NCERT Class 12 English Part 2 PDF

 Flamingo Textbook in English for Class XII (Core Course)  ISBN 81-7450-650-0 First Edition ALL RIGHTS RESERVED January 2007 Pausa 1928...

 Flamingo Textbook in English for Class XII (Core Course)  ISBN 81-7450-650-0 First Edition ALL RIGHTS RESERVED January 2007 Pausa 1928 ◆✁✂✄☎✆✝✂✁✞✂✝✟✠✡✂✄☛☞✌✠✍☎✝✠✁✎✂✏☎✑✂☞✒✂✆✒✄✆✁✓☛✍✒✓✔✂✡✝✁✆✒✓✂✠✎✂☎✂✆✒✝✆✠✒✕☎✌ Reprinted ✡✑✡✝✒✏✂✁✆✂✝✆☎✎✡✏✠✝✝✒✓✔✂✠✎✂☎✎✑✂✞✁✆✏✂✁✆✂☞✑✂☎✎✑✂✏✒☎✎✡✔✂✒✌✒✍✝✆✁✎✠✍✔ January 2009 Magha 1930 ✏✒✍✟☎✎✠✍☎✌✔✂✄✟✁✝✁✍✁✄✑✠✎♠✔✂✆✒✍✁✆✓✠✎♠✂✁✆✂✁✝✟✒✆✖✠✡✒✂✖✠✝✟✁☛✝✂✝✟✒✂✄✆✠✁✆ ✄✒✆✏✠✡✡✠✁✎✂✁✞✂✝✟✒✂✄☛☞✌✠✡✟✒✆♣ ❚✟✠✡✂☞✁✁✗✂✠✡✂✡✁✌✓✂✡☛☞✘✒✍✝✂✝✁✂✝✟✒✂✍✁✎✓✠✝✠✁✎✂✝✟☎✝✂✠✝✂✡✟☎✌✌✂✎✁✝✔✂☞✑✂✖☎✑✂✁✞ PD 230T MJ ✝✆☎✓✒✔✂✂☞✒✂✌✒✎✝✔✂✂✆✒t✡✁✌✓✔✂✟✠✆✒✓✂✁☛✝✂✁✆✂✁✝✟✒✆✖✠✡✒✂✓✠✡✄✁✡✒✓✂✁✞✂✖✠✝✟✁☛✝ ✝✟✒✂✄☛☞✌✠✡✟✒✆✙✡✂✍✁✎✡✒✎✝✔✂✠✎✂☎✎✑✂✞✁✆✏✂✁✞✂☞✠✎✓✠✎♠✂✁✆✂✍✁✕✒✆✂✁✝✟✒✆✂✝✟☎✎ © National Council of ✝✟☎✝✂✠✎✂✖✟✠✍✟✂✠✝✂✠✡✂✄☛☞✌✠✡✟✒✓♣ Educational Research ❚✟✒✂✍✁✆✆✒✍✝✂✄✆✠✍✒✂✁✞✂✝✟✠✡✂✄☛☞✌✠✍☎✝✠✁✎✂✠✡✂✝✟✒✂✄✆✠✍✒✂✄✆✠✎✝✒✓✂✁✎✂✝✟✠✡ ✄☎♠✒✔✂✚✎✑✂✆✒✕✠✡✒✓✂✄✆✠✍✒✂✠✎✓✠✍☎✝✒✓✂☞✑✂☎✂✆☛☞☞✒✆✂✡✝☎✏✄✂✁✆✂☞✑✂☎✂✡✝✠✍✗✒✆ and Training, 2007 ✁✆✂☞✑✂☎✎✑✂✁✝✟✒✆✂✏✒☎✎✡✂✠✡✂✠✎✍✁✆✆✒✍✝✂☎✎✓✂✡✟✁☛✌✓✂☞✒✂☛✎☎✍✍✒✄✝☎☞✌✒♣ OFFICES OF THE PUBLICATION DEPARTMENT, NCERT ✛✜✢✣✤✥✜✦✧★✩✪ ❙✫✬✥✭✩✫✮✯✬✰✱✮✥✲✦✫✳ New Delhi 110 016 ✶✴✵✷✥✶✴✴✥✸✹✹✺✥✣✮✦✱ ❍✮✪✱✦✻✹✫✹✥❍✦✼✼✬✥✢✽✺✹✰✪✬✮✰ ❇✦✰✦✪✾✦✰✻✦✫✬✥✿✿✿✥❙✺✦✳✹ Bangalore 560 085 ✛✦❀❁✬❀✦✰✥✤✫✩✪✺✥❇✩✬✼✱✬✰✳ P❂❃❂✛✦❀❁✬❀✦✰ Ahmedabad 380 014 ✜❈✜✥✜✦✧★✩✪ Rs. 25.00 ❃★★❂✥❖✾✦✰✻✦✼✥❇✩✪✥❙✺✮★ P✦✰✬✾✦✺✬ K olkata 700 114 ✜❈✜✥✜✮✧★✼✹✽ ✲✦✼✬✳✦✮✰ Guwahati 781 021 Publication Team Head, Publication : P. Rajakumar Department Printed on 80 GSM paper with NCERT water mark Chief Production : Shiv Kumar Officer Published at the Publication Chief Editor : Shveta Uppal Department by the Secretary, National Council of Educational Chief Business : Gautam Ganguly Research and Training, Manager Sri Aurobindo Marg, Production Asstt. : Rajesh Pippal New Delhi 110 016 and printed at Shagun Offset Press, A-3, Cover, Layout and Illustrations Sector-5, NOIDA 201 301 Joel Gill  FOREWORD The National Curriculum Framework, 2005, recommends that children's life at school must be linked to their life outside the school. This principle marks a departure from the legacy of bookish learning which continues to shape our system and causes a gap between the school, home and community. The syllabi and textbooks developed on the basis of NCF signify an attempt to implement this basic idea. They also attempt to discourage rote learning and the maintenance of sharp boundaries between different subject areas. We hope these measures will take us significantly further in the direction of a child-centred system of education outlined in the National Policy on Education (1986). The success of this effort depends on the steps that school principals and teachers will take to encourage children to reflect on their own learning and to pursue imaginative activities and questions. We must recognise that, given space, time and freedom, children generate new knowledge by engaging with the information passed on to them by adults. Treating the prescribed textbook as the sole basis of examination is one of the key reasons why other resources and sites of learning are ignored. Inculcating creativity and initiative is possible if we perceive and treat children as participants in learning, not as receivers of a fixed body of knowledge. These aims imply considerable change in school routines and mode of functioning. Flexibility in the daily time-table is as necessary as rigour in implementing the annual calendar so that the required number of teaching days are actually devoted to teaching. The methods used for teaching and evaluation will also determine how effective this textbook proves for making children's life at school a happy experience, rather than a source of stress or boredom. Syllabus designers have tried to address the problem of curricular burden by restructuring and reorienting knowledge at different stages with greater consideration for child psychology and the time available for teaching. The textbook attempts to enhance this endeavour by giving higher priority and space to (iii)  opportunities for contemplation and wondering, discussion in small groups, and activities requiring hands-on experience. The National Council of Educational Research and Training (NCERT) appreciates the hard work done by the Textbook Development Committee responsible for this book. We wish to thank the Chairperson of the advisory group in Languages, Professor Namwar Singh and the Chief Advisor for this book, Professor Amritavalli for guiding the work of this committee. Several teachers contributed to the development of this textbook; we are grateful to their principals for making this possible. We are indebted to the institutions and organisations which have generously permitted us to draw upon their resources, material and personnel. We are especially grateful to the members of the National Monitoring Committee, appointed by the Department of Secondary and Higher Education, Ministry of Human Resource Development under the Chairmanship of Professor Mrinal Miri and Professor G.P. Deshpande, for their valuable time and contribution. As an organisation committed to systemic reform and continuous improvement in the quality of its products, NCERT welcomes comments and suggestions which will enable us to undertake further revision and refinement. Director New Delhi National Council of Educational 20 November 2006 Research and Training (iv)  ABOUT THE BOOK This textbook for Class XII English course has been developed on the basis of the recommendations made in the National Curriculum Framework 2005. It follows the design of the Class XI textbook, Hornbill, published in 2006. The prose selections aim to provide exposure to a wide variety of genres and themes, and writing from different parts of the world. They take into account the interests of young adults while making them aware of the socio-political issues that they will confront as they step into the world outside school. The tasks that follow the units provide opportunities for the development of language skills. Three short stories, representative of fiction from different parts of the world - French, Swedish and British, have been included. Alphonse Daudet’s The Last Lesson deals with the theme of language imposition and language loyalty, Selma Lagelerof’s The Rattrap, captures the basic goodness in a human being in the face of material temptations and A.C. Barton’s Going Places explores the theme of adolescent hero-worship and fantasising. Two of the non-fiction pieces are biographical and two autobiographical. Of the two biographical pieces, Indigo, an excerpt from Louis Fischer’s Life of Mahatma Gandhi portrays Gandhi in action, helping peasants secure legal justice and the excerpt from Anees Jung’s Lost Spring is an account of the lives of street children, a contemporary reality that youngsters need to be made sensitive to. The autobiographical piece by William Douglas, a lawyer who was a close associate of Franklin Roosevelt, deals with his personal experience of overcoming the fear of swimming. The second autobiographical account is by Asokamitran writing in a humorous vein about his years in the Gemini Studios. The Introduction from The Penguin Book of Interviews edited by Christopher Silvester has been included to introduce pupils to the subject of media writing. This is accompanied by a recent newspaper interview with Umberto Eco by Mukund Padmanabhan. (v)  Each Unit is interspersed with ‘Think as you read’ questions to check factual comprehension. This is followed by end-of-unit global questions and text-related issues to be taken up for discussion. Language work on vocabulary and sentence patterns is followed by writing tasks. Useful vocabulary is presented at the beginning of each unit for learners to notice them in the text and understand their meaning from the context. Annotations are added where necessary. ‘About the unit’ highlights the points of focus in the tasks section following each text. The poetry section has six poems. A short excerpt from Keats’ Endymion has been chosen to give pupils a taste of classical poetry, lines which have universal appeal and eternal value. Robert Frost’s A Roadside Stand is on the rural-urban economic divide. The other four poems are by reputed contemporary poets including two women, Kamala Das and Adrienne Rich. While the theme of Das’ poem, My Mother at Sixty-six touches a personal chord of looking objectively at a close relative, Rich’s poem, Aunt Jennifer’s Tigers, gives expression to the voice of women stifled by the institution of marriage. Stephen Spender’s poem on An Elementary School Classroom in a Slum sensitively brings out the disparity between the formal education system and the reality of the lives of the poor. The poems are followed by ‘noticing’ items which indicate the elements that deserve special attention in the classroom. The tasks in the poetry section encourage pupils to enjoy aesthetic writing and evoke subjective responses to the language of poetry. (vi)  T EXTBOOK DEVELOPMENT COMMITTEE CHAIRPERSON, ADVISORY GROUP FOR TEXTBOOKS IN LANGUAGES Namwar Singh, Professor and formerly Chairman, School of Languages, Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi CHIEF A DVISOR R. Amritavalli, Professor, Central Institute of English and Foreign Languages (CIEFL), Hyderabad CHIEF C OORDINATOR Ram Janma Sharma, Head, Department of Languages, NCER T, New Delhi MEMBERS Chaya Nautiyal, Deputy Director, Secondary Education, Directorate of Education, Allahabad Gayatri Khanna, ELT Consultant, New Delhi Indu Khetarpal, Principal, Salwan Public School, Gurgaon Kirti Kapur, Lecturer, NCERT, New Delhi Malathy Krishnan, Professor, CIEFL, Hyderabad Nasiruddin Khan, Reader, NCERT, New Delhi Pranjit Dev Sarmah, Teacher, Garigaon, Guwahati Rajendrasinh Jadeja, Director, H. M. Patel Institute of English Training and Research, Vallabh Vidyanagar, Gujarat Saryug Yadav, Reader, RIE, Shillong S.K. Shyamla, PGT , Demonstration Multi Purpose School, RIE, Mysore MEMBER-COORDINATOR Meenakshi Khar, Lecturer, Department of Languages, NCERT, New Delhi (vii)  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS The National Council of Educational Research and Training is grateful to Professor Alok Rai and Professor Harish Trivedi from Department of English, Delhi University and Vandana R. Singh, Consultant Editor for going through the manuscript and making valuable suggestions. For permission to reproduce copyright material in this book NCERT would like to thank the following: Penguin Books Pvt Ltd for Lost Spring by Anees Jung; and for Introduction by Christopher Sylvester; Harper Collins for Indigo by Louis Fischer; The Editorial and Advertising office of Resurgence (No. 233 November-December, 2005) for Keeping Quiet by Pablo Neruda; Chatto and Windus Ltd. for Endymion by John Keats; Shri Asokmitran for Poets and Pancakes by Asokmitran; Hutchinson & Co. Ltd. for Going Places by A. R. Barton; Faber & Faber for An Elementary School Classroom in a Slum by Stephen Spender. The Council also acknowledges the services of Sunanda Khanna and G.C. Chandrakar, Copy Editors; Surender K Vats, Proof Reader; Mohd. Harun and Arvind Sharma DTP Operators; Rajeev Kumar, Artist and Parash Ram Kaushik, Incharge, Computer station. The efforts of the Publication Department, NCERT are also highly appreciated. It has not been possible to trace the copyright in all cases. The publishers apologise for any omissions and would be glad to hear from any such unacknowledged copyright holder.  