iti ofer un festin al mintii daca vei citi povestea lui Oscar Wilde, Racheta formidabila!Pentru ca am gasit pentru tine cea mai buna traducere in limba romana a acestei povesti.


Parfumul englezei vorbite de Oscar Wilde, limbajul  narativ specific acelor timpuri, le regasim in traducerea de exceptie  a domnului Andrei Bantas, caruia ii multumim din suflet si stim ca acolo, unde este acum, ii invata si pe ingeri limba engleza...


Lectura placuta!




Racheta fenomenala|formidabila


Urma sa se insoare fiul Regelui, asa ca bucuria domnea pretutindeni in tara. Un an intreg isi asteptase mireasa si, in cele din urma, iata, sosise. Era o Printesa rusoaica si calatorise tocmai din Finlanda intr-o sanie trasa de sase reni, de forma unei lebede mari de aur, intre aripile careia sedea chiar Printesa. Hlamida lunga de hermana ii ajungea pina la calcaie, pe cap purta o bonetica tesuta din fir de argint si era palida ca Palatul de Zapada in care salasluise intotdeauna. Atat de palida era, incat oamenii se minunau de ea cand trecea pe strazi.
- Parca ar fi un trandafir alb! strigau ei si aruncau de la balcoane asupra Printesei o ploaie de flori.

Printul o astepta la poarta castelului. Avea ochi albastri aproape viorii si visatori, iar parul era ca un caier de aur fin.
Cand o vazu, se lasa intr-un genunchi si-i saruta mana.
- Erai frumoasa in tablou, ii sopti el, dar in realitate esti si mai frumoasa.

Si mica Printesa se impurpura.
- Inainte era ca un trandafir alb, dar acum e ca un trandafir rosu, ii zise un tinar paj vecinului sau si toti curtenii se aratara incantati.

In zilele urmatoare toata lumea spunea doar "trandafir alb, roza rosie, roza rosie, trandafir alb", iar Regele dadu porunca sa i se sporeasca de doua ori simbria pajului. Cum, de fapt, acesta n-avea nici un fel de simbrie, lucrul nu-i aduse prea mult folos, dar, oricum, fu socotit o mare onoare si, ca atare, porunca fu publicata in Buletinul Curtii Regale.

Dupa trecerea celor trei zile cuvenite, se celebra casatoria. Fu o ceremonie magnifica, mirele si mireasa trecura mana in mana pe sub un baldachin de catifea purpurie, brodata cu perlute. Urma banchetul oficial, care dura cinci ceasuri. Printul si Printesa sezura in capul mesei din Marele Salon si baura dintr-o cupa de cristal curat. Numai adevaratii indragostiti puteau sorbi din ea, caci daca o atingeau buze mincinoase, cupa se incetosa si se intuneca.
- E limpede ca se iubesc, dragostea lor e limpede precum clestarul! zise micul paj si Regele ii mai indoi o data leafa.
- Vai, ce onoare! strigara toti curtenii.

Dupa banchet urma sa se dea un bal. Mirele si mireasa trebuiau sa deschida Dansul Trandafirului, iar Regele insusi fagaduise sa-i acompanieze la flaut. De fapt, canta foarte prost, dar nimeni nu indraznea sa i-o spuna, ca doar era Rege. Nici nu stia decat doua melodii si niciodata nu era prea sigur pe care o canta. Oricum, nu conta, caci orice ar fi facut, toata lumea striga:
- Fermecator, fermecator!

Ultimul punct din programul festiv era un grandios spectacol cu focuri de artificii care urma sa inceapa exact la miezul noptii. Tanara Printesa nu vazuse niciodata focuri de artificii, asa ca Regele poruncise ca in ziua nuntii acestea sa fie conduse chiar de Pirotehnistul regal.
- Dar cum sunt focurile de artificii? il intrebase ea pe Print intr-o dimineata, pe cand se plimbau pe terasa.
- Sunt ca aurora boreala, dar mult mai firesti, zise Regele, care intotdeauna raspundea la intrebarile puse altora. Eu unul le prefer stelelor, caci stii intotdeauna cand apar focurile de artificii pe cer. Si sunt aproape la fel de placute ca si cantecul meu la flaut. Trebuie neaparat sa le vezi.

