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جــمان 11-11-2011 01:47 PM

السلام عليكم ..
عندي مجموعة قصص باللغة الانجليزية ..وابي تلخيص لها.
اتمنى اللي يقدر يساعدني لايبخل على وله دعوة في ضهر الغيب..

هذي القصص..

القصة الاولى..

Written and Illustrated by Teresa Ng
Based on an Ancient Chinese Tale by Po Chung-ling

Once there was an elderly widow, Chen Ma, who lived with her only son inside a forest in the Shanxi Province. Her son was one of the tiger hunters licensed by the local magistrate, following the same profession of his father and grandfather before him. His share of the profits from the sale of tiger skins, meat and bones was sufficient to keep the small mud hut well provisioned for himself and his old mother

جــمان 11-11-2011 01:49 PM

All was well until a particularly bitter winter. During a snowstorm, Chen Ma's son was separated from his fellow hunters and became food for a hungry tigress.
After her initial shock and grief subsided, Chen Ma took stock of her own utterly desperate situation -- an old woman left all alone. She went and implored the magistrate to provide her with compensation for the loss of her son, who was her only source of support. The magistrate decreed that henceforth, she would have a small share of profits from the kill of each tiger by the hunters. Needless to say, his decision was not taken well by the hunters, who had plenty of mouths of their own to feed -- both old and young.
So, when the hunters succeeded in killing the tigress that ate Chen Ma's son, they decided not to give her a share of the profits. Instead, they brought her the tigress' newborn cub. He was a small quivery ball of golden fur with wobbly legs and toothless gums. The rope they tied around his neck was so tight that it was practically choking him. Instantly, Chen Ma's heart went out to this helpless creature, whose jade-green eyes were glistening with tears

After the hunters left, the tiger cub wobbled to where Chen Ma sat and lay at her feet. She bent down to rub his ears and he licked her shoes with his soft tongue.
The elderly widow looked at the tiger baby and sighed. "They told me to butcher you, to salt and smoke your flesh for my meat supply. Your skin would make warm boots for my feet; your bones are good for making Tiger Bone Wine to ease the pain in my joints. But oh, how can I bear to kill you? You are so young and vital, while I am so old and frail

And so, Chen Ma untied the rope from the little tiger's neck and fed him a paste of cooked roots with her fingers. Her son had a good supply of grains and roots in the attached shed and she planned to stretch the food out to last the winter.
When the store of the firewood was running low, Chen Ma was unable to keep her bedroll on top of the kang warm (a kang is a bed base built of bricks with space for a small fire). So she slept curling against the baby tiger, whose soft fur was cozy and warm.
Once ever so often, women from nearby villages would bring sewing for Chen Ma to do. She was very handy with a needle. They paid her for her labor with dried venison and small sacks of grain. At first they did not find the little tiger's presence alarming; he was no bigger than a piglet. However, when spring came, he had grown into the size of a calf, showing a full set of teeth and claws. The women told their hunter husbands and the men came to kill the young tiger
Chen Ma armed herself with her son's hunting spear and threatened to gut anyone who dared to harm her beloved pet.
"I've lost both husband and son. This tiger is the only companion I have now. I shall go to the magistrate and request to adopt him as my son."
The hunters thought the old woman had become mad and jeered at her. But since she was so determined, they dared not kill her tiger without the magistrate's permission. So they followed Chen Ma and her tiger all the way to the official's judgment hall.
"Venerable Mother," said the magistrate. "Your request is most unusual. Are you not afraid that some day the tiger might revert to his wild nature and devour you?"
"Honorable sir," replied the old widow with tears in her eyes. "What is there to fear? I have lived too long. The only worry I have now is being left utterly alone. Please let me adopt this young tiger, for he has become like a son in my affections."
The kindly magistrate did not have the heart to refuse such an ancient woman's pleading. So he had his assistant draw up a document for the tiger's adoption.
In order to protect the tiger from the hunters' arrows and spears, the magistrate ordered a large copper pendent made to hang around the beast's neck. The words "Fu Chee" were engraved on the pendent meaning Tiger Son. To show her deep gratitude, Chen Ma knelt down in front of the magistrate and knocked her forehead three times. Then she led Fu Chee back to their home in the forest.
By next winter, Fu Chee had grown into his maximum size. Chen Ma's hut was in danger of collapsing whenever the tiger became playful. Reluctantly, she allowed Fu Chee to make his home inside a cave nearby.
However, the affectionate tiger came back to visit his adopted mother often, always bearing a gift in his mouth -- a dead deer or a large piece of tree branch. Also, he still liked to lick her shoes and to have his ears rubbed. Chen Ma's needs were being cared for just as if her natural son was still alive!
After Chen Ma died at the ripe old age past one hundred, the hunters noticed Fu Chee guarded her tomb nightly. They left him unmolested as he had never attacked any humans or domestic animals. This went on for a number of years and then one day the tiger was seen no more.
Out of deep respect and admiration for the filial tiger son, the hunters erected a small stone monument at Chen Ma's tomb with Fu Chee's story engraved on it. Henceforth, Fu Chee became a household legend in that part of Shanxi Province.
~ ~ The End

