Loading...
TEACH BACK!
Quiz by Antonella P.
Customize this quiz to suit your class
Instantly translate to 100+ languages
Tag the questions with any skills you have. Your dashboard will track each student's mastery of each skill.
Give this quiz to my class
Broken windows are covered. Floorboards are patched and doors screwed back on. The road that was ruined by German tanks is shovelled and raked smooth. Boot-shaped bruises turn yellow then fade and disappear. Flowers grow and spread across the ugly German footprints stomped into garden beds. The village looks pretty once more. School stops for the summer and everyone is put to work on the kolkhoz, the village farm. Women and big boys begin harvesting the barley crops in the outer fields. The biggest girls milk the cows, morning and night, and keep the barns clean. Old Nikolay mends ploughs, horse harnesses, pitchforks and scythes in his workshop. Anna Pushinka teaches Yelena and her friends how to get the honey from the beehives that are scattered through the orchards. I am in charge of collecting eggs. My friends Olga and Nina help. Olga and Nina are five, a year younger than me. They are twins and look exactly alike, except Nina’s nose is a little bit crooked from when she fell out of bed and squashed it sideways on the floor. The hens, ducks and geese wander free in the summer, so collecting eggs is like a treasure hunt and takes hours. Catching the hens for their daily hugs takes even longer, but I think it’s important because hugs make everyone happy and happy hens lay bigger eggs. Olga says I’m the best hen-hugger in all of Russia. Nina says I’ll be the best cow-hugger, too, when my arms grow longer. But good hugs have nothing to do with the size of your arms. It’s all to do with the size of your heart. When we are done with the hens, Olga, Nina and I can spend the rest of the day doing whatever we like. We climb the apricot trees, chase squirrels, lie in the meadow marvelling at how hot Ushanka’s black fur becomes in the sunshine, make daisy chains and race little boats of bark in the stream. I teach Olga and Nina the alphabet and we use charcoal to write our letters and our names all over the village – on doors and walls and the freshly cut ends of firewood. In between, I practise my knots. In case the German princemonsters return. I slip into Old Nikolay’s workshop and tie knots in the harnesses hanging on the walls. I wander into gardens where the washing is hung out to dry and tie knots in the laces on pants and smocks. I creep up behind Anna Pushinka and tie knots in her apron strings. I find baling twine in the hay shed and tie my own ankles together. I do such a good job of these last knots that I can’t get them undone. I have to jump all the way to Olga and Nina’s house and ask them to cut me free with their mama’s knife. At the end of each day, Ushanka and I run out into the distant barley fields to meet Mama. This is my favourite part of the day, because Mama always shouts, ‘Little Rabbit!’ and smothers my head with kisses. And as we walk home, we sing. Everyone – women, big boys and me. I love to sing. Almost as much as I love to be kissed by Mama. Sometimes one of the boys, Mikhail, has his balalaika with him. He takes the instrument out from beneath the sheaves of barley piled high on the wagon and plays music. We sing about forests and orchards and people who find their true love. As we walk home, arm in arm, my heart fills with happiness and my belly swells with pride that I am allowed to sing along with the big boys. And I can almost forget about the German prince-monsters and their lies about Russia and their big ugly boots. Almost. But today, when Mikhail reaches for his balalaika, I see other things hiding beneath the barley sheaves. Three of the mamas rush forward and cover them up, but it’s too late. I know they are there. I’ve already seen them. Rifles. Lots of rifles. Mikhail hugs his balalaika to his chest and blushes. ‘So play!’ cries Mama, her voice oddly loud and high. ‘Let’s play Sasha’s favourite song, “The Little Birch Tree”.’ So Mikhail plays and everyone sings about the lovely birch tree with its curly leaves and the branches that will be turned into silver flutes. They sing too quickly, too loudly, and as they sing and walk, they cast nervous sideways glances at me. ‘It’s alright,’ I say, when the song comes to an end. ‘I didn’t see the rifles.’ Mama nods and smiles, and I know it was the right thing to say. But I did see the rifles. And I think about Yelena wanting to get lots of guns and dynamite for the Partisans so they can shoot the Germans and blow them into thousands of tiny pieces, and Mama looking as though she agreed, and I know this is what the mamas and the big boys are doing. As well as harvesting, they are helping the Partisans. Three days later, I wake before dawn and I am all alone. Yelena is always here beside me when I wake. But not this morning. I climb down from our bed above the stove. Mama is filling a cloth sack with bread. She ties it closed with a piece of string and hands it to Yelena. ‘Stay out of sight,’ says Mama. ‘And don’t return until after dark.’ ‘Where’s she going?’ I ask. ‘Nowhere,’ snaps Mama. ‘Then why does she need all that bread?’ I ask. ‘There’s nothing left for us.’ Mama baked four loaves last night and she has stuffed them all into the sack. Yelena opens her mouth, but before she can speak, Mama shoves her out the door and sends her on the way to nowhere. Mama turns and stares at me, her blue, blue cornflower eyes wide with worry. ‘I know,’ I say, flopping down on the bench. ‘I didn’t see any bread.’ Mama sits beside me and takes my hand. ‘And . . .?’ she prods, obviously waiting for more. I puzzle for a while, then say, ‘And I don’t have a sister called Yelena.’ Mama laughs, softly and with a little bit of sadness around the edges. ‘Sweet Little Rabbit! You do have a sister called Yelena.’ ‘I do?’ I ask, now confused. ‘I haven’t seen the rifles or the bread, but I have seen Yelena?’ ‘Yes.’ Mama smiles and the magic makes me smile, too. And I am glad that Yelena is real because I love her very much. ‘Yelena is real,’ Mama explains, ‘but she does not carry sacks of bread into the forest for the Partisans.’ ‘Of course not!’ I shout, slapping my forehead. ‘Because there is no bread!’ Mama laughs loudly now, with not a hint of sadness. She hugs me, pressing me against her warm, loving heart, covering my head with kisses. ‘Clever Little Rabbit,’ she murmurs, and then, in barely a whisper, ‘Your papa would be so proud.’ When I wake the next morning, Yelena is sleeping beside me, her mouth open, her braided hair unravelling. Mama is serving kasha to a strange woman seated at our table. I crawl down from above the stove and slide along the bench beside her. I stare at her pants, her tunic, the rope she is using as a belt and her big boots. She’s dressed like a man! And there’s a rifle leaning against the wall near the door. ‘Hello,’ I say. ‘I’m Sasha.’ The woman doesn’t reply. She just shovels down her kasha. I line my four wooden bears along the table in front of her bowl and say, ‘These are my bears: Big Bear, Medium Bear, Little Bear and Even Littler Bear.’ ‘Hello, Sasha. Hello, bears.’ She smiles but she doesn’t tell me her name. ‘Why are you dressed like a man?’ I ask, tugging at the sleeve of her tunic. ‘Because men’s clothes make it easier to run and climb and crawl and shoot,’ she says. ‘You’re a Partisan!’ I gasp. ‘But she’s not real,’ says Mama, placing a bowl of kasha before me. ‘Is the kasha real?’ I ask. Mama laughs. ‘Yes, Little Rabbit.’ I’m glad the food is real, because I’m hungry. But I’m disappointed that the woman is not real. I was going to ask if I could use her rope-belt to tie her ankles together. For practice. But if she’s not real, then the rope and her ankles aren’t either. The woman finishes her kasha, hangs her rifle over her shoulder, kisses Mama on the cheek then slips out the door. I run to the window to watch her leave, but by the time I get there, she’s gone. Vanished. ‘Because she’s not real,’ I whisper. A week later, Mama and I are working in the garden. We sing as we weed between the flowers and pluck caterpillars from the vegetables. Anna Pushinka is picking strawberries in her garden and wanders over. ‘Taste these,’ she says, holding out the basket. Mama reaches in and takes out a fat strawberry and a tiny piece of folded paper. The strawberry goes into her mouth, the paper into her pocket. ‘What’s on the paper?’ I ask. ‘Paper?’ Anna Pushinka replies with a wave of her hand. ‘Goodness, Sasha! Who has money for paper? These are lean times. We must choose between paper for writing and noodles for our soup. And I always choose noodles.’ She chuckles and I know the paper is yet another thing that is not real. That night, Mama slips the paper to Yelena, but she drops it on the floor. I pick it up for her, and I see that there are tiny words and numbers written all over it. I wish I could read better. I’m desperate to know what it says. Or rather, what it doesn’t say, because it’s not real. Later, when Mama has tucked us into our bed above the stove and Ushanka has wrapped herself around the top of my head, I ask Yelena, ‘What’s on the paper?’ ‘What paper?’ says Yelena. ‘The paper that isn’t real,’ I reply. Yelena stares at me, nibbling her lip, then whispers, ‘A message for the Partisans. Stuff about where the Germans have their headquarters and when their trains are travelling and where they store their ammunition.’ ‘Why?’ ‘So the Partisans can blow them up.’ Yelena grabs my arm. ‘But don’t tell anyone. It’s a secret.’ ‘What’s a secret?’ I ask. ‘The message.’ ‘What message?’ I say, my eyes wide. Yelena laughs. ‘Good boy, Sasha.’ My belly swells with pride. I know how to play this game. ‘How are your knots coming along?’ asks Yelena. ‘Good! Yesterday, I crept into the dairy and tied knots in the apron strings of all the girls who were milking and only one of them noticed. Today, I tied Olga’s ankles together with Mama’s embroidery thread and just now, while you were taking a bath, I tied the sleeves of your blouse together in an enormous knot.’ Yelena rolls her eyes, then says, ‘I’ll see if I can find you some rope for practising.’ ‘Practising what?’ I ask. ‘Your knots,’ she says. ‘What knots?’ Yelena, my big sister who is twelve and always serious tAsk questions about this text for ESL students, pre A1: Hi Sarah! I read about kids in Japan. More than a million play baseball there, and it's very competitive. They have coaches who teach them how to hit and throw the ball. Japan is an island country with tasty seafood dishes. People wear comfortable clothes with big pockets when they go out. Lastly, my mom is a nurse and she said Japanese nurses are good at taking care of sick people. Write back soon! Take care, EmmaModel Rockets Liftoff! Three... two... one... liftoff! A model rocket shoots into the sky. The rocket can fly up to 1,500 feet (457 m) high! Watching these small rockets fly can be fun and exciting. Model rockets aren't just for fun, though. They also teach us about science and space. The History of Rockets. People in China invented rockets about eight hundred years ago. They filled tubes with gunpowder and shot them at their enemies. Later, scientists built rockets that could go into space. Starting in the 1950s, people began building model rockets for fun. Parts of a Model Rocket. A model rocket kit comes with all the parts a rocket needs. A model rocket's body is a long tube made of cardboard or plastic. The nose cone fits into the top of the tube. The size and shape of a rocket's body and nose cone can change how it flies. Fins help the rocket fly straight. The engine burns fuel to push the rocket into the air. A parachute helps the rocket fall safely back to Earth. People like to make their rockets look great. Many people paint their rockets with different colors and designs. Every rocket is one of a kind! At the Launchpad. The only place to launch a rocket is in an open space. The launch area needs to be far away from people and buildings. A large field or a playground is a good spot. First, set up the launchpad. Place the rocket over the guide wire on the pad. The guide wire keeps the rocket pointing straight up. A girl connects the wire that will allow the controller to start the rocket engine. when it lifts off. Connect the launch controller to the rocket engine. Then step back and press the button on the controller to start the engine. Whoosh! The rocket flies up and away. Clubs and Competitions. People who fly model rockets often join model rocket clubs. Schools or hobby groups can have information about model rocket clubs. A science center or museum might have a model rocket club, too. Many people enter model rocket competitions. They set off rockets and see which one flies the highest and the fastest. Model rocket competitions are held all over the world. In the United States, students between twelve and eighteen can enter the Team America Rocketry Challenge. Every spring, one hundred teams compete to become the best in the country. The winners go on to compete against other teams from around the world. Model rockets are a fun way to learn about science. Who knows how high a model rocket can take your imagination?What Pet Should You Get? Introduction. Almost every kid has wanted to have a pet. Pets can make good friends. But how do you decide which kind of pet to get? Here are some kids who have some opinions about pets. Read what they have to say. Then decide what kind of pet you would like to have. Dogs as Pets. Every kid should own a dog. A dog comes when you call it. You know it likes you because it wags its tail. Dogs like to play chase with you. Some dogs will even play catch! Get a dog for a great playmate! Dogs as Pets. Dogs are hard pets to keep. They need lots of space to run. What if you don't have a yard? You have to take them on walks even if it is cold. The worst thing is that you have to clean up after them. Yuck, who wants a dog? Lizards as Pets. Lizards make the coolest pets. They don't bark or meow. You don't have to take them for walks. They are easy to hold and to pet. It doesn't cost much for lizard food. So, go get a lizard! Lizards as Pets. It is mean to keep lizards as pets. Some have to stay in one tiny box their whole life. Some of them eat live crickets. Plus, it feels really weird to pet them. Never, ever, get a lizard! Fish as Pets. Fish make awesome pets. They come in such pretty colors. It is fun to watch them swim back and forth. It is fun to watch their funny mouths. They only need to be fed once a day. Fish make fun and easy pets to keep. Fish as Pets. Fish should be left in the oceans and rivers. Fish don't come when you call them. They can't do any tricks. And worse than that, fish don't like to be touched. Fish win the most boring pet award. Parrots as Pets One of the best pets to own is a parrot. Parrots are very beautiful birds. They often do not need a cage. I love it when my parrot says "hello." Some parrots even whistle. Get a parrot and teach it to talk. Parrots as Pets Parrots are really messy pets. They spill