ENJ4

How to Treat House-plants

All she ever thinks about are house-plants. She talks to them and tends them every day.
And she says, ‘Don’t hurt their feelings. Give them Love. In all your dealings with them,
Treat them in a tender, human way.’

‘Certainly my dear,’ he says, ‘O.K. Human, eh?’
But the house-plants do not seem to want to play. They are stooping, they are drooping,
They are kneeling in their clay:
They are flaking, they are moulting, Turning yellow, turning grey,
And they look . . . well, quite revolting As they sigh, and fade away.

So after she has left the house he gets them And he sets them in a line against the wall,
And I cannot say he cossets them or pets them – No, he doesn’t sympathise with them at all.
Is he tender? Is he human? Not a bit.
No, to each of them in turn he says: ‘You twit!

You’re a
Rotten little skiver, Cost a fiver,
Earn your keep!
You’re a
Dirty little drop-out! You’re a cop-out!
You’re a creep!
You’re a
Mangy little whinger! You’re a cringer!
Son, it’s true –
I have justbin To the dustbin
Where there’s better men than you!
Get that stem back! Pull your weight! Stick your leaves out!
STAND UP STRAIGHT!’
And, strange to say, the plants co-operate.
So when she comes back home and finds them glowing, Green and healthy, every one a king,
She says, ‘It’s tenderness that gets them growing! How strange, the change a little love can bring!’
‘Oh yes,’ he says. ‘Not half. Right. Love’s the thing.’
Kit Wright

Question: What is the main subject of the poem?

How to Treat House-plants

All she ever thinks about are house-plants. She talks to them and tends them every day.
And she says, ‘Don’t hurt their feelings. Give them Love. In all your dealings with them,
Treat them in a tender, human way.’

‘Certainly my dear,’ he says, ‘O.K. Human, eh?’
But the house-plants do not seem to want to play. They are stooping, they are drooping,
They are kneeling in their clay:
They are flaking, they are moulting, Turning yellow, turning grey,
And they look . . . well, quite revolting As they sigh, and fade away.

So after she has left the house he gets them And he sets them in a line against the wall,
And I cannot say he cossets them or pets them – No, he doesn’t sympathise with them at all.
Is he tender? Is he human? Not a bit.
No, to each of them in turn he says: ‘You twit!

You’re a
Rotten little skiver, Cost a fiver,
Earn your keep!
You’re a
Dirty little drop-out! You’re a cop-out!
You’re a creep!
You’re a
Mangy little whinger! You’re a cringer!
Son, it’s true –
I have justbin To the dustbin
Where there’s better men than you!
Get that stem back! Pull your weight! Stick your leaves out!
STAND UP STRAIGHT!’
And, strange to say, the plants co-operate.
So when she comes back home and finds them glowing, Green and healthy, every one a king,
She says, ‘It’s tenderness that gets them growing! How strange, the change a little love can bring!’
‘Oh yes,’ he says. ‘Not half. Right. Love’s the thing.’
Kit Wright

Question: What literary device is used in “stooping, they are drooping”?

How to Treat House-plants

All she ever thinks about are house-plants. She talks to them and tends them every day.
And she says, ‘Don’t hurt their feelings. Give them Love. In all your dealings with them,
Treat them in a tender, human way.’

‘Certainly my dear,’ he says, ‘O.K. Human, eh?’
But the house-plants do not seem to want to play. They are stooping, they are drooping,
They are kneeling in their clay:
They are flaking, they are moulting, Turning yellow, turning grey,
And they look . . . well, quite revolting As they sigh, and fade away.

So after she has left the house he gets them And he sets them in a line against the wall,
And I cannot say he cossets them or pets them – No, he doesn’t sympathise with them at all.
Is he tender? Is he human? Not a bit.
No, to each of them in turn he says: ‘You twit!

You’re a
Rotten little skiver, Cost a fiver,
Earn your keep!
You’re a
Dirty little drop-out! You’re a cop-out!
You’re a creep!
You’re a
Mangy little whinger! You’re a cringer!
Son, it’s true –
I have justbin To the dustbin
Where there’s better men than you!
Get that stem back! Pull your weight! Stick your leaves out!
STAND UP STRAIGHT!’
And, strange to say, the plants co-operate.
So when she comes back home and finds them glowing, Green and healthy, every one a king,
She says, ‘It’s tenderness that gets them growing! How strange, the change a little love can bring!’
‘Oh yes,’ he says. ‘Not half. Right. Love’s the thing.’
Kit Wright

Question: What is the tone of the line, “Oh yes, he says. ‘Not half. Right. Love’s the thing.’”?

How to Treat House-plants

All she ever thinks about are house-plants. She talks to them and tends them every day.
And she says, ‘Don’t hurt their feelings. Give them Love. In all your dealings with them,
Treat them in a tender, human way.’

‘Certainly my dear,’ he says, ‘O.K. Human, eh?’
But the house-plants do not seem to want to play. They are stooping, they are drooping,
They are kneeling in their clay:
They are flaking, they are moulting, Turning yellow, turning grey,
And they look . . . well, quite revolting As they sigh, and fade away.

So after she has left the house he gets them And he sets them in a line against the wall,
And I cannot say he cossets them or pets them – No, he doesn’t sympathise with them at all.
Is he tender? Is he human? Not a bit.
No, to each of them in turn he says: ‘You twit!

You’re a
Rotten little skiver, Cost a fiver,
Earn your keep!
You’re a
Dirty little drop-out! You’re a cop-out!
You’re a creep!
You’re a
Mangy little whinger! You’re a cringer!
Son, it’s true –
I have justbin To the dustbin
Where there’s better men than you!
Get that stem back! Pull your weight! Stick your leaves out!
STAND UP STRAIGHT!’
And, strange to say, the plants co-operate.
So when she comes back home and finds them glowing, Green and healthy, every one a king,
She says, ‘It’s tenderness that gets them growing! How strange, the change a little love can bring!’
‘Oh yes,’ he says. ‘Not half. Right. Love’s the thing.’
Kit Wright

Question: How does the man truly feel about the house-plants?

How to Treat House-plants

All she ever thinks about are house-plants. She talks to them and tends them every day.
And she says, ‘Don’t hurt their feelings. Give them Love. In all your dealings with them,
Treat them in a tender, human way.’

‘Certainly my dear,’ he says, ‘O.K. Human, eh?’
But the house-plants do not seem to want to play. They are stooping, they are drooping,
They are kneeling in their clay:
They are flaking, they are moulting, Turning yellow, turning grey,
And they look . . . well, quite revolting As they sigh, and fade away.

So after she has left the house he gets them And he sets them in a line against the wall,
And I cannot say he cossets them or pets them – No, he doesn’t sympathise with them at all.
Is he tender? Is he human? Not a bit.
No, to each of them in turn he says: ‘You twit!

You’re a
Rotten little skiver, Cost a fiver,
Earn your keep!
You’re a
Dirty little drop-out! You’re a cop-out!
You’re a creep!
You’re a
Mangy little whinger! You’re a cringer!
Son, it’s true –
I have justbin To the dustbin
Where there’s better men than you!
Get that stem back! Pull your weight! Stick your leaves out!
STAND UP STRAIGHT!’
And, strange to say, the plants co-operate.
So when she comes back home and finds them glowing, Green and healthy, every one a king,
She says, ‘It’s tenderness that gets them growing! How strange, the change a little love can bring!’
‘Oh yes,’ he says. ‘Not half. Right. Love’s the thing.’
Kit Wright

Question: Which of the following lines show that the woman believes love is the key to caring for the plants?

How to Treat House-plants

All she ever thinks about are house-plants. She talks to them and tends them every day.
And she says, ‘Don’t hurt their feelings. Give them Love. In all your dealings with them,
Treat them in a tender, human way.’

‘Certainly my dear,’ he says, ‘O.K. Human, eh?’
But the house-plants do not seem to want to play. They are stooping, they are drooping,
They are kneeling in their clay:
They are flaking, they are moulting, Turning yellow, turning grey,
And they look . . . well, quite revolting As they sigh, and fade away.

So after she has left the house he gets them And he sets them in a line against the wall,
And I cannot say he cossets them or pets them – No, he doesn’t sympathise with them at all.
Is he tender? Is he human? Not a bit.
No, to each of them in turn he says: ‘You twit!

You’re a
Rotten little skiver, Cost a fiver,
Earn your keep!
You’re a
Dirty little drop-out! You’re a cop-out!
You’re a creep!
You’re a
Mangy little whinger! You’re a cringer!
Son, it’s true –
I have justbin To the dustbin
Where there’s better men than you!
Get that stem back! Pull your weight! Stick your leaves out!
STAND UP STRAIGHT!’
And, strange to say, the plants co-operate.
So when she comes back home and finds them glowing, Green and healthy, every one a king,
She says, ‘It’s tenderness that gets them growing! How strange, the change a little love can bring!’
‘Oh yes,’ he says. ‘Not half. Right. Love’s the thing.’
Kit Wright

Question: What is the irony in the poem?

Come Another Day

Mondays,
my mother chopped wood and twisted newspaper
to make fire,
beneath a whitened stone boiler, with a wooden lid that was itself bleached white with steam,
to imitate it seemed
an inferno, in which to work with red hot coals
and scalding water, bubbling, spitting, foaming, as she drubbed at sails of linen, fighting them with a
dolly stick, possessing
all the qualities of driftwood. Misted in vapour, her hair was dank and coming
in from school, dinner was always cold meat left from Sundays, with potato mash
wet as the washing. Mondays,
my mother stood at the tin bath
and a rubbing board,
with brick hard yellow soap, battering her knuckles against zinc, raw
fingers wringing, squeezing twisting the dirt of life away, to float as scum before the operation of
a vast machine of iron cast, made in Doncaster,
with massive rollers that mangled buttons as slowly and certainly
as it mangled my mother. Home from school,
the end of our day,
we sat upon the floor, peering under wet clothes to glimpse the stove,
our comics soggy, as we munched our bread.
Mondays,
my mother sweated, heavy black irons
heated on kitchen range, gripped with scorching slipping cloths, to
brand the flesh and
press and hiss the dampness from the wearying pile, filling wicker baskets
with sweet smooth warmth, before she sat by mantle light, to rummage
in a biscuit tin
matching buttons crushed, sewing, thin cotton
edges frayed.
From the memory smell of steam and starch,
childhood skies of Reckitts blue. I remember, Mondays, my mother earned two shillings.
John Gorman

Question: What is the main theme of the poem?

Come Another Day

Mondays,
my mother chopped wood and twisted newspaper
to make fire,
beneath a whitened stone boiler, with a wooden lid that was itself bleached white with steam,
to imitate it seemed
an inferno, in which to work with red hot coals
and scalding water, bubbling, spitting, foaming, as she drubbed at sails of linen, fighting them with a
dolly stick, possessing
all the qualities of driftwood. Misted in vapour, her hair was dank and coming
in from school, dinner was always cold meat left from Sundays, with potato mash
wet as the washing. Mondays,
my mother stood at the tin bath
and a rubbing board,
with brick hard yellow soap, battering her knuckles against zinc, raw
fingers wringing, squeezing twisting the dirt of life away, to float as scum before the operation of
a vast machine of iron cast, made in Doncaster,
with massive rollers that mangled buttons as slowly and certainly
as it mangled my mother. Home from school,
the end of our day,
we sat upon the floor, peering under wet clothes to glimpse the stove,
our comics soggy, as we munched our bread.
Mondays,
my mother sweated, heavy black irons
heated on kitchen range, gripped with scorching slipping cloths, to
brand the flesh and
press and hiss the dampness from the wearying pile, filling wicker baskets
with sweet smooth warmth, before she sat by mantle light, to rummage
in a biscuit tin
matching buttons crushed, sewing, thin cotton
edges frayed.
From the memory smell of steam and starch,
childhood skies of Reckitts blue. I remember, Mondays, my mother earned two shillings.
John Gorman

Question: What does the “whitened stone boiler” symbolise?

Come Another Day

Mondays,
my mother chopped wood and twisted newspaper
to make fire,
beneath a whitened stone boiler, with a wooden lid that was itself bleached white with steam,
to imitate it seemed
an inferno, in which to work with red hot coals
and scalding water, bubbling, spitting, foaming, as she drubbed at sails of linen, fighting them with a
dolly stick, possessing
all the qualities of driftwood. Misted in vapour, her hair was dank and coming
in from school, dinner was always cold meat left from Sundays, with potato mash
wet as the washing. Mondays,
my mother stood at the tin bath
and a rubbing board,
with brick hard yellow soap, battering her knuckles against zinc, raw
fingers wringing, squeezing twisting the dirt of life away, to float as scum before the operation of
a vast machine of iron cast, made in Doncaster,
with massive rollers that mangled buttons as slowly and certainly
as it mangled my mother. Home from school,
the end of our day,
we sat upon the floor, peering under wet clothes to glimpse the stove,
our comics soggy, as we munched our bread.
Mondays,
my mother sweated, heavy black irons
heated on kitchen range, gripped with scorching slipping cloths, to
brand the flesh and
press and hiss the dampness from the wearying pile, filling wicker baskets
with sweet smooth warmth, before she sat by mantle light, to rummage
in a biscuit tin
matching buttons crushed, sewing, thin cotton
edges frayed.
From the memory smell of steam and starch,
childhood skies of Reckitts blue. I remember, Mondays, my mother earned two shillings.
John Gorman

Question: What is the tone of the poem?

Come Another Day

Mondays,
my mother chopped wood and twisted newspaper
to make fire,
beneath a whitened stone boiler, with a wooden lid that was itself bleached white with steam,
to imitate it seemed
an inferno, in which to work with red hot coals
and scalding water, bubbling, spitting, foaming, as she drubbed at sails of linen, fighting them with a
dolly stick, possessing
all the qualities of driftwood. Misted in vapour, her hair was dank and coming
in from school, dinner was always cold meat left from Sundays, with potato mash
wet as the washing. Mondays,
my mother stood at the tin bath
and a rubbing board,
with brick hard yellow soap, battering her knuckles against zinc, raw
fingers wringing, squeezing twisting the dirt of life away, to float as scum before the operation of
a vast machine of iron cast, made in Doncaster,
with massive rollers that mangled buttons as slowly and certainly
as it mangled my mother. Home from school,
the end of our day,
we sat upon the floor, peering under wet clothes to glimpse the stove,
our comics soggy, as we munched our bread.
Mondays,
my mother sweated, heavy black irons
heated on kitchen range, gripped with scorching slipping cloths, to
brand the flesh and
press and hiss the dampness from the wearying pile, filling wicker baskets
with sweet smooth warmth, before she sat by mantle light, to rummage
in a biscuit tin
matching buttons crushed, sewing, thin cotton
edges frayed.
From the memory smell of steam and starch,
childhood skies of Reckitts blue. I remember, Mondays, my mother earned two shillings.
John Gorman

Question: How does the narrator feel about Mondays?

Come Another Day

Mondays,
my mother chopped wood and twisted newspaper
to make fire,
beneath a whitened stone boiler, with a wooden lid that was itself bleached white with steam,
to imitate it seemed
an inferno, in which to work with red hot coals
and scalding water, bubbling, spitting, foaming, as she drubbed at sails of linen, fighting them with a
dolly stick, possessing
all the qualities of driftwood. Misted in vapour, her hair was dank and coming
in from school, dinner was always cold meat left from Sundays, with potato mash
wet as the washing. Mondays,
my mother stood at the tin bath
and a rubbing board,
with brick hard yellow soap, battering her knuckles against zinc, raw
fingers wringing, squeezing twisting the dirt of life away, to float as scum before the operation of
a vast machine of iron cast, made in Doncaster,
with massive rollers that mangled buttons as slowly and certainly
as it mangled my mother. Home from school,
the end of our day,
we sat upon the floor, peering under wet clothes to glimpse the stove,
our comics soggy, as we munched our bread.
Mondays,
my mother sweated, heavy black irons
heated on kitchen range, gripped with scorching slipping cloths, to
brand the flesh and
press and hiss the dampness from the wearying pile, filling wicker baskets
with sweet smooth warmth, before she sat by mantle light, to rummage
in a biscuit tin
matching buttons crushed, sewing, thin cotton
edges frayed.
From the memory smell of steam and starch,
childhood skies of Reckitts blue. I remember, Mondays, my mother earned two shillings.
John Gorman

Question: What literary device is used in “bubbling, spitting, foaming”?

Come Another Day

Mondays,
my mother chopped wood and twisted newspaper
to make fire,
beneath a whitened stone boiler, with a wooden lid that was itself bleached white with steam,
to imitate it seemed
an inferno, in which to work with red hot coals
and scalding water, bubbling, spitting, foaming, as she drubbed at sails of linen, fighting them with a
dolly stick, possessing
all the qualities of driftwood. Misted in vapour, her hair was dank and coming
in from school, dinner was always cold meat left from Sundays, with potato mash
wet as the washing. Mondays,
my mother stood at the tin bath
and a rubbing board,
with brick hard yellow soap, battering her knuckles against zinc, raw
fingers wringing, squeezing twisting the dirt of life away, to float as scum before the operation of
a vast machine of iron cast, made in Doncaster,
with massive rollers that mangled buttons as slowly and certainly
as it mangled my mother. Home from school,
the end of our day,
we sat upon the floor, peering under wet clothes to glimpse the stove,
our comics soggy, as we munched our bread.
Mondays,
my mother sweated, heavy black irons
heated on kitchen range, gripped with scorching slipping cloths, to
brand the flesh and
press and hiss the dampness from the wearying pile, filling wicker baskets
with sweet smooth warmth, before she sat by mantle light, to rummage
in a biscuit tin
matching buttons crushed, sewing, thin cotton
edges frayed.
From the memory smell of steam and starch,
childhood skies of Reckitts blue. I remember, Mondays, my mother earned two shillings.
John Gorman

Question: What does the line “a vast machine of iron cast, made in Doncaster” indicate?