Asadar, in capatul gradinii regale se inaltase o tribuna somptuoasa si, de indata ce Pirotehnistul regal ajunsese sa faca toate aranjamentele necesare, artificiile incepura sa vorbeasca intre ele.
- Vai, ce frumoasa e lumea! striga o mica Petarda. Uitati-va putin la lalelele acelea galbene de acolo. Pai, nici pocnitorile adevarate n-ar putea fi mai frumoase! Ce bine imi pare ca am avut parte de calatorii in viata. Calatoriile iti largesc mintea extraordinar si te scapa de toate prejudecatile.
- Dar gradina Regelui nu e lumea intreaga, Petarda prostuta! ii striga Lumanarea Romana, care avea proportii maiestuoase. Lumea este imensa si ti-ar trebui trei zile incheiate ca s-o vezi de la un capat la altul.
- Orice loc indragit e pentru fiecare din noi o lume intreaga, spuse ginditoare Roata de Foc, care la tinerete fusese moarta dupa un cufar de lemn de brad si se lauda cu inima ei franta. Dar dragostea nu mai e la moda, au ucis-o poetii. Atata au tot scris despre ea, ca nimeni nu-i mai crede, si nici nu ma mira. Dragostea adevarata sufera in tacere. Mi-aduc aminte ca si eu, candva... dar acum nu mai conteaza. Romantismul e depasit!
- Prostii! striga Lumanarea Romana. Romantismul nu moare niciodata. Este ca luna si traieste de-a pururi. De exemplu, mirele si mireasa se iubesc foarte mult. Chiar azi-dimineata am auzit adevarul despre ei de la un cartus de hartie de maslina care intamplator locuia in acelasi sertar cu mine si stia ultimele noutati de la Curte.

Insa Roata de Foc clatina din cap:
- Romantismul a murit! Romantismul a murit! Romantismul a murit! murmura ea. Se numara printre cei care cred ca, daca repeti acelasi si acelasi lucru de nu stiu cate ori, lucrul sfarseste prin a fi adevarat.

Deodata se auzi o tuse seaca si stridenta, si toata lumea intoarse capul. Venea de la o Racheta inalta si cu nasul pe sus, legata la capatul unui bat lung. Intotdeauna tusea inainte de a face vreo remarca, pentru a atrage atentia asupra sa.
- Hm, hm! incepu ea, si toata lumea ciuli urechile, cu exceptia bietei Roti de Foc, care tot mai clatina din cap, murmurand:
- Romantismul a murit!
- La ordine! La ordine! striga un Dop care cocheta cu politica si intotdeauna participase in primele rinduri la alegerile locale, asa ca era la curent cu vocabularul si expresiile parlamentare.
- Romantismul e mort si ingropat, sopti Roata de Foc si adormi.