seeds and fruit all over. They are not the best drinkers. They get water on the floor. Their feathers can even fall out. Don't get a parrot unless you like cleaning! Conclusion. There are good things and bad things about each pet. You have to decide whether the good things are great. You have to decide whether the bad things are okay for you. You also have to do research to see whether your house is good for a pet. Don't get a pet unless you have thought hard about it. But the right pet can be your best friend!She went by the name of Belisa Crepusculario, not because she had been baptized with that name or given it by her mother, but because she herself had searched until she found the poetry of "beauty" and "twilight" and cloaked herself in it. She made her living selling words. She journeyed through the country from the high cold mountains to the burning coasts, stopping at fairs and in markets where she set up four poles covered by a canvas awning under which she took refuge from the sun and rain to minister to her customers. She did not have to peddle her merchandise because from having wandered far and near, everyone knew who she was. Some people waited for her from one year to the next, and when she appeared in the village with her bundle beneath her arm, they would form a line in front of her stall. Her prices were fair. For five centavos she delivered verses from memory, for seven she improved the quality of dreams, for nine she wrote love letters, for twelve she invented insults for irreconcilable enemies. She also sold stories, not fantasies but long, true stories she recited at one telling, never skipping a word. This is how she carried news from one town to another. People paid her to add a line or two: our son was born, so-and-so died, our children got married, the crops burned in the field. Wherever she went a small crowd gathered around to listen as she began to speak, and that was how they learned about each others' doings, about distant relatives, about what was going on in the civil war. To anyone who paid her fifty centavos in trade, she gave the gift of a secret word to drive away melancholy. It was not the same word for everyone, naturally, because that would have been collective dece it. Each person received his or her own word, with the assurance that no one else would use it that way in this universe or the Beyond. Belisa Crepusculario had been born into a family so poor they did not even have names to give their children. She came into the world and grew up in an inhospitable land where some years the rains became avalanches of water that bore everything away before them and others when not a drop fell from the sky and the sun swelled to fill the horizon and the world became a desert. Until she was twelve, Belisa had no occupation or virtue other than having withstood hunger and the exhaustion of centuries. During one interminable drought, it fell to her to bury four younger brothers and sisters, when she realized that her turn was next, she decided to set out across the 2 plains in the direction of the sea, in hopes that she might trick death along the way. The land was eroded, split with deep cracks, strewn with rocks, fossils of trees and thorny bushes, and skeletons of animals bleached by the sun. From time to time she ran into families who, like her, were heading south, following the mirage of water. Some had begun the march carrying their belongings on their back or in small carts, but they could barely move their own bones, and after a while they had to abandon their possessions. They dragged themselves along painfully, their skin turned to lizard hide and their eyes burned by the reverberating glare. Belisa greeted them with a wave as she passed, but she did not stop, because she had no strength to waste in acts of compassion. Many people fell by the wayside, but she was so stubborn that she survived to cross through that hell and at long last reach the first trickles of water, fine, almost invisible threads that fed spindly vegetation and farther down widened into small streams and marshes. Belisa Crepusculario saved her life and in the process accidentally discovered writing. In a village near the coast, the wind blew a page of newspaper at her feet. She picked up the brittle yellow paper and stood a long while looking at it, unable to determine its purpose, until curiosity overcame her shyness. She walked over to a man who was washing his horse in the muddy pool where she had quenched her thirst. "What is this?" she asked. "The sports page of the newspaper," the man replied, concealing his surprise at her ignorance. The answer astounded the girl, but she did not want to seem rude, so she merely inquired about the significance of the fly tracks scattered across the page. "Those are words, child. Here it says that Fulgencio Barba knocked out El Negro Tiznao in the third round." That was the day Belisa Crepusculario found out that words make their way in the world without a master, and that anyone with a little cleverness can appropriate them and