Task for XI IPA 1-4, while I'm OUT
TASK FOR XI MIPA 1-4 CLASSES
Instruction:
1.
Read the following ‘Short Story’
then giving analysis! This task as for your complementary daily tasks! The
question in class XI MIPA 1 & 2 is the same as the question in class XI
MIPA 3 & 4.
2.
Your task must be collected at the
end of your English class on April 20th, 21th, and 22th,
2015 by the E-mail: hasyimsoppeng@gmail.com
Questions:
Direction:
Each of class works based
on the instruction and answers the following questions!
1.
What are the Plot temporal sequences and Plot
causal relationship of this story?
2.
What are the choices and pattern of choices of
the author on her/his story?
3.
Explain and/or draw its Conflict, confliction,
and climax of the story
4.
Explain whether the Characters of this story is
called as discursive (flat) character,
dramatic or character on the other character of this story? (dramatic means the characters reveal to
us themselves character through their own words and actions; character on the other character means
what we know about A character is because of A tells much about B, but it
actually explains much about A itself))
THIS TASK IS FOR THE XI MIPA 1 & 2
Jim Baker's Blue-Jay Yarn
by Mark Twain
One of Mark Twain's most famous
short stories, Jim Baker's Blue-jay Yarn, was adapted from a campfire
story told by Jim Gillis while Twain and Gillis were prospecting for gold
during the winter of 1864-65. It must have been an interesting story in those
circumstances; a story about Jays futilely filling a hole, told to men who were
fruitlessly digging one. Twain transforms the original into a biting satire
about human behavior and persistence.
Animals
talk to each other, of course. There can be no question about that; but I
suppose there are very few people who can understand them. I never knew but one
man who could. I knew he could, however, because he told me so himself. He was
a middle-aged, simple-hearted miner who had lived in a lonely corner of
California, among the woods and mountains, a good many years, and had studied
the ways of his only neighbors, the beasts and the birds, until he believed he
could accurately translate any remark which they made. This was Jim Baker.
According to Jim Baker, some animals have only a limited education, and use
only very simple words, and scarcely ever a comparison or a flowery figure;
whereas, certain other animals have a large vocabulary, a fine command of
language and a ready and fluent delivery; consequently these latter talk a great
deal; they like it; they are conscious of their talent, and they enjoy “showing
off.” Baker said, that after long and careful observation, he had come to the
conclusion that the blue-jays were the best talkers he had found among birds
and beasts. Said he:—
“There’s
more to a blue-jay than any other creature. He has got more moods, and
more different kinds of feelings than other creature; and mind you, whatever a
blue-jay feels, he can put into language. And no mere commonplace language,
either, but rattling, out-and-out book-talk—and bristling with metaphor,
too—just bristling! And as for command of language—why you never see a
blue-jay get stuck for a word. No man ever did. They just boil out of him! And
another thing: I’ve noticed a good deal, and there’s no bird, or cow, or
anything that uses as good grammar as a blue-jay. You may say a cat uses good
grammar. Well, a cat does—but you let a cat get excited, once; you let a cat
get to pulling fur with another cat on a shed, nights, and you’ll hear grammar
that will give you the lockjaw. Ignorant people think it’s the noise
which fighting cats make that is so aggravating, but it ain’t so; it’s the
sickening grammar they use. Now I’ve never heard a jay use bad grammar but very
seldom; and when they do, they are as ashamed as a human; they shut right down
and leave.
“You
may call a jay a bird. Well, so he is, in a measure—because he’s got feathers
on him, and don’t belong to no church, perhaps; but otherwise he is just as
much a human as you be. And I’ll tell you for why. A jay’s gifts, and
instincts, and feelings, and interests, cover the whole ground. A jay hasn’t
got any more principle than a Congressman. A jay will lie, a jay will steal, a
jay will deceive, a jay will betray; and four times out of five, a jay will go
back on his solemnest promise. The sacredness of an obligation is a thing which
you can’t cram into no blue-jay’s head. Now on top of all this, there’s another
thing: a jay can out-swear any gentleman in the mines. You think a cat can
swear. Well, a cat can; but you give a blue-jay a subject that calls for his
reserve-powers, and where is your cat? Don’t talk to me—I know too much
about this thing. And there’s yet another thing: in the one little particular
of scolding—just good, clean, out-and-out scolding—a blue-jay can lay over
anything, human or divine. Yes, sir, a jay is everything that a man is. A jay
can cry, a jay can laugh, a jay can feel shame, a jay can reason and plan and
discuss, a jay likes gossip and scandal, a jay has got a sense of humor, a jay
knows when he is an ass just as well as you do—maybe better. If a jay ain’t
human, he better take in his sign, that’s all. Now I’m going to tell you a
perfectly true fact about some blue-jays.”