CContents t nts P ROSE 1-88 1. THE LAST LESSON Alphonse Daudet 2 2. LOST SPRING Anees Jung 13 3. DEEP WATER William Douglas 23.. 4. THE RATTRAP Selma Lagerlof 32 5. INDIGO Louis Fischer 46 6. POETS AND PANCAKES Asokamitran 57 7. THE INTERVIEW PART I Christopher Silvester PART II An Interview with Umberto Eco 68 8. GOING P LACES A. R. Barton 77 POETRY 89-104 1. MY MOTHER AT SIXTY-SIX Kamala Das 90 2. AN ELEMENTARY SCHOOL CLASSROOM IN A SLUM Stephen Spender 92 3. KEEPING QUIET Pablo Neruda 95 4. A THING OF BEAUTY John Keats 98 5. A ROADSIDE STAND Robert Frost 100 6. AUNT J ENNIFER’S TIGERS Adrienne Rich 103 (ix)  ISBN 81-7450-650-0 First Edition ALL RIGHTS RESERVED January 2007 Pausa 1928 ◆✁✂✄☎✆✝✂✁✞✂✝✟✠✡✂✄☛☞✌✠✍☎✝✠✁✎✂✏☎✑✂☞✒✂✆✒✄✆✁✓☛✍✒✓✔✂✡✝✁✆✒✓✂✠✎✂☎✂✆✒✝✆✠✒✕☎✌ Reprinted ✡✑✡✝✒✏✂✁✆✂✝✆☎✎✡✏✠✝✝✒✓✔✂✠✎✂☎✎✑✂✞✁✆✏✂✁✆✂☞✑✂☎✎✑✂✏✒☎✎✡✔✂✒✌✒✍✝✆✁✎✠✍✔ January 2009 Magha 1930 ✏✒✍✟☎✎✠✍☎✌✔✂✄✟✁✝✁✍✁✄✑✠✎♠✔✂✆✒✍✁✆✓✠✎♠✂✁✆✂✁✝✟✒✆✖✠✡✒✂✖✠✝✟✁☛✝✂✝✟✒✂✄✆✠✁✆ ✄✒✆✏✠✡✡✠✁✎✂✁✞✂✝✟✒✂✄☛☞✌✠✡✟✒✆♣ ❚✟✠✡✂☞✁✁✗✂✠✡✂✡✁✌✓✂✡☛☞✘✒✍✝✂✝✁✂✝✟✒✂✍✁✎✓✠✝✠✁✎✂✝✟☎✝✂✠✝✂✡✟☎✌✌✂✎✁✝✔✂☞✑✂✖☎✑✂✁✞ PD 230T MJ ✝✆☎✓✒✔✂✂☞✒✂✌✒✎✝✔✂✂✆✒t✡✁✌✓✔✂✟✠✆✒✓✂✁☛✝✂✁✆✂✁✝✟✒✆✖✠✡✒✂✓✠✡✄✁✡✒✓✂✁✞✂✖✠✝✟✁☛✝ ✝✟✒✂✄☛☞✌✠✡✟✒✆✙✡✂✍✁✎✡✒✎✝✔✂✠✎✂☎✎✑✂✞✁✆✏✂✁✞✂☞✠✎✓✠✎♠✂✁✆✂✍✁✕✒✆✂✁✝✟✒✆✂✝✟☎✎ © National Council of ✝✟☎✝✂✠✎✂✖✟✠✍✟✂✠✝✂✠✡✂✄☛☞✌✠✡✟✒✓♣ Educational Research ❚✟✒✂✍✁✆✆✒✍✝✂✄✆✠✍✒✂✁✞✂✝✟✠✡✂✄☛☞✌✠✍☎✝✠✁✎✂✠✡✂✝✟✒✂✄✆✠✍✒✂✄✆✠✎✝✒✓✂✁✎✂✝✟✠✡ ✄☎♠✒✔✂✚✎✑✂✆✒✕✠✡✒✓✂✄✆✠✍✒✂✠✎✓✠✍☎✝✒✓✂☞✑✂☎✂✆☛☞☞✒✆✂✡✝☎✏✄✂✁✆✂☞✑✂☎✂✡✝✠✍✗✒✆ and Training, 2007 ✁✆✂☞✑✂☎✎✑✂✁✝✟✒✆✂✏✒☎✎✡✂✠✡✂✠✎✍✁✆✆✒✍✝✂☎✎✓✂✡✟✁☛✌✓✂☞✒✂☛✎☎✍✍✒✄✝☎☞✌✒♣ OFFICES OF THE PUBLICATION DEPARTMENT, NCERT ✛✜✢✣✤✥✜✦✧★✩✪ ❙✫✬✥✭✩✫✮✯✬✰✱✮✥✲✦✫✳ New Delhi 110 016 ✶✴✵✷✥✶✴✴✥✸✹✹✺✥✣✮✦✱ ❍✮✪✱✦✻✹✫✹✥❍✦✼✼✬✥✢✽✺✹✰✪✬✮✰ ❇✦✰✦✪✾✦✰✻✦✫✬✥✿✿✿✥❙✺✦✳✹ Bangalore 560 085 ✛✦❀❁✬❀✦✰✥✤✫✩✪✺✥❇✩✬✼✱✬✰✳ P❂❃❂✛✦❀❁✬❀✦✰ Ahmedabad 380 014 ✜❈✜✥✜✦✧★✩✪ Rs. 25.00 ❃★★❂✥❖✾✦✰✻✦✼✥❇✩✪✥❙✺✮★ P✦✰✬✾✦✺✬ Kolkata 700 114 ✜❈✜✥✜✮✧★✼✹✽ ✲✦✼✬✳✦✮✰ Guwahati 781 021 Publication Team Head, Publication : P. Rajakumar Department Printed on 80 GSM paper with NCERT water mark Chief Production : Shiv Kumar Officer Published at the Publication Chief Editor : Shveta Uppal Department by the Secretary, National Council of Educational Chief Business : Gautam Ganguly Research and Training, Manager Sri Aurobindo Marg, Production Asstt. : Rajesh Pippal New Delhi 110 016 and printed at Tan Prints (India) Pvt. Ltd., Cover, Layout and Illustrations 44km, Mile Stone, Rohtak Joel Gill Road, Jhajjar, Haryana  The Last Lesson Prose Alphonse Daudet Lost Spring Anees Jung Deep Water William Douglas The Rattrap.. Selma Lagerlof Indigo Louis Fischer Poets and Pancakes Asokamitran The Interview Christopher Silvester Umberto Eco Going Places A. R. Barton  1 Th L LLesson The Last esson About the author Alphonse Daudet (1840-1897) was a French novelist and short-story writer. The Last Lesson is set in the days of the Franco-Prussian War (1870-1871) in which France was defeated by Prussia led by Bismarck. Prussia then consisted of what now are the nations of Germany, Poland and parts of Austria. In this story the French districts of Alsace and Lorraine have passed into Prussian hands. Read the story to find out what effect this had on life at school. Notice these expressions in the text. Infer their meaning from the context in great dread of in unison counted on a great bustle thumbed at the edges reproach ourselves with I started for school very late that morning and was in great dread of a scolding, especially because M. Hamel had said that he would question us on participles, and I did not know the first word about them. For a moment I thought of running away and spending the day out of doors. It was so warm, so bright! The birds were chirping at the edge of the woods; and in the open field back of the sawmill the Prussian soldiers were drilling. It was all much more tempting than the rule for participles, but I had the strength to resist, and hurried off to school. When I passed the town hall there was a crowd in front of the bulletin-board. For the last two years all our bad news had come from there — the lost battles, the draft, the orders of the commanding officer — and I thought to myself, without stopping, “What can be the matter now?”  Then, as I hurried by as fast as I could go, the blacksmith, Wachter, who was there, with his apprentice, reading the bulletin, called after me, “Don’t go so fast, bub; you’ll get to your school in plenty of time!” I thought he was making fun of me, and reached M. Hamel’s little garden all out of breath. Usually, when school began, there was a great bustle, which could be heard out in the street, the opening and closing of desks, lessons repeated in unison, very loud, with our hands over our ears to understand better, and the teacher’s great ruler rapping on the table. But now it was all so still! I had counted on the commotion to get to my desk without being seen; but, of course, that day everything had to be as quiet as Sunday morning. Through the window I saw my classmates, already in their places, and M. Hamel walking up and down with his terrible iron ruler under his arm. I had to open the door and go in before everybody. You can imagine how I blushed and how frightened I was. But nothing happened. M. Hamel saw me and said very kindly, “Go to your place quickly, little Franz. We were beginning without you.” I jumped over the bench and sat down at my desk. Not till then, when I had got a little over my fright, did I see that our teacher had on his beautiful green coat, his frilled The Last Lesson/3 shirt, and the little black silk cap, all embroidered, that he never wore except on inspection and prize days. Besides, the whole school seemed so strange and solemn. But the thing that surprised me most was to see, on the back benches that were always empty, the village people sitting quietly like ourselves; old Hauser, with his three-cornered hat, the for mer mayor, the former postmaster, and several others besides. Everybody looked sad; and Hauser had brought an old primer, thumbed at the edges, and he held it open on his knees with his great spectacles lying across the pages. While I was wondering about it all, M. Hamel mounted his chair, and, in the same grave and gentle tone which he had used to me, said, “My children, this is the last lesson I shall give you. The order has come from Berlin to teach only German in the schools of Alsace and Lorraine. The new master comes tomorrow. This is your last French lesson. I want you to be very attentive.” What a thunderclap these words were to me! Oh, the wretches; that was what they had put up at the town-hall! My last French lesson! Why, I hardly knew how to write! I should never learn any more! I must stop there, then! Oh, how sorry I was for not learning my lessons, for seeking birds’ eggs, or going sliding on the Saar! My books, that had seemed such a nuisance a while ago, so heavy to carry, my grammar, and my history of the saints, were old friends now that I couldn’t give up. And M. Hamel, too; the idea that he was going away, that I should never see him again, made me forget all about his ruler and how cranky he was. Poor man! It was in honour of this last lesson that he had put on his fine Sunday clothes, and now I understood 4/Flamingo why the old men of the village were sitting there in the back of the room. It was because they were sorry, too, that they had not gone to school more. It was their way of thanking our master for his forty years of faithful service and of showing their respect for the country that was theirs no more. While I was thinking of all this, I heard my name called. It was my turn to recite. What would I not have given to be able to say that dreadful rule for the participle all through, very loud and clear, and without one mistake? But I got mixed up on the first words and stood there, holding on to my desk, my heart beating, and not daring to look up. I heard M. Hamel say to me, “I won’t scold you, little Franz; you must feel bad enough. See how it is! Every day we have said to ourselves, ‘Bah! I’ve plenty of time. I’ll learn it tomorrow.’ And now you see where we’ve come out. Ah, that’s the great trouble with Alsace; she puts off learning till tomorrow. Now those fellows out there will have the right to say to you, ‘How is it; you pretend to be Frenchmen, and yet you can neither speak nor write your own language?’ But you are not the worst, poor little Franz. We’ve all a great deal to reproach ourselves with.” “Your parents were not anxious enough to have you learn. They preferred to put you to work on a farm or at the mills, so as to have a little more money. And I? I’ve been to blame also. Have I not often sent you to water my flowers instead of learning your lessons? And when I wanted to go fishing, did I not just give you a holiday?” Then, from one thing to another, M. Hamel went on to talk of the French language, saying that it was the most beautiful The Last Lesson/5 France 1870-71 Sketch map not to scale 6/Flamingo  language in the world — the clearest, the most logical; that we must guard it among us and never forget it, because when a people are enslaved, as long as they hold fast to their language it is as if they had the key to their prison. Then he opened a grammar and read us our lesson. I was amazed to see how well I understood it. All he said seemed so easy, so easy! I think, too, that I had never listened so carefully, and that he had never explained everything with so much patience. 