do business with them. She made a quick assessment of her situation and concluded that aside from becoming a prostitute or working as a servant in the kitchens of the rich there were few occupations she was qualified for. It seemed to her that selling words would be an honorable alternative. From that moment on, she worked at that profession, and was never tempted by any other. At the beginning, she offered her merchandise unaware that words could be written outside of newspapers. When she learned otherwise, she calculated the infinite possibilities of her trade and with her savings paid a priest twenty pesos to teach her to read and write, with her three 3 remaining coins she bought a dictionary. She poured over it from A to Z and then threw it into the sea, because it was not her intention to defraud her customers with packaged words. One August morning several years later, Belisa Crepusculario was sitting in her tent in the middle of a plaza, surrounded by the uproar of market day, selling legal arguments to an old man who had been trying for sixteen years to get his pension. Suddenly she heard yelling and thudding hoofbeats. She looked up from her writing and saw, first, a cloud of dust, and then a band of horsemen come galloping into the plaza. They were the Colonel's men, sent under orders of El Mulato, a giant known throughout the land for the speed of his knife and his loyalty to his chief. Both the Colonel and El Mulato had spent their lives fighting in the civil war, and their names were ineradicably linked to devastation and calamity. The rebels swept into town like a stampeding herd, wrapped in noise, bathed in sweat, and leaving a hurricane of fear in their trail. Chickens took wing, dogs ran for their lives, women and children scurried out of sight, until the only living soul left in the market was Belisa Crepusculario. She had never seen El Mulato and was surprised to see him walking toward her. "I'm looking for you," he shouted, pointing his coiled whip at her, even before the words were out, two men rushed her -- knocking over her canopy and shattering her inkwell -- bound her hand and foot, and threw her like a sea bag across the rump of El Mulato's mount. Then they thundered off toward the hills. Hours later, just as Belisa Crepusculario was near death, her heart ground to sand by the pounding of the horse, they stopped, and four strong hands set her down. She tried to stand on her feet and hold her head high, but her strength failed her and she slumped to the ground, sinking into a confused dream. She awakened several hours later to the murmur of night in the camp, but before she had time to sort out the sounds, she opened her eyes and found herself staring into the impatient glare of El Mulato, kneeling beside her. "Well, woman, at last you've come to," he said. To speed her to her senses, he tipped his canteen and offered her a sip of liquor laced with gunpowder. She demanded to know the reason for such rough treatment, and El Mulato explained that the Colonel needed her services. He allowed her to splash water on her face, and then led her to the far end of the camp where the most feared man in all the land was lazing in a hammock strung between two trees. She could not see his face, because he lay in the deceptive shadow of the leaves and the indelible shadow of all his years as a bandit, but she imagined from the way his 4 gigantic aide addressed him with such humility that he must have a very menacing expression. She was surprised by the Colonel's voice, as soft and well-modulated as a professor's. "Are you the woman who sells words?" he asked. "At your service," she stammered, peering into the dark and trying to see him better. The Colonel stood up, and turned straight toward her. She saw dark skin and the eyes of a ferocious puma, and she knew immediately that she was standing before the loneliest man in the world. "I want to be President," he announced. The Colonel was weary of riding across that godforsaken land, waging useless wars and suffering defeats that no subterfuge could transform into victories. For years he had been sleeping in the open air, bitten by mosquitoes, eating iguanas and snake soup, but those minor inconveniences were not why he wanted to change his destiny. What truly troubled him was the terror he saw in people's eyes. He longed to ride into a town beneath a triumphal arch with bright flags and flowers everywhere, he wanted to be cheered, and be given newly laid eggs and freshly baked bread. Men fled at the sight of him, children trembled, and women miscarried from fright, he had had enough, and so he had decided to become President. El Mulato had suggested that they ride to the capital, gallop up to the Palace, and take over the government, the way they had taken so many other things without anyone's permission. The Colonel, however, did not want to be just another tyrant, there had been enough of those before him and, besides, if he did that, he would never win people's hearts. It was his aspiration to win the popular vote in