Aesop's Fables Aesop was a Greek fabulist credited with a collection of stories known as Aesop's Fables. The fables usually feature an important moral or "life lesson" that is usually wrapped up in a clever final pronouncement delivered with proverbial flair; "There's a time for work and a time for play", "Slow and steady wins the race", "Familiarity breeds contempt", and "A kindness is never wasted". Though Aesop's own story is a result of myth and legend, it is widely believed that he was a slave from Phrygia, around 600 BC. Aesop lived at the court of King Croesus, after having served many masters as a slave. He shared his wisdom and clever wit by telling humorous tales, while serving on several missions at the pleasure of the King. There are over 145 of Aesop's Fables here for you to enjoy -- this catalog of fables is also accesible from the Children's Library. We hope you take the time to share Aesop's Fables with your children and grandchildren or favorite nieces and nephews. Enjoy!
"The Fan Club" by Rona Maynard There was a ripple of dry, humorless laughter—almost, Laura thought, like the sound of a rattlesnake. Rachel stood before the class now, her face red, her heavy arms piled with boxes. Diane Goddard tossed back her head and winked at Steve. “Well, well, don’t we have lots of things to show,” said Miss Merrill. “But aren’t you going to put those boxes down, Rachel? No, no, not there!” “Man, that kid’s dumb,” Steve muttered, and his voice could be clearly heard all through the room. With a brisk rattle, Miss Merrill’s pen tapped the desk for silence. Rachel’s slow smile twitched at the corners. “Hurry and pick them up,” said Miss Merrill sharply. Rachel crouched on her knees and began very clumsily to gather her scattered treasures. “My—my speech is on shells.” A cold and stony silence had settled upon the room. “Lots of people collect shells, because they’re kind of pretty—sort of, and you just find them on the beach.” “Well, whaddaya know!” “Bet she got it at Woolworth’s,” somebody whispered.
Harrison Bergeron French Translation from Avice Robitaille. THE YEAR WAS 2081, and everybody was finally equal. They weren't only equal before God and the law. The Little Match Girl by Hans Christian Andersen Most terribly cold it was; it snowed, and was nearly quite dark, and evening-- the last evening of the year. In this cold and darkness there went along the street a poor little girl, bareheaded, and with naked feet. When she left home she had slippers on, it is true; but what was the good of that? They were very large slippers, which her mother had hitherto worn; so large were they; and the poor little thing lost them as she scuffled away across the street, because of two carriages that rolled by dreadfully fast. One slipper was nowhere to be found; the other had been laid hold of by an urchin, and off he ran with it; he thought it would do capitally for a cradle when he some day or other should have children himself. She crept along trembling with cold and hunger--a very picture of sorrow, the poor little thing! The flakes of snow covered her long fair hair, which fell in beautiful curls around her neck; but of that, of course, she never once now thought. "Someone is just dead!"
Autumn in Verse | Collections To poets, autumn often symbolizes change, maturity, wisdom, or the harvest. Explore many interpretations of Autumn in this collection of poetry by Emily Brontë, Emily Dickinson, Paul Lawrence Dunbar, Ellen Robena Field, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Edgar Allan Poe, William Shakespeare, Robert Louis Stevenson, and Richard Henry Wilde. Passages Nature, Poem 28: Autumn by Emily Dickinson from The Poems of Emily Dickinson: Series One The Morns are meeker than they were Love's Season by Paul Laurence Dunbar from Lyrics of Love and Laughter "When the bees are humming in the honeysuckle vine" Roses "Oh, wind of the spring–time, oh, free wind of May," Nature, Poem 49: November from The Poems of Emily Dickinson: Series Two Besides the autumn poets sing Time and Eternity, Poem 2 Going to heaven! Stanzas by Richard Henry Wilde from Florida: Essays and Poems The author contemplates the cyclical and temporary nature of life. Autumn Fires by Robert Louis Stevenson from A Child's Garden of Verses: Selected Poems Sympathy
EFLshorts | Short stories for EFL learners I Am a Zombie Filled With Love - by Isaac Marion By Isaac Marion I am a zombie, and it's not so bad. I'm learning to live with it. I'm sorry I can't properly introduce myself, but I don't have a name anymore. Before I became a zombie, I think I was a businessman or young professional of some kind. We like to joke and speculate about our remaining outfits, since these final fashion choices are usually the only indication of who we were before we became no-one. You were a plumber. It usually doesn't. No one I know has any specific memories. There are a few hundred of us living in a wide plain of dust outside some large city. But it makes me sad that we've forgotten our names. Today a group of us are going into town to find some food. The city where the people live is not that far. I guess the world has mostly ended, because the cities we wander through are decaying as fast as we are. In a cluster of broken down apartment buildings we find some people, and we eat them. Eating is not a pleasant business. I like her. I can read her name.