جــمان 11-11-2011 01:51 PM

القصة الثانية..

by Carol Moore

It was a day like the day before and the day after. The wind wrapped itself around the sod cabin in gusting moans as the pioneer family within carried out their tasks pretending not to hear. They heard the wind, however. It had been their constant companion on the open plains since their journey from Philadelphia two years before in the spring of 1865. Following the covered wagon train of ten, the wind had lifted the drab landscape into billows of dust falling on everyone and everything until there seemed but one color and one sound

- Page 2

Now Rachel sat on the bed hand-stitching a quilt while her mother hunched over a sewing machine across the room rocking her feet backwards and forwards on a foot treadle that turned the shaft that moved the needle. The thumping counter pointed the wind outside. Laughter and giggling erupted from Rachel's younger brother and sister playing jacks on the floor and it brought a smile to their sister's face, but when she glanced back at their mother she stopped smiling.

Rachel felt that her parents worked too hard. They rarely had fun or relaxation like they had enjoyed in Philadelphia. Now her father was always in the fields. Her mother prepared meals on a wood-stoked stove, did the laundry on a washboard, baked flatbread and sewed clothes to trade for goods in town. Rachel remembered her mother singing and telling stories at one time but that was before she had begun complaining about the wind and the dirt and the mud. Eventually she had stopped complaining, but she had stopped singing, too.
The door swung open and it was Rachel's father. Entering in a puff of dust, he coughed and wiped his forehead. "Mighty hot day out there."
"Well, I've got ale for you and flatbread too," replied his wife. She rose from the sewing machine and began setting the table as her husband eased himself into a chair.
"I know. I could smell it from outside. Smelled so good I came in early. What else have you all been up to while I was clearing rows with Molly and Bell?"
"Rachel's done with her quilt."
"Oh?" Rachel's father turned to look as his older daughter proudly showed off her masterpiece. It was a cheerful blooming of color with stitches outlining the squares.
"That's a mighty fine piece of work." He nodded. "How 'bout us going into town this Saturday. You can show off your quilt, your mother can take her flatbread, and I've got a bu******** of onions ready."
The young children whooped excitedly and Michael, the boy, began dancing around the room, lifting his knees and clapping. There was reason for jubilation. The 20-mile trip to town in the buckboard was a once-a-month affair to which everyone in the family looked forward.