the December elections. "To do that, I have to talk like a candidate. Can you sell me the words for a speech?" the Colonel asked Belisa Crepusculario. She had accepted many assignments, but none like this. She did not dare refuse, fearing that El Mulato would shoot her between the eyes, or worse still, that the Colonel would burst into tears. There was more to it than that, however, she felt the urge to help him because she felt a throbbing warmth beneath her skin, a powerful desire to touch that man, to fondle him, to clasp him in her arms. All night and a good part of the following day, Belisa Crepusculario searched her repertory for words adequate for a presidential speech, closely watched by El Mulato, who could not take his eyes from her firm wanderer's legs and virginal breasts. She discarded harsh, cold words, words 5 that were too flowery, words worn from abuse, words that offered improbable promises, untruthful and confusing words, until all she had left were words sure to touch the minds of men and women's intuition. Calling upon the knowledge she had purchased from the priest for twenty pesos, she wrote the speech on a sheet of paper and then signaled El Mulato to untie the rope that bound her ankles to a tree. He led her once more to the Colonel, and again she felt the throbbing anxiety that had seized her when she first saw him. She handed him the paper and waited while he looked at it, holding it gingerly between thumbs and fingertips. "What the shit does this say," he asked finally. "Don't you know how to read?" "War's what I know," he replied. She read the speech aloud. She read it three times, so her client could engrave it on his memory. When she finished, she saw the emotion in the faces of the soldiers who had gathered round to listen, and saw that the Colonel's eyes glittered with enthusiasm, convinced that with those words the presidential chair would be his. "If after they've heard it three times, the boys are still standing there with their mouths hanging open, it must mean the thing's damn good, Colonel" was El Mulato's approval. "All right, woman. How much do I owe you?" the leader asked. "One peso, Colonel." "That's not much," he said, opening the pouch he wore at his belt, heavy with proceeds from the last foray. "The peso entitles you to a bonus. I'm going to give you two secret words," said Belisa Crepusculario. "What for?" She explained that for every fifty centavos a client paid, she gave him the gift of a word for his exclusive use. The Colonel shrugged. He had no interest at all in her offer, but he did not want to be impolite to someone who had served him so well. She walked slowly to the leather stool where he was sitting, and bent down to give him her gift. The man smelled the scent of a mountain cat issuing from the woman, a fiery heat radiating from her hips, he heard the terrible whisper of her hair, and a breath of sweetmint murmured into his ear the two secret words that were his alone. "They are yours, Colonel," she said as she stepped back. "You may use them as much as you 6 please." El Mulato accompanied Belisa to the roadside, his eyes as entreating as a stray dog's, but when he reached out to touch her, he was stopped by an avalanche of words he had never heard before; believing them to be an irrevocable curse, the flame of his desire was extinguished. During the months of September, October, and November the Colonel delivered his speech so many times that had it not been crafted from glowing and durable words it would have turned to ash as he spoke. He travelled up and down and across the country, riding into cities with a triumphal air, stopping in even the most forgotten villages where only the dump heap betrayed a human presence, to convince his fellow citizens to vote for him. While he spoke from a platform erected in the middle of the plaza, El Mulato and his men handed out sweets and painted his name on all the walls in gold frost. No one paid the least attention to those advertising ploys; they were dazzled by the clarity of the Colonel's proposals and the poetic lucidity of his arguments, infected by his powerful wish to right the wrongs of history, happy for the first time in their lives. When the Candidate had finished his speech, his soldiers would fire their pistols into the air and set off firecrackers, and when finally they rode off, they left behind a wake of hope that lingered for days on the air, like the splendid memory of a comet's tail. Soon the Colonel was the favorite. No one had ever witnessed such a phenomenon: a man who surfaced from the civil war, covered with scars and speaking like a professor, a man whose fame spread to every corner of the land and captured the nation's heart. The press focused their attention on him. Newspapermen came from far away to interview him and repeat his phrases, and the number of his followers and enemies continued to grow. "We're doing great, Colonel," said El Mulato, after twelve successful weeks of campaigning. But the Candidate did not hear. He was repeating his secret