1. What was Franz expected to It seemed almost as if the poor be prepared with for school man wanted to give us all he knew that day? before going away, and to put it 2. What did Franz notice that was all into our heads at one stroke. unusual about the school that After the grammar, we had a day? lesson in writing. That day M. 3. What had been put up on the Hamel had new copies for us, bulletin-board? written in a beautiful round hand — France, Alsace, France, Alsace. They looked like little flags floating everywhere in the school-room, hung from the rod at the top of our desks. You ought to have seen how every one set to work, and how quiet it was! The only sound was the scratching of the pens over the paper. Once some beetles flew in; but nobody paid any attention to them, not even the littlest ones, who worked right on tracing their fish-hooks, as if that was French, too. On the roof the pigeons cooed very low, and I thought to myself, “Will they make them sing in German, even the pigeons?” Whenever I looked up from my writing I saw M. Hamel sitting motionless in his chair and gazing first at one thing, then at another, as if he wanted to fix in his mind just how everything looked in that little school-room. Fancy! For forty years he had been there in the same place, with his garden outside the window and his class in front of him, The Last Lesson/7 just like that. Only the desks and benches had been worn smooth; the walnut-trees in the garden were taller, and the hopvine that he had planted himself twined about the windows to the roof. How it must have broken his heart to leave it all, poor man; to hear his sister moving about in the room above, packing their trunks! For they must leave the country next day. But he had the courage to hear every lesson to the very last. After the writing, we had a lesson in history, and then the babies chanted their ba, be bi, bo, bu. Down there at the back of the room old Hauser had put on his spectacles and, holding his primer in both hands, spelled the letters with them. You could see that he, too, was crying; his voice trembled with emotion, and it was so funny to hear him that we all wanted to laugh and cry. Ah, how well I remember it, that last lesson! All at once the church-clock struck twelve. Then the Angelus. At the same moment the trumpets of the Prussians, returning from drill, sounded under our windows. M. Hamel stood up, very pale, in his chair. I never saw him look so tall. “My friends,” said he, “I—I—” But something choked him. He could not go on. Then he turned to the blackboard, took a piece of chalk, and, bearing on with all his might, he wrote as large as he could — “Vive La France!” Then he stopped and leaned 1. What changes did the order his head against the wall, and, from Berlin cause in school without a word, he made a that day? gesture to us with his hand — 2. How did Franz’s feelings about M. Hamel and school change? “School is dismissed — you may go.” 8/Flamingo Understanding the text 1. The people in this story suddenly realise how precious their language is to them. What shows you this? Why does this happen? 2. Franz thinks, “Will they make them sing in German, even the pigeons?” What could this mean? (There could be more than one answer.) Talking about the text 1. “When a people are enslaved, as long as they hold fast to their language it is as if they had the key to their prison.” Can you think of examples in history where a conquered people had their language taken away from them or had a language imposed on them? 2. What happens to a linguistic minority in a state? How do you think they can keep their language alive? For example: Punjabis in Bangalore Tamilians in Mumbai Kannadigas in Delhi Gujaratis in Kolkata 3. Is it possible to carry pride in one’s language too far? Do you know what ‘linguistic chauvinism’ means? Working with words 1. English is a language that contains words from many other languages. This inclusiveness is one of the reasons it is now a world language, For example: petite – French kindergarten – German capital – Latin democracy – Greek bazaar – Hindi The Last Lesson/9  Find out the origins of the following words. tycoon barbecue zero tulip veranda ski logo robot trek bandicoot 2. Notice the underlined words in these sentences and tick the option that best explains their meaning. (a) “What a thunderclap these words were to me!” The words were (i) loud and clear. (ii) startling and unexpected. (iii) pleasant and welcome. (b) “When a people are enslaved, as long as they hold fast to their language it is as if they had the key to their prison” It is as if they have the key to the prison as long as they (i) do not lose their language. (ii) are attached to their language. (iii) quickly learn the conqueror’s language. (c) Don’t go so fast, you will get to your school in plenty of time. You will get to your school (i) very late. (ii) too early. (iii) early enough. (d) I never saw him look so tall. M. Hamel (a) had grown physically taller (b) seemed very confident (c) stood on the chair Noticing form Read this sentence M. Hamel had said that he would question us on participles. In the sentence above, the verb form “had said” in the first part is used to indicate an “earlier past”. The whole story is narrated in the past. M. Hamel’s “saying” happened earlier 10/Flamingo  than the events in this story. This form of the verb is called the past perfect. Pick out five sentences from the story with this form of the verb and say why this form has been used. Wri ti ng 1. Write a notice for your school bulletin board. Your notice could be an announcement of a forthcoming event, or a requirement to be fulfilled, or a rule to be followed. 2. Write a paragraph of about 100 wor ds arguing for or against having to study three languages at school. 3. Have you ever changed your opinion about someone or something that you had earlier liked or disliked? Narrate what led you to change your mind. Things to do 1. Find out about the following (You may go to the internet, interview people, consult reference books or visit a library.) (a) Linguistic human rights (b) Constitutional guarantees for linguistic minorities in India. 2. Given below is a survey form. Talk to at least five of your classmates and fill in the information you get in the form. S.No. Languages Home Neighbourhood City/Town School you know language language language language 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. ABOUT THEUNIT T HEME The pain that is inflicted on the people of a territory by its conquerors by taking away the right to study or speak their own language. The Last Lesson/11 SUB- THEME Student and teacher attitudes to learning and teaching. R EADING COMPREHENSION The comprehension check at the end of each section in the unit helps pupils make sure that they have understood the facts before they move on to the next section. One session of forty minutes is likely to be enough for one section of the unit. Pupils can read each section silently and discuss the answers in pairs. The questions at the end of the unit are inferential. These help pupils make sense of the writer’s intention in focussing on a local episode and to comment on an issue of universal significance. There could be a follow-up discussion on parts for which students need explanation. T ALKING ABOUT THE TEXT Topics to be discussed in small groups or pairs. This shall help pupils think of issues that relate to the realities of the society they live in. Gives scope for developing speaking skills in the English language on varied issues. Fluency development. W ORKING WITH WORDS To make pupils aware of ⑨ the enrichment of the English language through borrowings from the other languages. ⑨ idiomatic expressions and figurative use of language. NOTICING FORM To make pupils notice tense form and understand the context of its use. W RITING ⑨ Practice in a functional genre, e.g., bulletin. ⑨ Argumentative writing on a topic related to their life at school. ⑨ Narrating subjective experience discussing personal likes and dislikes. T HINGS TO DO Extension activity that will help pupils understand language rights of citizens and the problems of linguistic minorities. Social and political awareness. 12/Flamingo  2 Los Lost SSpring pr n ✥✥❙♦✁✐✂✄ ♦ ✐ ♦❢❢ ✥❙♦☎✂♥ ✥ ♥ ✆✐☎✝✆♦♦✝ ✐ ♦ About the author Anees Jung (1964) was born in Rourkela and spent her childhood and adolescence in Hyderabad. She received her education in Hyderabad and in the United States of America. Her parents were both writers. Anees Jung began her career as a writer in India. She has been an editor and columnist for major newspapers in India and abroad, and has authored several books. The following is an excerpt from her book titled Lost Spring, Stories of Stolen Childhood. Here she analyses the grinding poverty and traditions which condemn these children to a life of exploitation. Notice these expressions in the text. Infer their meaning from the context. ✞ looking for ✞ perpetual state of poverty ✞ slog their daylight hours ✞ dark hutments ✞ roof over his head ✞ imposed the baggage on the child ‘Sometimes I find a Rupee in the garbage’ “Why do you do this?” I ask Saheb whom I encounter every morning scrounging for gold in the garbage dumps of my neighbourhood. Saheb left his home long ago. Set amidst the green fields of Dhaka, his home is not even a distant memory. There were many storms that swept away their fields and homes, his mother tells him. That’s why they left, looking for gold in the big city where he now lives. “I have nothing else to do,” he mutters, looking away. “Go to school,” I say glibly, realising immediately how hollow the advice must sound.  “There is no school in my neighbourhood. When they build one, I will go.” “If I start a school, will you come?” I ask, half-joking. “Yes,” he says, smiling broadly. A few days later I see him running up to me. “Is your school ready?” “It takes longer to build a school,” I say, embarrassed at having made a promise that was not meant. But promises like mine abound in every corner of his bleak world. After months of knowing him, I ask him his name. “Saheb-e-Alam,” he announces. He does not know what it means. If he knew its meaning — lord of the universe — he would have a hard time believing it. Unaware of what his name represents, he roams the streets with his friends, an army of barefoot boys who appear like the morning birds and disappear at noon. Over the months, I have come to recognise each of them. “Why aren’t you wearing chappals?” I ask one. “My mother did not bring them down from the shelf,” he answers simply. “Even if she did he will throw them off,” adds another who is wearing shoes that do not match. When I comment on it, he shuffles his feet and says nothing. “I want shoes,” says a third boy who has never owned a pair all his life. Travelling across the country I have seen children walking barefoot, in cities, on village roads. It is not lack of money but a tradition to stay barefoot, is one explanation. I wonder 14/Flamingo if this is only an excuse to explain away a perpetual state of poverty. I remember a story a man from Udipi once told me. As a young boy he would go to school past an old temple, where his father was a priest. He would stop briefly at the temple and pray for a pair of shoes. Thirty years later I visited his town and the temple, which was now drowned in an air of desolation. In the backyard, where lived the new priest, there were red and white plastic chairs. A young boy dressed in a grey uniform, wearing socks and shoes, arrived panting and threw his school bag on a folding bed. Looking at the boy, I remembered the prayer another boy had made to the goddess when he had finally got a pair of shoes, “Let me never lose them.” The goddess had granted his prayer. Young boys like the son of the priest now wore shoes. But many others like the ragpickers in my neighbourhood remain shoeless. My acquaintance with the barefoot ragpickers leads me to Seemapuri, a place on the periphery of Delhi yet miles away from it, metaphorically. Those who live here are squatters who came from Bangladesh back in 1971. Saheb’s family is among them. Seemapuri was then a wilderness. It still is, but it is no longer empty. In structures of mud, with roofs of tin and tarpaulin, devoid of sewage, drainage or running water, live 10,000 ragpickers. They have lived here for more than thirty years without an identity, without permits but with ration cards that get their names on voters’ lists and enable them to buy grain. Food is more important for survival than an identity. “If at the end of the day we can feed our families and go to bed without an aching stomach, we would rather live here than in the fields that gave us no grain,” say a group of women in tattered saris when I ask them why they left their beautiful land of green fields and rivers. Wherever they find food, they pitch their tents that become transit homes. Children grow up in them, becoming partners in survival. And survival in Seemapuri means rag-picking. Through the years, it has acquired the proportions of a fine art. Garbage to them is gold. It is their daily bread, a roof over their heads, even if it is a leaking roof. But for a child it is even more. Lost Spring/15  “I sometimes find a rupee, even a ten-rupee note,” Saheb says, his eyes lighting up. When you can find a silver coin in a heap of garbage, you don’t stop scrounging, for there is hope of finding more. It seems that for children, garbage has a meaning different from what it means to their parents. For the children it is wrapped in wonder, for the elders it is a means of survival. One winter morning I see Saheb standing by the fenced gate of the neighbourhood club, watching two young men dressed in white, playing tennis. “I like the game,” he hums, content to watch it standing behind the fence. “I go inside when no one is around,” he admits. “The gatekeeper lets me use the swing.” Saheb too is wearing tennis shoes that look strange over his discoloured shirt and shorts. “Someone gave them to me,” he says in the manner of an explanation. The fact that they are discarded shoes of some rich boy, who perhaps refused to wear them because of a hole in one of them, does not bother him. For one who has walked barefoot, even shoes with a hole is a dream come true. But the game he is watching so intently is out of his reach. This morning, Saheb is on his way to the milk booth. In his hand is a steel canister. “I now work in a tea stall down the road,” he says, pointing in the distance. “I am paid 800 rupees and all my meals.” Does he like the job? I ask. His face, I see, has lost the carefree look. The steel canister seems heavier than the plastic bag he would carry so lightly 16/Flamingo over his shoulder. The bag was his. The canister belongs to the man who owns the tea shop. 1. What is Saheb looking for in the Saheb is no longer his own garbage dumps? Where is he master! and where has he come from? 2. What explanations does the author offer for the children not “I want to drive a car” wearing footwear? 3. Is Saheb happy working at the Mukesh insists on being his tea-stall? Explain. own master. “I will be a motor mechanic,” he announces. “Do you know anything about cars?” I ask. “I will learn to drive a car,” he answers, looking straight into my eyes. His dream looms like a mirage amidst the dust of streets that fill his town Firozabad, famous for its bangles. Every other family in Firozabad is engaged in making bangles. It is the centre of India’s glass-blowing industry where families have spent generations working around furnaces, welding glass, making bangles for all the women in the land it seems. Mukesh’s family is among them. None of them know that it is illegal for children like him to work in the glass furnaces with high temperatures, in dingy cells without air and light; that the law, if enforced, could get him and all those 20,000 children out of the hot furnaces where they slog their daylight hours, often losing the brightness of their eyes. Mukesh’s eyes beam as he volunteers to take me home, which he proudly says is being rebuilt. We walk down stinking lanes choked with garbage, past homes that remain hovels with crumbling walls, wobbly doors, no windows, crowded with families of humans and animals coexisting in a primeval state. He stops at the door of one such house, bangs a wobbly iron door with his foot, and pushes it open. We enter a half-built shack. In one part of it, thatched with dead grass, is a firewood stove over which sits a large vessel of sizzling spinach leaves. On the ground, in large aluminium platters, are more chopped vegetables. A frail young woman is cooking the evening meal for the whole family. Through eyes filled with smoke she smiles. She is the wife of Lost Spring/17 Mukesh’s elder brother. Not much older in years, she has begun to command respect as the bahu, the daughter-in- law of the house, already in charge of three men — her husband, Mukesh and their father. When the older man enters, she gently withdraws behind the broken wall and brings her veil closer to her face. As custom demands, daughters-in-law must veil their faces before male elders. In this case the elder is an impoverished bangle maker. Despite long years of hard labour, first as a tailor, then a bangle maker, he has failed to renovate a house, send his two sons to school. All he has managed to do is teach them what he knows — the art of making bangles. “It is his karam, his destiny,” says Mukesh’s grandmother, who has watched her own husband go blind with the dust from polishing the glass of bangles. “Can a god-given lineage ever be broken?” she implies. Born in the caste of bangle makers, they have seen nothing but bangles — in the house, in the yard, in every other house, every other yard, every street in Firozabad. Spirals of bangles — sunny gold, paddy green, royal blue, pink, purple, every colour born out of the seven colours of the rainbow — lie in mounds in unkempt yards, are piled on four-wheeled handcarts, pushed by young men along the narrow lanes of the shanty town. And in dark hutments, next to lines of flames of flickering oil lamps, sit boys and girls with their fathers and mothers, welding pieces of coloured glass into circles of bangles. Their eyes are more adjusted to the dark than to the light outside. That is why they often end up losing their eyesight before they become adults. Savita, a young girl in a drab pink dress, sits alongside an elderly woman, soldering pieces of glass. As her hands move mechanically like the tongs of a machine, I wonder if she knows the sanctity of the bangles she helps make. It symbolises an Indian woman’s suhaag, auspiciousness in marriage. It will dawn on her suddenly one day when her head is draped with a red veil, her hands dyed red with henna, and red bangles rolled onto her wrists. She will then become a bride. Like the old woman beside her who became one many years ago. She still has bangles on her 18/Flamingo wrist, but no light in her eyes. “Ek waqt ser bhar khana bhi nahin khaya,” she says, in a voice drained of joy. She has not enjoyed even one full meal in her entire lifetime — that’s what she has reaped! Her husband, an old man with a flowing beard, says, “I know nothing except bangles. All I have done is make a house for the family to live in.” Hearing him, one wonders if he has achieved what many have failed in their lifetime. He has a roof over his head! The cry of not having money to do anything except carry on the business of making bangles, not even enough to eat, rings in every home. The young men echo the lament of their elders. Little has moved with time, it seems, in Firozabad. Years of mind-numbing toil have killed all initiative and the ability to dream. “Why not organise yourselves into a cooperative?” I ask a group of young men who have fallen into the vicious circle of middlemen who trapped their fathers and forefathers. “Even if we get organised, we are the ones who will be hauled up by the police, beaten and dragged to jail for doing something illegal,” they say. There is no leader among them, no one who could help them see things differently. Their fathers are as tired as they are. They talk endlessly in a spiral that moves from poverty to apathy to greed and to injustice. Listening to them, I see two distinct worlds — one of the family, caught in a web of poverty, burdened Lost Spring/19 by the stigma of caste in which they are born; the other a vicious circle of the sahukars, the middlemen, the policemen, the 1. What makes the city of Firozabad famous? keepers of law, the bureaucrats 2. Mention the hazards of working and the politicians. Together they in the glass bangles industry. have imposed the baggage on the 3. How is Mukesh’s attitude to his child that he cannot put down. situation different from that of Before he is aware, he accepts it his family? as naturally as his father. To do anything else would mean to dare. And daring is not part of his growing up. When I sense a flash of it in Mukesh I am cheered. “I want to be a motor mechanic,’ he repeats. He will go to a garage and learn. But the garage is a long way from his home. “I will walk,” he insists. “Do you also dream of flying a plane?” He is suddenly silent. “No,” he says, staring at the ground. In his small murmur there is an embarrassment that has not yet turned into regret. He is content to dream of cars that he sees hurtling down the streets of his town. Few airplanes fly over Firozabad. Understanding the text 1. What could be some of the reasons for the migration of people from villages to cities? 