The town of Wausa, Nebraska was not unlike other little towns that had sprung up to welcome the pioneers. It was a mix of old and new buildings with wood plank sidewalks and a wide main street of dirt to accommodate trains of oxen. In one of the newer buildings was the general store. Guarding the door was a wooden Indian and next to it hung a bird cage. The family stopped for a moment to look at the yellow bird inside.
When they stepped into the store it was a universe all its own. There was the scent of wood and soap and spice. The walls were lined with racks of crates and mason jars, and along the aisles were bu******** barrels of potatoes and apples. In the back neatly propped against the wall were bolts of fabric. While her brother and sister explored the store and her parents spoke with the grocer about their bread and onions, Rachel wandered back outside to look at the bird.
So bright a yellow it was a miniature piece of the sun in that dusty place. It hopped from perch to perch rarely standing still and as it hopped it kept its eyes on Rachel. Suddenly a shadow passed over the girl and startled, she looked up to see a Sioux Indian brave. Her heart beat faster. Indians sometimes came to town to barter although it was discouraged by the shopkeepers. Such a history of warfare existed between Indians and white settlers that no one felt safe. But this Indian was as fascinated by the bird as Rachel. He stared intently and then said something she couldn't understand. Seeing her puzzled face he repeated in English, "It listens to the wind."

Before Rachel could think about what he had said, the Indian turned and walked away. Her parents appeared a moment later, having seen him through the window.
"Are you all right?" asked her father.
Rachel nodded. "He was just looking at the canary."
At that moment the little bird lifted its head, swelled its chest, and sang out a joyous trill. Rachel saw her mother's face light up with delight.
Rachel traded her quilt for the canary and never regretted it because the little bird entertained them endlessly. Sir Gallant, they called him because he did battle with the wind. The louder the wind the more loudly he sang, competition so fierce that sometimes everyone burst out laughing. Sir Gallant lifted their spirits turning dust days back into sunshine days.
Rachel thought about what the Indian had said. She'd heard the wind but unlike the canary she'd never listened to it. Now when she tried she could hear music in the moaning. Of course the music was faint and hidden in the background and she needed her imagination, but it was there if she truly listened. She began humming the sounds she heard. "That's a pretty tune" her mother commented one day, "what song is that?" Rachel didn't reply, unsure how to explain, and her mother didn't press the question. Soon she, too, began humming
Occasionally bachelor cowpokes stopped by the cabin to buy flatbread or to have their clothes mended. They were always welcomed, not for the money in their pocket but for their company. With no neighbors for twenty miles, it was lonely on the plains. The family and guests traded news, shared a meal, and were serenaded by Sir Gallant who was often the center of conversation.
One afternoon the younger daughter Mary noticed the canary sitting motionless on his perch. "Is Sir Gallant sick?" she asked in alarm.
"No. It's just a dark day outside," her mother reassured her. "It'll be raining soon and he probably doesn't feel like singing."
The younger children accepted this explanation but not Rachel. She knew that while Sir Gallant stopped singing from time to time, he had always hopped about his cage. She went to the door and looked outside. It was deathly quiet, no wind or sounds of birds or prairie dogs. She saw the outline of her father with the two oxen in the north field and at the same time she saw black thunderclouds stacked high into the sky. There was a heaviness to the air and a prickly feeling.
The Indian's words echoed in her mind. "It listens to the wind."
Rachel thought about Sir Gallant's odd behavior and the angry thunderclouds and how strange it felt. Straining to hear, she caught a faint rumbling and it was the sound of thunder.
Suddenly Rachel knew. She absolutely knew they were in danger. "Mom," she shouted. "It's a tornado!"
Immediately Mary and Michael began screaming as their mother gathered them up and, along with Sir Gallant, rushed outside. The safest place was the root cellar at the side of the house. Throwing open the cellar doors, the mother yelled to Rachel to warn her father.
Rachel took off running across the field shouting and waving her arms, but not until she was halfway across did she get his attention.
"What's wrong?" he yelled.
It was another moment before she reached him. "Tornado."
His eyes searched the horizon. "I don't see anything, but I can bring in Molly and Bell anyway. I'll come back to the house."
"No! There's no time. Listen!" Rachel was close to hysterical and because she never lied or played tricks, he did as she asked. Finally able to hear the rumbling he jumped to action. Releasing the yoke from the harnesses on the oxen he turned them free and then grabbed Rachel's arm and they began to run. By the time they reached the sod cabin, the tornado was visible, rain drenched their bodies and a thunderous roaring pounded the air.