De indata ce se facu tacere deplina, Racheta mai tusi o data si incepu. Vorbea rar si cu un glas foarte deslusit, de parca si-ar fi dictat memoriile si parca privea mereu dincolo de persoana careia i se adresa. De fapt, avea maniere foarte distinse.
- Vai, ce noroc pe fiul Regelui sa se insoare chiar in ziua lansarii mele! Nici daca ar fi fost aranjate lucrurile dinainte nu s-ar fi putut nimeri mai bine pentru el. Asa sunt printii: au intotdeauna noroc!
- Doamne-Dumnezeule! striga micuta Petarda. Eu credeam ca e tocmai pe dos, ca noi o sa fim detonate in cinstea Printului.
- Asa o fi in ceea ce te priveste pe tine, raspunse Racheta. Ba chiar nici nu ma indoiesc de asta, dar cu mine lucrurile stau cu totul altfel. Sunt o Racheta fenomenala si ma trag din parinti fenomenali. Maica-mea a fost la vremea ei cea mai cunoscuta Roata de Foc - era celebra pentru gratia cu care dansa. Cand si-a facut marea aparitie publica, s-a invartit de nouasprezece ori inainte de-a se stinge si la fiecare rotire a aruncat in aer sapte stele trandafirii. Avea un diametru de peste un metru si era facuta din praf de pusca de cea mai buna calitate. Tata era un Tub de artificii ca si mine, dar de origine franceza. A zburat atat de sus, incat oamenii s-au temut ca n-o sa mai revina niciodata pe pamint. Dar el s-a intors, caci era bun ca piinea calda, si a izbutit o coborire scanteietoare, intr-o adevarata ploaie de aur. Ziarele au tiparit cronici laudative despre spectacolul pe care l-a dat. De fapt, Buletinul Curtii Regale l-a numit "un triumf al artei pilotehnice".
- Vrei sa spui "pirotehnice", o corecta un Foc Bengal. Cunosc acest cuvant, caci l-am vazut scris chiar pe bidonul din care ma alimentez eu.
- Ei bine, eu prefer totusi sa spun "pilotehnic", raspunse Racheta pe un ton cum nu se poate mai sever, iar Focul Bengal se simti atat de umilit, incat incepu imediat sa le terorizeze pe micutele Petarde, pentru a le arata ca, totusi, e o persoana insemnata.
- Spuneam, deci..., continua Racheta. Deci, spuneam... Ce spuneam?
- Vorbeai despre tine, ii zise Lumanarea Romana.
- Bineinteles, stiam eu ca discut o tema de mare interes cand am fost intrerupta atat de nepoliticos. Nu pot suferi impolitetea si proastele maniere de orice fel, caci sunt extrem de sensibila. Nimeni de pe lume nu e atat de sensibil ca mine, de asta sunt convinsa.
- Ce e aia persoana sensibila? o intreba Dopul pe Lumanarea Romana.
- O persoana care, pentru ca sufera de pe urma bataturilor, calca intotdeauna pe ale altora, ii raspunse Lumanarea in soapta, iar Dopul era cat pe ce sa explodeze de ris.
- Ma rog, ma rog, de ce radeti? intreba Racheta. Eu una nu rad.
- Rad fiindca sunt ferecat, raspunse Dopul.
- Asta e un motiv cum nu se poate mai egoist! i-o reteza, furioasa, Racheta. Ce drept ai tu sa fii ferecat? Ar trebui sa te gandesti la ceilalti. De fapt, ar trebui sa te gandesti la mine. Eu una ma gandesc mereu la mine si ma astept ca toti ceilalti sa faca la fel. Asta inseamna simpatie profunda. E o virtute splendida, iar eu o posed in cel mai inalt grad. Sa zicem, de exemplu, ca mi s-ar intimpla ceva asta-seara: ce nenorocire ar fi pentru toata lumea! Printul si Printesa nu si-ar mai regasi fericirea, intregul lor mariaj ar fi distrus; cat despre Rege, stiu bine ca nu si-ar mai reveni niciodata. De fapt, cand incep sa reflectez la importanta situatiei mele, sunt miscata pina la lacrimi.