2. Would you agr ee that promises made to poor children are rarely kept? Why do you think this happens in the incidents narrated in the text? 3. What forces conspire to keep the workers in the bangle industry of Firozabad in poverty? Talking about the text 1. How, in your opinion, can Mukesh realise his dream? 2. Mention the hazards of working in the glass bangles industry. 3. Why should child labour be eliminated and how? 20/Flamingo Thinking about language Although this text speaks of factual events and situations of misery it transforms these situations with an almost poetical prose into a literary experience. How does it do so? Here are some literary devices: Hyperbole is a way of speaking or writing that makes something sound better or more exciting than it really is. For example: Garbage to them is gold. A Metaphor, as you may know, compares two things or ideas that are not very similar. A metaphor describes a thing in terms of a single quality or feature of some other thing; we can say that a metaphor “transfers” a quality of one thing to another. For example: The road was a ribbon of light. Simile is a word or phrase that compares one thing with another using the words “like” or “as”. For example: As white as snow. Carefully read the following phrases and sentences taken from the text. Can you identify the literary device in each example? 1. Saheb-e-Alam which means the lord of the universe is directly in contrast to what Saheb is in reality. 2. Drowned in an air of desolation. 3. Seemapuri, a place on the periphery of Delhi yet miles away from it, metaphorically. 4. For the children it is wrapped in wonder; for the elders it is a means of survival. 5. As her hands move mechanically like the tongs of a machine, I wonder if she knows the sanctity of the bangles she helps make. 6. She still has bangles on her wrist, but not light in her eyes. 7. Few airplanes fly over Firozabad. 8. Web of poverty. 9. Scrounging for gold. 10. And survival in Seemapuri means rag-picking. Through the years, it has acquired the proportions of a fine art. 11. The steel canister seems heavier than the plastic bag he would carry so lightly over his shoulders. Lost Spring/21 Things to do The beauty of the glass bangles of Firozabad contrasts with the misery of people who produce them. This paradox is also found in some other situations, for example, those who work in gold and diamond mines, or carpet weaving factories, and the products of their labour, the lives of construction workers, and the buildings they build. Look around and find examples of such paradoxes. Write a paragraph of about 200 to 250 words on any one of them. You can start by making notes. Here is an example of how one such paragraph may begin: You never see the poor in this town. By day they toil, working cranes and earthmovers, squirreling deep into the hot sand to lay the foundations of chrome. By night they are banished to bleak labour camps at the outskirts of the city... ABOUT THE THEME The plight of street children forced into labour early in life and denied the opportunity of schooling. SUB-THEME The callousness of society and the political class to the sufferings of the poor. COMPREHENSION Factual understanding and responding with sensitivity. Thinking on socio-economic issues as a take-off from the text. TALKING ABOUT THE TEXT ⑨ Fluency development ⑨ Social awareness Discussion on ✁ the dreams of the poor and the reality. ✁ problems of child labour. THINKING ABOUT LANGUAGE Focus on the use of figures of speech in writing. THINGS TO DO Observation of the paradoxes in the society we live in. WRITING Note-making and reporting. 22/Flamingo  3 D ee p Water Deep W ter About the author William Douglas (1898-1980) was born in Maine, Minnesota. After graduating with a Bachelors of Arts in English and Economics, he spent two years teaching high school in Yakima. However, he got tired of this and decided to pursue a legal car eer. He met Franklin D. Roosevelt at Yale and became an adviser and friend to the President. Douglas was a leading advocate of individual rights. He retired in 1975 with a term lasting thirty-six years and remains the longest-serving Justice in the history of the court. The following excerpt is taken from Of Men and Mountains by William O. Douglas. It reveals how as a young boy William Douglas nearly drowned in a swimming pool. In this essay he talks about his fear of water and thereafter, how he finally overcame it. Notice how the autobiographical part of the selection is used to support his discussion of fear. Notice these words and expressions in the text. Infer their meaning from the context. treacherous misadventure subdued my pride bob to the surface like a cork flailed at the surface curtain of life fell fishing for landlocked salmon back and forth across the pool It had happened when I was ten or eleven years old. I had decided to learn to swim. There was a pool at the Y.M.C.A. in Yakima that offered exactly the opportunity. The Yakima River was treacherous. Mother continually warned against it, and kept fresh in my mind the details of each drowning in the river. But the Y.M.C.A. pool was safe. It was only two or three feet deep at the shallow end; and while it was nine feet deep at the other, the drop was gradual. I got a pair of water wings and went to the pool. I hated to walk  THE YAKIMA RIVER The Yakima River is a tributary of the Columbia River in eastern Washington, U.S.A. The state is named after the indigenous Yakama people. Sketch map not to scale 24/Flamingo naked into it and show my skinny legs. But I subdued my pride and did it. From the beginning, however, I had an aversion to the water when I was in it. This started when I was three or four years old and father took me to the beach in California. He and I stood together in the surf. I hung on to him, yet the waves knocked me down and swept over me. I was buried in water. My breath was gone. I was frightened. Father laughed, but there was terror in my heart at the overpowering force of the waves. My introduction to the Y.M.CA. swimming pool revived unpleasant memories and stirred childish fears. But in a little while I gathered confidence. I paddled with my new water wings, watching the other boys and trying to learn by aping them. I did this two or three times on different days and was just beginning to feel at ease in the water when the misadventure happened. I went to the pool when no one else was there. The place was quiet. The water was still, and the tiled bottom was as white and clean as a bathtub. I was timid about going in alone, so I sat on the side of the pool to wait for others. I had not been there long when in came a big bruiser of a boy, probably eighteen years old. He had thick hair on his chest. He was a beautiful physical specimen, with legs and arms that showed rippling muscles. He yelled, “Hi, Skinny! How’d you like to be ducked?” With that he picked me up and tossed me into the deep end. I landed in a sitting position, swallowed water, and went at once to the bottom. I was frightened, but not yet frightened out of my wits. On the way down I planned: When my feet hit the bottom, I would make a big jump, come to the surface, lie flat on it, and paddle to the edge of the pool. It seemed a long way down. Those nine feet were more like ninety, and before I touched bottom my lungs were ready to burst. But when my feet hit bottom I summoned all my strength and made what I thought was a great spring upwards. I imagined I would bob to the surface like a cork. Instead, I came up slowly. I opened my eyes and saw nothing Deep Water/25 but water — water that had a dirty yellow tinge to it. I grew panicky. I reached up as if to grab a rope and my hands clutched only at water. I was suffocating. I tried to yell but no sound came out. Then my eyes and nose came out of the water — but not my mouth. I flailed at the surface of the water, swallowed and choked. I tried to bring my legs up, but they hung as dead weights, paralysed and rigid. A great force was pulling me under. I screamed, but only the water heard me. I had started on the long journey back to the bottom of the pool. I struck at the water as I went down, expending my strength as one in a nightmare fights an irresistible force. I had lost all my breath. My lungs ached, my head throbbed. I was getting dizzy. But I remembered the strategy — I would spring from the bottom of the pool and come like a cork to the surface. I would lie flat on the water, strike out with my arms, and thrash with my legs. Then I would get to the edge of the pool and be safe. I went down, down, endlessly. I opened my eyes. Nothing but water with a yellow glow — dark water that one could not see through. And then sheer, stark terror seized me, terror that knows no understanding, terror that knows no control, terror that no one can understand who has not experienced it. I was shrieking under water. I was paralysed under water — stiff, rigid with fear. Even the screams in my throat were frozen. Only my heart, and the pounding in my head, said that I was still alive. And then in the midst of the terror came a touch of reason. I must remember to jump when I hit the bottom. At last I felt the tiles under me. My toes reached out as if to grab them. I jumped with everything I had. But the jump made no difference. The water was still around me. I looked for ropes, ladders, water wings. Nothing but water. A mass of yellow water held me. Stark terror took an even deeper hold on me, like a great charge of electricity. I shook and trembled with fright. My arms wouldn’t move. My legs wouldn’t move. I tried to call for help, to call for mother. Nothing happened. 