The tornado lasted only minutes although it felt like hours. When the family emerged from their ********ter they were relieved to find their sod cabin intact. Fortunately the oxen, too, had escaped although the scarred earth proved the north field had been in the center of the tornado's path. The loss of crops would make things more difficult, but they felt blessed to be alive. They also felt divine intervention had come in the form of a little yellow bird

جــمان 11-11-2011 01:51 PM

Wind Song - Page 5

The woman stood in the door of the attic and sighed. Gray and dusty in the half light, the room was filled with old furniture, boxes and a thousand forgotten memories. She had inherited its contents from her grandmother and now faced the chore of deciding the fate of each piece. Attracted to an old sewing machine, so old that it had a foot treadle, she opened the top drawer. Amidst the buttons and needles and scissors was a tiny bundle of lace neatly tied with ribbon. Curious she picked it up and unwrapped it. To her surprise she found she was unfolding the burial cloth of a canary, its body long ago dried up but carefully preserved. Holding it in her right hand she stared, perplexed, and quite unconsciously put her left hand over her heart.

This story was inspired by an article I read in a magazine years ago. Inheriting her grandmother's sewing machine (who had been a pioneer in one of the plains states), the author of that article found the wrapped body of a canary in one of its drawers. Intrigued she had done research, discovering just how much the pioneers had loved these little birds. The article included the photograph of a prairie cabin with three cages of canaries hanging from its eaves

جــمان 11-11-2011 01:52 PM

القصة الثالثة..