“When
I first begun to understand jay language correctly, there was a little incident
happened here. Seven years ago, the last man in this region but me, moved away.
There stands his house,—been empty ever since; a log house, with a plank
roof—just one big room, and no more; no ceiling—nothing between the rafters and
the floor. Well, one Sunday morning I was sitting out here in front of my cabin,
with my cat, taking the sun, and looking at the blue hills, and listening to
the leaves rustling so lonely in the trees, and thinking of the home away
yonder in the States, that I hadn’t heard from in thirteen years, when a blue
jay lit on that house, with an acorn in his mouth, and says, ‘Hello, I reckon
I’ve struck something.’ When he spoke, the acorn dropped out of his month and
rolled down the roof, of course, but he didn’t care; his mind was all on the
thing he had struck. It was a knot-hole in the roof. He cocked his head to one
side, shut one eye and put the other one to the hole, like a ’possum looking
down a jug; then he glanced up with his bright eyes, gave a wink or two with his
wings—which signifies gratification, you understand,—and says, ‘It looks like a
hole, it’s located like a hole,—blamed if I don’t believe it is a hole!’
details—walked
round and round the hole and spied into it from every point of the compass. No
use. Now he took a thinking attitude on the comb of the roof and scratched the
back of his head with his right foot a minute, and finally says, ‘Well, it’s too
many for me, that’s certain; must be a mighty long hole; however, I ain’t got
no time to fool around here, I got to ’tend to business; I reckon it’s all
right—chance it, anyway.’
“So
he flew off and fetched another acorn and dropped it in, and tried to flirt his
eye to the hole quick enough to see what become of it, but he was too late. He
held his eye there as much as a minute; then he raised up and sighed, and says,
‘Consound it, I don’t seem to understand this thing, no way; however, I’ll
tackle her again.’ He fetched another acorn, and done his level best to see
what become of it, but he couldn’t. He says, ‘Well, I never struck no such a
hole as this, before; I’m of the opinion it’s a totally new kind of a hole.’
Then he begun to get mad. He held in for a spell, walking up and down the comb
of the roof and shaking his head and muttering to himself; but his feelings got
the upper hand of him, presently, and he broke loose and cussed himself black
in the face. I never see a bird take on so about a little thing. When he got
through he walks to the hole and looks in again for half a minute; then he
says, ‘Well, you’re a long hole, and a deep hole, and a mighty singular hole
altogether—but I’ve started in to fill you, and I’m d—d if I don’t fill you, if
it takes a hundred years!’
“And
with that, away he went. You never see a bird work so since you was born. He
laid into his work like a nigger, and the way he hove acorns into that hole for
about two hours and a half was one of the most exciting and astonishing
spectacles I ever struck. He never stopped to take a look any more—he just hove
’em in and went for more. Well at last he could hardly flop his wings, he was so
tuckered out. He comes a-drooping down, once more, sweating like an
ice-pitcher, drops his acorn in and says, ‘Now I guess I’ve got the bulge on
you by this time!’ So he bent down for a look. If you’ll believe me, when his
head come up again he was just pale with rage. He says, ‘I’ve shoveled acorns
enough in there to keep the family thirty years, and if I can see a sign of one
of ’em I wish I may land in a museum with a belly full of sawdust in two minutes!’
“He just had strength enough to crawl up on to the comb and lean his back agin
the chimbly, and then he collected his impressions and begun to free his mind.
I see in a second that what I had mistook for profanity in the mines was only
just the rudiments, as you may say.
“Another
jay was going by, and heard him doing his devotions, and stops to inquire what
was up. The sufferer told him the whole circumstance, and says, ‘Now yonder’s
the hole, and if you don’t believe me, go and look for yourself.’ So this
fellow went and looked, and comes back and says, ‘How many did you say you put
in there?’ ‘Not any less than two tons,’ says the sufferer. The other jay went
and looked again. He couldn’t seem to make it out, so he raised a yell, and
three more jays come. They all examined the hole, they all made the sufferer
tell it over again, then they all discussed it, and got off as many
leather-headed opinions about it as an average crowd of humans could have done.