- N-ar trebui sa te uzi, daca vrei sa le faci placere altora, ii striga Lumanarea Romana.
- Fireste, fireste! exclama Focul Bengal, aflat acum intr-o dispozitie mai buna. E o banala chestiune de bun simt.
- Auzi vorba, o banala chestiune de bun simt! striga indignata Racheta. Dar uiti ca eu nu sunt deloc banala, sunt fenomenala. Pai bun simt poate sa aiba oricine, cu conditia sa-i lipseasca imaginatia. Dar eu una am imaginatie, caci nu ma gindesc niciodata la lucruri asa cum sunt in realitate; intotdeauna ma gindesc la ele in cu totul alt fel. Cat despre ideea de a nu ma umezi, bineinteles ca aici nu se afla nimeni in stare sa aprecieze o fire emotiva. Din fericire pentru mine, putin imi pasa.
Singurul lucru care il poate sustine pe un om in viata este constiinta infinitei inferioritati a tuturor celorlalti - si acesta este un sentiment pe care l-am cultivat intotdeauna. Insa nici unul dintre voi nu are inima. Stati sa radeti si va veseliti, ca si cum Printul si Printesa nu s-ar fi cununat chiar acum.
- Vai de mine si de mine, dar de ce sa nu radem? se minuna un mic Balon de Foc. E un prilej de veselie si, cand ma voi inalta in vazduh, le voi vorbi stelelor despre acest lucru. Sa va uitati si voi cum o sa clipeasca atunci cand o sa le spun cat de frumoasa e mireasa.
- Vai, ce conceptie vulgara despre viata! striga Racheta. Dar la ce era sa ma astept? N-ai nimic pe dinauntru: esti gol si gaunos. Pai cum, dar poate ca Printul si Printesa se vor duce sa stea intr-o tara unde curge un rau adinc si poate vor avea un singur fiu, un baietel blond, cu ochii viorii, ca ai Printului; si poate ca intr-o buna zi o sa iasa la plimbare cu guvernanta; si poate ca baietelul o sa cada in raul adinc si o sa se inece. Vai, ce nenorocire infioratoare! Bietii oameni, auzi, sa-si piarda singurul fiu! E de-a dreptul cumplit! N-o sa-mi revin niciodata.
- Bine, dar nu si-au pierdut nici un fiu! Nu li s-a intimplat nici o nenorocire! striga Lumanarea Romana.
- Parca eu am zis ca s-a intamplat? Am zis ca s-ar putea sa-l piarda, replica Racheta. Daca si-ar fi pierdut singurul copil, nici n-ar mai fi avut rost sa mai discutam chestiunea. Nu pot sa sufar oamenii care jelesc laptele varsat! Ce a fost a fost! Dar cand ma gindesc ca s-ar putea sa-si piarda singurul copil, fireste ca sunt foarte afectata.
- Asta fara indoiala! striga Focul Bengal. De fapt, esti persoana cea mai afectata pe care am cunoscut-o vreodata.
- Iar tu cea mai nepoliticoasa! zise Racheta. Nici nu esti in stare sa intelegi prietenia mea pentru Print.
- Care prietenie, ca nici nu-l cunosti? marai Lumanarea.
- Nici n-am zis ca-l cunosc. Ba chiar as zice ca, daca l-as cunoaste, s-ar putea sa nu-i mai fiu deloc prietena. E foarte primejdios sa-ti cunosti bine prietenii.
- Oricum, te sfatuiesc sa nu te uzi! ii zise Balonul de Foc. asta e singurul lucru important.
- O fi important pentru tine, de asta nu ma indoiesc, raspunse Racheta, dar daca o sa am chef, o sa plang! Si chiar izbucni in lacrimi, care incepura sa siroiasca pe batul in care era infipta, cat pe ce sa inece doua gize mici care tocmai se apucasera sa-si faca un camin comun si-si cautau un loc frumos si uscat de locuit.
- Trebuie ca are o fire cu adevarat romantica, zise Roata de Foc, caci plange fara nici un motiv serios.