words, as he did more and more obsessively. He said them when he was mellow with nostalgia; he murmured them in his sleep; he carried them with him on horseback; he thought them before delivering his famous speech; and he caught himself savoring them in his leisure time. And every time he thought of those two words, he thought of Belisa Crepusculario, and his senses were inflamed with the memory of her feral scent, her fiery heat, the whisper of her hair, and her sweetmint breath in his ear, until he began to go around like a sleepwalker, and his men realized that he might die before he ever sat in the presidential chair. "What's got hold of you, Colonel," El Mulato asked so often that finally one day his chief broke 7 down and told him the source of his befuddlement: those two words that were buried like two daggers in his gut. "Tell me what they are and maybe they'll lose their magic," his faithful aide suggested. "I can't tell them, they're for me alone," the Colonel replied. Saddened by watching his chief decline like a man with a death sentence on his head, El Mulato slung his rifle over his shoulder and set out to find Belisa Crepusculario. He followed her trail through all that vast country, until he found her in a village in the far south, sitting under her tent reciting her rosary of news. He planted himself, spraddle-legged, before her, weapon in hand. "You! You're coming with me," he ordered. She had been waiting. She picked up her inkwell, folded the canvas of her small stall, arranged her shawl around her shoulders, and without a word took her place behind El Mulato's saddle. They did not exchange so much as a word in all the trip; El Mulato's desire for her had turned into rage, and only his fear of her tongue prevented his cutting her to shreds with his whip. Nor was he inclined to tell her that the Colonel was in a fog, and that a spell whispered into his ear had done what years of battle had not been able to do. Three days later they arrived at the encampment, and immediately, in view of all the troops, El Mulato led his prisoner before the Candidate. "I brought this witch here so you can give her back her words, Colonel," El Mulato said, pointing the barrel of his rifle at the woman's head. "And then she can give you back your manhood." The Colonel and Belisa Crepusculario stared at each other, measuring one another from a distance. The men knew then that their leader would never undo the witchcraft of those accursed words, because the whole world could see the voracious-puma eyes soften as the woman walked to him and took his hand in hers. Copyright © 1989 by Isabel Allende From The Stories of Eva Luna, Translated by Margaret Sayers PedenWhen Europeans met American Indians in the late 15th century, the people of two continents exchanged many beneficial customs and goods. Europeans received New World crops such as potatoes and corn. American Indians acquired cloth and horses. However, besides the beneficial exchanges, Europeans and American Indians often traded deadly germs–bacteria and viruses–for which they had no immunity. Smallpox and Indians Image 1: Smallpox epidemics helped Europeans conquer the Aztec and Incan Empires of Mexico and South America. North American Indians quickly concluded that contact with Europeans often resulted in devastating diseases that caused widespread death. This drawing, made in the 1500s in Mexico, shows how the disease was passed from a European to an American Indian through simple contact. Many of the diseases that were common in Europe were entirely new to the peoples of North America. Diseases such as tuberculosis and measles could be fatal, but Europeans had developed resistance to the disease, so many people survived. However, when European diseases infected American Indians with no previous exposure, the people suffered terribly. The most devastating of these diseases was smallpox which is caused by a virus (Variola major). Smallpox, like many other diseases, had a latent period of about one week between the time the person was exposed to the disease and the time when signs of the disease became apparent. During this time, the sick person might begin a journey and carry the germs along with him. Anyone the person met would be exposed to smallpox. Anything the victim touched including clothing, bedding, or unwashed dishes carried living germs of smallpox. Cotton Mather Image 2: Cotton Mather was a Boston minister. When smallpox threatened Boston, he remembered reading about how the Turks inoculated people with dried material from smallpox blisters. The inoculation usually gave the person a mild case of the disease and future immunity. The procedure was highly controversial, but it helped save the lives of 274 people who were inoculated during the Boston smallpox epidemic of 1721. Symptoms of the disease began with fever, chills, and aches. The fever might raise a person’s temperature from the normal 98.6o to a dangerous 106o. After four days of misery, the victim entered the second stage when large pustules (fluid-filled