Sliver Pete
by Carol Moore
I've never told this story before, but just the same I'm telling you now.
I was a boy of 8 in 1885 and I lived in a small town out west with my baby sister and my folks who ran the local delivery stable. It might not have been such a bad place except for one man.
His name was Sliver Pete and we thought him the meanest, ugliest, most cussed hombre that ever packed a gun and it was well known he carried a Colt 45. He didn't much like to work, was a cowpoke a few months out of the year and the rest of the time he played and cheated at cards and killed anybody who called him on it. Then for recreation or just pure spite he killed every sheriff that ever tried to arrest him. There wasn't a soul that didn't fear Sliver Pete, even my Father.
The townspeople ended up offering a reward of $20,000 to anyone who could either run Sliver Pete out of town or put him in his grave. Mind you, that was a fortune in those days but when Sliver Pete heard there was a price on his head he just laughed and shot up the saloon and then the bakery. He said he was worth much more money than that. And when stranger after stranger came to collect the reward they came to stay because Sliver Pete put them in the town cemetery.
One very windy day the stagecoach arrived in town with an unusual passenger. I was there to witness it because it was my duty to water the stagecoach horses. The stagecoach door swung open and a single man, tall and gaunt and dressed in a brown/black coat and hat, with a white collar, stepped out. I had seen pictures of Abraham Lincoln and that is who this man reminded me of, although I knew Abraham Lincoln would not have been wearing a preacher's clothes. He waved the coachman away as he reached for his own trunk off the roof of the coach. The trunk was wrapped in a blue cloth that flapped in the wind although partially tied with a rope. Just as he got it to the ground a gust tore at the material and I clearly saw the writing on its side. He grabbed the cloth and stuffed it back into place, glancing straight at me. Then he smiled a slow smile, winked, and put his index finger to his mouth as if to say we shared a secret. That's the only incident I saw myself and all the rest I heard secondhand through either my folks or my friends.
The man called himself Preacher Dan. He said he hadn't come to stay but he was in our town on the Lord's business to get money to build a church. He'd already acquired most of it, but people were surprised when he said he planned on making the remainder by playing cards and that God had told him he would win the rest that he needed in just one night. Although such behavior was improper for a preacher nobody questioned it. He had a quiet manner and quick smile and, anyway, strangers never stayed too long.
That afternoon the card game started early. Among the four players around the table was Sliver Pete. Sliver Pete was his mean self, slouched in his chair with a whisky at his elbow. I was told Preacher Dan didn't say a word the first hour although he smiled readily enough if anyone caught his eye.
The first two games were won by Mike McGrew and Tom Eider, town regulars. The purse was small. There was static in the air like just before an electric storm. The third game the purse grew bigger and Sliver Pete won this round. He smiled for the first time and Preacher Dan smiled back.
"Nice going." the Preacher said. "I see the Lord's in need of help tonight."
Sliver Pete smirked.
But Preacher Dan wasn't finished. "I been eyeing that gun of yours. May I see it?"
The room grew suddenly quiet as Sliver Pete's smile vanished as quick as a Bluetail fly beneath a horse's tail swat. "No man touches my gun but me."
"Oh. I didn't mean anything by it," the Preacher grinned. "You know I'm not a man. Just a messenger of God. Don't usually cotton to guns either, but I hear you're right handy with one and I sure wanted to see the smoker that's done the damage."
Perhaps it was the hint of admiration in his voice, or maybe God intervened to soften Sliver's mood, but to everyone's surprise, Sliver Pete unholstered his Colt 45 and put it on the table. His eyes glowered about the room as if daring anybody to disapprove.
Preacher Dan calmly retrieved the gun and examined it thoroughly, looking up the barrel and bouncing it gently in his hand to weigh it. Suddenly, unaccountably it slipped from his fingers onto the floor. Kerplunk...
Sliver Pete jumped to his feet, sliding his chair back with a squeal. But just as quick the Preacher leaned over and retrieved the gun, wiping it with his jacket hem and sleeve. "Sorry 'bout that," he said, handing it back.
"Better sorry than dead," growled Sliver Pete. But there was a noticeable sigh of relief from the room as he holstered the 45 and sat back down.
After that things seemed to pick up speed as the bets got bigger. Mike McGrew pushed away from the table. "Too rich for my blood," he said. Now there were three left at the table, including Sliver and the Preacher, and Sliver Pete was winning big time. He had a small mountain of bills and coins and, recklessly, was playing for bigger and bigger stakes.
If Preacher Dan felt pressure he didn't show it although all his Church money was fast going to Sliver Pete. At last, just before dusk, the last call of cards came and Sliver had won it all. He wrapped his burly arms about the pot and began drawing it to him.
"Just a moment." The voice was soft and deadly and a startled Sliver didn't at first realize it came from the Preacher who added, "You been cheating all night and if you take that money now you can add thievery to the deed."
Sliver's hand went to his gun, but knowing the Preacher didn't carry a gun he held it there like a threat. "I don't cheat and I don't let no one call me one neither. Not even a preacher."
"Is that so? Let the Lord decide. That is, if you care to take your fight to the street where it's right and proper and you're not afraid to meet your maker," said the Preacher.
"Why, you don't even own a gun," sneered Sliver, "And you wouldn't know to shoot one anyhow." He literally spit out the words.