Come Another Day

Mondays,
my mother chopped wood and twisted newspaper
to make fire,
beneath a whitened stone boiler, with a wooden lid that was itself bleached white with steam,
to imitate it seemed
an inferno, in which to work with red hot coals
and scalding water, bubbling, spitting, foaming, as she drubbed at sails of linen, fighting them with a
dolly stick, possessing
all the qualities of driftwood. Misted in vapour, her hair was dank and coming
in from school, dinner was always cold meat left from Sundays, with potato mash
wet as the washing. Mondays,
my mother stood at the tin bath
and a rubbing board,
with brick hard yellow soap, battering her knuckles against zinc, raw
fingers wringing, squeezing twisting the dirt of life away, to float as scum before the operation of
a vast machine of iron cast, made in Doncaster,
with massive rollers that mangled buttons as slowly and certainly
as it mangled my mother. Home from school,
the end of our day,
we sat upon the floor, peering under wet clothes to glimpse the stove,
our comics soggy, as we munched our bread.
Mondays,
my mother sweated, heavy black irons
heated on kitchen range, gripped with scorching slipping cloths, to
brand the flesh and
press and hiss the dampness from the wearying pile, filling wicker baskets
with sweet smooth warmth, before she sat by mantle light, to rummage
in a biscuit tin
matching buttons crushed, sewing, thin cotton
edges frayed.
From the memory smell of steam and starch,
childhood skies of Reckitts blue. I remember, Mondays, my mother earned two shillings.
John Gorman

Question: What does the “two shillings” at the end of the poem signify?

Hypochondria

I’m delicate, fragile, and highly at risk.
If I made my own bed,
I could get a slipped disc.
M e? Wash the dishes? With my dermatitis? Dusting? You’re kidding! I’d get sinusitis!
If spring cleaning, don’t include me in the action –
I might break a leg
and spend six months in traction. I don’t just get colds,
but pneumonia (protracted), nor ordinary toothache,
but molars -impacted! Help clear the table?
Oh, didn’t I mention I need lots of rest
for acute hypertension? Black plague, malaria, beriberi, jungle rot –
I’m the only one in history who’s had the whole lot!
So don’t boast to me
of your migraines and flu.
Nobod y suffers
the way that I do.
Robin Klein

Question: What is the main theme of the poem?

Hypochondria

I’m delicate, fragile, and highly at risk.
If I made my own bed,
I could get a slipped disc.
M e? Wash the dishes? With my dermatitis? Dusting? You’re kidding! I’d get sinusitis!
If spring cleaning, don’t include me in the action –
I might break a leg
and spend six months in traction. I don’t just get colds,
but pneumonia (protracted), nor ordinary toothache,
but molars -impacted! Help clear the table?
Oh, didn’t I mention I need lots of rest
for acute hypertension? Black plague, malaria, beriberi, jungle rot –
I’m the only one in history who’s had the whole lot!
So don’t boast to me
of your migraines and flu.
Nobod y suffers
the way that I do.
Robin Klein

Question: What does the “whitened stone boiler” symbolise?

Hypochondria

I’m delicate, fragile, and highly at risk.
If I made my own bed,
I could get a slipped disc.
M e? Wash the dishes? With my dermatitis? Dusting? You’re kidding! I’d get sinusitis!
If spring cleaning, don’t include me in the action –
I might break a leg
and spend six months in traction. I don’t just get colds,
but pneumonia (protracted), nor ordinary toothache,
but molars -impacted! Help clear the table?
Oh, didn’t I mention I need lots of rest
for acute hypertension? Black plague, malaria, beriberi, jungle rot –
I’m the only one in history who’s had the whole lot!
So don’t boast to me
of your migraines and flu.
Nobod y suffers
the way that I do.
Robin Klein

Question: What is the tone of the poem?

Hypochondria

I’m delicate, fragile, and highly at risk.
If I made my own bed,
I could get a slipped disc.
M e? Wash the dishes? With my dermatitis? Dusting? You’re kidding! I’d get sinusitis!
If spring cleaning, don’t include me in the action –
I might break a leg
and spend six months in traction. I don’t just get colds,
but pneumonia (protracted), nor ordinary toothache,
but molars -impacted! Help clear the table?
Oh, didn’t I mention I need lots of rest
for acute hypertension? Black plague, malaria, beriberi, jungle rot –
I’m the only one in history who’s had the whole lot!
So don’t boast to me
of your migraines and flu.
Nobod y suffers
the way that I do.
Robin Klein

Question: How does the narrator feel about Mondays?

Hypochondria

I’m delicate, fragile, and highly at risk.
If I made my own bed,
I could get a slipped disc.
M e? Wash the dishes? With my dermatitis? Dusting? You’re kidding! I’d get sinusitis!
If spring cleaning, don’t include me in the action –
I might break a leg
and spend six months in traction. I don’t just get colds,
but pneumonia (protracted), nor ordinary toothache,
but molars -impacted! Help clear the table?
Oh, didn’t I mention I need lots of rest
for acute hypertension? Black plague, malaria, beriberi, jungle rot –
I’m the only one in history who’s had the whole lot!
So don’t boast to me
of your migraines and flu.
Nobod y suffers
the way that I do.
Robin Klein

Question: What literary device is used in “bubbling, spitting, foaming”?

Hypochondria

I’m delicate, fragile, and highly at risk.
If I made my own bed,
I could get a slipped disc.
M e? Wash the dishes? With my dermatitis? Dusting? You’re kidding! I’d get sinusitis!
If spring cleaning, don’t include me in the action –
I might break a leg
and spend six months in traction. I don’t just get colds,
but pneumonia (protracted), nor ordinary toothache,
but molars -impacted! Help clear the table?
Oh, didn’t I mention I need lots of rest
for acute hypertension? Black plague, malaria, beriberi, jungle rot –
I’m the only one in history who’s had the whole lot!
So don’t boast to me
of your migraines and flu.
Nobod y suffers
the way that I do.
Robin Klein

Question: What does the line “a vast machine of iron cast, made in Doncaster” indicate?

Hypochondria

I’m delicate, fragile, and highly at risk.
If I made my own bed,
I could get a slipped disc.
M e? Wash the dishes? With my dermatitis? Dusting? You’re kidding! I’d get sinusitis!
If spring cleaning, don’t include me in the action –
I might break a leg
and spend six months in traction. I don’t just get colds,
but pneumonia (protracted), nor ordinary toothache,
but molars -impacted! Help clear the table?
Oh, didn’t I mention I need lots of rest
for acute hypertension? Black plague, malaria, beriberi, jungle rot –
I’m the only one in history who’s had the whole lot!
So don’t boast to me
of your migraines and flu.
Nobod y suffers
the way that I do.
Robin Klein

Question: What does the “two shillings” at the end of the poem signify?

The Pirate

He walks the deck with swaggering gait, (There’s mischief in his eye)
Pedigree Pirate through and through, With pistols, dirk and cutlass too;
A rollicking rip with scars to show For every ship he’s sent below.
His tongue is quick, his temper high,
And whenever he speaks they shout, ‘Ay, Ay!’ To this king of a roaring crew.

His ship’s as old as the sea herself, And foggity foul is she:
But what cares he for foul or fine?
If guns don’t glitter and decks don’t shine? For sailormen from East to West
Have walked the plank at his request; But if he’s caught you may depend He’ll dangle high at the business end Of a tickly, tarry line.
Hugh Chesterman

Question: What is the pirate’s primary motivation?

The Pirate

He walks the deck with swaggering gait, (There’s mischief in his eye)
Pedigree Pirate through and through, With pistols, dirk and cutlass too;
A rollicking rip with scars to show For every ship he’s sent below.
His tongue is quick, his temper high,
And whenever he speaks they shout, ‘Ay, Ay!’ To this king of a roaring crew.

His ship’s as old as the sea herself, And foggity foul is she:
But what cares he for foul or fine?
If guns don’t glitter and decks don’t shine? For sailormen from East to West
Have walked the plank at his request; But if he’s caught you may depend He’ll dangle high at the business end Of a tickly, tarry line.
Hugh Chesterman

Question: Which phrase best captures the pirate’s relationship with his crew?

The Pirate

He walks the deck with swaggering gait, (There’s mischief in his eye)
Pedigree Pirate through and through, With pistols, dirk and cutlass too;
A rollicking rip with scars to show For every ship he’s sent below.
His tongue is quick, his temper high,
And whenever he speaks they shout, ‘Ay, Ay!’ To this king of a roaring crew.

His ship’s as old as the sea herself, And foggity foul is she:
But what cares he for foul or fine?
If guns don’t glitter and decks don’t shine? For sailormen from East to West
Have walked the plank at his request; But if he’s caught you may depend He’ll dangle high at the business end Of a tickly, tarry line.
Hugh Chesterman

Question: What figure of speech is evident in the line “His ship’s as old as the sea herself”?

The Pirate

He walks the deck with swaggering gait, (There’s mischief in his eye)
Pedigree Pirate through and through, With pistols, dirk and cutlass too;
A rollicking rip with scars to show For every ship he’s sent below.
His tongue is quick, his temper high,
And whenever he speaks they shout, ‘Ay, Ay!’ To this king of a roaring crew.

His ship’s as old as the sea herself, And foggity foul is she:
But what cares he for foul or fine?
If guns don’t glitter and decks don’t shine? For sailormen from East to West
Have walked the plank at his request; But if he’s caught you may depend He’ll dangle high at the business end Of a tickly, tarry line.
Hugh Chesterman

Question: How does the pirate respond to authority?

The Pirate

He walks the deck with swaggering gait, (There’s mischief in his eye)
Pedigree Pirate through and through, With pistols, dirk and cutlass too;
A rollicking rip with scars to show For every ship he’s sent below.
His tongue is quick, his temper high,
And whenever he speaks they shout, ‘Ay, Ay!’ To this king of a roaring crew.

His ship’s as old as the sea herself, And foggity foul is she:
But what cares he for foul or fine?
If guns don’t glitter and decks don’t shine? For sailormen from East to West
Have walked the plank at his request; But if he’s caught you may depend He’ll dangle high at the business end Of a tickly, tarry line.
Hugh Chesterman

Question: What does “foggity foul” imply about the ship’s condition?

The Pirate

He walks the deck with swaggering gait, (There’s mischief in his eye)
Pedigree Pirate through and through, With pistols, dirk and cutlass too;
A rollicking rip with scars to show For every ship he’s sent below.
His tongue is quick, his temper high,
And whenever he speaks they shout, ‘Ay, Ay!’ To this king of a roaring crew.

His ship’s as old as the sea herself, And foggity foul is she:
But what cares he for foul or fine?
If guns don’t glitter and decks don’t shine? For sailormen from East to West
Have walked the plank at his request; But if he’s caught you may depend He’ll dangle high at the business end Of a tickly, tarry line.
Hugh Chesterman

Question: What does “dangle high at the business end of a tickly, tarry line” imply?

The Pirate

He walks the deck with swaggering gait, (There’s mischief in his eye)
Pedigree Pirate through and through, With pistols, dirk and cutlass too;
A rollicking rip with scars to show For every ship he’s sent below.
His tongue is quick, his temper high,
And whenever he speaks they shout, ‘Ay, Ay!’ To this king of a roaring crew.

His ship’s as old as the sea herself, And foggity foul is she:
But what cares he for foul or fine?
If guns don’t glitter and decks don’t shine? For sailormen from East to West
Have walked the plank at his request; But if he’s caught you may depend He’ll dangle high at the business end Of a tickly, tarry line.
Hugh Chesterman

Question: How does the pirate handle disagreement among his crew?

The Pirate

He walks the deck with swaggering gait, (There’s mischief in his eye)
Pedigree Pirate through and through, With pistols, dirk and cutlass too;
A rollicking rip with scars to show For every ship he’s sent below.
His tongue is quick, his temper high,
And whenever he speaks they shout, ‘Ay, Ay!’ To this king of a roaring crew.

His ship’s as old as the sea herself, And foggity foul is she:
But what cares he for foul or fine?
If guns don’t glitter and decks don’t shine? For sailormen from East to West
Have walked the plank at his request; But if he’s caught you may depend He’ll dangle high at the business end Of a tickly, tarry line.
Hugh Chesterman

Question: What is implied by “For sailormen from East to West have walked the plank at his request”?

The Pirate

He walks the deck with swaggering gait, (There’s mischief in his eye)
Pedigree Pirate through and through, With pistols, dirk and cutlass too;
A rollicking rip with scars to show For every ship he’s sent below.
His tongue is quick, his temper high,
And whenever he speaks they shout, ‘Ay, Ay!’ To this king of a roaring crew.

His ship’s as old as the sea herself, And foggity foul is she:
But what cares he for foul or fine?
If guns don’t glitter and decks don’t shine? For sailormen from East to West
Have walked the plank at his request; But if he’s caught you may depend He’ll dangle high at the business end Of a tickly, tarry line.
Hugh Chesterman

Question: What emotion is primarily conveyed by the man in handcuffs?

The Railway Station, Upway

‘There is not much that I can do,
For I’ve no money that’s quite my own!’ Spoke up the pitying child –
A little boy with a violin
At the station before the train came in – ‘But I can play my fiddle to you,
And a nice one ’tis, and good in tone!’

The man in the handcuffs smiled;
The constable looked, and he smiled, too, As the fiddle began to twang;
And the man in the handcuffs suddenly sang With grimful glee:
‘This life so free
Is the thing for me!’
And the constable smiled and said no word, As if unconscious of what he heard;
And so they went on till the train came in – The convict, and boy with the violin.
Thomas Hardy

Question: How does the constable react to the situation?

The Railway Station, Upway

‘There is not much that I can do,
For I’ve no money that’s quite my own!’ Spoke up the pitying child –
A little boy with a violin
At the station before the train came in – ‘But I can play my fiddle to you,
And a nice one ’tis, and good in tone!’

The man in the handcuffs smiled;
The constable looked, and he smiled, too, As the fiddle began to twang;
And the man in the handcuffs suddenly sang With grimful glee:
‘This life so free
Is the thing for me!’
And the constable smiled and said no word, As if unconscious of what he heard;
And so they went on till the train came in – The convict, and boy with the violin.
Thomas Hardy

Question: What is the boy’s intention when he plays his violin?

The Railway Station, Upway

‘There is not much that I can do,
For I’ve no money that’s quite my own!’ Spoke up the pitying child –
A little boy with a violin
At the station before the train came in – ‘But I can play my fiddle to you,
And a nice one ’tis, and good in tone!’

The man in the handcuffs smiled;
The constable looked, and he smiled, too, As the fiddle began to twang;
And the man in the handcuffs suddenly sang With grimful glee:
‘This life so free
Is the thing for me!’
And the constable smiled and said no word, As if unconscious of what he heard;
And so they went on till the train came in – The convict, and boy with the violin.
Thomas Hardy

Question: What literary device is evident in “And the man in the handcuffs suddenly sang with grimful glee”?

The Railway Station, Upway

‘There is not much that I can do,
For I’ve no money that’s quite my own!’ Spoke up the pitying child –
A little boy with a violin
At the station before the train came in – ‘But I can play my fiddle to you,
And a nice one ’tis, and good in tone!’

The man in the handcuffs smiled;
The constable looked, and he smiled, too, As the fiddle began to twang;
And the man in the handcuffs suddenly sang With grimful glee:
‘This life so free
Is the thing for me!’
And the constable smiled and said no word, As if unconscious of what he heard;
And so they went on till the train came in – The convict, and boy with the violin.
Thomas Hardy

Question: What is the central theme of the poem?

The Railway Station, Upway

‘There is not much that I can do,
For I’ve no money that’s quite my own!’ Spoke up the pitying child –
A little boy with a violin
At the station before the train came in – ‘But I can play my fiddle to you,
And a nice one ’tis, and good in tone!’

The man in the handcuffs smiled;
The constable looked, and he smiled, too, As the fiddle began to twang;
And the man in the handcuffs suddenly sang With grimful glee:
‘This life so free
Is the thing for me!’
And the constable smiled and said no word, As if unconscious of what he heard;
And so they went on till the train came in – The convict, and boy with the violin.
Thomas Hardy

Question: What does the line “This life so free is the thing for me” suggest about the man’s attitude?

The Railway Station, Upway

‘There is not much that I can do,
For I’ve no money that’s quite my own!’ Spoke up the pitying child –
A little boy with a violin
At the station before the train came in – ‘But I can play my fiddle to you,
And a nice one ’tis, and good in tone!’

The man in the handcuffs smiled;
The constable looked, and he smiled, too, As the fiddle began to twang;
And the man in the handcuffs suddenly sang With grimful glee:
‘This life so free
Is the thing for me!’
And the constable smiled and said no word, As if unconscious of what he heard;
And so they went on till the train came in – The convict, and boy with the violin.
Thomas Hardy

Question: What can be inferred about the little boy’s socio-economic status?

The Railway Station, Upway

‘There is not much that I can do,
For I’ve no money that’s quite my own!’ Spoke up the pitying child –
A little boy with a violin
At the station before the train came in – ‘But I can play my fiddle to you,
And a nice one ’tis, and good in tone!’

The man in the handcuffs smiled;
The constable looked, and he smiled, too, As the fiddle began to twang;
And the man in the handcuffs suddenly sang With grimful glee:
‘This life so free
Is the thing for me!’
And the constable smiled and said no word, As if unconscious of what he heard;
And so they went on till the train came in – The convict, and boy with the violin.
Thomas Hardy

Question: Why does the constable say no word?

One Parent Family

My mum says she’s clueless not, as you’d imagine,
at wiring three pin plugs or straightening a bicycle wheel, but at sewing buttons
on a shirt, icing names and dates on birthday cakes, preparing a three course meal.