“They
called in more jays; then more and more, till pretty soon this whole region
’peared to have a blue flush about it. There must have been five thousand of
them; and such another jawing and disputing and ripping and cussing, you never
heard. Every jay in the whole lot put his eye to the hole and delivered a more
chuckle-headed opinion about the mystery than the jay that went there before
him. They examined the house all over, too. The door was standing half open,
and at last one old jay happened to go and light on it and look in. Of course
that knocked the mystery galley-west in a second. There lay the acorns,
scattered all over the floor. He flopped his wings and raised a whoop. ‘Come
here!’ he says, ‘Come here, everybody; hang’d if this fool hasn’t been trying
to fill up a house with acorns!’ They all came a-swooping down like a blue
cloud, and as each fellow lit on the door and took a glance, the whole
absurdity of the contract that that first jay had tackled hit him home and he
fell over backwards suffocating with laughter, and the next jay took his place
and done the same.
“Well,
sir, they roosted around here on the house-top and the trees for an hour, and
guffawed over that thing like human beings. It ain’t any use to tell me a
blue-jay hasn’t got a sense of humor, because I know better. And memory, too. They
brought jays here from all over the United States to look down that hole, every
summer for three years. Other birds too. And they could all see the point,
except an owl that come from Nova Scotia to visit the Yo Semite, and he took
this thing in on his way back. He said he couldn’t see anything funny in it.
But then he was a good deal disappointed about Yo Semite, too.”
8.9
THIS TASK IS FOR THE STUDENTS OF XI
MIPA 3 & 4
Eveline
by
James Joyce
SHE
sat at the window watching the evening invade the avenue. Her head was leaned
against the window curtains and in her nostrils was the odour of dusty
cretonne. She was tired.
Few
people passed. The man out of the last house passed on his way home; she heard
his footsteps clacking along the concrete pavement and afterwards crunching on
the cinder path before the new red houses. One time there used to be a field
there in which they used to play every evening with other people's children.
Then a man from Belfast bought the field and built houses in it -- not like
their little brown houses but bright brick houses with shining roofs. The
children of the avenue used to play together in that field -- the Devines, the
Waters, the Dunns, little Keogh the cripple, she and her brothers and sisters.
Ernest, however, never played: he was too grown up. Her father used often to
hunt them in out of the field with his blackthorn stick; but usually little
Keogh used to keep nix and call out when he saw her father coming. Still they
seemed to have been rather happy then. Her father was not so bad then; and
besides, her mother was alive. That was a long time ago; she and her brothers
and sisters were all grown up her mother was dead. Tizzie Dunn was dead, too,
and the Waters had gone back to England. Everything changes. Now she was going
to go away like the others, to leave her home.
Home!
She looked round the room, reviewing all its familiar objects which she had
dusted once a week for so many years, wondering where on earth all the dust
came from. Perhaps she would never see again those familiar objects from which
she had never dreamed of being divided. And yet during all those years she had
never found out the name of the priest whose yellowing photograph hung on the
wall above the broken harmonium beside the coloured print of the promises made
to Blessed Margaret Mary Alacoque. He had been a school friend of her father.
Whenever he showed the photograph to a visitor her father used to pass it with
a casual word:
"He
is in Melbourne now."
She
had consented to go away, to leave her home. Was that wise? She tried to weigh
each side of the question. In her home anyway she had shelter and food; she had
those whom she had known all her life about her. O course she had to work hard,
both in the house and at business. What would they say of her in the Stores
when they found out that she had run away with a fellow? Say she was a fool,
perhaps; and her place would be filled up by advertisement. Miss Gavan would be
glad. She had always had an edge on her, especially whenever there were people
listening.
"Miss
Hill, don't you see these ladies are waiting?"
"Look
lively, Miss Hill, please."
She
would not cry many tears at leaving the Stores.
But
in her new home, in a distant unknown country, it would not be like that. Then
she would be married -- she, Eveline. People would treat her with respect then.
She would not be treated as her mother had been. Even now, though she was over
nineteen, she sometimes felt herself in danger of her father's violence. She
knew it was that that had given her the palpitations. When they were growing up
he had never gone for her like he used to go for Harry and Ernest, because she
was a girl but latterly he had begun to threaten her and say what he would do
to her only for her dead mother's sake. And no she had nobody to protect her.
Ernest was dead and Harry, who was in the church decorating business, was
nearly always down somewhere in the country. Besides, the invariable squabble
for money on Saturday nights had begun to weary her unspeakably. She always
gave her entire wages -- seven shillings -- and Harry always sent up what he
could but the trouble was to get any money from her father. He said she used to
squander the money, that she had no head, that he wasn't going to give her his
hard-earned money to throw about the streets, and much more, for he was usually
fairly bad on Saturday night. In the end he would give her the money and ask
her had she any intention of buying Sunday's dinner. Then she had to rush out
as quickly as she could and do her marketing, holding her black leather purse
tightly in her hand as she elbowed her way through the crowds and returning
home late under her load of provisions. She had hard work to keep the house
together and to see that the two young children who had been left to hr charge
went to school regularly and got their meals regularly. It was hard work -- a
hard life -- but now that she was about to leave it she did not find it a
wholly undesirable life.