26/Flamingo  And then, strangely, there was light. I was coming out of the awful yellow water. At least my eyes were. My nose was almost out too. Then I started down a third time. I sucked for air and got water. The yellowish light was going out. Then all effort ceased. I relaxed. Even my legs felt limp; and a blackness swept over my brain. It wiped out fear; it wiped out terror. There was no more panic. It was quiet and peaceful. Nothing to be afraid of. This is nice... to be drowsy... to go to sleep... no need to jump... too tired to jump... it’s nice to be carried gently... to float along in space... tender arms around me... tender arms like Mother’s... now I must go to sleep... I crossed to oblivion, and the curtain of life fell. The next I remember I was lying on my stomach beside the 1. What is the “misadventure” that pool, vomiting. The chap that threw William Douglas speaks about? 2. What were the series of emotions me in was saying, “But I was only and fears that Douglas fooling.” Someone said, “The kid experienced when he was thrown nearly died. Be all right now. Let’s into the pool? What plans did he carry him to the locker room.” make to come to the surface? Several hours later, I walked 3. How did this experience affect home. I was weak and trembling. him? I shook and cried when I lay on my bed. I couldn’t eat that night. For days a haunting fear was in my heart. The slightest exertion upset me, making me wobbly in the knees and sick to my stomach. I never went back to the pool. I feared water. I avoided it whenever I could. A few years later when I came to know the waters of the Cascades, I wanted to get into them. And whenever I did — whether I was wading the Tieton or Bumping River or bathing in Warm Lake of the Goat Rocks — the terror that had seized me in the pool would come back. It would take possession of me completely. My legs would become paralysed. Icy horror would grab my heart. This handicap stayed with me as the years rolled by. In canoes on Maine lakes fishing for landlocked salmon, Deep Water/27 bass fishing in New Hampshire, trout fishing on the Deschutes and Metolius in Oregon, fishing for salmon on the Columbia, at Bumping Lake in the Cascades — wherever I went, the haunting fear of the water followed me. It ruined my fishing trips; deprived me of the joy of canoeing, boating, and swimming. I used every way I knew to overcome this fear, but it held me firmly in its grip. Finally, one October, I decided to get an instructor and learn to swim. I went to a pool and practiced five days a week, an hour each day. The instructor put a belt around me. A rope attached to the belt went through a pulley that ran on an overhead cable. He held on to the end of the rope, and we went back and forth, back and forth across the pool, hour after hour, day after day, week after week. On each trip across the pool a bit of the panic seized me. Each time the instructor relaxed his hold on the rope and I went under, some of the old terror returned and my legs froze. It was three months before the tension began to slack. Then he taught me to put my face under water and exhale, and to raise my nose and inhale. I repeated the exercise hundreds of times. Bit by bit I shed part of the panic that seized me when my head went under water. Next he held me at the side of the pool and had me kick with my legs. For weeks I did just that. At first my legs refused to work. But they gradually relaxed; and finally I could command them. Thus, piece by piece, he built a swimmer. And when he had perfected each piece, he put them together into an integrated whole. In April he said, “Now you can swim. Dive off and swim the length of the pool, crawl stroke.” I did. The instructor was finished. But I was not finished. I still wondered if I would be terror-stricken when I was alone in the pool. I tried it. I swam the length up and down. Tiny vestiges of the old terror would return. But now I could frown and say to that terror, “Trying to scare me, eh? Well, here’s to you! Look!” And off I’d go for another length of the pool. This went on until July. But I was still not satisfied. I was not sure that all the terror had left. So I went to Lake 28/Flamingo Wentworth in New Hampshire, dived off a dock at Triggs Island, and swam two miles across the lake to Stamp Act Island. I swam the crawl, breast stroke, side stroke, and back stroke. Only once did the terror return. When I was in the middle of the lake, I put my face under and saw nothing but bottomless water. The old sensation returned in miniature. I laughed and said, “Well, Mr Terror, what do you think you can do to me?” It fled and I swam on. Yet I had residual doubts. At my first opportunity I hurried west, went up the Tieton to Conrad Meadows, up the Conrad Creek Trail to Meade Glacier, and camped in the high meadow by the side of Warm Lake. The next morning I stripped, dived into the lake, and swam across to the other shore and back — just as Doug Corpron used to do. I shouted with joy, and Gilbert Peak returned the echo. I had conquered my fear of water. The experience had a deep meaning for me, as only those who have known stark terror and conquered it can appreciate. In death there is peace. There is terror only in the fear of death, as Roosevelt knew when he said, “All we have to fear is fear itself.” Because I had experienced both the sensation of dying and the terror 1. Why was Douglas determined to that fear of it can produce, the get over his fear of water? will to live somehow grew in 2. How did the instructor “build a intensity. swimmer” out of Douglas? At last I felt released — free 3. How did Douglas make sure that to walk the trails and climb the he conquered the old terror? peaks and to brush aside fear. Understanding the text 1. How does Douglas make clear to the reader the sense of panic that gripped him as he almost drowned? Describe the details that have made the description vivid. 2. How did Douglas overcome his fear of water? 3. Why does Douglas as an adult recount a childhood experience of terror and his conquering of it? What larger meaning does he draw from this experience? Deep Water/29 Talking about the text 1. “All we have to fear is fear itself”. Have you ever had a fear that you have now overcome? Share your experience with your partner. 2. Find and narrate other stories about conquest of fear and what people have said about courage. For example, you can recall Nelson Mandela’s struggle for freedom, his perseverance to achieve his mission, to liberate the oppressed and the oppressor as depicted in his autobiography. The story We’re Not Afraid To Die, which you have read in Class XI, is an apt example of how courage and optimism helped a family survive under the direst stress. Thinking about language If someone else had narrated Douglas’s experience, how would it have dif fered fr om this account? W rite out a sample paragraph or paragraphs from this text from the point of view of a third person or observer, to find out which style of narration would you consider to be more effective? Why? Wri ti ng 1. Doing well in any activity, for example a sport, music, dance or painting, riding a motorcycle or a car, involves a great deal of struggle. Most of us are very nervous to begin with until gradually we overcome our fears and perform well. Write an essay of about five paragraphs r ecounting such an experience. Try to recollect minute details of what caused the fear, your feelings, the encouragement you got from others or the criticism. You could begin with the last sentence of the essay you have just read — “At last I felt released — free to walk the trails and climb the peaks and to brush aside fear.” 2. Write a short letter to someone you know about your having learnt to do something new. Things to do Are there any water sports in India? Find out about the areas or places which are known for water sports. 30/Flamingo ABOUT THEUNIT THEME A real-life personal account of experiencing fear and the steps taken to overcome it. SUB-THEME Psychological analysis of fear. COMPREHENSION ⑨ Understanding another person’s experience. ⑨ Relating subjectively to the discussion on fear. TALKING ABOUT THE TEXT ⑨ Sharing personal experiences. ⑨ Sharing accounts of acts of courage. THINKING ABOUT LANGUAGE Focus on first person narrative style. WRITING ⑨ First person narration of personal experience. ⑨ Letter -writing on personal learning achievement. THINGS TO DO Gathering information on water sports. Deep Water/31  4 TThe he R ttra Rattrap About the author.. Selma Lagerlof (1858-1940) was a Swedish writer whose stories have been translated into many languages. A universal theme runs through all of them — a belief that the essential goodness in a human being can be awakened through understanding and love. This story is set amidst the mines of Sweden, rich in iron ore, which figure large in the history and legends of that country. The story is told somewhat in the manner of a fairy tale. Notice these expressions in the text. Infer their meaning from the context. keep body and soul together hunger gleamed in his eyes plods along the road unwonted joy impenetrable prison nodded a haughty consent eased his way fallen into a line of thought things have gone downhill Once upon a time there was a man who went around selling small rattraps of wire. He made them himself at odd moments, from the material he got by begging in the stores or at the big farms. But even so, the business was not especially profitable, so he had to resort to both begging and petty thievery to keep body and soul together. Even so, his clothes were in rags, his cheeks were sunken, and hunger gleamed