She’s not like other mothers; although she’s slim and neat she looks silly in an apron, just great in dungarees.
She’ll tackle any household job, lay lino, fix on tiles, does
all the outside paintwork, climbs a ladder with practised ease.

Mind you, she’s good for a cuddle when I fall and cut my knee. She tells me
fantastic stories every night, laughs at my disasters, says that she’s as bad when she reads a recipe all wrong and her cakes don’t come out right.
I know on open evenings she gives a bad impression
at the school. She doesn’t wear the proper clothes. ‘Too bad,’ the others sometimes say,
‘You’ve got such a peculiar mum.’ ‘It’s just as well,’ I tell them.
‘She is my mother and my dad!’
Moira Andrew

Question: Which literary device is employed in “climbs a ladder with practised ease”?

One Parent Family

My mum says she’s clueless not, as you’d imagine,
at wiring three pin plugs or straightening a bicycle wheel, but at sewing buttons
on a shirt, icing names and dates on birthday cakes, preparing a three course meal.

She’s not like other mothers; although she’s slim and neat she looks silly in an apron, just great in dungarees.
She’ll tackle any household job, lay lino, fix on tiles, does
all the outside paintwork, climbs a ladder with practised ease.

Mind you, she’s good for a cuddle when I fall and cut my knee. She tells me
fantastic stories every night, laughs at my disasters, says that she’s as bad when she reads a recipe all wrong and her cakes don’t come out right.
I know on open evenings she gives a bad impression
at the school. She doesn’t wear the proper clothes. ‘Too bad,’ the others sometimes say,
‘You’ve got such a peculiar mum.’ ‘It’s just as well,’ I tell them.
‘She is my mother and my dad!’
Moira Andrew

Question: What does “She is my mother and my dad” most likely symbolise?

One Parent Family

My mum says she’s clueless not, as you’d imagine,
at wiring three pin plugs or straightening a bicycle wheel, but at sewing buttons
on a shirt, icing names and dates on birthday cakes, preparing a three course meal.

She’s not like other mothers; although she’s slim and neat she looks silly in an apron, just great in dungarees.
She’ll tackle any household job, lay lino, fix on tiles, does
all the outside paintwork, climbs a ladder with practised ease.

Mind you, she’s good for a cuddle when I fall and cut my knee. She tells me
fantastic stories every night, laughs at my disasters, says that she’s as bad when she reads a recipe all wrong and her cakes don’t come out right.
I know on open evenings she gives a bad impression
at the school. She doesn’t wear the proper clothes. ‘Too bad,’ the others sometimes say,
‘You’ve got such a peculiar mum.’ ‘It’s just as well,’ I tell them.
‘She is my mother and my dad!’
Moira Andrew

Question: How is the mother portrayed in terms of her physical attributes?

One Parent Family

My mum says she’s clueless not, as you’d imagine,
at wiring three pin plugs or straightening a bicycle wheel, but at sewing buttons
on a shirt, icing names and dates on birthday cakes, preparing a three course meal.

She’s not like other mothers; although she’s slim and neat she looks silly in an apron, just great in dungarees.
She’ll tackle any household job, lay lino, fix on tiles, does
all the outside paintwork, climbs a ladder with practised ease.

Mind you, she’s good for a cuddle when I fall and cut my knee. She tells me
fantastic stories every night, laughs at my disasters, says that she’s as bad when she reads a recipe all wrong and her cakes don’t come out right.
I know on open evenings she gives a bad impression
at the school. She doesn’t wear the proper clothes. ‘Too bad,’ the others sometimes say,
‘You’ve got such a peculiar mum.’ ‘It’s just as well,’ I tell them.
‘She is my mother and my dad!’
Moira Andrew

Question: What’s the underlying theme of the poem?

One Parent Family

My mum says she’s clueless not, as you’d imagine,
at wiring three pin plugs or straightening a bicycle wheel, but at sewing buttons
on a shirt, icing names and dates on birthday cakes, preparing a three course meal.

She’s not like other mothers; although she’s slim and neat she looks silly in an apron, just great in dungarees.
She’ll tackle any household job, lay lino, fix on tiles, does
all the outside paintwork, climbs a ladder with practised ease.

Mind you, she’s good for a cuddle when I fall and cut my knee. She tells me
fantastic stories every night, laughs at my disasters, says that she’s as bad when she reads a recipe all wrong and her cakes don’t come out right.
I know on open evenings she gives a bad impression
at the school. She doesn’t wear the proper clothes. ‘Too bad,’ the others sometimes say,
‘You’ve got such a peculiar mum.’ ‘It’s just as well,’ I tell them.
‘She is my mother and my dad!’
Moira Andrew

Question: How does the narrator counter the school community’s view of their mother?

One Parent Family

My mum says she’s clueless not, as you’d imagine,
at wiring three pin plugs or straightening a bicycle wheel, but at sewing buttons
on a shirt, icing names and dates on birthday cakes, preparing a three course meal.

She’s not like other mothers; although she’s slim and neat she looks silly in an apron, just great in dungarees.
She’ll tackle any household job, lay lino, fix on tiles, does
all the outside paintwork, climbs a ladder with practised ease.

Mind you, she’s good for a cuddle when I fall and cut my knee. She tells me
fantastic stories every night, laughs at my disasters, says that she’s as bad when she reads a recipe all wrong and her cakes don’t come out right.
I know on open evenings she gives a bad impression
at the school. She doesn’t wear the proper clothes. ‘Too bad,’ the others sometimes say,
‘You’ve got such a peculiar mum.’ ‘It’s just as well,’ I tell them.
‘She is my mother and my dad!’
Moira Andrew

Question: What element of the mother’s life seems most traditional?

One Parent Family

My mum says she’s clueless not, as you’d imagine,
at wiring three pin plugs or straightening a bicycle wheel, but at sewing buttons
on a shirt, icing names and dates on birthday cakes, preparing a three course meal.

She’s not like other mothers; although she’s slim and neat she looks silly in an apron, just great in dungarees.
She’ll tackle any household job, lay lino, fix on tiles, does
all the outside paintwork, climbs a ladder with practised ease.

Mind you, she’s good for a cuddle when I fall and cut my knee. She tells me
fantastic stories every night, laughs at my disasters, says that she’s as bad when she reads a recipe all wrong and her cakes don’t come out right.
I know on open evenings she gives a bad impression
at the school. She doesn’t wear the proper clothes. ‘Too bad,’ the others sometimes say,
‘You’ve got such a peculiar mum.’ ‘It’s just as well,’ I tell them.
‘She is my mother and my dad!’
Moira Andrew

Question: The line “fantastic stories every night” suggests the mother is what?

One Parent Family

My mum says she’s clueless not, as you’d imagine,
at wiring three pin plugs or straightening a bicycle wheel, but at sewing buttons
on a shirt, icing names and dates on birthday cakes, preparing a three course meal.

She’s not like other mothers; although she’s slim and neat she looks silly in an apron, just great in dungarees.
She’ll tackle any household job, lay lino, fix on tiles, does
all the outside paintwork, climbs a ladder with practised ease.

Mind you, she’s good for a cuddle when I fall and cut my knee. She tells me
fantastic stories every night, laughs at my disasters, says that she’s as bad when she reads a recipe all wrong and her cakes don’t come out right.
I know on open evenings she gives a bad impression
at the school. She doesn’t wear the proper clothes. ‘Too bad,’ the others sometimes say,
‘You’ve got such a peculiar mum.’ ‘It’s just as well,’ I tell them.
‘She is my mother and my dad!’
Moira Andrew

Question: Which sentence from the poem indicates the mother’s lack of traditional domestic skills?

Striking Old Man

When grandfather first came to us We did not know how old he was Nor how reliable.
Regular as clockwork he wound up our day And simply by his presence
Reminded us of things we had not done. Not that he ever complained
And we liked him for that.
They had got tired of him at the other house,
So he arrived unceremoniously one afternoon in a van, The few things that were his in a case.
They said he had been too much trouble, He hardly fitted their way of life.
We came to love him.
On his face you could see what time had done And quite a lot that had defeated time.
Sometimes his secrets were unlocked. Then we would see right through
To the frailty and simplicity
Of something that had gone on working Through so many changes.
His voice was occasionally sharp But we knew he was just run down And so we would make allowances. Adjustment was easy.
For much of the day he was quiet And we heard him mostly at night Breathing throughout the house
In a satisfied old-fashioned way. When visitors came he was good:
We saw them admiring his hands – He had a certain veneer.
In time he was part of our lives. The children lived by his looks. He made us all feel at home.
Alasdair Aston

Question: What does “On his face you could see what time had done” imply?

Striking Old Man

When grandfather first came to us We did not know how old he was Nor how reliable.
Regular as clockwork he wound up our day And simply by his presence
Reminded us of things we had not done. Not that he ever complained
And we liked him for that.
They had got tired of him at the other house,
So he arrived unceremoniously one afternoon in a van, The few things that were his in a case.
They said he had been too much trouble, He hardly fitted their way of life.
We came to love him.
On his face you could see what time had done And quite a lot that had defeated time.
Sometimes his secrets were unlocked. Then we would see right through
To the frailty and simplicity
Of something that had gone on working Through so many changes.
His voice was occasionally sharp But we knew he was just run down And so we would make allowances. Adjustment was easy.
For much of the day he was quiet And we heard him mostly at night Breathing throughout the house
In a satisfied old-fashioned way. When visitors came he was good:
We saw them admiring his hands – He had a certain veneer.
In time he was part of our lives. The children lived by his looks. He made us all feel at home.
Alasdair Aston

Question: Which phrase suggests that the grandfather was not initially welcome in the new home?

Striking Old Man

When grandfather first came to us We did not know how old he was Nor how reliable.
Regular as clockwork he wound up our day And simply by his presence
Reminded us of things we had not done. Not that he ever complained
And we liked him for that.
They had got tired of him at the other house,
So he arrived unceremoniously one afternoon in a van, The few things that were his in a case.
They said he had been too much trouble, He hardly fitted their way of life.
We came to love him.
On his face you could see what time had done And quite a lot that had defeated time.
Sometimes his secrets were unlocked. Then we would see right through
To the frailty and simplicity
Of something that had gone on working Through so many changes.
His voice was occasionally sharp But we knew he was just run down And so we would make allowances. Adjustment was easy.
For much of the day he was quiet And we heard him mostly at night Breathing throughout the house
In a satisfied old-fashioned way. When visitors came he was good:
We saw them admiring his hands – He had a certain veneer.
In time he was part of our lives. The children lived by his looks. He made us all feel at home.
Alasdair Aston

Question: What best describes the tone of the poem?

Striking Old Man

When grandfather first came to us We did not know how old he was Nor how reliable.
Regular as clockwork he wound up our day And simply by his presence
Reminded us of things we had not done. Not that he ever complained
And we liked him for that.
They had got tired of him at the other house,
So he arrived unceremoniously one afternoon in a van, The few things that were his in a case.
They said he had been too much trouble, He hardly fitted their way of life.
We came to love him.
On his face you could see what time had done And quite a lot that had defeated time.
Sometimes his secrets were unlocked. Then we would see right through
To the frailty and simplicity
Of something that had gone on working Through so many changes.
His voice was occasionally sharp But we knew he was just run down And so we would make allowances. Adjustment was easy.
For much of the day he was quiet And we heard him mostly at night Breathing throughout the house
In a satisfied old-fashioned way. When visitors came he was good:
We saw them admiring his hands – He had a certain veneer.
In time he was part of our lives. The children lived by his looks. He made us all feel at home.
Alasdair Aston

Question: What does “Regular as clockwork he wound up our day” imply?

Striking Old Man

When grandfather first came to us We did not know how old he was Nor how reliable.
Regular as clockwork he wound up our day And simply by his presence
Reminded us of things we had not done. Not that he ever complained
And we liked him for that.
They had got tired of him at the other house,
So he arrived unceremoniously one afternoon in a van, The few things that were his in a case.
They said he had been too much trouble, He hardly fitted their way of life.
We came to love him.
On his face you could see what time had done And quite a lot that had defeated time.
Sometimes his secrets were unlocked. Then we would see right through
To the frailty and simplicity
Of something that had gone on working Through so many changes.
His voice was occasionally sharp But we knew he was just run down And so we would make allowances. Adjustment was easy.
For much of the day he was quiet And we heard him mostly at night Breathing throughout the house
In a satisfied old-fashioned way. When visitors came he was good:
We saw them admiring his hands – He had a certain veneer.
In time he was part of our lives. The children lived by his looks. He made us all feel at home.
Alasdair Aston

Question: What does “His voice was occasionally sharp” indicate?

Striking Old Man

When grandfather first came to us We did not know how old he was Nor how reliable.
Regular as clockwork he wound up our day And simply by his presence
Reminded us of things we had not done. Not that he ever complained
And we liked him for that.
They had got tired of him at the other house,
So he arrived unceremoniously one afternoon in a van, The few things that were his in a case.
They said he had been too much trouble, He hardly fitted their way of life.
We came to love him.
On his face you could see what time had done And quite a lot that had defeated time.
Sometimes his secrets were unlocked. Then we would see right through
To the frailty and simplicity
Of something that had gone on working Through so many changes.
His voice was occasionally sharp But we knew he was just run down And so we would make allowances. Adjustment was easy.
For much of the day he was quiet And we heard him mostly at night Breathing throughout the house
In a satisfied old-fashioned way. When visitors came he was good:
We saw them admiring his hands – He had a certain veneer.
In time he was part of our lives. The children lived by his looks. He made us all feel at home.
Alasdair Aston

Question: How is the grandfather described in his relation to the children?

Striking Old Man

When grandfather first came to us We did not know how old he was Nor how reliable.
Regular as clockwork he wound up our day And simply by his presence
Reminded us of things we had not done. Not that he ever complained
And we liked him for that.
They had got tired of him at the other house,
So he arrived unceremoniously one afternoon in a van, The few things that were his in a case.
They said he had been too much trouble, He hardly fitted their way of life.
We came to love him.
On his face you could see what time had done And quite a lot that had defeated time.
Sometimes his secrets were unlocked. Then we would see right through
To the frailty and simplicity
Of something that had gone on working Through so many changes.
His voice was occasionally sharp But we knew he was just run down And so we would make allowances. Adjustment was easy.
For much of the day he was quiet And we heard him mostly at night Breathing throughout the house
In a satisfied old-fashioned way. When visitors came he was good:
We saw them admiring his hands – He had a certain veneer.
In time he was part of our lives. The children lived by his looks. He made us all feel at home.
Alasdair Aston

Question: The line “In time he was part of our lives” indicates what?

The Annual Holiday

Well, I’m off on me holidays, It’s all within me reach,
I’ve got myself in trim
For carting deckchairs round the beach, With me flask of tea and cup,
I shall be pouring out the dregs, With wasps all round me orange, And with tar all round me legs.

All bundled up with cardigans, (The weather’s on the change)
I won’t have slept the night before, (The beds were all so strange)
I’ll lay out on the beach,
Oh so remote and deeply tanned, With me sandwiches, me knickers, And me ears full up with sand.
At night, as we’re on holiday, It’s on the town we’ll go,
With sausage, chips and marrowfats, At a couple of quid a throw,
And when we’ve spent our cash, We’ll wander home as best we can, All along the Mini Golf,
To the smell of the hot dog man.

Or seeing as it’s raining, We’ll pop out for a jar,
When we’ve fought the other tourists, For a second at the bar,
We’ll ignore those folks who’ve just come in, Whose shoulders are so sore,
‘Cause last week was so hot,
They couldn’t step outside the door.

And then we’ll travel home, All sat religiously apart,
So we don’t touch each other’s legs, And make the sunburn smart,
With suitcasefuls of rock, So everybody gets a stick,
And our hearts down in our flip flops, See you next year. Kiss me quick.
Pam Ayres

Question: What does the speaker take to the beach?

The Annual Holiday

Well, I’m off on me holidays, It’s all within me reach,
I’ve got myself in trim
For carting deckchairs round the beach, With me flask of tea and cup,
I shall be pouring out the dregs, With wasps all round me orange, And with tar all round me legs.

All bundled up with cardigans, (The weather’s on the change)
I won’t have slept the night before, (The beds were all so strange)
I’ll lay out on the beach,
Oh so remote and deeply tanned, With me sandwiches, me knickers, And me ears full up with sand.
At night, as we’re on holiday, It’s on the town we’ll go,
With sausage, chips and marrowfats, At a couple of quid a throw,
And when we’ve spent our cash, We’ll wander home as best we can, All along the Mini Golf,
To the smell of the hot dog man.

Or seeing as it’s raining, We’ll pop out for a jar,
When we’ve fought the other tourists, For a second at the bar,
We’ll ignore those folks who’ve just come in, Whose shoulders are so sore,
‘Cause last week was so hot,
They couldn’t step outside the door.

And then we’ll travel home, All sat religiously apart,
So we don’t touch each other’s legs, And make the sunburn smart,
With suitcasefuls of rock, So everybody gets a stick,
And our hearts down in our flip flops, See you next year. Kiss me quick.
Pam Ayres

Question: How does the speaker describe the sleeping conditions?

The Annual Holiday

Well, I’m off on me holidays, It’s all within me reach,
I’ve got myself in trim
For carting deckchairs round the beach, With me flask of tea and cup,
I shall be pouring out the dregs, With wasps all round me orange, And with tar all round me legs.

All bundled up with cardigans, (The weather’s on the change)
I won’t have slept the night before, (The beds were all so strange)
I’ll lay out on the beach,
Oh so remote and deeply tanned, With me sandwiches, me knickers, And me ears full up with sand.
At night, as we’re on holiday, It’s on the town we’ll go,
With sausage, chips and marrowfats, At a couple of quid a throw,
And when we’ve spent our cash, We’ll wander home as best we can, All along the Mini Golf,
To the smell of the hot dog man.