The Ransom Of Red Chief by O Henry IT LOOKED like a good thing: but wait till I tell you. We were down South, in Alabama -- Bill Driscoll and myself -- when this kidnapping idea struck us. It was, as Bill afterward expressed it, "during a moment of temporary mental apparition"; but we didn't find that out till later. There was a town down there, as flat as a flannel-cake, and called Summit, of course. Bill and me had a joint capital of about six hundred dollars, and we needed just two thousand dollars more to pull off a fraudulent town-lot scheme in Western Illinois with. We selected for our victim the only child of a prominent citizen named Ebenezer Dorset. About two miles from Summit was a little mountain, covered with a dense cedar brake. "Hey, little boy!" The boy catches Bill neatly in the eye with a piece of brick. "That will cost the old man an extra five hundred dollars," says Bill, climbing over the wheel. Bill was pasting court-plaster over the scratches and bruises on his features. "Ha! "I like this fine. "Me?"
Classic Short Stories--Bibliography This is a listing of the stories by author with mention of the books that the stories were taken from or mention of the person who so graciously supplied the story to Classic Short Stories. Bravo!! We have also added a word count for those who have a limited amount of time and would prefer to gauge the length of the story to the amount of time they have. Thomas Bailey Aldrich Aldrich, Thomas Bailey, Marjorie Daw, FAMILY BOOK OF BEST LOVED SHORT STORIES 189-207 (1954) Word Count: 7419. Honore de Balzac de Balzac, Honore, A Passion in the Desert, A TREASURY OF SHORT STORIES 60-69 (1947) Word Count: 5565. Ambrose Bierce Bierce, Ambrose, Beyond the Wall, submitted by Annalee Elliot (1999) Word Count: 3448. Paul Bowles Bowles, Paul, In the Red Room, submitted by Cathy Word Count: 3690. Willa Cather Cather, Willa, Paul's Case, ANTHOLOGY OF FAMOUS AMERICAN STORIES 681-697 (1953) Word Count: 8970. Anton Pavlovich Checkhov Stuart Cloete Richard Connell Roald Dahl Richard Harding Davis Fielding Dawson O.
Free Public Domain Books from the Classic Literature Library THE MACHINE STOPS ... E.M. Forster Imagine, if you can, a small room, hexagonal in shape, like the cell of a bee. It is lighted neither by window nor by lamp, yet it is filled with a soft radiance. There are no apertures for ventilation, yet the air is fresh. An electric bell rang. The woman touched a switch and the music was silent. "I suppose I must see who it is", she thought, and set her chair in motion. "Who is it?" But when she listened into the receiver, her white face wrinkled into smiles, and she said: "Very well. She touched the isolation knob, so that no one else could speak to her. "Be quick!" But it was fully fifteen seconds before the round plate that she held in her hands began to glow. "Kuno, how slow you are." He smiled gravely. "I really believe you enjoy dawdling." "I have called you before, mother, but you were always busy or isolated. "What is it, dearest boy? "Because I prefer saying such a thing. "Well?" "I want you to come and see me." Vashti watched his face in the blue plate. "But I can see you!" "Why?"
Haruki Murakami: The Second Bakery Attack Did you ever try to share something that impresses you very much with someone who impresses you very much, only to receive an impressive lack of appreciation? It's like taking landscape pictures from your vacation, and then showing them around. Just don't bother. This happened to me with Haruki Murakami. Murakami is a very talented, absorbing, inspiring writer who wrote the best short story I have ever read, "Sleep." I guess we must choose our cultural battles carefully. But if at least one person is searching for some electronic Murakami and is gratified by this page, my labor will not have been in vain. The Second Bakery Attack, by Haruki Murakami I'm still not sure I made the right choice when I told my wife about the bakery attack. If you look at it this way, it just so happens that I told my wife about the bakery attack. What reminded me of the bakery attack was an unbearable hunger. Our refrigerator contained not a single item that could be technically categorized as food. "We? "You?"
Internet Archive: Digital Library of Free Books, Movies, Music & Wayback Machine The Necklace by Guy de Maupassant The Necklace She was one of those pretty and charming girls born, as though fate had blundered over her, into a family of artisans. She had no marriage portion, no expectations, no means of getting known, understood, loved, and wedded by a man of wealth and distinction; and she let herself be married off to a little clerk in the Ministry of Education. Her tastes were simple because she had never been able to afford any other, but she was as unhappy as though she had married beneath her; for women have no caste or class, their beauty, grace, and charm serving them for birth or family, their natural delicacy, their instinctive elegance, their nimbleness of wit, are their only mark of rank, and put the slum girl on a level with the highest lady in the land. She suffered endlessly, feeling herself born for every delicacy and luxury. She had no clothes, no jewels, nothing. One evening her husband came home with an exultant air, holding a large envelope in his hand. "Nothing. "That's true.