"I'm no match, that fact's assured. But God said I'd have that money tonight and you won't make him a liar." The Preacher's eyes narrowed with serious intent. "So long as someone here sees fit to loan me his gun, whomever remains standing will have spoke the truth."
Because Sliver Pete had never turned down a gunfight in his life and the Preacher was handed a gunbelt with two guns by the bartender, they ended up outside at opposite ends of the street. A small crowd gathered, not so much to witness Sliver Pete kill another man, but in sympathetic support of a foolish preacher who was about to die for the sake of his church.
The two men stood there a seeming eternity, each with their gun hand poised and ready. Then gun fire rang out and the look and smell of gun smoke filled the air. Sliver Pete blew away the smoke at end of his gun barrel as he saw the tall figure of Preacher Dan hit the dirt. Cries of anguish came from womenfolk in the crowd.
But Sliver Pete was unconcerned and made it a point to look bored. He had holstered his gun and started his walk back to the saloon when he noticed the body of the Preacher begin to move. Now Sliver Pete had never failed to kill with his first shot and he watched, fascinated, as the Preacher stood up and again pointed his borrowed gun. So Sliver Pete had to shoot him again, actually two shots just to be sure. The Preacher fell like a cut tree, straight down with his face in the dirt.
Sliver wiped his forehead with his gun hand still holding the gun and his eyes steady on the body of the Preacher. But what he hadn't expected to happen happened yet again. The crowd gasped as they saw the Preacher struggle once more to his feet.
This time Sliver Pete didn't even give the Preacher a chance to aim. For the first time in his life there was fear in his expression. Two gun shots rang out and the Preacher pitched over.
The crowd edged back from the street. There was something decidedly unnerving and otherworldly about this gunfight when a man wouldn't stay dead. It occurred to them maybe the Preacher had spoke the truth about his conversation with God. The same thing had occurred to Sliver Pete, because with a pale face he very slowly approached the body. He was 20 feet away when the Preacher again struggled to his knees and then his feet, this time holding out his hand palm up as if to say, "You owe me that money". The Preacher's black eyes bored into and through Sliver Pete and understandably Sliver responded with panic, this time aiming at the Preacher's head. It was his last bullet.
As the shot rang out Preacher Dan's hand slapped his forehead and his body swung a complete circle before falling face down into the dirt. Nobody and nothing moved except a corner of the Preacher's black jacket caught by a gust of wind. Sliver Pete was shaking so bad he simply couldn't tear his gaze off that body and the crowd looked from him to it and didn't know which was more incredible. They'd never seen Sliver Pete so afraid nor witnessed a dead man come back to life before.
Then there was a small movement just at the waist. A bird, a white dove, struggled free from beneath the body and with a gentle "coo, coo," flapped its wings and flew up into a cloudy sky and disappeared from sight.
Now I don't know what you would make of that, but the townsfolk and Sliver Pete both saw it as a sign from God. Truly this had been God's messenger and Sliver Pete had just killed the messenger. Unnerved he began backing away and had gotten 10 steps when the Preacher's body twitched and slowly pulled itself upwards to a standing position.
"Where are you going?" it boomed in a deep, sepulcher voice from the grave. "You owe me the Lord's money."
Sliver Pete simply fell apart. He gave a strangled squeak of terror, dropped his gun, whirled on his heels and ran up the street until he was out of sight. The stunned crowd watched him go before setting their fearful gaze back on the Preacher. Standing straight he flashed them a wide, friendly smile and suddenly didn't look so dead. True, there was blood on his forehead but with one sweep of his sleeve it mysteriously disappeared.
"That's one problem you won't see again," he said in a voice again friendly. "And don't worry yourselves 'bout me. Except, that is, unless you don't want to make good on your promise of a reward for getting rid of that snake Sliver Pete." He winked.
The townsfolk were happy to give Preacher Dan the reward. He didn't even collect all of it, only half, leaving the rest for the town church. Nobody ever heard from Sliver Pete again, although it was rumored he hadn't stopped running 'til he'd got to New Mexico, married and become a farmer, never to touch a gun again. People couldn't stop talking about how a man could be shot six times and rise up as if he hadn't been shot at all. But no one dared ask Preacher Dan to explain it and he left town so it remained a mystery to everyone except me.
You see, I remembered the day I saw the writing on the side of his trunk revealed by a pesky wind. It had said, "Dan the Magnificent. Magician's Illusions Great and Small." So Preacher Dan was not a preacher, but a gifted magician. I figure when he dropped Sliver Pete's gun at the card table he switched it for one with blanks. The white dove had just been for effect. Here was a man schooled in the ways of human nature and he had done us a great favor while being paid for his services. I thought at that time far be it for me to give away his secrets.
Some say it wasn't a preacher or even a dead man that got up off that dusty road, but an angel of the Lord himself, and in a manner of speaking that might be so.
But only God, Dan the Magnificent, and me -- and now you -- really knows the truth of what happened on that windy day in 1885

جــمان 11-11-2011 01:53 PM

وياليت اذا كان القصص فيها أخطاء شرعية تبلغوني ..
لأني ماأعرف معناها..
الله يوفقكم..

جــمان 11-11-2011 03:22 PM

تكفون ساعدوني والله محتاجها في الجامعة ..
ضروري الاحد يبونها..

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