Or seeing as it’s raining, We’ll pop out for a jar,
When we’ve fought the other tourists, For a second at the bar,
We’ll ignore those folks who’ve just come in, Whose shoulders are so sore,
‘Cause last week was so hot,
They couldn’t step outside the door.

And then we’ll travel home, All sat religiously apart,
So we don’t touch each other’s legs, And make the sunburn smart,
With suitcasefuls of rock, So everybody gets a stick,
And our hearts down in our flip flops, See you next year. Kiss me quick.
Pam Ayres

Question: What is the primary emotion conveyed in the poem?

The Annual Holiday

Well, I’m off on me holidays, It’s all within me reach,
I’ve got myself in trim
For carting deckchairs round the beach, With me flask of tea and cup,
I shall be pouring out the dregs, With wasps all round me orange, And with tar all round me legs.

All bundled up with cardigans, (The weather’s on the change)
I won’t have slept the night before, (The beds were all so strange)
I’ll lay out on the beach,
Oh so remote and deeply tanned, With me sandwiches, me knickers, And me ears full up with sand.
At night, as we’re on holiday, It’s on the town we’ll go,
With sausage, chips and marrowfats, At a couple of quid a throw,
And when we’ve spent our cash, We’ll wander home as best we can, All along the Mini Golf,
To the smell of the hot dog man.

Or seeing as it’s raining, We’ll pop out for a jar,
When we’ve fought the other tourists, For a second at the bar,
We’ll ignore those folks who’ve just come in, Whose shoulders are so sore,
‘Cause last week was so hot,
They couldn’t step outside the door.

And then we’ll travel home, All sat religiously apart,
So we don’t touch each other’s legs, And make the sunburn smart,
With suitcasefuls of rock, So everybody gets a stick,
And our hearts down in our flip flops, See you next year. Kiss me quick.
Pam Ayres

Question: What does the speaker plan to eat at night?

The Annual Holiday

Well, I’m off on me holidays, It’s all within me reach,
I’ve got myself in trim
For carting deckchairs round the beach, With me flask of tea and cup,
I shall be pouring out the dregs, With wasps all round me orange, And with tar all round me legs.

All bundled up with cardigans, (The weather’s on the change)
I won’t have slept the night before, (The beds were all so strange)
I’ll lay out on the beach,
Oh so remote and deeply tanned, With me sandwiches, me knickers, And me ears full up with sand.
At night, as we’re on holiday, It’s on the town we’ll go,
With sausage, chips and marrowfats, At a couple of quid a throw,
And when we’ve spent our cash, We’ll wander home as best we can, All along the Mini Golf,
To the smell of the hot dog man.

Or seeing as it’s raining, We’ll pop out for a jar,
When we’ve fought the other tourists, For a second at the bar,
We’ll ignore those folks who’ve just come in, Whose shoulders are so sore,
‘Cause last week was so hot,
They couldn’t step outside the door.

And then we’ll travel home, All sat religiously apart,
So we don’t touch each other’s legs, And make the sunburn smart,
With suitcasefuls of rock, So everybody gets a stick,
And our hearts down in our flip flops, See you next year. Kiss me quick.
Pam Ayres

Question: What does the speaker say about the weather?

The Annual Holiday

Well, I’m off on me holidays, It’s all within me reach,
I’ve got myself in trim
For carting deckchairs round the beach, With me flask of tea and cup,
I shall be pouring out the dregs, With wasps all round me orange, And with tar all round me legs.

All bundled up with cardigans, (The weather’s on the change)
I won’t have slept the night before, (The beds were all so strange)
I’ll lay out on the beach,
Oh so remote and deeply tanned, With me sandwiches, me knickers, And me ears full up with sand.
At night, as we’re on holiday, It’s on the town we’ll go,
With sausage, chips and marrowfats, At a couple of quid a throw,
And when we’ve spent our cash, We’ll wander home as best we can, All along the Mini Golf,
To the smell of the hot dog man.

Or seeing as it’s raining, We’ll pop out for a jar,
When we’ve fought the other tourists, For a second at the bar,
We’ll ignore those folks who’ve just come in, Whose shoulders are so sore,
‘Cause last week was so hot,
They couldn’t step outside the door.

And then we’ll travel home, All sat religiously apart,
So we don’t touch each other’s legs, And make the sunburn smart,
With suitcasefuls of rock, So everybody gets a stick,
And our hearts down in our flip flops, See you next year. Kiss me quick.
Pam Ayres

Question: How does the speaker feel about going home?

The Annual Holiday

Well, I’m off on me holidays, It’s all within me reach,
I’ve got myself in trim
For carting deckchairs round the beach, With me flask of tea and cup,
I shall be pouring out the dregs, With wasps all round me orange, And with tar all round me legs.

All bundled up with cardigans, (The weather’s on the change)
I won’t have slept the night before, (The beds were all so strange)
I’ll lay out on the beach,
Oh so remote and deeply tanned, With me sandwiches, me knickers, And me ears full up with sand.
At night, as we’re on holiday, It’s on the town we’ll go,
With sausage, chips and marrowfats, At a couple of quid a throw,
And when we’ve spent our cash, We’ll wander home as best we can, All along the Mini Golf,
To the smell of the hot dog man.

Or seeing as it’s raining, We’ll pop out for a jar,
When we’ve fought the other tourists, For a second at the bar,
We’ll ignore those folks who’ve just come in, Whose shoulders are so sore,
‘Cause last week was so hot,
They couldn’t step outside the door.

And then we’ll travel home, All sat religiously apart,
So we don’t touch each other’s legs, And make the sunburn smart,
With suitcasefuls of rock, So everybody gets a stick,
And our hearts down in our flip flops, See you next year. Kiss me quick.
Pam Ayres

Question: What will the speaker bring home as a souvenir?

Warning

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple With a red hat that doesn’t suit me,
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves And satin sandals, and say we’ve no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I am tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth. I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick the flowers in other people’s gardens And learn to spit.
You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickles for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry And pay our rent and not swear in the street And set a good example for the children.
We shall have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practise a little now?
So that people who know me are not too shocked and surprised When suddenly I am old and start to wear purple.
Jenny Josephs

Question: What will the speaker wear when she’s old?

Warning

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple With a red hat that doesn’t suit me,
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves And satin sandals, and say we’ve no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I am tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth. I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick the flowers in other people’s gardens And learn to spit.
You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickles for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry And pay our rent and not swear in the street And set a good example for the children.
We shall have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practise a little now?
So that people who know me are not too shocked and surprised When suddenly I am old and start to wear purple.
Jenny Josephs

Question: What will the speaker wear when she’s old?

Warning

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple With a red hat that doesn’t suit me,
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves And satin sandals, and say we’ve no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I am tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth. I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick the flowers in other people’s gardens And learn to spit.
You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickles for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry And pay our rent and not swear in the street And set a good example for the children.
We shall have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practise a little now?
So that people who know me are not too shocked and surprised When suddenly I am old and start to wear purple.
Jenny Josephs

Question: What will the speaker spend her pension on?

Warning

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple With a red hat that doesn’t suit me,
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves And satin sandals, and say we’ve no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I am tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth. I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick the flowers in other people’s gardens And learn to spit.
You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickles for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry And pay our rent and not swear in the street And set a good example for the children.
We shall have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practise a little now?
So that people who know me are not too shocked and surprised When suddenly I am old and start to wear purple.
Jenny Josephs

Question: What does the speaker plan to do when she’s tired?

Warning

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple With a red hat that doesn’t suit me,
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves And satin sandals, and say we’ve no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I am tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth. I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick the flowers in other people’s gardens And learn to spit.
You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickles for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry And pay our rent and not swear in the street And set a good example for the children.
We shall have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practise a little now?
So that people who know me are not too shocked and surprised When suddenly I am old and start to wear purple.
Jenny Josephs

Question: What does the speaker plan to do when she’s tired?

Warning

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple With a red hat that doesn’t suit me,
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves And satin sandals, and say we’ve no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I am tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth. I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick the flowers in other people’s gardens And learn to spit.
You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickles for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry And pay our rent and not swear in the street And set a good example for the children.
We shall have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practise a little now?
So that people who know me are not too shocked and surprised When suddenly I am old and start to wear purple.
Jenny Josephs

Question: What will she do to ‘make up for the sobriety of her youth’?

Warning

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple With a red hat that doesn’t suit me,
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves And satin sandals, and say we’ve no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I am tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth. I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick the flowers in other people’s gardens And learn to spit.
You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickles for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry And pay our rent and not swear in the street And set a good example for the children.
We shall have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practise a little now?
So that people who know me are not too shocked and surprised When suddenly I am old and start to wear purple.
Jenny Josephs

Question: How does the speaker feel about societal expectations?

Warning

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple With a red hat that doesn’t suit me,
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves And satin sandals, and say we’ve no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I am tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth. I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick the flowers in other people’s gardens And learn to spit.
You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickles for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry And pay our rent and not swear in the street And set a good example for the children.
We shall have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practise a little now?
So that people who know me are not too shocked and surprised When suddenly I am old and start to wear purple.
Jenny Josephs

Question: What does she suggest about ‘practising a little now’?

Warning

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple With a red hat that doesn’t suit me,
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves And satin sandals, and say we’ve no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I am tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth. I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick the flowers in other people’s gardens And learn to spit.
You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickles for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry And pay our rent and not swear in the street And set a good example for the children.
We shall have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practise a little now?
So that people who know me are not too shocked and surprised When suddenly I am old and start to wear purple.
Jenny Josephs

Question: What is the tone of the poem?

Warning

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple With a red hat that doesn’t suit me,
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves And satin sandals, and say we’ve no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I am tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth. I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick the flowers in other people’s gardens And learn to spit.
You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickles for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry And pay our rent and not swear in the street And set a good example for the children.
We shall have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practise a little now?
So that people who know me are not too shocked and surprised When suddenly I am old and start to wear purple.
Jenny Josephs

Question: What’s the main theme of the poem?

Warning

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple With a red hat that doesn’t suit me,
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves And satin sandals, and say we’ve no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I am tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth. I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick the flowers in other people’s gardens And learn to spit.
You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickles for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry And pay our rent and not swear in the street And set a good example for the children.
We shall have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practise a little now?
So that people who know me are not too shocked and surprised When suddenly I am old and start to wear purple.
Jenny Josephs

Question: What happens to the blackberries at the end of the poem?

Blackerry – picking

Late August, given heavy rain and sun
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen. At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
Among others, red, green, hard as a knot. You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
Like thickened wine: summer’s blood was, in it Leaving stains upon the tongue and a lust for Picking. The red ones inked up and that hunger Sent us with milk-cans, pea-tins, jam-pots
Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots. Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
We trekked and picked until the cans were full, Until the tinkling bottoms had been covered
With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard’s.

We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
But when the bath was filled we found a fur, a rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
The juice was stinking, too. Once off the bush
The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour. I always felt like crying. It wasn’t fair
That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they’d keep, knew that they would not.
Seamus Heaney

Question: What is the initial condition of the first blackberry picked?

Blackerry – picking

Late August, given heavy rain and sun
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen. At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
Among others, red, green, hard as a knot. You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
Like thickened wine: summer’s blood was, in it Leaving stains upon the tongue and a lust for Picking. The red ones inked up and that hunger Sent us with milk-cans, pea-tins, jam-pots
Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots. Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
We trekked and picked until the cans were full, Until the tinkling bottoms had been covered
With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard’s.

We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
But when the bath was filled we found a fur, a rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
The juice was stinking, too. Once off the bush
The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour. I always felt like crying. It wasn’t fair
That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they’d keep, knew that they would not.
Seamus Heaney

Question: How do the pickers carry the blackberries?

Blackerry – picking

Late August, given heavy rain and sun
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen. At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
Among others, red, green, hard as a knot. You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
Like thickened wine: summer’s blood was, in it Leaving stains upon the tongue and a lust for Picking. The red ones inked up and that hunger Sent us with milk-cans, pea-tins, jam-pots
Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots. Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
We trekked and picked until the cans were full, Until the tinkling bottoms had been covered
With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard’s.

We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
But when the bath was filled we found a fur, a rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
The juice was stinking, too. Once off the bush
The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour. I always felt like crying. It wasn’t fair
That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they’d keep, knew that they would not.
Seamus Heaney

Question: How do the pickers carry the blackberries?

Blackerry – picking

Late August, given heavy rain and sun
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen. At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
Among others, red, green, hard as a knot. You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
Like thickened wine: summer’s blood was, in it Leaving stains upon the tongue and a lust for Picking. The red ones inked up and that hunger Sent us with milk-cans, pea-tins, jam-pots
Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots. Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
We trekked and picked until the cans were full, Until the tinkling bottoms had been covered
With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard’s.

We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
But when the bath was filled we found a fur, a rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
The juice was stinking, too. Once off the bush
The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour. I always felt like crying. It wasn’t fair
That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they’d keep, knew that they would not.
Seamus Heaney

Question: What do the blackberries symbolise in the poem?

Blackerry – picking

Late August, given heavy rain and sun
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen. At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
Among others, red, green, hard as a knot. You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
Like thickened wine: summer’s blood was, in it Leaving stains upon the tongue and a lust for Picking. The red ones inked up and that hunger Sent us with milk-cans, pea-tins, jam-pots
Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots. Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
We trekked and picked until the cans were full, Until the tinkling bottoms had been covered
With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard’s.

We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
But when the bath was filled we found a fur, a rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
The juice was stinking, too. Once off the bush
The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour. I always felt like crying. It wasn’t fair
That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they’d keep, knew that they would not.
Seamus Heaney

Question: How do the pickers carry the blackberries?

Blackerry – picking

Late August, given heavy rain and sun
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen. At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
Among others, red, green, hard as a knot. You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
Like thickened wine: summer’s blood was, in it Leaving stains upon the tongue and a lust for Picking. The red ones inked up and that hunger Sent us with milk-cans, pea-tins, jam-pots
Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots. Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
We trekked and picked until the cans were full, Until the tinkling bottoms had been covered
With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard’s.

We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
But when the bath was filled we found a fur, a rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
The juice was stinking, too. Once off the bush
The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour. I always felt like crying. It wasn’t fair
That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they’d keep, knew that they would not.
Seamus Heaney

Question: What does the “rat-grey fungus” represent?

Blackerry – picking

Late August, given heavy rain and sun
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen. At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
Among others, red, green, hard as a knot. You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
Like thickened wine: summer’s blood was, in it Leaving stains upon the tongue and a lust for Picking. The red ones inked up and that hunger Sent us with milk-cans, pea-tins, jam-pots
Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots. Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
We trekked and picked until the cans were full, Until the tinkling bottoms had been covered
With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard’s.

We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
But when the bath was filled we found a fur, a rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
The juice was stinking, too. Once off the bush
The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour. I always felt like crying. It wasn’t fair
That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they’d keep, knew that they would not.
Seamus Heaney

Question: What emotions does the speaker express at the end?

Blackerry – picking

Late August, given heavy rain and sun
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen. At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
Among others, red, green, hard as a knot. You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
Like thickened wine: summer’s blood was, in it Leaving stains upon the tongue and a lust for Picking. The red ones inked up and that hunger Sent us with milk-cans, pea-tins, jam-pots
Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots. Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
We trekked and picked until the cans were full, Until the tinkling bottoms had been covered
With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard’s.

We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
But when the bath was filled we found a fur, a rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
The juice was stinking, too. Once off the bush
The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour. I always felt like crying. It wasn’t fair
That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they’d keep, knew that they would not.
Seamus Heaney

Question: What is the tone of the poem?

Blackerry – picking

Late August, given heavy rain and sun
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen. At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
Among others, red, green, hard as a knot. You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
Like thickened wine: summer’s blood was, in it Leaving stains upon the tongue and a lust for Picking. The red ones inked up and that hunger Sent us with milk-cans, pea-tins, jam-pots
Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots. Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
We trekked and picked until the cans were full, Until the tinkling bottoms had been covered
With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard’s.

We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
But when the bath was filled we found a fur, a rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
The juice was stinking, too. Once off the bush
The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour. I always felt like crying. It wasn’t fair
That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they’d keep, knew that they would not.
Seamus Heaney

Question: How does the speaker describe the taste of the first blackberry?

Kieran

Kieran can’t walk like the rest of us. He comes to school on the special bus. He has to use crutches to get about
And he’s fast, but he can’t keep up when we run When we race in the wind and fight and have fun He can’t keep up, he has to shout
‘Wait for me, everyone, wait for me.’
And sometimes we wait, and sometimes we Run off and hide, and that’s when he
Sits in the yard with his sticks on the ground Sits by himself until he’s found
By Sir, or Miss, and they sit and talk
And we watch them laugh in a special way And we’d love to know what he has to say About the ones who ran away.
The ones who forgot that he can’t walk. And then we remember to ask him to play And we kick the ball and he hits it back;
He’s quick with those sticks, he has the knack Of whamming the ball right into goal.
And if he falls over he doesn’t fuss,
We hoist him back up and we laugh at the soil
On his hands and his face, and give him his sticks. He’s strong when he fights us, but he never kicks – He can’t use his legs like the rest of us.
He comes to school on the special bus.
Berlie Doherty

Question: How does Kieran arrive at school?

Kieran

Kieran can’t walk like the rest of us. He comes to school on the special bus. He has to use crutches to get about
And he’s fast, but he can’t keep up when we run When we race in the wind and fight and have fun He can’t keep up, he has to shout
‘Wait for me, everyone, wait for me.’
And sometimes we wait, and sometimes we Run off and hide, and that’s when he
Sits in the yard with his sticks on the ground Sits by himself until he’s found
By Sir, or Miss, and they sit and talk
And we watch them laugh in a special way And we’d love to know what he has to say About the ones who ran away.
The ones who forgot that he can’t walk. And then we remember to ask him to play And we kick the ball and he hits it back;
He’s quick with those sticks, he has the knack Of whamming the ball right into goal.
And if he falls over he doesn’t fuss,
We hoist him back up and we laugh at the soil
On his hands and his face, and give him his sticks. He’s strong when he fights us, but he never kicks – He can’t use his legs like the rest of us.
He comes to school on the special bus.
Berlie Doherty

Question: What does Kieran use to move around?