Racheta formidabila de Oscar Wilde- partea I
Racheta formidabila de Oscar Wilde in engleza
Printul fericit - Poveste de Oscar Wilde (I)

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Racheta formidabila de Oscar Wilde in engleza

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Racheta formidabila sau The Remarkable Rocket  de Oscar Wilde este povestea al carei personaj principal este o racheta-artizanala care trebuia sa impodobeasca cerul la  o nunta regala. 
Racheta se simte plina de importanta si denigreaza celelalte artificii, dar aprinderea ei esueaza. Dialogul spumos al obiectelor insufletite in stilul lui Wilde face aceasta poveste unica si apreciata de noi toti.


The King's son was going to be married, so there were general rejoicings. He had waited a whole year for his bride, and at last she had arrived. She was a Russian Princess, and had driven all the way from Finland in a sledge drawn by six reindeer. The sledge was shaped like a great golden swan, and between the swan's wings lay the little Princess herself. Her long ermine-cloak reached right down to her feet, on her head was a tiny cap of silver tissue, and she was as pale as the Snow Palace in which she had always lived. So pale was she that as she drove through the streets all the people wondered. "She is like a white rose!" they cried, and they threw down flowers on her from the balconies.

At the gate of the Castle the Prince was waiting to receive her. He had dreamy violet eyes, and his hair was like fine gold. When he saw her he sank upon one knee, and kissed her hand.
"Your picture was beautiful," he murmured, "but you are more beautiful than your picture"; and the little Princess blushed.
"She was like a white rose before," said a young Page to his neighbour, "but she is like a red rose now"; and the whole Court was delighted.
For the next three days everybody went about saying, "White rose, Red rose, Red rose, White rose"; and the King gave orders that the Page's salary was to be doubled. As he received no salary at all this was not of much use to him, but it was considered a great honour, and was duly published in the Court Gazette.
When the three days were over the marriage was celebrated. It was a magnificent ceremony, and the bride and bridegroom walked hand in hand under a canopy of purple velvet embroidered with little pearls. Then there was a State Banquet, which lasted for five hours. The Prince and Princess sat at the top of the Great Hall and drank out of a cup of clear crystal. Only true lovers could drink out of this cup, for if false lips touched it, it grew grey and dull and cloudy.
"It's quite clear that they love each other," said the little Page, "as clear as crystal!" and the King doubled his salary a second time. "What an honour!" cried all the courtiers.
After the banquet there was to be a Ball. The bride and bridegroom were to dance the Rose-dance together, and the King had promised to play the flute. He played very badly, but no one had ever dared to tell him so, because he was the King. Indeed, he knew only two airs, and was never quite certain which one he was playing; but it made no matter, for, whatever he did, everybody cried out, "Charming! charming!"
The last item on the programme was a grand display of fireworks, to be let off exactly at midnight. The little Princess had never seen a firework in her life, so the King had given orders that the Royal Pyrotechnist should be in attendance on the day of her marriage.
"What are fireworks like?" she had asked the Prince, one morning, as she was walking on the terrace.
"They are like the Aurora Borealis," said the King, who always answered questions that were addressed to other people, "only much more natural. I prefer them to stars myself, as you always know when they are going to appear, and they are as delightful as my own flute-playing. You must certainly see them."
So at the end of the King's garden a great stand had been set up, and as soon as the Royal Pyrotechnist had put everything in its proper place, the fireworks began to talk to each other.
"The world is certainly very beautiful," cried a little Squib. "Just look at those yellow tulips. Why! if they were real crackers they could not be lovelier. I am very glad I have travelled. Travel improves the mind wonderfully, and does away with all one's prejudices."
"The King's garden is not the world, you foolish squib," said a big Roman Candle; "the world is an enormous place, and it would take you three days to see it thoroughly."
"Any place you love is the world to you," exclaimed a pensive Catherine Wheel, who had been attached to an old deal box in early life, and prided herself on her broken heart; "but love is not fashionable any more, the poets have killed it. They wrote so much about it that nobody believed them, and I am not surprised. True love suffers, and is silent. I remember myself once - But it is no matter now. Romance is a thing of the past."
"Nonsense!" said the Roman Candle, "Romance never dies. It is like the moon, and lives for ever. The bride and bridegroom, for instance, love each other very dearly. I heard all about them this morning from a brown-paper cartridge, who happened to be staying in the same drawer as myself, and knew the latest Court news."
But the Catherine Wheel shook her head. "Romance is dead, Romance is dead, Romance is dead," she murmured. She was one of those people who think that, if you say the same thing over and over a great many times, it becomes true in the end.
Suddenly, a sharp, dry cough was heard, and they all looked round.
It came from a tall, supercilious-looking Rocket, who was tied to the end of a long stick. He always coughed before he made any observation, so as to attract attention.
"Ahem! ahem!" he said, and everybody listened except the poor Catherine Wheel, who was still shaking her head, and murmuring, "Romance is dead."
"Order! order!" cried out a Cracker. He was something of a politician, and had always taken a prominent part in the local elections, so he knew the proper Parliamentary expressions to use.