in his eyes. No one can imagine how sad and monotonous life can appear to such a vagabond, who plods along the road, left to his own meditations. But one day this man had fallen into a line of thought, which really seemed to him entertaining. He had naturally been thinking of his rattraps when suddenly he was struck by the idea that the whole world about him — the whole world with its lands and seas, its cities and villages — was nothing but a big rattrap. It had never existed for any other purpose than to set baits for people. It offered riches and joys, shelter and food, heat and clothing, exactly as the rattrap offered cheese and pork, and as soon as anyone let himself be tempted to touch the bait, it closed in on him, and then everything came to an end. The world had, of course, never been very kind to him, so it gave him unwonted joy to think ill of it in this way. It became a cherished pastime of his, during many dreary ploddings, to think of people he knew who had let themselves be caught in the dangerous snare, and of others who were still circling around the bait. One dark evening as he was trudging along the road he caught sight of a little gray cottage by the roadside, and he knocked on the door to ask shelter for the night. Nor was he refused. Instead of the sour faces which ordinarily met him, the owner, who was an old man without wife or child, was happy to get someone to talk to in his loneliness. Immediately he put the porridge pot on the fire and gave him supper; then he carved off such a big slice from his tobacco roll that it was enough both for the stranger’s pipe and his own. Finally he got out an old pack of cards and.. played ‘mjolis’ with his guest until bedtime. The old man was just as generous with his confidences as with his porridge and tobacco. The guest was informed at once that in his days of prosperity his host had been a.. crofter at Ramsjo Ironworks and had worked on the land. Now that he was no longer able to do day labour, it was his cow which supported him. Yes, that bossy was extraordinary. She could give milk for the creamery every day, and last month he had received all of thirty kronor in payment. The stranger must have seemed incredulous, for the old man got up and went to the window, took down a leather pouch which hung on a nail in the very window frame, and picked out three wrinkled ten-kronor bills. These he held up before the eyes of his guest, nodding knowingly, and The Rattrap/33 then stuffed them back into the pouch. The next day both men got up 1. From where did the peddler get in good season. The crofter was in the idea of the world being a a hurry to milk his cow, and the rattrap? other man probably thought he 2. Why was he amused by this should not stay in bed when the idea? head of the house had gotten up. 3. Did the peddler expect the kind They left the cottage at the same of hospitality that he received time. The crofter locked the door from the crofter? 4. Why was the crofter so talkative and put the key in his pocket. The and friendly with the peddler? man with the rattraps said good 5. Why did he show the thirty bye and thank you, and thereupon kroner to the peddler? each went his own way. 6. Did the peddler respect the But half an hour later the confidence reposed in him by rattrap peddler stood again before the crofter? the door. He did not try to get in, however. He only went up to the window, smashed a pane, stuck in his hand, and got hold of the pouch with the thirty kronor. He took the money and thrust it into his own pocket. Then he hung the leather pouch very carefully back in its place and went away. As he walked along with the money in his pocket he felt quite pleased with his smartness. He realised, of course, that at first he dared not continue on the public highway, but must turn off the road, into the woods. During the first hours this caused him no difficulty. Later in the day it became worse, for it was a big and confusing forest which he had gotten into. He tried, to be sure, to walk in a definite direction, but the paths twisted back and forth so strangely! He walked and walked without coming to the end of the wood, and finally he realised that he had only been walking around in the same part of the forest. All at once he recalled his thoughts about the world and the rattrap. Now his own turn had come. He had let himself be fooled by a bait and had been caught. The whole forest, with its trunks and branches, its thickets and fallen logs, closed in upon him like an impenetrable prison from which he could never escape. 34/Flamingo  It was late in December. Darkness was already descending over the forest. This increased the danger, and increased also his gloom and despair. Finally he saw no way out, and he sank down on the ground, tired to death, thinking that his last moment had come. But just as he laid his head on the ground, he heard a sound—a hard regular thumping. There was no doubt as to what that was. He raised himself. ‘‘Those are the hammer strokes from an iron mill’’, he thought. ‘‘There must be people near by’’. He summoned all his strength, got up, and staggered in the direction of the sound... The Ramsjo Ironworks, which are now closed down, were, not so long ago, a large plant, with smelter, rolling mill, and forge. In the summertime long lines of heavily loaded barges and scows slid down the canal, which led to a large inland lake, and in the wintertime the roads near the mill were black from all the coal dust which sifted down from the big charcoal crates. During one of the long dark evenings just before Christmas, the master smith and his helper sat in the dark forge near the furnace waiting for the pig iron, which had been put in the fire, to be ready to put on the anvil. Every now and then one of them got up to stir the glowing mass with a long iron bar, returning in a few moments, dripping with perspiration, though, as was the custom, he wore nothing but a long shirt and a pair of wooden shoes. All the time there were many sounds to be heard in the forge. The big bellows groaned and the burning coal cracked. The fire boy shovelled charcoal into the maw of the furnace with a great deal of clatter. Outside roared the waterfall, and a sharp north wind whipped the rain against the brick-tiled roof. It was probably on account of all this noise that the blacksmith did not notice that a man had opened the gate and entered the forge, until he stood close up to the furnace. Surely it was nothing unusual for poor vagabonds without any better shelter for the night to be attracted to the forge by the glow of light which escaped through the sooty panes, and to come in to warm themselves in front of The Rattrap/35 the fire. The blacksmiths glanced only casually and indifferently at the intruder. He looked the way people of his type usually did, with a long beard, dirty, ragged, and with a bunch of rattraps dangling on his chest. He asked permission to stay, and the master blacksmith nodded a haughty consent without honouring him with a single word. The tramp did not say anything, either. He had not come there to talk but only to warm himself and sleep... In those days the Ramsjo iron mill was owned by a very prominent ironmaster, whose greatest ambition was to ship out good iron to the market. He watched both night and day to see that the work was done as well as possible, and at this very moment he came into the forge on one of his nightly rounds of inspection. Naturally the first thing he saw was the tall ragamuffin who had eased his way so close to the furnace that steam rose from his wet rags. The ironmaster did not follow the example of the blacksmiths, who had hardly deigned to look at the stranger. He walked close up to him, looked him over very carefully, then tore off his slouch hat to get a better view of his face. ‘‘But of course it is you, Nils Olof!’’ he said. “How you do look!” The man with the rattraps had never before seen the.. ironmaster at Ramsjo and did not even know what his name was. But it occurred to him that if the fine gentleman thought he was an old acquaintance, he might perhaps throw him a couple of kronor. Therefore he did not want to undeceive him all at once. ‘‘Yes, God knows things have gone downhill with me’’, he said. ‘‘You should not have resigned from the regiment’’, said the ironmaster. ‘‘That was the mistake. If only I had still been in the service at the time, it never would have happened. Well, now of course you will come home with me.’’ To go along up to the manor house and be received by the owner like an old regimental comrade — that, however, did not please the tramp. 36/Flamingo  ‘‘No, I couldn’t think of it!’’ he said, looking quite alarmed. He thought of the thirty kronor. To go up to the manor house would be like throwing himself voluntarily into the lion’s den. He only wanted a chance to sleep here in the forge and then sneak away as inconspicuously as possible. The ironmaster assumed that he felt embarrassed because of his miserable clothing. ‘‘Please don’t think that I have such a fine home that you cannot show yourself there’’, He said... ‘‘Elizabeth is dead, as you may already have heard. My boys are abroad, and there is no one at home except my oldest daughter and myself. We were just saying that it was too bad we didn’t have any company for Christmas. Now come along with me and help us make the Christmas food disappear a little faster.” But the stranger said no, and no, and again no, and the ironmaster saw that he must give in. 1. What made the peddler think ‘‘It looks as though Captain that he had indeed fallen into a von Stahle preferred to stay with rattrap?.. you tonight, Stjernstrom’’, he said 2. Why did the ironmaster speak to the master blacksmith, and kindly to the peddler and invite turned on his heel. him home? But he laughed to himself 3. Why did the peddler decline the as he went away, and the blacksmith, invitation? who knew him, understood very well that he had not said his last word. It was not more than half an hour before they heard the sound of carriage wheels outside the forge, and a new guest came in, but this time it was not the ironmaster. He had sent his daughter, apparently hoping that she would have better powers of persuasion than he himself. She entered, followed by a valet, carrying on his arm a big fur coat. She was not at all pretty, but seemed modest and quite shy. In the forge everything was just as it had been earlier in the evening. The master blacksmith and his apprentice still sat on their bench, and iron and charcoal still glowed in the furnace. The stranger had The Rattrap/37 stretched himself out on the floor and lay with a piece of pig iron under his head and his hat pulled down over his eyes. As soon as the young girl caught sight of him, she went up and lifted his hat. The man was evidently used to sleeping with one eye open. He jumped up abruptly and seemed to be quite frightened. ‘‘My name is Edla Willmansson,’’ said the young girl. ‘‘My father came home and said that you wanted to sleep here in the forge tonight, and then I asked permission to come and bring you home to us. I am so sorry, Captain, that you are having such a hard time.’’ She looked at him compassionately, with her heavy eyes, and then she noticed that the man was afraid. ‘‘Either he has stolen something or else he has escaped from, jail’’, she thought, and added quickly, “You may be sure, Captain, that you will be allowed to leave us just as freely as you came. Only please stay with us over Christmas Eve.’’ She said this in such a friendly manner that the rattrap peddler must have felt confidence in her. ‘‘It would never have occurred to me that you would bother with me yourself, miss,’’ he said. ‘’I will come at once.’’ He accepted the fur coat, which the valet handed him with a deep bow, threw it over his rags, and followed the young lady out to the carriage, without granting the astonished blacksmiths so much as a glance. But while he was riding up to the manor house he had evil forebodings. ‘‘Why the devil did I take that fellow’s money?’’ he thought. ‘‘Now I am sitting in the trap and will never get out of it.’’ The next day was Christmas Eve, and when the ironmaster came into the dining room for breakfast he probably thought with satisfaction of his old regimental comrade whom he had run across so unexpectedly. “First of all we must see to it that he gets a little flesh on his bones,” he said to his daughter, who was busy at the table. “And then we must see that he gets something else to do than to run around the country selling rattraps.” 38/Flamingo  “It is queer that things have gone downhill with him as badly as that,” said the daughter. “Last night I did not think there was anything about him to show that he had once been an educated man.” “You must have patience, my little girl,” said the father. “As soon as he gets clean and dressed up, you will see something different. Last night he was naturally embarrassed. The tramp manners will fall away from him with the tramp clothes.” Just as he said this the door opened and the stranger entered. Yes, now he was truly clean and well dressed. The valet had bathed him, cut his hair, and shaved him. Moreover he was dressed in a good-looking suit of clothes which belonged to the ironmaster. He wore a white shirt and a starched collar and whole shoes. But although his guest was now so well groomed, the ironmaster did not seem pleased. He looked at him with puckered brow, and it was easy to understand that when he had seen the strange fellow in the uncertain reflection from the furnace he might have made a mistake, but that now, when he stood there in broad daylight, it was impossible to mistake him for an old acquaintance. “What does this mean?” he thundered. The stranger made no attempt to dissimulate. He saw at once that the splendour had come to an end. “It is not my fault, sir,” he said. “I never pretended to be anything but a poor trader, and I pleaded and begged to be allowed to stay in the forge. But no harm has been done. At worst I can put on my rags again and go away”. “Well,” said the ironmaster, hesitating a little, “it was not quite honest, either. You must admit that, and I should not be surprised if the sheriff would like to have something to say in the matter.” The tramp took a step forward and struck the table with his fist. “Now I am going to tell you, Mr Ironmaster, how things are,” he said. “This whole world is nothing but a big rattrap. All the good things that are offered to you are nothing but cheese rinds and bits of pork, set out to drag a poor fellow The Rattrap/39 into trouble. And if the sheriff comes now and locks me up for this, then you, Mr Ironmaster, must remember that a day may come when you yourself may want to get a big piece of pork, and then you will get caught in the trap.” The ironmaster began to laugh. “That was not so badly said, my good fellow. Perhaps we should let the sheriff alone on Christmas Eve. But now get out of here as fast as you can.” But just as the man was opening the door, the daughter said, “I think he ought to stay with us today. I don’t want him to go.” And with that she went and closed the door. “What in the world are you doing?” said the father. The daughter stood there quite embarrassed and hardly knew what to answer. That morning she had felt so happy when she thought how homelike and Christmassy she was going to make things for the poor hungry wretch. She could not get away from the idea all at once, and that was why she had interceded for the vagabond. “I am thinking of this stranger here,” said the young girl. “He walks and walks the whole year long, and there is probably not a single place in the whole country where he is welcome and can feel at home. Wherever he turns he is chased away. Always he is afraid of being arrested and cross-examined. I should like to have him enjoy a day of peace with us here — just one in the whole year.” The ironmaster mumbled something in his beard. He could not bring himself to oppose her. “It was all a mistake, of course,” she continued. “But anyway I don’t think we ought to chase away a human being whom we have asked to come here, and to whom we have promised Christmas cheer.” “You do preach worse than a parson,” said the ironmaster. “I only hope you won’t have to regret this.” The young girl took the stranger by the hand and led him up to the table. “Now sit down and eat,” she said, for she could see that her father had given in. The man with the rattraps said not a word; he only sat down and helped himself to the food. Time after time 40/Flamingo he looked at the young girl who had interceded for him. Why had she done it? What could the crazy idea be?.. After that, Christmas Eve at Ramsjo passed just as it always had. The stranger did not cause any trouble because he did nothing but sleep. The whole forenoon he lay on the sofa in one of the guest rooms and slept at one stretch. At noon they woke him up so that he could have his share of the good Christmas fare, but after that he slept again. It seemed as though for many years he had not been able to.. sleep as quietly and safely as here at Ramsjo. In the evening, when the Christmas tree was lighted, they woke him up again, and he stood for a while in the drawing room, blinking as though the candlelight hurt him, but after that he disappeared again. Two hours later he was aroused once more. He then had to go down into the dining room and eat the Christmas fish and porridge. As soon as they got up from the table he went around to each one present and said thank you and good night, but when he came to the young girl she gave him to understand that it was her father’s intention that the suit which he wore was 1. What made the peddler to be a Christmas present — he accept Edla Willmansson’s invitation? did not have to return it; and if 2. What doubts did Edla have he wanted to spend next about the peddler? Christmas Eve in a place where 3. When did the ironmaster he could rest in peace, and be realise his mistake? sure that no evil would befall him, 4. What did the peddler say in he would be welcomed back again. his defence when it was clear The man with the rattraps that he was not the person the did not answer anything to this. ironmaster had thought he He only stared at the young girl was? in boundless amazement. 5. Why did Edla still entertain the peddler even after she The next morning the knew the truth about him? ironmaster and his daughter got up in good season to go to the early Christmas service. Their guest was still asleep, and they did not disturb him. When, at about ten o’clock, they drove back from the church, the young girl sat and hung her head even more The Rattrap/41 dejectedly than usual. At church she had learned that one of the old crofters of the ironworks had been robbed by a man who went around selling rattraps. “Yes, that was a fine fellow you let into the house,” said her father. “I only wonder how many silver spoons are left in the cupboard by this time.” The wagon had hardly stopped at the front steps when the ironmaster asked the valet whether the stranger was still there. He added that he had heard at church that the man was a thief. The valet answered that the fellow had gone and that he had not taken anything with him at all. On the contrary, he had left behind a little package which Miss Willmansson was to be kind enough to accept as a Christmas present. The young girl opened the package, which was so badly done up that the contents came into view at once. She gave a little cry of joy. She found a small rattrap, and in it lay three wrinkled ten kronor notes. But that was not all. In the rattrap lay also a letter written in large, jagged characters — “Honoured and noble Miss, “Since you have been so nice to me all day long, as if I was a captain, I want to be nice to you, in return, as if I was a real 1. Why was Edla happy to see captain — for I do not want you the gift left by the peddler? to be embarrassed at this 2. Why did the peddler sign Christmas season by a thief; but himself as Captain von Stahle? you can give back the money to the old man on the roadside, who has the money pouch hanging on the window frame as a bait for poor wanderers. “The rattrap is a Christmas present from a rat who would have been caught in this world’s rattrap if he had not been raised to captain, because in that way he got power to clear himself. “Written with friendship and high regard, “Captain von Stahle.” 42/Flamingo Understanding the text 1. How does the peddler interpret the acts of kindness and hospitality shown by the crof