Kieran

Kieran can’t walk like the rest of us. He comes to school on the special bus. He has to use crutches to get about
And he’s fast, but he can’t keep up when we run When we race in the wind and fight and have fun He can’t keep up, he has to shout
‘Wait for me, everyone, wait for me.’
And sometimes we wait, and sometimes we Run off and hide, and that’s when he
Sits in the yard with his sticks on the ground Sits by himself until he’s found
By Sir, or Miss, and they sit and talk
And we watch them laugh in a special way And we’d love to know what he has to say About the ones who ran away.
The ones who forgot that he can’t walk. And then we remember to ask him to play And we kick the ball and he hits it back;
He’s quick with those sticks, he has the knack Of whamming the ball right into goal.
And if he falls over he doesn’t fuss,
We hoist him back up and we laugh at the soil
On his hands and his face, and give him his sticks. He’s strong when he fights us, but he never kicks – He can’t use his legs like the rest of us.
He comes to school on the special bus.
Berlie Doherty

Question: What does Kieran use to move around?

Kieran

Kieran can’t walk like the rest of us. He comes to school on the special bus. He has to use crutches to get about
And he’s fast, but he can’t keep up when we run When we race in the wind and fight and have fun He can’t keep up, he has to shout
‘Wait for me, everyone, wait for me.’
And sometimes we wait, and sometimes we Run off and hide, and that’s when he
Sits in the yard with his sticks on the ground Sits by himself until he’s found
By Sir, or Miss, and they sit and talk
And we watch them laugh in a special way And we’d love to know what he has to say About the ones who ran away.
The ones who forgot that he can’t walk. And then we remember to ask him to play And we kick the ball and he hits it back;
He’s quick with those sticks, he has the knack Of whamming the ball right into goal.
And if he falls over he doesn’t fuss,
We hoist him back up and we laugh at the soil
On his hands and his face, and give him his sticks. He’s strong when he fights us, but he never kicks – He can’t use his legs like the rest of us.
He comes to school on the special bus.
Berlie Doherty

Question: How do the other children sometimes treat Kieran?

Kieran

Kieran can’t walk like the rest of us. He comes to school on the special bus. He has to use crutches to get about
And he’s fast, but he can’t keep up when we run When we race in the wind and fight and have fun He can’t keep up, he has to shout
‘Wait for me, everyone, wait for me.’
And sometimes we wait, and sometimes we Run off and hide, and that’s when he
Sits in the yard with his sticks on the ground Sits by himself until he’s found
By Sir, or Miss, and they sit and talk
And we watch them laugh in a special way And we’d love to know what he has to say About the ones who ran away.
The ones who forgot that he can’t walk. And then we remember to ask him to play And we kick the ball and he hits it back;
He’s quick with those sticks, he has the knack Of whamming the ball right into goal.
And if he falls over he doesn’t fuss,
We hoist him back up and we laugh at the soil
On his hands and his face, and give him his sticks. He’s strong when he fights us, but he never kicks – He can’t use his legs like the rest of us.
He comes to school on the special bus.
Berlie Doherty

Question: What is Kieran skilled at doing?

Kieran

Kieran can’t walk like the rest of us. He comes to school on the special bus. He has to use crutches to get about
And he’s fast, but he can’t keep up when we run When we race in the wind and fight and have fun He can’t keep up, he has to shout
‘Wait for me, everyone, wait for me.’
And sometimes we wait, and sometimes we Run off and hide, and that’s when he
Sits in the yard with his sticks on the ground Sits by himself until he’s found
By Sir, or Miss, and they sit and talk
And we watch them laugh in a special way And we’d love to know what he has to say About the ones who ran away.
The ones who forgot that he can’t walk. And then we remember to ask him to play And we kick the ball and he hits it back;
He’s quick with those sticks, he has the knack Of whamming the ball right into goal.
And if he falls over he doesn’t fuss,
We hoist him back up and we laugh at the soil
On his hands and his face, and give him his sticks. He’s strong when he fights us, but he never kicks – He can’t use his legs like the rest of us.
He comes to school on the special bus.
Berlie Doherty

Question: What is the general mood of the poem?

Kieran

Kieran can’t walk like the rest of us. He comes to school on the special bus. He has to use crutches to get about
And he’s fast, but he can’t keep up when we run When we race in the wind and fight and have fun He can’t keep up, he has to shout
‘Wait for me, everyone, wait for me.’
And sometimes we wait, and sometimes we Run off and hide, and that’s when he
Sits in the yard with his sticks on the ground Sits by himself until he’s found
By Sir, or Miss, and they sit and talk
And we watch them laugh in a special way And we’d love to know what he has to say About the ones who ran away.
The ones who forgot that he can’t walk. And then we remember to ask him to play And we kick the ball and he hits it back;
He’s quick with those sticks, he has the knack Of whamming the ball right into goal.
And if he falls over he doesn’t fuss,
We hoist him back up and we laugh at the soil
On his hands and his face, and give him his sticks. He’s strong when he fights us, but he never kicks – He can’t use his legs like the rest of us.
He comes to school on the special bus.
Berlie Doherty

Question: Who finds Kieran when the other children run away?

Kieran

Kieran can’t walk like the rest of us. He comes to school on the special bus. He has to use crutches to get about
And he’s fast, but he can’t keep up when we run When we race in the wind and fight and have fun He can’t keep up, he has to shout
‘Wait for me, everyone, wait for me.’
And sometimes we wait, and sometimes we Run off and hide, and that’s when he
Sits in the yard with his sticks on the ground Sits by himself until he’s found
By Sir, or Miss, and they sit and talk
And we watch them laugh in a special way And we’d love to know what he has to say About the ones who ran away.
The ones who forgot that he can’t walk. And then we remember to ask him to play And we kick the ball and he hits it back;
He’s quick with those sticks, he has the knack Of whamming the ball right into goal.
And if he falls over he doesn’t fuss,
We hoist him back up and we laugh at the soil
On his hands and his face, and give him his sticks. He’s strong when he fights us, but he never kicks – He can’t use his legs like the rest of us.
He comes to school on the special bus.
Berlie Doherty

Question: What does Kieran do when he falls?

Kieran

Kieran can’t walk like the rest of us. He comes to school on the special bus. He has to use crutches to get about
And he’s fast, but he can’t keep up when we run When we race in the wind and fight and have fun He can’t keep up, he has to shout
‘Wait for me, everyone, wait for me.’
And sometimes we wait, and sometimes we Run off and hide, and that’s when he
Sits in the yard with his sticks on the ground Sits by himself until he’s found
By Sir, or Miss, and they sit and talk
And we watch them laugh in a special way And we’d love to know what he has to say About the ones who ran away.
The ones who forgot that he can’t walk. And then we remember to ask him to play And we kick the ball and he hits it back;
He’s quick with those sticks, he has the knack Of whamming the ball right into goal.
And if he falls over he doesn’t fuss,
We hoist him back up and we laugh at the soil
On his hands and his face, and give him his sticks. He’s strong when he fights us, but he never kicks – He can’t use his legs like the rest of us.
He comes to school on the special bus.
Berlie Doherty

Question: What does Kieran do when he falls?

Kieran

Kieran can’t walk like the rest of us. He comes to school on the special bus. He has to use crutches to get about
And he’s fast, but he can’t keep up when we run When we race in the wind and fight and have fun He can’t keep up, he has to shout
‘Wait for me, everyone, wait for me.’
And sometimes we wait, and sometimes we Run off and hide, and that’s when he
Sits in the yard with his sticks on the ground Sits by himself until he’s found
By Sir, or Miss, and they sit and talk
And we watch them laugh in a special way And we’d love to know what he has to say About the ones who ran away.
The ones who forgot that he can’t walk. And then we remember to ask him to play And we kick the ball and he hits it back;
He’s quick with those sticks, he has the knack Of whamming the ball right into goal.
And if he falls over he doesn’t fuss,
We hoist him back up and we laugh at the soil
On his hands and his face, and give him his sticks. He’s strong when he fights us, but he never kicks – He can’t use his legs like the rest of us.
He comes to school on the special bus.
Berlie Doherty

Question: What is the primary message of the poem?

Triumph and Disgrace
(MY PLACE by Sally Morgan)

Towards the end of first term, I had an encounter with Miss Roberts that wiped out any confidence I might have had for the rest of the year.
Our school seats comprised a heavy metal frame, with jarrah slats spaced across the seat and back. This proved unfortunate for me, because one day, after what seemed hours of holding my arm in the air trying to attract Miss Roberts’ attention, I was unable to avoid wetting myself.
Miss Roberts had been intent on marking our latest tests and had failed to notice my desperately flailing arm. But one of the clean, shiny-haired, no-cavity girls next to me began to chant quietly, ‘You’ve wet ya pa-ants, you’ve wet ya pa-ants!’
T have not,’ I denied hotly, ‘it’s just water under my chair.’
‘Oh yeah, well then, how come you’ve dumped all those hankies on it?’ She had me there.
By this time, most of the surrounding children were starting to giggle.
Miss Roberts raised her horn-rimmed eyes and said firmly, ‘Quiet please!’ She stared at us a few seconds longer, obviously waiting for her eagle-like gaze to have its usual effect. When the last giggle was giggled, she pushed back her solid wooden chair, breathed deeply and said: ‘I… have an announcement to make.’
We were very impressed with Miss Roberts’ use of the word ‘I’. For the whole term, I had been convinced Miss Roberts was even more important than the headmistress.
‘I . . . have finished marking your test papers.’ There was complete silence after this statement. Under Miss Roberts’ reign, our weekly tests had assumed great importance. We all waited anxiously to hear who had missed the mark this time.
I … must commend you all on your efforts. All, except Rrrodney.’ She always rolled her R’s when she said Rodney. You’d think he was her favourite with the amount of attention she gave him. In fact, the opposite was true, Rodney could do nothing right.
‘Rrrodney,’ she continued, ‘how many times have I told you bottom is spelt b-o-t-t-o-m not b-u-m!’
Rodney grinned, and we all snickered, but were instantly checked by Miss Roberts’ look of disgust. She disliked anything even slightly earthy. I had a grudging admiration for Rodney. He’d been spelling bottom like that for three weeks now. He was my kind of person.
‘Now,’ she said, in a way that made us all straighten up and give full attention, ‘where is Sally, hmmmn?’ Resting her chin on her neck, she peered around the class in an attempt to locate my non-descript brown face amongst a sea of forty knowing smiles. ‘Oh, there you are, dear.’ I had been cowering behind the girl in front of me, with my hands stuffed between my legs in an attempt to prevent further trickles.
‘Sally has, for the first time this year, managed to complete her test correctly. In fact, this week she is the only one to have done so.’ Pausing, she allowed time for the greatness of my achievement to sink in. Everyone knew what was coming next, and, mistaking the smothered raspberries and giggles for eagerness, she said: ‘Well, come on Sally. Come out to the front and hold up your book. I . . . can tell the class is anxious to see your work.’
Miss Roberts waited patiently as I rose carefully to my feet. I hurriedly twisted the wet part of my dress around as far as I could, holding it tightly bunched in my left hand. With my knees locked together, and my left elbow jutting out at an unusual angle behind my back, I jerked spasmodically forward. Fortunately, Miss Roberts was gazing in amazement at my test book, and so was not confronted with the sight of my contorted body.
I . . . want you to hold it up to the class so they can all see it. Look how eager they are to see a test that has scored one hundred per cent!’

Question: What was the situation that Sally found embarrassing?

Triumph and Disgrace
(MY PLACE by Sally Morgan)

Towards the end of first term, I had an encounter with Miss Roberts that wiped out any confidence I might have had for the rest of the year.
Our school seats comprised a heavy metal frame, with jarrah slats spaced across the seat and back. This proved unfortunate for me, because one day, after what seemed hours of holding my arm in the air trying to attract Miss Roberts’ attention, I was unable to avoid wetting myself.
Miss Roberts had been intent on marking our latest tests and had failed to notice my desperately flailing arm. But one of the clean, shiny-haired, no-cavity girls next to me began to chant quietly, ‘You’ve wet ya pa-ants, you’ve wet ya pa-ants!’
T have not,’ I denied hotly, ‘it’s just water under my chair.’
‘Oh yeah, well then, how come you’ve dumped all those hankies on it?’ She had me there.
By this time, most of the surrounding children were starting to giggle.
Miss Roberts raised her horn-rimmed eyes and said firmly, ‘Quiet please!’ She stared at us a few seconds longer, obviously waiting for her eagle-like gaze to have its usual effect. When the last giggle was giggled, she pushed back her solid wooden chair, breathed deeply and said: ‘I… have an announcement to make.’
We were very impressed with Miss Roberts’ use of the word ‘I’. For the whole term, I had been convinced Miss Roberts was even more important than the headmistress.
‘I . . . have finished marking your test papers.’ There was complete silence after this statement. Under Miss Roberts’ reign, our weekly tests had assumed great importance. We all waited anxiously to hear who had missed the mark this time.
I … must commend you all on your efforts. All, except Rrrodney.’ She always rolled her R’s when she said Rodney. You’d think he was her favourite with the amount of attention she gave him. In fact, the opposite was true, Rodney could do nothing right.
‘Rrrodney,’ she continued, ‘how many times have I told you bottom is spelt b-o-t-t-o-m not b-u-m!’
Rodney grinned, and we all snickered, but were instantly checked by Miss Roberts’ look of disgust. She disliked anything even slightly earthy. I had a grudging admiration for Rodney. He’d been spelling bottom like that for three weeks now. He was my kind of person.
‘Now,’ she said, in a way that made us all straighten up and give full attention, ‘where is Sally, hmmmn?’ Resting her chin on her neck, she peered around the class in an attempt to locate my non-descript brown face amongst a sea of forty knowing smiles. ‘Oh, there you are, dear.’ I had been cowering behind the girl in front of me, with my hands stuffed between my legs in an attempt to prevent further trickles.
‘Sally has, for the first time this year, managed to complete her test correctly. In fact, this week she is the only one to have done so.’ Pausing, she allowed time for the greatness of my achievement to sink in. Everyone knew what was coming next, and, mistaking the smothered raspberries and giggles for eagerness, she said: ‘Well, come on Sally. Come out to the front and hold up your book. I . . . can tell the class is anxious to see your work.’
Miss Roberts waited patiently as I rose carefully to my feet. I hurriedly twisted the wet part of my dress around as far as I could, holding it tightly bunched in my left hand. With my knees locked together, and my left elbow jutting out at an unusual angle behind my back, I jerked spasmodically forward. Fortunately, Miss Roberts was gazing in amazement at my test book, and so was not confronted with the sight of my contorted body.
I . . . want you to hold it up to the class so they can all see it. Look how eager they are to see a test that has scored one hundred per cent!’

Question: How does Sally initially try to hide the situation?

Triumph and Disgrace
(MY PLACE by Sally Morgan)

Towards the end of first term, I had an encounter with Miss Roberts that wiped out any confidence I might have had for the rest of the year.
Our school seats comprised a heavy metal frame, with jarrah slats spaced across the seat and back. This proved unfortunate for me, because one day, after what seemed hours of holding my arm in the air trying to attract Miss Roberts’ attention, I was unable to avoid wetting myself.
Miss Roberts had been intent on marking our latest tests and had failed to notice my desperately flailing arm. But one of the clean, shiny-haired, no-cavity girls next to me began to chant quietly, ‘You’ve wet ya pa-ants, you’ve wet ya pa-ants!’
T have not,’ I denied hotly, ‘it’s just water under my chair.’
‘Oh yeah, well then, how come you’ve dumped all those hankies on it?’ She had me there.
By this time, most of the surrounding children were starting to giggle.
Miss Roberts raised her horn-rimmed eyes and said firmly, ‘Quiet please!’ She stared at us a few seconds longer, obviously waiting for her eagle-like gaze to have its usual effect. When the last giggle was giggled, she pushed back her solid wooden chair, breathed deeply and said: ‘I… have an announcement to make.’
We were very impressed with Miss Roberts’ use of the word ‘I’. For the whole term, I had been convinced Miss Roberts was even more important than the headmistress.
‘I . . . have finished marking your test papers.’ There was complete silence after this statement. Under Miss Roberts’ reign, our weekly tests had assumed great importance. We all waited anxiously to hear who had missed the mark this time.
I … must commend you all on your efforts. All, except Rrrodney.’ She always rolled her R’s when she said Rodney. You’d think he was her favourite with the amount of attention she gave him. In fact, the opposite was true, Rodney could do nothing right.
‘Rrrodney,’ she continued, ‘how many times have I told you bottom is spelt b-o-t-t-o-m not b-u-m!’
Rodney grinned, and we all snickered, but were instantly checked by Miss Roberts’ look of disgust. She disliked anything even slightly earthy. I had a grudging admiration for Rodney. He’d been spelling bottom like that for three weeks now. He was my kind of person.
‘Now,’ she said, in a way that made us all straighten up and give full attention, ‘where is Sally, hmmmn?’ Resting her chin on her neck, she peered around the class in an attempt to locate my non-descript brown face amongst a sea of forty knowing smiles. ‘Oh, there you are, dear.’ I had been cowering behind the girl in front of me, with my hands stuffed between my legs in an attempt to prevent further trickles.
‘Sally has, for the first time this year, managed to complete her test correctly. In fact, this week she is the only one to have done so.’ Pausing, she allowed time for the greatness of my achievement to sink in. Everyone knew what was coming next, and, mistaking the smothered raspberries and giggles for eagerness, she said: ‘Well, come on Sally. Come out to the front and hold up your book. I . . . can tell the class is anxious to see your work.’
Miss Roberts waited patiently as I rose carefully to my feet. I hurriedly twisted the wet part of my dress around as far as I could, holding it tightly bunched in my left hand. With my knees locked together, and my left elbow jutting out at an unusual angle behind my back, I jerked spasmodically forward. Fortunately, Miss Roberts was gazing in amazement at my test book, and so was not confronted with the sight of my contorted body.
I . . . want you to hold it up to the class so they can all see it. Look how eager they are to see a test that has scored one hundred per cent!’

