Spring (3-4 класс)
Spring, spring is coming soon,
Grass is green and flowers bloom,
Birds returning from the south, Bees are buzzing all about,
Leaves are budding everywhere,
Spring, spring is finally here!
You Are My Best Friend! ( 5-6 класс)
by Katherine James
Best friends we are ,
Best friends we’ll be,
For always forever,
You and Me!
Longer than a phone call,
Deeper than the sea,
All this belongs to us,
You and Me!
Put it in a bottle,
Never let it free,
keep it in your heart,
You and Me!
I hope you read this poem,
Remember it for me,
Look after it with care,
You and Me!
I want to be an actor (7-8 класс)
I want to be an actor, Dad. I want to go on stage.
You should be a banker, Tom, and earn a decent wage.
I want to be a barber, Dad. I want to do people’s hair.
You should be a pilot Tom, and work for British Air.
I want to be a clown, Dad. I think I am very funny.
You should be a driver, Tom, and earn a lot of money.
I want to be a barman, Dad, so I can drink a lot of beer!
A barman! You are joking, Tom. That isn’t a career!
I want to go into politics, Dad, and put the country right.
I think that’s an excellent idea.
Let’s tell your mother tonight
Shooting an Elephant (9-11 класс)
I had halted on the road. As soon as I saw the elephant I knew with perfect
certainty that I ought not to shoot him. It is a serious matter to shoot a working
elephant—it is comparable to destroying a huge and costly piece of machinery—and
obviously one ought not to do it if it can possibly be avoided. And at that distance, peacefully eating, the elephant looked no more dangerous than a cow. I thought then and I think now that his attack of «must» was already passing off; in which
case he would merely wander harmlessly about until the mahout came back and caught him. Moreover, I did not in the least want to shoot him. I decided that I would watch him for a little while to make sure that he did not turn savage again, and then go home.
But at that moment I glanced round at the crowd that had followed me. It was an immense crowd, two thousand at the least and growing every minute. It blocked the road for a long distance on either side. I looked at the sea of yellow faces above the garish clothes-faces all happy and excited over this bit of fun, all certain that the elephant was going to be shot. They were watching me as they would watch a conjurer about to perform a trick. They did not like me, but with the magical rifle in my hands I was momentarily worth watching. And suddenly I realized that I should have to shoot the elephant after all. The people expected it of me and I had got to do it; I could feel their two thousand wills pressing me forward, irresistibly. And it was at this moment, as I stood there with the rifle in my hands, that I first grasped the hollowness, the futility of the white man’s dominion in the East. Here was I, the white man with his gun, standing in front of the unarmed native crowd—seemingly the leading actor of the piece; but in reality I was only an absurd puppet pushed to and fro by the will of those yellow faces behind. I perceived in this moment that when the white man turns tyrant it is his own freedom that he destroys. He becomes a sort of hollow, posing dummy, the conventionalized figure of a sahib. For it is the condition of his rule that he shall spend his life in trying to impress the «natives,» and so in every crisis he has got to do what the «natives» expect of him. He wears a mask, and his face grows to fit it.
I had got to shoot the elephant. I had committed myself to doing it when I sent for the rifle. A sahib has got to act like a sahib; he has got to appear resolute, to know his own mind and do definite things. To come all that way, rifle in hand, with two thousand people marching at my heels, and then to trail feebly away, having done nothing—no, that was impossible. The crowd would laugh at me. And my whole life, every white man’s life in the East, was one long struggle not to be laughed at.