"Quite dead," whispered the Catherine Wheel, and she went off to sleep.
As soon as there was perfect silence, the Rocket coughed a third time and began. He spoke with a very slow, distinct voice, as if he was dictating his memoirs, and always looked over the shoulder of the person to whom he was talking. In fact, he had a most distinguished manner.
"How fortunate it is for the King's son," he remarked, "that he is to be married on the very day on which I am to be let off. Really, if it had been arranged beforehand, it could not have turned out better for him; but, Princes are always lucky."
"Dear me!" said the little Squib, "I thought it was quite the other way, and that we were to be let off in the Prince's honour."
"It may be so with you," he answered; "indeed, I have no doubt that it is, but with me it is different. I am a very remarkable Rocket, and come of remarkable parents. My mother was the most celebrated Catherine Wheel of her day, and was renowned for her graceful dancing. When she made her great public appearance she spun round nineteen times before she went out, and each time that she did so she threw into the air seven pink stars. She was three feet and a half in diameter, and made of the very best gunpowder. My father was a Rocket like myself, and of French extraction. He flew so high that the people were afraid that he would never come down again. He did, though, for he was of a kindly disposition, and he made a most brilliant descent in a shower of golden rain. The newspapers wrote about his performance in very flattering terms. Indeed, the Court Gazette called him a triumph of Pylotechnic art."
"Pyrotechnic, Pyrotechnic, you mean," said a Bengal Light; "I know it is Pyrotechnic, for I saw it written on my own canister."
"Well, I said Pylotechnic," answered the Rocket, in a severe tone of voice, and the Bengal Light felt so crushed that he began at once to bully the little squibs, in order to show that he was still a person of some importance.
"I was saying," continued the Rocket, "I was saying - What was I saying?"
"You were talking about yourself," replied the Roman Candle.
"Of course; I knew I was discussing some interesting subject when I was so rudely interrupted. I hate rudeness and bad manners of every kind, for I am extremely sensitive. No one in the whole world is so sensitive as I am, I am quite sure of that."
"What is a sensitive person?" said the Cracker to the Roman Candle.
"A person who, because he has corns himself, always treads on other people's toes," answered the Roman Candle in a low whisper; and the Cracker nearly exploded with laughter.
"Pray, what are you laughing at?" inquired the Rocket; "I am not laughing."
"I am laughing because I am happy," replied the Cracker.
"That is a very selfish reason," said the Rocket angrily. "What right have you to be happy? You should be thinking about others. In fact, you should be thinking about me. I am always thinking about myself, and I expect everybody else to do the same. That is what is called sympathy. It is a beautiful virtue, and I possess it in a high degree. Suppose, for instance, anything happened to me to-night, what a misfortune that would be for every one! The Prince and Princess would never be happy again, their whole married life would be spoiled; and as for the King, I know he would not get over it. Really, when I begin to reflect on the importance of my position, I am almost moved to tears."
"If you want to give pleasure to others," cried the Roman Candle, "you had better keep yourself dry."
"Certainly," exclaimed the Bengal Light, who was now in better spirits; "that is only common sense."
"Common sense, indeed!" said the Rocket indignantly; "you forget that I am very uncommon, and very remarkable. Why, anybody can have common sense, provided that they have no imagination. But I have imagination, for I never think of things as they really are; I always think of them as being quite different. As for keeping myself dry, there is evidently no one here who can at all appreciate an emotional nature. Fortunately for myself, I don't care. The only thing that sustains one through life is the consciousness of the immense inferiority of everybody else, and this is a feeling that I have always cultivated. But none of you have any hearts. Here you are laughing and making merry just as if the Prince and Princess had not just been married."
"Well, really," exclaimed a small Fire-balloon, "why not? It is a most joyful occasion, and when I soar up into the air I intend to tell the stars all about it. You will see them twinkle when I talk to them about the pretty bride."
"Ah! what a trivial view of life!" said the Rocket; "but it is only what I expected. There is nothing in you; you are hollow and empty. Why, perhaps the Prince and Princess may go to live in a country where there is a deep river, and perhaps they may have one only son, a little fair-haired boy with violet eyes like the Prince himself; and perhaps some day he may go out to walk with his nurse; and perhaps the nurse may go to sleep under a great elder-tree; and perhaps the little boy may fall into the deep river and be drowned. What a terrible misfortune! Poor people, to lose their only son! It is really too dreadful! I shall never get over it."
"But they have not lost their only son," said the Roman Candle; "no misfortune has happened to them at all."
"I never said that they had," replied the Rocket; "I said that they might. If they had lost their only son there would be no use in saying anything more about the matter. I hate people who cry over spilt milk. But when I think that they might lose their only son, I certainly am very much affected."
"You certainly are!" cried the Bengal Light. "In fact, you are the most affected person I ever met."
"You are the rudest person I ever met," said the Rocket, "and you cannot understand my friendship for the Prince."
"Why, you don't even know him," growled the Roman Candle.
"I never said I knew him," answered the Rocket. "I dare say that if I knew him I should not be his friend at all. It is a very dangerous thing to know one's friends."