bumps) appeared on the body. The rash made the person feel as if their skin were on fire. After suffering with the rash for nine days, the victim entered a new stage-if he or she had survived this long. The pustules opened and dried up. Each pustule formed a scab that turned into a scar that marked the person’s face for the rest of his or her life. Complications of smallpox for those who survived might include loss of vision or damage to the lungs, heart, or liver. Waterhouse Image 3: Dr. Benjamin Waterhouse of Harvard University brought Jenner’s smallpox preventative to the United States. It was called vaccination and used cowpox as the infective material. This much milder form of pox gave immunity to smallpox with fewer complications. Dr. Waterhouse encouraged President-elect Thomas Jefferson to promote vaccination. Jefferson responded, “Every friend of humanity must look with pleasure on this discovery, by which one evil more is withdrawn from the condition of man.” (T. Jefferson 12/25/1800 to Benjamin Waterhouse, December 25, 1800) Historians have found evidence of smallpox as far back as 1157 B.C. when the Egyptian pharaoh Ramses V apparently died of smallpox. From Egypt, where scientists believe smallpox began, the disease spread to Asia. Europeans began to experience periodic epidemics of smallpox in the14th century when Crusaders returning from the Middle East brought smallpox to Europe. People who survived the disease were immune and could not get smallpox again. This fact explains why epidemics struck periodically and the disease was not a constant threat to European societies. Smallpox Vaccination 1803 Image 4: Dr. Edward Jenner’s new smallpox vaccination (from cowpox) was widely accepted. This medical image was published by a Spanish physician to teach colonial doctors how to apply the vaccine to native Mexicans. The scratches were supposed to go through several stages of development as evidence that the vaccine had given the patient immunity. Vaccination was very effective in preventing smallpox epidemics among those who received the vaccine. In 1520, while Cortés was trying to conquer the Aztecs, smallpox broke out among the Spaniards and was transferred to the Aztecs. By 1527, the disease had migrated through Central America to Peru where it helped Pizarro conquer the Incas. (See Image 1.) In 1633, smallpox infected American Indians living near the English colony of Plymouth, Massachusetts. The disease traveled very quickly to tribes living far inland from the English colonies. In 1721, a smallpox epidemic threatened the English colonists of Boston. (See Image 2.) Cotton Mather, a Boston minister, wanted to inoculate people against the disease. He knew that Turkish healers took material from a dried smallpox scab and injected it into the body of a healthy person by scratching the surface of the skin. The patients developed a mild form of the disease from which they recovered. The procedure was highly controversial in Boston where about 280 Bostonians accepted inoculation. The epidemic infected more than half of the people living in Boston at the time. About 15% of those who got sick died of the disease. Among those who were inoculated, only six (2%) died of smallpox. The practice of inoculation spread to other English colonies, but not to the American Indian tribes living near the colonies. Late in the 18th century, British doctor Edward Jenner recognized that people who milked cows never came down with smallpox. They had already been infected with cowpox, a similar, but much milder disease that gave them immunity to smallpox. In 1796, Jenner inoculated a young man with cowpox virus he had collected from a milkmaid. The young man had a mild infection for less than 24 hours and recovered. Jenner’s efforts resulted in a widespread acceptance of vaccination (vaccine comes from Latin words meaning “taken from a cow”). By 1800, many Americans were receiving smallpox vaccinations. (See Image 3.) President Thomas Jefferson supported and encouraged the vaccination program in major American cities. (See Image 4.) By the middle of the 19th century, smallpox was under control, but broke out from time to time among unvaccinated people. Bismarck, Dakota Territory, experienced a small outbreak of smallpox in 1882. American Indians, however, were still subject to the disease in its most dangerous form.back up broadband chip device Appliance Application download driverless drone gadget Portable high-tech upload wirelessly afford affordable unaffordable develop developer development developing enable Able to Unable to invent inventor invention inventive perform performance reality real realistic Unreal Unrealistic user-friendly versatile wearable Updated Practical Available Feature Function Plug in Store Screen Addiction Addicted Fake Efficient Autonomous system Accurate Unnatural Pattern Simulate Unemployment Content creator Artistic sector Lose creativity Become less competent Capacity to improvise Surf the net Check Draft Brainstorm ideas Save timeED370 Homework and Practice Teachback