She
was about to explore another life with Frank. Frank was very kind, manly,
open-hearted. She was to go away with him by the night-boat to be his wife and
to live with him in Buenos Ayres where he had a home waiting for her. How well
she remembered the first time she had seen him; he was lodging in a house on
the main road where she used to visit. It seemed a few weeks ago. He was
standing at the gate, his peaked cap pushed back on his head and his hair
tumbled forward over a face of bronze. Then they had come to know each other.
He used to meet her outside the Stores every evening and see her home. He took
her to see The Bohemian Girl and she felt elated as she sat in an unaccustomed
part of the theatre with him. He was awfully fond of music and sang a little.
People knew that they were courting and, when he sang about the lass that loves
a sailor, she always felt pleasantly confused. He used to call her Poppens out
of fun. First of all it had been an excitement for her to have a fellow and
then she had begun to like him. He had tales of distant countries. He had
started as a deck boy at a pound a month on a ship of the Allan Line going out
to Canada. He told her the names of the ships he had been on and the names of
the different services. He had sailed through the Straits of Magellan and he
told her stories of the terrible Patagonians. He had fallen on his feet in
Buenos Ayres, he said, and had come over to the old country just for a holiday.
Of course, her father had found out the affair and had forbidden her to have
anything to say to him.
"I
know these sailor chaps," he said.
One
day he had quarrelled with Frank and after that she had to meet her lover
secretly.
The
evening deepened in the avenue. The white of two letters in her lap grew
indistinct. One was to Harry; the other was to her father. Ernest had been her
favourite but she liked Harry too. Her father was becoming old lately, she
noticed; he would miss her. Sometimes he could be very nice. Not long before,
when she had been laid up for a day, he had read her out a ghost story and made
toast for her at the fire. Another day, when their mother was alive, they had
all gone for a picnic to the Hill of Howth. She remembered her father putting
on her mothers bonnet to make the children laugh.
Her
time was running out but she continued to sit by the window, leaning her head
against the window curtain, inhaling the odour of dusty cretonne. Down far in
the avenue she could hear a street organ playing. She knew the air Strange that
it should come that very night to remind her of the promise to her mother, her
promise to keep the home together as long as she could. She remembered the last
night of her mother's illness; she was again in the close dark room at the
other side of the hall and outside she heard a melancholy air of Italy. The
organ-player had been ordered to go away and given sixpence. She remembered her
father strutting back into the sickroom saying:
"Damned
Italians! coming over here!"
As
she mused the pitiful vision of her mother's life laid its spell on the very
quick of her being -- that life of commonplace sacrifices closing in final
craziness. She trembled as she heard again her mother's voice saying constantly
with foolish insistence:
"Derevaun
Seraun! Derevaun Seraun!"
She
stood up in a sudden impulse of terror. Escape! She must escape! Frank would
save her. He would give her life, perhaps love, too. But she wanted to live.
Why should she be unhappy? She had a right to happiness. Frank would take her
in his arms, fold her in his arms. He would save her.
She
stood among the swaying crowd in the station at the North Wall. He held her
hand and she knew that he was speaking to her, saying something about the
passage over and over again. The station was full of soldiers with brown
baggages. Through the wide doors of the sheds she caught a glimpse of the black
mass of the boat, lying in beside the quay wall, with illumined portholes. She
answered nothing. She felt her cheek pale and cold and, out of a maze of
distress, she prayed to God to direct her, to show her what was her duty. The
boat blew a long mournful whistle into the mist. If she went, tomorrow she
would be on the sea with Frank, steaming towards Buenos Ayres. Their passage
had been booked. Could she still draw back after all he had done for her? Her
distress awoke a nausea in her body and she kept moving her lips in silent
fervent prayer.
A
bell clanged upon her heart. She felt him seize her hand:
"Come!"
All
the seas of the world tumbled about her heart. He was drawing her into them: he
would drown her. She gripped with both hands at the iron railing.
"Come!"
No!
No! No! It was impossible. Her hands clutched the iron in frenzy. Amid the seas
she sent a cry of anguish.
"Eveline!
Evvy!"
He
rushed beyond the barrier and called to her to follow. He was shouted at to go
on but he still called to her. She set her white face to him, passive, like a
helpless animal. Her eyes gave him no sign of love or farewell or recognition.
7.8
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