Question: What was Miss Roberts primarily focused on?

Triumph and Disgrace
(MY PLACE by Sally Morgan)

Towards the end of first term, I had an encounter with Miss Roberts that wiped out any confidence I might have had for the rest of the year.
Our school seats comprised a heavy metal frame, with jarrah slats spaced across the seat and back. This proved unfortunate for me, because one day, after what seemed hours of holding my arm in the air trying to attract Miss Roberts’ attention, I was unable to avoid wetting myself.
Miss Roberts had been intent on marking our latest tests and had failed to notice my desperately flailing arm. But one of the clean, shiny-haired, no-cavity girls next to me began to chant quietly, ‘You’ve wet ya pa-ants, you’ve wet ya pa-ants!’
T have not,’ I denied hotly, ‘it’s just water under my chair.’
‘Oh yeah, well then, how come you’ve dumped all those hankies on it?’ She had me there.
By this time, most of the surrounding children were starting to giggle.
Miss Roberts raised her horn-rimmed eyes and said firmly, ‘Quiet please!’ She stared at us a few seconds longer, obviously waiting for her eagle-like gaze to have its usual effect. When the last giggle was giggled, she pushed back her solid wooden chair, breathed deeply and said: ‘I… have an announcement to make.’
We were very impressed with Miss Roberts’ use of the word ‘I’. For the whole term, I had been convinced Miss Roberts was even more important than the headmistress.
‘I . . . have finished marking your test papers.’ There was complete silence after this statement. Under Miss Roberts’ reign, our weekly tests had assumed great importance. We all waited anxiously to hear who had missed the mark this time.
I … must commend you all on your efforts. All, except Rrrodney.’ She always rolled her R’s when she said Rodney. You’d think he was her favourite with the amount of attention she gave him. In fact, the opposite was true, Rodney could do nothing right.
‘Rrrodney,’ she continued, ‘how many times have I told you bottom is spelt b-o-t-t-o-m not b-u-m!’
Rodney grinned, and we all snickered, but were instantly checked by Miss Roberts’ look of disgust. She disliked anything even slightly earthy. I had a grudging admiration for Rodney. He’d been spelling bottom like that for three weeks now. He was my kind of person.
‘Now,’ she said, in a way that made us all straighten up and give full attention, ‘where is Sally, hmmmn?’ Resting her chin on her neck, she peered around the class in an attempt to locate my non-descript brown face amongst a sea of forty knowing smiles. ‘Oh, there you are, dear.’ I had been cowering behind the girl in front of me, with my hands stuffed between my legs in an attempt to prevent further trickles.
‘Sally has, for the first time this year, managed to complete her test correctly. In fact, this week she is the only one to have done so.’ Pausing, she allowed time for the greatness of my achievement to sink in. Everyone knew what was coming next, and, mistaking the smothered raspberries and giggles for eagerness, she said: ‘Well, come on Sally. Come out to the front and hold up your book. I . . . can tell the class is anxious to see your work.’
Miss Roberts waited patiently as I rose carefully to my feet. I hurriedly twisted the wet part of my dress around as far as I could, holding it tightly bunched in my left hand. With my knees locked together, and my left elbow jutting out at an unusual angle behind my back, I jerked spasmodically forward. Fortunately, Miss Roberts was gazing in amazement at my test book, and so was not confronted with the sight of my contorted body.
I . . . want you to hold it up to the class so they can all see it. Look how eager they are to see a test that has scored one hundred per cent!’

Question: How does Miss Roberts react to the giggles in the class?

Triumph and Disgrace
(MY PLACE by Sally Morgan)

Towards the end of first term, I had an encounter with Miss Roberts that wiped out any confidence I might have had for the rest of the year.
Our school seats comprised a heavy metal frame, with jarrah slats spaced across the seat and back. This proved unfortunate for me, because one day, after what seemed hours of holding my arm in the air trying to attract Miss Roberts’ attention, I was unable to avoid wetting myself.
Miss Roberts had been intent on marking our latest tests and had failed to notice my desperately flailing arm. But one of the clean, shiny-haired, no-cavity girls next to me began to chant quietly, ‘You’ve wet ya pa-ants, you’ve wet ya pa-ants!’
T have not,’ I denied hotly, ‘it’s just water under my chair.’
‘Oh yeah, well then, how come you’ve dumped all those hankies on it?’ She had me there.
By this time, most of the surrounding children were starting to giggle.
Miss Roberts raised her horn-rimmed eyes and said firmly, ‘Quiet please!’ She stared at us a few seconds longer, obviously waiting for her eagle-like gaze to have its usual effect. When the last giggle was giggled, she pushed back her solid wooden chair, breathed deeply and said: ‘I… have an announcement to make.’
We were very impressed with Miss Roberts’ use of the word ‘I’. For the whole term, I had been convinced Miss Roberts was even more important than the headmistress.
‘I . . . have finished marking your test papers.’ There was complete silence after this statement. Under Miss Roberts’ reign, our weekly tests had assumed great importance. We all waited anxiously to hear who had missed the mark this time.
I … must commend you all on your efforts. All, except Rrrodney.’ She always rolled her R’s when she said Rodney. You’d think he was her favourite with the amount of attention she gave him. In fact, the opposite was true, Rodney could do nothing right.
‘Rrrodney,’ she continued, ‘how many times have I told you bottom is spelt b-o-t-t-o-m not b-u-m!’
Rodney grinned, and we all snickered, but were instantly checked by Miss Roberts’ look of disgust. She disliked anything even slightly earthy. I had a grudging admiration for Rodney. He’d been spelling bottom like that for three weeks now. He was my kind of person.
‘Now,’ she said, in a way that made us all straighten up and give full attention, ‘where is Sally, hmmmn?’ Resting her chin on her neck, she peered around the class in an attempt to locate my non-descript brown face amongst a sea of forty knowing smiles. ‘Oh, there you are, dear.’ I had been cowering behind the girl in front of me, with my hands stuffed between my legs in an attempt to prevent further trickles.
‘Sally has, for the first time this year, managed to complete her test correctly. In fact, this week she is the only one to have done so.’ Pausing, she allowed time for the greatness of my achievement to sink in. Everyone knew what was coming next, and, mistaking the smothered raspberries and giggles for eagerness, she said: ‘Well, come on Sally. Come out to the front and hold up your book. I . . . can tell the class is anxious to see your work.’
Miss Roberts waited patiently as I rose carefully to my feet. I hurriedly twisted the wet part of my dress around as far as I could, holding it tightly bunched in my left hand. With my knees locked together, and my left elbow jutting out at an unusual angle behind my back, I jerked spasmodically forward. Fortunately, Miss Roberts was gazing in amazement at my test book, and so was not confronted with the sight of my contorted body.
I . . . want you to hold it up to the class so they can all see it. Look how eager they are to see a test that has scored one hundred per cent!’

Question: How does Sally feel about Rodney?

Triumph and Disgrace
(MY PLACE by Sally Morgan)

Towards the end of first term, I had an encounter with Miss Roberts that wiped out any confidence I might have had for the rest of the year.
Our school seats comprised a heavy metal frame, with jarrah slats spaced across the seat and back. This proved unfortunate for me, because one day, after what seemed hours of holding my arm in the air trying to attract Miss Roberts’ attention, I was unable to avoid wetting myself.
Miss Roberts had been intent on marking our latest tests and had failed to notice my desperately flailing arm. But one of the clean, shiny-haired, no-cavity girls next to me began to chant quietly, ‘You’ve wet ya pa-ants, you’ve wet ya pa-ants!’
T have not,’ I denied hotly, ‘it’s just water under my chair.’
‘Oh yeah, well then, how come you’ve dumped all those hankies on it?’ She had me there.
By this time, most of the surrounding children were starting to giggle.
Miss Roberts raised her horn-rimmed eyes and said firmly, ‘Quiet please!’ She stared at us a few seconds longer, obviously waiting for her eagle-like gaze to have its usual effect. When the last giggle was giggled, she pushed back her solid wooden chair, breathed deeply and said: ‘I… have an announcement to make.’
We were very impressed with Miss Roberts’ use of the word ‘I’. For the whole term, I had been convinced Miss Roberts was even more important than the headmistress.
‘I . . . have finished marking your test papers.’ There was complete silence after this statement. Under Miss Roberts’ reign, our weekly tests had assumed great importance. We all waited anxiously to hear who had missed the mark this time.
I … must commend you all on your efforts. All, except Rrrodney.’ She always rolled her R’s when she said Rodney. You’d think he was her favourite with the amount of attention she gave him. In fact, the opposite was true, Rodney could do nothing right.
‘Rrrodney,’ she continued, ‘how many times have I told you bottom is spelt b-o-t-t-o-m not b-u-m!’
Rodney grinned, and we all snickered, but were instantly checked by Miss Roberts’ look of disgust. She disliked anything even slightly earthy. I had a grudging admiration for Rodney. He’d been spelling bottom like that for three weeks now. He was my kind of person.
‘Now,’ she said, in a way that made us all straighten up and give full attention, ‘where is Sally, hmmmn?’ Resting her chin on her neck, she peered around the class in an attempt to locate my non-descript brown face amongst a sea of forty knowing smiles. ‘Oh, there you are, dear.’ I had been cowering behind the girl in front of me, with my hands stuffed between my legs in an attempt to prevent further trickles.
‘Sally has, for the first time this year, managed to complete her test correctly. In fact, this week she is the only one to have done so.’ Pausing, she allowed time for the greatness of my achievement to sink in. Everyone knew what was coming next, and, mistaking the smothered raspberries and giggles for eagerness, she said: ‘Well, come on Sally. Come out to the front and hold up your book. I . . . can tell the class is anxious to see your work.’
Miss Roberts waited patiently as I rose carefully to my feet. I hurriedly twisted the wet part of my dress around as far as I could, holding it tightly bunched in my left hand. With my knees locked together, and my left elbow jutting out at an unusual angle behind my back, I jerked spasmodically forward. Fortunately, Miss Roberts was gazing in amazement at my test book, and so was not confronted with the sight of my contorted body.
I . . . want you to hold it up to the class so they can all see it. Look how eager they are to see a test that has scored one hundred per cent!’

Question: What does Sally try to do to get Miss Roberts’ attention?

Triumph and Disgrace
(MY PLACE by Sally Morgan)

Towards the end of first term, I had an encounter with Miss Roberts that wiped out any confidence I might have had for the rest of the year.
Our school seats comprised a heavy metal frame, with jarrah slats spaced across the seat and back. This proved unfortunate for me, because one day, after what seemed hours of holding my arm in the air trying to attract Miss Roberts’ attention, I was unable to avoid wetting myself.
Miss Roberts had been intent on marking our latest tests and had failed to notice my desperately flailing arm. But one of the clean, shiny-haired, no-cavity girls next to me began to chant quietly, ‘You’ve wet ya pa-ants, you’ve wet ya pa-ants!’
T have not,’ I denied hotly, ‘it’s just water under my chair.’
‘Oh yeah, well then, how come you’ve dumped all those hankies on it?’ She had me there.
By this time, most of the surrounding children were starting to giggle.
Miss Roberts raised her horn-rimmed eyes and said firmly, ‘Quiet please!’ She stared at us a few seconds longer, obviously waiting for her eagle-like gaze to have its usual effect. When the last giggle was giggled, she pushed back her solid wooden chair, breathed deeply and said: ‘I… have an announcement to make.’
We were very impressed with Miss Roberts’ use of the word ‘I’. For the whole term, I had been convinced Miss Roberts was even more important than the headmistress.
‘I . . . have finished marking your test papers.’ There was complete silence after this statement. Under Miss Roberts’ reign, our weekly tests had assumed great importance. We all waited anxiously to hear who had missed the mark this time.
I … must commend you all on your efforts. All, except Rrrodney.’ She always rolled her R’s when she said Rodney. You’d think he was her favourite with the amount of attention she gave him. In fact, the opposite was true, Rodney could do nothing right.
‘Rrrodney,’ she continued, ‘how many times have I told you bottom is spelt b-o-t-t-o-m not b-u-m!’
Rodney grinned, and we all snickered, but were instantly checked by Miss Roberts’ look of disgust. She disliked anything even slightly earthy. I had a grudging admiration for Rodney. He’d been spelling bottom like that for three weeks now. He was my kind of person.
‘Now,’ she said, in a way that made us all straighten up and give full attention, ‘where is Sally, hmmmn?’ Resting her chin on her neck, she peered around the class in an attempt to locate my non-descript brown face amongst a sea of forty knowing smiles. ‘Oh, there you are, dear.’ I had been cowering behind the girl in front of me, with my hands stuffed between my legs in an attempt to prevent further trickles.
‘Sally has, for the first time this year, managed to complete her test correctly. In fact, this week she is the only one to have done so.’ Pausing, she allowed time for the greatness of my achievement to sink in. Everyone knew what was coming next, and, mistaking the smothered raspberries and giggles for eagerness, she said: ‘Well, come on Sally. Come out to the front and hold up your book. I . . . can tell the class is anxious to see your work.’
Miss Roberts waited patiently as I rose carefully to my feet. I hurriedly twisted the wet part of my dress around as far as I could, holding it tightly bunched in my left hand. With my knees locked together, and my left elbow jutting out at an unusual angle behind my back, I jerked spasmodically forward. Fortunately, Miss Roberts was gazing in amazement at my test book, and so was not confronted with the sight of my contorted body.
I . . . want you to hold it up to the class so they can all see it. Look how eager they are to see a test that has scored one hundred per cent!’

Question: What does Sally try to do to get Miss Roberts’ attention?

Triumph and Disgrace
(MY PLACE by Sally Morgan)

Towards the end of first term, I had an encounter with Miss Roberts that wiped out any confidence I might have had for the rest of the year.
Our school seats comprised a heavy metal frame, with jarrah slats spaced across the seat and back. This proved unfortunate for me, because one day, after what seemed hours of holding my arm in the air trying to attract Miss Roberts’ attention, I was unable to avoid wetting myself.
Miss Roberts had been intent on marking our latest tests and had failed to notice my desperately flailing arm. But one of the clean, shiny-haired, no-cavity girls next to me began to chant quietly, ‘You’ve wet ya pa-ants, you’ve wet ya pa-ants!’
T have not,’ I denied hotly, ‘it’s just water under my chair.’
‘Oh yeah, well then, how come you’ve dumped all those hankies on it?’ She had me there.
By this time, most of the surrounding children were starting to giggle.
Miss Roberts raised her horn-rimmed eyes and said firmly, ‘Quiet please!’ She stared at us a few seconds longer, obviously waiting for her eagle-like gaze to have its usual effect. When the last giggle was giggled, she pushed back her solid wooden chair, breathed deeply and said: ‘I… have an announcement to make.’
We were very impressed with Miss Roberts’ use of the word ‘I’. For the whole term, I had been convinced Miss Roberts was even more important than the headmistress.
‘I . . . have finished marking your test papers.’ There was complete silence after this statement. Under Miss Roberts’ reign, our weekly tests had assumed great importance. We all waited anxiously to hear who had missed the mark this time.
I … must commend you all on your efforts. All, except Rrrodney.’ She always rolled her R’s when she said Rodney. You’d think he was her favourite with the amount of attention she gave him. In fact, the opposite was true, Rodney could do nothing right.
‘Rrrodney,’ she continued, ‘how many times have I told you bottom is spelt b-o-t-t-o-m not b-u-m!’
Rodney grinned, and we all snickered, but were instantly checked by Miss Roberts’ look of disgust. She disliked anything even slightly earthy. I had a grudging admiration for Rodney. He’d been spelling bottom like that for three weeks now. He was my kind of person.
‘Now,’ she said, in a way that made us all straighten up and give full attention, ‘where is Sally, hmmmn?’ Resting her chin on her neck, she peered around the class in an attempt to locate my non-descript brown face amongst a sea of forty knowing smiles. ‘Oh, there you are, dear.’ I had been cowering behind the girl in front of me, with my hands stuffed between my legs in an attempt to prevent further trickles.
‘Sally has, for the first time this year, managed to complete her test correctly. In fact, this week she is the only one to have done so.’ Pausing, she allowed time for the greatness of my achievement to sink in. Everyone knew what was coming next, and, mistaking the smothered raspberries and giggles for eagerness, she said: ‘Well, come on Sally. Come out to the front and hold up your book. I . . . can tell the class is anxious to see your work.’
Miss Roberts waited patiently as I rose carefully to my feet. I hurriedly twisted the wet part of my dress around as far as I could, holding it tightly bunched in my left hand. With my knees locked together, and my left elbow jutting out at an unusual angle behind my back, I jerked spasmodically forward. Fortunately, Miss Roberts was gazing in amazement at my test book, and so was not confronted with the sight of my contorted body.
I . . . want you to hold it up to the class so they can all see it. Look how eager they are to see a test that has scored one hundred per cent!’

Question: What is significant about Miss Roberts saying “I” during the announcement?