"You had really better keep yourself dry," said the Fire-balloon. "That is the important thing."
"Very important for you, I have no doubt," answered the Rocket, "but I shall weep if I choose"; and he actually burst into real tears, which flowed down his stick like rain-drops, and nearly drowned two little beetles, who were just thinking of setting up house together, and were looking for a nice dry spot to live in.
"He must have a truly romantic nature," said the Catherine Wheel, "for he weeps when there is nothing at all to weep about"; and she heaved a deep sigh, and thought about the deal box.
But the Roman Candle and the Bengal Light were quite indignant, and kept saying, "Humbug! humbug!" at the top of their voices. They were extremely practical, and whenever they objected to anything they called it humbug.
Then the moon rose like a wonderful silver shield; and the stars began to shine, and a sound of music came from the palace.
The Prince and Princess were leading the dance. They danced so beautifully that the tall white lilies peeped in at the window and watched them, and the great red poppies nodded their heads and beat time.
Then ten o'clock struck, and then eleven, and then twelve, and at the last stroke of midnight every one came out on the terrace, and the King sent for the Royal Pyrotechnist.
"Let the fireworks begin," said the King; and the Royal Pyrotechnist made a low bow, and marched down to the end of the garden. He had six attendants with him, each of whom carried a lighted torch at the end of a long pole.
It was certainly a magnificent display.
Whizz! Whizz! went the Catherine Wheel, as she spun round and round. Boom! Boom! went the Roman Candle. Then the Squibs danced all over the place, and the Bengal Lights made everything look scarlet. "Good-bye," cried the Fire-balloon, as he soared away, dropping tiny blue sparks. Bang! Bang! answered the Crackers, who were enjoying themselves immensely. Every one was a great success except the Remarkable Rocket. He was so damp with crying that he could not go off at all. The best thing in him was the gunpowder, and that was so wet with tears that it was of no use. All his poor relations, to whom he would never speak, except with a sneer, shot up into the sky like wonderful golden flowers with blossoms of fire. Huzza! Huzza! cried the Court; and the little Princess laughed with pleasure.
"I suppose they are reserving me for some grand occasion," said the Rocket; "no doubt that is what it means," and he looked more supercilious than ever.
The next day the workmen came to put everything tidy. "This is evidently a deputation," said the Rocket; "I will receive them with becoming dignity" so he put his nose in the air, and began to frown severely as if he were thinking about some very important subject. But they took no notice of him at all till they were just going away. Then one of them caught sight of him. "Hallo!" he cried, "what a bad rocket!" and he threw him over the wall into the ditch.
"Bad Rocket? Bad Rocket?" he said, as he whirled through the air; "impossible! GrandRocket, that is what the man said. Bad and grand sound very much the same, indeed they often are the same"; and he fell into the mud.
"It is not comfortable here," he remarked, "but no doubt it is some fashionable watering-place, and they have sent me away to recruit my health. My nerves are certainly very much shattered, and I require rest."
Then a little Frog, with bright jewelled eyes, and a green mottled coat, swam up to him.
"A new arrival, I see!" said the Frog. "Well, after all there is nothing like mud. Give me rainy weather and a ditch, and I am quite happy. Do you think it will be a wet afternoon? I am sure I hope so, but the sky is quite blue and cloudless. What a pity!"
"Ahem! ahem!" said the Rocket, and he began to cough.
"What a delightful voice you have!" cried the Frog. "Really it is quite like a croak, and croaking is of course the most musical sound in the world. You will hear our glee-club this evening. We sit in the old duck pond close by the farmer's house, and as soon as the moon rises we begin. It is so entrancing that everybody lies awake to listen to us. In fact, it was only yesterday that I heard the farmer's wife say to her mother that she could not get a wink of sleep at night on account of us. It is most gratifying to find oneself so popular."
"Ahem! ahem!" said the Rocket angrily. He was very much annoyed that he could not get a word in.
"A delightful voice, certainly," continued the Frog; "I hope you will come over to the duck-pond. I am off to look for my daughters. I have six beautiful daughters, and I am so afraid the Pike may meet them. He is a perfect monster, and would have no hesitation in breakfasting off them. Well, good-bye: I have enjoyed our conversation very much, I assure you."
"Conversation, indeed!" said the Rocket. "You have talked the whole time yourself. That is not conversation."
"Somebody must listen," answered the Frog, "and I like to do all the talking myself. It saves time, and prevents arguments."
"But I like arguments," said the Rocket.
"I hope not," said the Frog complacently. "Arguments are extremely vulgar, for everybody in good society holds exactly the same opinions. Good-bye a second time; I see my daughters in the distance and the little Frog swam away.
"You are a very irritating person," said the Rocket, "and very ill- bred. I hate people who talk about themselves, as you do, when one wants to talk about oneself, as I do. It is what I call selfishness, and selfishness is a most detestable thing, especially to any one of my temperament, for I am well known for my sympathetic nature. In fact, you should take example by me; you could not possibly have a better model. Now that you have the chance you had better avail yourself of it, for I am going back to Court almost immediately. I am a great favourite at Court; in fact, the Prince and Princess were married yesterday in my honour. Of course you know nothing of these matters, for you are a provincial."