Triumph and Disgrace
(MY PLACE by Sally Morgan)

Towards the end of first term, I had an encounter with Miss Roberts that wiped out any confidence I might have had for the rest of the year.
Our school seats comprised a heavy metal frame, with jarrah slats spaced across the seat and back. This proved unfortunate for me, because one day, after what seemed hours of holding my arm in the air trying to attract Miss Roberts’ attention, I was unable to avoid wetting myself.
Miss Roberts had been intent on marking our latest tests and had failed to notice my desperately flailing arm. But one of the clean, shiny-haired, no-cavity girls next to me began to chant quietly, ‘You’ve wet ya pa-ants, you’ve wet ya pa-ants!’
T have not,’ I denied hotly, ‘it’s just water under my chair.’
‘Oh yeah, well then, how come you’ve dumped all those hankies on it?’ She had me there.
By this time, most of the surrounding children were starting to giggle.
Miss Roberts raised her horn-rimmed eyes and said firmly, ‘Quiet please!’ She stared at us a few seconds longer, obviously waiting for her eagle-like gaze to have its usual effect. When the last giggle was giggled, she pushed back her solid wooden chair, breathed deeply and said: ‘I… have an announcement to make.’
We were very impressed with Miss Roberts’ use of the word ‘I’. For the whole term, I had been convinced Miss Roberts was even more important than the headmistress.
‘I . . . have finished marking your test papers.’ There was complete silence after this statement. Under Miss Roberts’ reign, our weekly tests had assumed great importance. We all waited anxiously to hear who had missed the mark this time.
I … must commend you all on your efforts. All, except Rrrodney.’ She always rolled her R’s when she said Rodney. You’d think he was her favourite with the amount of attention she gave him. In fact, the opposite was true, Rodney could do nothing right.
‘Rrrodney,’ she continued, ‘how many times have I told you bottom is spelt b-o-t-t-o-m not b-u-m!’
Rodney grinned, and we all snickered, but were instantly checked by Miss Roberts’ look of disgust. She disliked anything even slightly earthy. I had a grudging admiration for Rodney. He’d been spelling bottom like that for three weeks now. He was my kind of person.
‘Now,’ she said, in a way that made us all straighten up and give full attention, ‘where is Sally, hmmmn?’ Resting her chin on her neck, she peered around the class in an attempt to locate my non-descript brown face amongst a sea of forty knowing smiles. ‘Oh, there you are, dear.’ I had been cowering behind the girl in front of me, with my hands stuffed between my legs in an attempt to prevent further trickles.
‘Sally has, for the first time this year, managed to complete her test correctly. In fact, this week she is the only one to have done so.’ Pausing, she allowed time for the greatness of my achievement to sink in. Everyone knew what was coming next, and, mistaking the smothered raspberries and giggles for eagerness, she said: ‘Well, come on Sally. Come out to the front and hold up your book. I . . . can tell the class is anxious to see your work.’
Miss Roberts waited patiently as I rose carefully to my feet. I hurriedly twisted the wet part of my dress around as far as I could, holding it tightly bunched in my left hand. With my knees locked together, and my left elbow jutting out at an unusual angle behind my back, I jerked spasmodically forward. Fortunately, Miss Roberts was gazing in amazement at my test book, and so was not confronted with the sight of my contorted body.
I . . . want you to hold it up to the class so they can all see it. Look how eager they are to see a test that has scored one hundred per cent!’

Question: What was the class’s reaction when Sally was called to the front?

Triumph and Disgrace
(MY PLACE by Sally Morgan)

Towards the end of first term, I had an encounter with Miss Roberts that wiped out any confidence I might have had for the rest of the year.
Our school seats comprised a heavy metal frame, with jarrah slats spaced across the seat and back. This proved unfortunate for me, because one day, after what seemed hours of holding my arm in the air trying to attract Miss Roberts’ attention, I was unable to avoid wetting myself.
Miss Roberts had been intent on marking our latest tests and had failed to notice my desperately flailing arm. But one of the clean, shiny-haired, no-cavity girls next to me began to chant quietly, ‘You’ve wet ya pa-ants, you’ve wet ya pa-ants!’
T have not,’ I denied hotly, ‘it’s just water under my chair.’
‘Oh yeah, well then, how come you’ve dumped all those hankies on it?’ She had me there.
By this time, most of the surrounding children were starting to giggle.
Miss Roberts raised her horn-rimmed eyes and said firmly, ‘Quiet please!’ She stared at us a few seconds longer, obviously waiting for her eagle-like gaze to have its usual effect. When the last giggle was giggled, she pushed back her solid wooden chair, breathed deeply and said: ‘I… have an announcement to make.’
We were very impressed with Miss Roberts’ use of the word ‘I’. For the whole term, I had been convinced Miss Roberts was even more important than the headmistress.
‘I . . . have finished marking your test papers.’ There was complete silence after this statement. Under Miss Roberts’ reign, our weekly tests had assumed great importance. We all waited anxiously to hear who had missed the mark this time.
I … must commend you all on your efforts. All, except Rrrodney.’ She always rolled her R’s when she said Rodney. You’d think he was her favourite with the amount of attention she gave him. In fact, the opposite was true, Rodney could do nothing right.
‘Rrrodney,’ she continued, ‘how many times have I told you bottom is spelt b-o-t-t-o-m not b-u-m!’
Rodney grinned, and we all snickered, but were instantly checked by Miss Roberts’ look of disgust. She disliked anything even slightly earthy. I had a grudging admiration for Rodney. He’d been spelling bottom like that for three weeks now. He was my kind of person.
‘Now,’ she said, in a way that made us all straighten up and give full attention, ‘where is Sally, hmmmn?’ Resting her chin on her neck, she peered around the class in an attempt to locate my non-descript brown face amongst a sea of forty knowing smiles. ‘Oh, there you are, dear.’ I had been cowering behind the girl in front of me, with my hands stuffed between my legs in an attempt to prevent further trickles.
‘Sally has, for the first time this year, managed to complete her test correctly. In fact, this week she is the only one to have done so.’ Pausing, she allowed time for the greatness of my achievement to sink in. Everyone knew what was coming next, and, mistaking the smothered raspberries and giggles for eagerness, she said: ‘Well, come on Sally. Come out to the front and hold up your book. I . . . can tell the class is anxious to see your work.’
Miss Roberts waited patiently as I rose carefully to my feet. I hurriedly twisted the wet part of my dress around as far as I could, holding it tightly bunched in my left hand. With my knees locked together, and my left elbow jutting out at an unusual angle behind my back, I jerked spasmodically forward. Fortunately, Miss Roberts was gazing in amazement at my test book, and so was not confronted with the sight of my contorted body.
I . . . want you to hold it up to the class so they can all see it. Look how eager they are to see a test that has scored one hundred per cent!’

Question: How does Sally feel when Miss Roberts announces her test score?

Triumph and Disgrace
(MY PLACE by Sally Morgan)

Towards the end of first term, I had an encounter with Miss Roberts that wiped out any confidence I might have had for the rest of the year.
Our school seats comprised a heavy metal frame, with jarrah slats spaced across the seat and back. This proved unfortunate for me, because one day, after what seemed hours of holding my arm in the air trying to attract Miss Roberts’ attention, I was unable to avoid wetting myself.
Miss Roberts had been intent on marking our latest tests and had failed to notice my desperately flailing arm. But one of the clean, shiny-haired, no-cavity girls next to me began to chant quietly, ‘You’ve wet ya pa-ants, you’ve wet ya pa-ants!’
T have not,’ I denied hotly, ‘it’s just water under my chair.’
‘Oh yeah, well then, how come you’ve dumped all those hankies on it?’ She had me there.
By this time, most of the surrounding children were starting to giggle.
Miss Roberts raised her horn-rimmed eyes and said firmly, ‘Quiet please!’ She stared at us a few seconds longer, obviously waiting for her eagle-like gaze to have its usual effect. When the last giggle was giggled, she pushed back her solid wooden chair, breathed deeply and said: ‘I… have an announcement to make.’
We were very impressed with Miss Roberts’ use of the word ‘I’. For the whole term, I had been convinced Miss Roberts was even more important than the headmistress.
‘I . . . have finished marking your test papers.’ There was complete silence after this statement. Under Miss Roberts’ reign, our weekly tests had assumed great importance. We all waited anxiously to hear who had missed the mark this time.
I … must commend you all on your efforts. All, except Rrrodney.’ She always rolled her R’s when she said Rodney. You’d think he was her favourite with the amount of attention she gave him. In fact, the opposite was true, Rodney could do nothing right.
‘Rrrodney,’ she continued, ‘how many times have I told you bottom is spelt b-o-t-t-o-m not b-u-m!’
Rodney grinned, and we all snickered, but were instantly checked by Miss Roberts’ look of disgust. She disliked anything even slightly earthy. I had a grudging admiration for Rodney. He’d been spelling bottom like that for three weeks now. He was my kind of person.
‘Now,’ she said, in a way that made us all straighten up and give full attention, ‘where is Sally, hmmmn?’ Resting her chin on her neck, she peered around the class in an attempt to locate my non-descript brown face amongst a sea of forty knowing smiles. ‘Oh, there you are, dear.’ I had been cowering behind the girl in front of me, with my hands stuffed between my legs in an attempt to prevent further trickles.
‘Sally has, for the first time this year, managed to complete her test correctly. In fact, this week she is the only one to have done so.’ Pausing, she allowed time for the greatness of my achievement to sink in. Everyone knew what was coming next, and, mistaking the smothered raspberries and giggles for eagerness, she said: ‘Well, come on Sally. Come out to the front and hold up your book. I . . . can tell the class is anxious to see your work.’
Miss Roberts waited patiently as I rose carefully to my feet. I hurriedly twisted the wet part of my dress around as far as I could, holding it tightly bunched in my left hand. With my knees locked together, and my left elbow jutting out at an unusual angle behind my back, I jerked spasmodically forward. Fortunately, Miss Roberts was gazing in amazement at my test book, and so was not confronted with the sight of my contorted body.
I . . . want you to hold it up to the class so they can all see it. Look how eager they are to see a test that has scored one hundred per cent!’

Question: What did Miss Roberts think the class’s giggles represented?

Triumph and Disgrace
(MY PLACE by Sally Morgan)

Towards the end of first term, I had an encounter with Miss Roberts that wiped out any confidence I might have had for the rest of the year.
Our school seats comprised a heavy metal frame, with jarrah slats spaced across the seat and back. This proved unfortunate for me, because one day, after what seemed hours of holding my arm in the air trying to attract Miss Roberts’ attention, I was unable to avoid wetting myself.
Miss Roberts had been intent on marking our latest tests and had failed to notice my desperately flailing arm. But one of the clean, shiny-haired, no-cavity girls next to me began to chant quietly, ‘You’ve wet ya pa-ants, you’ve wet ya pa-ants!’
T have not,’ I denied hotly, ‘it’s just water under my chair.’
‘Oh yeah, well then, how come you’ve dumped all those hankies on it?’ She had me there.
By this time, most of the surrounding children were starting to giggle.
Miss Roberts raised her horn-rimmed eyes and said firmly, ‘Quiet please!’ She stared at us a few seconds longer, obviously waiting for her eagle-like gaze to have its usual effect. When the last giggle was giggled, she pushed back her solid wooden chair, breathed deeply and said: ‘I… have an announcement to make.’
We were very impressed with Miss Roberts’ use of the word ‘I’. For the whole term, I had been convinced Miss Roberts was even more important than the headmistress.
‘I . . . have finished marking your test papers.’ There was complete silence after this statement. Under Miss Roberts’ reign, our weekly tests had assumed great importance. We all waited anxiously to hear who had missed the mark this time.
I … must commend you all on your efforts. All, except Rrrodney.’ She always rolled her R’s when she said Rodney. You’d think he was her favourite with the amount of attention she gave him. In fact, the opposite was true, Rodney could do nothing right.
‘Rrrodney,’ she continued, ‘how many times have I told you bottom is spelt b-o-t-t-o-m not b-u-m!’
Rodney grinned, and we all snickered, but were instantly checked by Miss Roberts’ look of disgust. She disliked anything even slightly earthy. I had a grudging admiration for Rodney. He’d been spelling bottom like that for three weeks now. He was my kind of person.
‘Now,’ she said, in a way that made us all straighten up and give full attention, ‘where is Sally, hmmmn?’ Resting her chin on her neck, she peered around the class in an attempt to locate my non-descript brown face amongst a sea of forty knowing smiles. ‘Oh, there you are, dear.’ I had been cowering behind the girl in front of me, with my hands stuffed between my legs in an attempt to prevent further trickles.
‘Sally has, for the first time this year, managed to complete her test correctly. In fact, this week she is the only one to have done so.’ Pausing, she allowed time for the greatness of my achievement to sink in. Everyone knew what was coming next, and, mistaking the smothered raspberries and giggles for eagerness, she said: ‘Well, come on Sally. Come out to the front and hold up your book. I . . . can tell the class is anxious to see your work.’
Miss Roberts waited patiently as I rose carefully to my feet. I hurriedly twisted the wet part of my dress around as far as I could, holding it tightly bunched in my left hand. With my knees locked together, and my left elbow jutting out at an unusual angle behind my back, I jerked spasmodically forward. Fortunately, Miss Roberts was gazing in amazement at my test book, and so was not confronted with the sight of my contorted body.
I . . . want you to hold it up to the class so they can all see it. Look how eager they are to see a test that has scored one hundred per cent!’

Question: How does Sally describe her face?

Triumph and Disgrace
(MY PLACE by Sally Morgan)

Towards the end of first term, I had an encounter with Miss Roberts that wiped out any confidence I might have had for the rest of the year.
Our school seats comprised a heavy metal frame, with jarrah slats spaced across the seat and back. This proved unfortunate for me, because one day, after what seemed hours of holding my arm in the air trying to attract Miss Roberts’ attention, I was unable to avoid wetting myself.
Miss Roberts had been intent on marking our latest tests and had failed to notice my desperately flailing arm. But one of the clean, shiny-haired, no-cavity girls next to me began to chant quietly, ‘You’ve wet ya pa-ants, you’ve wet ya pa-ants!’
T have not,’ I denied hotly, ‘it’s just water under my chair.’
‘Oh yeah, well then, how come you’ve dumped all those hankies on it?’ She had me there.
By this time, most of the surrounding children were starting to giggle.
Miss Roberts raised her horn-rimmed eyes and said firmly, ‘Quiet please!’ She stared at us a few seconds longer, obviously waiting for her eagle-like gaze to have its usual effect. When the last giggle was giggled, she pushed back her solid wooden chair, breathed deeply and said: ‘I… have an announcement to make.’
We were very impressed with Miss Roberts’ use of the word ‘I’. For the whole term, I had been convinced Miss Roberts was even more important than the headmistress.
‘I . . . have finished marking your test papers.’ There was complete silence after this statement. Under Miss Roberts’ reign, our weekly tests had assumed great importance. We all waited anxiously to hear who had missed the mark this time.
I … must commend you all on your efforts. All, except Rrrodney.’ She always rolled her R’s when she said Rodney. You’d think he was her favourite with the amount of attention she gave him. In fact, the opposite was true, Rodney could do nothing right.
‘Rrrodney,’ she continued, ‘how many times have I told you bottom is spelt b-o-t-t-o-m not b-u-m!’
Rodney grinned, and we all snickered, but were instantly checked by Miss Roberts’ look of disgust. She disliked anything even slightly earthy. I had a grudging admiration for Rodney. He’d been spelling bottom like that for three weeks now. He was my kind of person.
‘Now,’ she said, in a way that made us all straighten up and give full attention, ‘where is Sally, hmmmn?’ Resting her chin on her neck, she peered around the class in an attempt to locate my non-descript brown face amongst a sea of forty knowing smiles. ‘Oh, there you are, dear.’ I had been cowering behind the girl in front of me, with my hands stuffed between my legs in an attempt to prevent further trickles.
‘Sally has, for the first time this year, managed to complete her test correctly. In fact, this week she is the only one to have done so.’ Pausing, she allowed time for the greatness of my achievement to sink in. Everyone knew what was coming next, and, mistaking the smothered raspberries and giggles for eagerness, she said: ‘Well, come on Sally. Come out to the front and hold up your book. I . . . can tell the class is anxious to see your work.’
Miss Roberts waited patiently as I rose carefully to my feet. I hurriedly twisted the wet part of my dress around as far as I could, holding it tightly bunched in my left hand. With my knees locked together, and my left elbow jutting out at an unusual angle behind my back, I jerked spasmodically forward. Fortunately, Miss Roberts was gazing in amazement at my test book, and so was not confronted with the sight of my contorted body.
I . . . want you to hold it up to the class so they can all see it. Look how eager they are to see a test that has scored one hundred per cent!’

Question: How does Miss Roberts pronounce Rodney’s name?