"There is no good talking to him," said a Dragon-fly, who was sitting on the top of a large brown bulrush; "no good at all, for he has gone away."
"Well, that is his loss, not mine," answered the Rocket. "I am not going to stop talking to him merely because he pays no attention. I like hearing myself talk. It is one of my greatest pleasures. I often have long conversations all by myself, and I am so clever that sometimes I don't understand a single word of what I am saying."
"Then you should certainly lecture on Philosophy," said the Dragon- fly; and he spread a pair of lovely gauze wings and soared away into the sky.
"How very silly of him not to stay here!" said the Rocket. "I am sure that he has not often got such a chance of improving his mind. However, I don't care a bit. Genius like mine is sure to be appreciated some day"; and he sank down a little deeper into the mud.
After some time a large White Duck swam up to him. She had yellow legs, and webbed feet, and was considered a great beauty on account of her waddle.
"Quack, quack, quack," she said. "What a curious shape you are! May I ask were you born like that, or is it the result of an accident?"
"It is quite evident that you have always lived in the country," answered the Rocket, "otherwise you would know who I am. However, I excuse your ignorance. It would be unfair to expect other people to be as remarkable as oneself. You will no doubt be surprised to hear that I can fly up into the sky, and come down in a shower of golden rain."
"I don't think much of that," said the Duck, "as I cannot see what use it is to any one. Now, if you could plough the fields like the ox, or draw a cart like the horse, or look after the sheep like the collie-dog, that would be something."
"My good creature," cried the Rocket in a very haughty tone of voice, "I see that you belong to the lower orders. A person of my position is never useful. We have certain accomplishments, and that is more than sufficient. I have no sympathy myself with industry of any kind, least of all with such industries as you seem to recommend. Indeed, I have always been of opinion that hard work is simply the refuge of people who have nothing whatever to do."
"Well, well," said the Duck, who was of a very peaceable disposition, and never quarrelled with any one, "everybody has different tastes. I hope, at any rate, that you are going to take up your residence here."
"Oh! dear no," cried the Rocket. "I am merely a visitor, a distinguished visitor. The fact is that I find this place rather tedious. There is neither society here, nor solitude. In fact, it is essentially suburban. I shall probably go back to Court, for I know that I am destined to make a sensation in the world."
"I had thoughts of entering public life once myself," remarked the Duck; "there are so many things that need reforming. Indeed, I took the chair at a meeting some time ago, and we passed resolutions condemning everything that we did not like. However, they did not seem to have much effect. Now I go in for domesticity, and look after my family."
"I am made for public life," said the Rocket, "and so are all my relations, even the humblest of them. Whenever we appear we excite great attention. I have not actually appeared myself, but when I do so it will be a magnificent sight. As for domesticity, it ages one rapidly, and distracts one's mind from higher things."
"Ah! the higher things of life, how fine they are!" said the Duck; "and that reminds me how hungry I feel": and she swam away down the stream, saying, "Quack, quack, quack."
"Come back! come back!" screamed the Rocket, "I have a great deal to say to you"; but the Duck paid no attention to him. "I am glad that she has gone," he said to himself, "she has a decidedly middle-class mind"; and he sank a little deeper still into the mud, and began to think about the loneliness of genius, when suddenly two little boys in white smocks came running down the bank, with a kettle and some faggots.
"This must be the deputation," said the Rocket, and he tried to look very dignified.
"Hallo!" cried one of the boys, "look at this old stick! I wonder how it came here"; and he picked the rocket out of the ditch.
"OLD Stick!" said the Rocket, "impossible! GOLD Stick, that is what he said. Gold Stick is very complimentary. In fact, he mistakes me for one of the Court dignitaries!"
"Let us put it into the fire!" said the other boy, "it will help to boil the kettle."
So they piled the faggots together, and put the Rocket on top, and lit the fire.
"This is magnificent," cried the Rocket, "they are going to let me off in broad day-light, so that every one can see me."
"We will go to sleep now," they said, "and when we wake up the kettle will be boiled"; and they lay down on the grass, and shut their eyes.
The Rocket was very damp, so he took a long time to burn. At last, however, the fire caught him.
"Now I am going off!" he cried, and he made himself very stiff and straight. "I know I shall go much higher than the stars, much higher than the moon, much higher than the sun. In fact, I shall go so high that - "
Fizz! Fizz! Fizz! and he went straight up into the air.
"Delightful!" he cried, "I shall go on like this for ever. What a success I am!"
But nobody saw him.
Then he began to feel a curious tingling sensation all over him.
"Now I am going to explode," he cried. "I shall set the whole world on fire, and make such a noise that nobody will talk about anything else for a whole year." And he certainly did explode. Bang! Bang! Bang! went the gunpowder. There was no doubt about it.
But nobody heard him, not even the two little boys, for they were sound asleep.
Then all that was left of him was the stick, and this fell down on the back of a Goose who was taking a walk by the side of the ditch.
"Good heavens!" cried the Goose. "It is going to rain sticks"; and she rushed into the water.
"I knew I should create a great sensation," gasped the Rocket, and he went out.

THE END.

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