Triumph and Disgrace
(MY PLACE by Sally Morgan)

Towards the end of first term, I had an encounter with Miss Roberts that wiped out any confidence I might have had for the rest of the year.
Our school seats comprised a heavy metal frame, with jarrah slats spaced across the seat and back. This proved unfortunate for me, because one day, after what seemed hours of holding my arm in the air trying to attract Miss Roberts’ attention, I was unable to avoid wetting myself.
Miss Roberts had been intent on marking our latest tests and had failed to notice my desperately flailing arm. But one of the clean, shiny-haired, no-cavity girls next to me began to chant quietly, ‘You’ve wet ya pa-ants, you’ve wet ya pa-ants!’
T have not,’ I denied hotly, ‘it’s just water under my chair.’
‘Oh yeah, well then, how come you’ve dumped all those hankies on it?’ She had me there.
By this time, most of the surrounding children were starting to giggle.
Miss Roberts raised her horn-rimmed eyes and said firmly, ‘Quiet please!’ She stared at us a few seconds longer, obviously waiting for her eagle-like gaze to have its usual effect. When the last giggle was giggled, she pushed back her solid wooden chair, breathed deeply and said: ‘I… have an announcement to make.’
We were very impressed with Miss Roberts’ use of the word ‘I’. For the whole term, I had been convinced Miss Roberts was even more important than the headmistress.
‘I . . . have finished marking your test papers.’ There was complete silence after this statement. Under Miss Roberts’ reign, our weekly tests had assumed great importance. We all waited anxiously to hear who had missed the mark this time.
I … must commend you all on your efforts. All, except Rrrodney.’ She always rolled her R’s when she said Rodney. You’d think he was her favourite with the amount of attention she gave him. In fact, the opposite was true, Rodney could do nothing right.
‘Rrrodney,’ she continued, ‘how many times have I told you bottom is spelt b-o-t-t-o-m not b-u-m!’
Rodney grinned, and we all snickered, but were instantly checked by Miss Roberts’ look of disgust. She disliked anything even slightly earthy. I had a grudging admiration for Rodney. He’d been spelling bottom like that for three weeks now. He was my kind of person.
‘Now,’ she said, in a way that made us all straighten up and give full attention, ‘where is Sally, hmmmn?’ Resting her chin on her neck, she peered around the class in an attempt to locate my non-descript brown face amongst a sea of forty knowing smiles. ‘Oh, there you are, dear.’ I had been cowering behind the girl in front of me, with my hands stuffed between my legs in an attempt to prevent further trickles.
‘Sally has, for the first time this year, managed to complete her test correctly. In fact, this week she is the only one to have done so.’ Pausing, she allowed time for the greatness of my achievement to sink in. Everyone knew what was coming next, and, mistaking the smothered raspberries and giggles for eagerness, she said: ‘Well, come on Sally. Come out to the front and hold up your book. I . . . can tell the class is anxious to see your work.’
Miss Roberts waited patiently as I rose carefully to my feet. I hurriedly twisted the wet part of my dress around as far as I could, holding it tightly bunched in my left hand. With my knees locked together, and my left elbow jutting out at an unusual angle behind my back, I jerked spasmodically forward. Fortunately, Miss Roberts was gazing in amazement at my test book, and so was not confronted with the sight of my contorted body.
I . . . want you to hold it up to the class so they can all see it. Look how eager they are to see a test that has scored one hundred per cent!’

Question: How does Miss Roberts pronounce Rodney’s name?

Triumph and Disgrace
(MY PLACE by Sally Morgan)

Towards the end of first term, I had an encounter with Miss Roberts that wiped out any confidence I might have had for the rest of the year.
Our school seats comprised a heavy metal frame, with jarrah slats spaced across the seat and back. This proved unfortunate for me, because one day, after what seemed hours of holding my arm in the air trying to attract Miss Roberts’ attention, I was unable to avoid wetting myself.
Miss Roberts had been intent on marking our latest tests and had failed to notice my desperately flailing arm. But one of the clean, shiny-haired, no-cavity girls next to me began to chant quietly, ‘You’ve wet ya pa-ants, you’ve wet ya pa-ants!’
T have not,’ I denied hotly, ‘it’s just water under my chair.’
‘Oh yeah, well then, how come you’ve dumped all those hankies on it?’ She had me there.
By this time, most of the surrounding children were starting to giggle.
Miss Roberts raised her horn-rimmed eyes and said firmly, ‘Quiet please!’ She stared at us a few seconds longer, obviously waiting for her eagle-like gaze to have its usual effect. When the last giggle was giggled, she pushed back her solid wooden chair, breathed deeply and said: ‘I… have an announcement to make.’
We were very impressed with Miss Roberts’ use of the word ‘I’. For the whole term, I had been convinced Miss Roberts was even more important than the headmistress.
‘I . . . have finished marking your test papers.’ There was complete silence after this statement. Under Miss Roberts’ reign, our weekly tests had assumed great importance. We all waited anxiously to hear who had missed the mark this time.
I … must commend you all on your efforts. All, except Rrrodney.’ She always rolled her R’s when she said Rodney. You’d think he was her favourite with the amount of attention she gave him. In fact, the opposite was true, Rodney could do nothing right.
‘Rrrodney,’ she continued, ‘how many times have I told you bottom is spelt b-o-t-t-o-m not b-u-m!’
Rodney grinned, and we all snickered, but were instantly checked by Miss Roberts’ look of disgust. She disliked anything even slightly earthy. I had a grudging admiration for Rodney. He’d been spelling bottom like that for three weeks now. He was my kind of person.
‘Now,’ she said, in a way that made us all straighten up and give full attention, ‘where is Sally, hmmmn?’ Resting her chin on her neck, she peered around the class in an attempt to locate my non-descript brown face amongst a sea of forty knowing smiles. ‘Oh, there you are, dear.’ I had been cowering behind the girl in front of me, with my hands stuffed between my legs in an attempt to prevent further trickles.
‘Sally has, for the first time this year, managed to complete her test correctly. In fact, this week she is the only one to have done so.’ Pausing, she allowed time for the greatness of my achievement to sink in. Everyone knew what was coming next, and, mistaking the smothered raspberries and giggles for eagerness, she said: ‘Well, come on Sally. Come out to the front and hold up your book. I . . . can tell the class is anxious to see your work.’
Miss Roberts waited patiently as I rose carefully to my feet. I hurriedly twisted the wet part of my dress around as far as I could, holding it tightly bunched in my left hand. With my knees locked together, and my left elbow jutting out at an unusual angle behind my back, I jerked spasmodically forward. Fortunately, Miss Roberts was gazing in amazement at my test book, and so was not confronted with the sight of my contorted body.
I . . . want you to hold it up to the class so they can all see it. Look how eager they are to see a test that has scored one hundred per cent!’

Question: What was the nature of the test that Miss Roberts had marked?

Triumph and Disgrace
(MY PLACE by Sally Morgan)

Towards the end of first term, I had an encounter with Miss Roberts that wiped out any confidence I might have had for the rest of the year.
Our school seats comprised a heavy metal frame, with jarrah slats spaced across the seat and back. This proved unfortunate for me, because one day, after what seemed hours of holding my arm in the air trying to attract Miss Roberts’ attention, I was unable to avoid wetting myself.
Miss Roberts had been intent on marking our latest tests and had failed to notice my desperately flailing arm. But one of the clean, shiny-haired, no-cavity girls next to me began to chant quietly, ‘You’ve wet ya pa-ants, you’ve wet ya pa-ants!’
T have not,’ I denied hotly, ‘it’s just water under my chair.’
‘Oh yeah, well then, how come you’ve dumped all those hankies on it?’ She had me there.
By this time, most of the surrounding children were starting to giggle.
Miss Roberts raised her horn-rimmed eyes and said firmly, ‘Quiet please!’ She stared at us a few seconds longer, obviously waiting for her eagle-like gaze to have its usual effect. When the last giggle was giggled, she pushed back her solid wooden chair, breathed deeply and said: ‘I… have an announcement to make.’
We were very impressed with Miss Roberts’ use of the word ‘I’. For the whole term, I had been convinced Miss Roberts was even more important than the headmistress.
‘I . . . have finished marking your test papers.’ There was complete silence after this statement. Under Miss Roberts’ reign, our weekly tests had assumed great importance. We all waited anxiously to hear who had missed the mark this time.
I … must commend you all on your efforts. All, except Rrrodney.’ She always rolled her R’s when she said Rodney. You’d think he was her favourite with the amount of attention she gave him. In fact, the opposite was true, Rodney could do nothing right.
‘Rrrodney,’ she continued, ‘how many times have I told you bottom is spelt b-o-t-t-o-m not b-u-m!’
Rodney grinned, and we all snickered, but were instantly checked by Miss Roberts’ look of disgust. She disliked anything even slightly earthy. I had a grudging admiration for Rodney. He’d been spelling bottom like that for three weeks now. He was my kind of person.
‘Now,’ she said, in a way that made us all straighten up and give full attention, ‘where is Sally, hmmmn?’ Resting her chin on her neck, she peered around the class in an attempt to locate my non-descript brown face amongst a sea of forty knowing smiles. ‘Oh, there you are, dear.’ I had been cowering behind the girl in front of me, with my hands stuffed between my legs in an attempt to prevent further trickles.
‘Sally has, for the first time this year, managed to complete her test correctly. In fact, this week she is the only one to have done so.’ Pausing, she allowed time for the greatness of my achievement to sink in. Everyone knew what was coming next, and, mistaking the smothered raspberries and giggles for eagerness, she said: ‘Well, come on Sally. Come out to the front and hold up your book. I . . . can tell the class is anxious to see your work.’
Miss Roberts waited patiently as I rose carefully to my feet. I hurriedly twisted the wet part of my dress around as far as I could, holding it tightly bunched in my left hand. With my knees locked together, and my left elbow jutting out at an unusual angle behind my back, I jerked spasmodically forward. Fortunately, Miss Roberts was gazing in amazement at my test book, and so was not confronted with the sight of my contorted body.
I . . . want you to hold it up to the class so they can all see it. Look how eager they are to see a test that has scored one hundred per cent!’

Question: What was the nature of the test that Miss Roberts had marked?

Triumph and Disgrace
(MY PLACE by Sally Morgan)

Towards the end of first term, I had an encounter with Miss Roberts that wiped out any confidence I might have had for the rest of the year.
Our school seats comprised a heavy metal frame, with jarrah slats spaced across the seat and back. This proved unfortunate for me, because one day, after what seemed hours of holding my arm in the air trying to attract Miss Roberts’ attention, I was unable to avoid wetting myself.
Miss Roberts had been intent on marking our latest tests and had failed to notice my desperately flailing arm. But one of the clean, shiny-haired, no-cavity girls next to me began to chant quietly, ‘You’ve wet ya pa-ants, you’ve wet ya pa-ants!’
T have not,’ I denied hotly, ‘it’s just water under my chair.’
‘Oh yeah, well then, how come you’ve dumped all those hankies on it?’ She had me there.
By this time, most of the surrounding children were starting to giggle.
Miss Roberts raised her horn-rimmed eyes and said firmly, ‘Quiet please!’ She stared at us a few seconds longer, obviously waiting for her eagle-like gaze to have its usual effect. When the last giggle was giggled, she pushed back her solid wooden chair, breathed deeply and said: ‘I… have an announcement to make.’
We were very impressed with Miss Roberts’ use of the word ‘I’. For the whole term, I had been convinced Miss Roberts was even more important than the headmistress.
‘I . . . have finished marking your test papers.’ There was complete silence after this statement. Under Miss Roberts’ reign, our weekly tests had assumed great importance. We all waited anxiously to hear who had missed the mark this time.
I … must commend you all on your efforts. All, except Rrrodney.’ She always rolled her R’s when she said Rodney. You’d think he was her favourite with the amount of attention she gave him. In fact, the opposite was true, Rodney could do nothing right.
‘Rrrodney,’ she continued, ‘how many times have I told you bottom is spelt b-o-t-t-o-m not b-u-m!’
Rodney grinned, and we all snickered, but were instantly checked by Miss Roberts’ look of disgust. She disliked anything even slightly earthy. I had a grudging admiration for Rodney. He’d been spelling bottom like that for three weeks now. He was my kind of person.
‘Now,’ she said, in a way that made us all straighten up and give full attention, ‘where is Sally, hmmmn?’ Resting her chin on her neck, she peered around the class in an attempt to locate my non-descript brown face amongst a sea of forty knowing smiles. ‘Oh, there you are, dear.’ I had been cowering behind the girl in front of me, with my hands stuffed between my legs in an attempt to prevent further trickles.
‘Sally has, for the first time this year, managed to complete her test correctly. In fact, this week she is the only one to have done so.’ Pausing, she allowed time for the greatness of my achievement to sink in. Everyone knew what was coming next, and, mistaking the smothered raspberries and giggles for eagerness, she said: ‘Well, come on Sally. Come out to the front and hold up your book. I . . . can tell the class is anxious to see your work.’
Miss Roberts waited patiently as I rose carefully to my feet. I hurriedly twisted the wet part of my dress around as far as I could, holding it tightly bunched in my left hand. With my knees locked together, and my left elbow jutting out at an unusual angle behind my back, I jerked spasmodically forward. Fortunately, Miss Roberts was gazing in amazement at my test book, and so was not confronted with the sight of my contorted body.
I . . . want you to hold it up to the class so they can all see it. Look how eager they are to see a test that has scored one hundred per cent!’

Question: What was the nature of the test that Miss Roberts had marked?

Triumph and Disgrace
(MY PLACE by Sally Morgan)

Towards the end of first term, I had an encounter with Miss Roberts that wiped out any confidence I might have had for the rest of the year.
Our school seats comprised a heavy metal frame, with jarrah slats spaced across the seat and back. This proved unfortunate for me, because one day, after what seemed hours of holding my arm in the air trying to attract Miss Roberts’ attention, I was unable to avoid wetting myself.
Miss Roberts had been intent on marking our latest tests and had failed to notice my desperately flailing arm. But one of the clean, shiny-haired, no-cavity girls next to me began to chant quietly, ‘You’ve wet ya pa-ants, you’ve wet ya pa-ants!’
T have not,’ I denied hotly, ‘it’s just water under my chair.’
‘Oh yeah, well then, how come you’ve dumped all those hankies on it?’ She had me there.
By this time, most of the surrounding children were starting to giggle.
Miss Roberts raised her horn-rimmed eyes and said firmly, ‘Quiet please!’ She stared at us a few seconds longer, obviously waiting for her eagle-like gaze to have its usual effect. When the last giggle was giggled, she pushed back her solid wooden chair, breathed deeply and said: ‘I… have an announcement to make.’
We were very impressed with Miss Roberts’ use of the word ‘I’. For the whole term, I had been convinced Miss Roberts was even more important than the headmistress.
‘I . . . have finished marking your test papers.’ There was complete silence after this statement. Under Miss Roberts’ reign, our weekly tests had assumed great importance. We all waited anxiously to hear who had missed the mark this time.
I … must commend you all on your efforts. All, except Rrrodney.’ She always rolled her R’s when she said Rodney. You’d think he was her favourite with the amount of attention she gave him. In fact, the opposite was true, Rodney could do nothing right.
‘Rrrodney,’ she continued, ‘how many times have I told you bottom is spelt b-o-t-t-o-m not b-u-m!’
Rodney grinned, and we all snickered, but were instantly checked by Miss Roberts’ look of disgust. She disliked anything even slightly earthy. I had a grudging admiration for Rodney. He’d been spelling bottom like that for three weeks now. He was my kind of person.
‘Now,’ she said, in a way that made us all straighten up and give full attention, ‘where is Sally, hmmmn?’ Resting her chin on her neck, she peered around the class in an attempt to locate my non-descript brown face amongst a sea of forty knowing smiles. ‘Oh, there you are, dear.’ I had been cowering behind the girl in front of me, with my hands stuffed between my legs in an attempt to prevent further trickles.
‘Sally has, for the first time this year, managed to complete her test correctly. In fact, this week she is the only one to have done so.’ Pausing, she allowed time for the greatness of my achievement to sink in. Everyone knew what was coming next, and, mistaking the smothered raspberries and giggles for eagerness, she said: ‘Well, come on Sally. Come out to the front and hold up your book. I . . . can tell the class is anxious to see your work.’
Miss Roberts waited patiently as I rose carefully to my feet. I hurriedly twisted the wet part of my dress around as far as I could, holding it tightly bunched in my left hand. With my knees locked together, and my left elbow jutting out at an unusual angle behind my back, I jerked spasmodically forward. Fortunately, Miss Roberts was gazing in amazement at my test book, and so was not confronted with the sight of my contorted body.
I . . . want you to hold it up to the class so they can all see it. Look how eager they are to see a test that has scored one hundred per cent!’

Question: What did Rodney spell incorrectly for three weeks?

Triumph and Disgrace
(MY PLACE by Sally Morgan)

Towards the end of first term, I had an encounter with Miss Roberts that wiped out any confidence I might have had for the rest of the year.
Our school seats comprised a heavy metal frame, with jarrah slats spaced across the seat and back. This proved unfortunate for me, because one day, after what seemed hours of holding my arm in the air trying to attract Miss Roberts’ attention, I was unable to avoid wetting myself.
Miss Roberts had been intent on marking our latest tests and had failed to notice my desperately flailing arm. But one of the clean, shiny-haired, no-cavity girls next to me began to chant quietly, ‘You’ve wet ya pa-ants, you’ve wet ya pa-ants!’
T have not,’ I denied hotly, ‘it’s just water under my chair.’
‘Oh yeah, well then, how come you’ve dumped all those hankies on it?’ She had me there.
By this time, most of the surrounding children were starting to giggle.
Miss Roberts raised her horn-rimmed eyes and said firmly, ‘Quiet please!’ She stared at us a few seconds longer, obviously waiting for her eagle-like gaze to have its usual effect. When the last giggle was giggled, she pushed back her solid wooden chair, breathed deeply and said: ‘I… have an announcement to make.’
We were very impressed with Miss Roberts’ use of the word ‘I’. For the whole term, I had been convinced Miss Roberts was even more important than the headmistress.
‘I . . . have finished marking your test papers.’ There was complete silence after this statement. Under Miss Roberts’ reign, our weekly tests had assumed great importance. We all waited anxiously to hear who had missed the mark this time.
I … must commend you all on your efforts. All, except Rrrodney.’ She always rolled her R’s when she said Rodney. You’d think he was her favourite with the amount of attention she gave him. In fact, the opposite was true, Rodney could do nothing right.
‘Rrrodney,’ she continued, ‘how many times have I told you bottom is spelt b-o-t-t-o-m not b-u-m!’
Rodney grinned, and we all snickered, but were instantly checked by Miss Roberts’ look of disgust. She disliked anything even slightly earthy. I had a grudging admiration for Rodney. He’d been spelling bottom like that for three weeks now. He was my kind of person.
‘Now,’ she said, in a way that made us all straighten up and give full attention, ‘where is Sally, hmmmn?’ Resting her chin on her neck, she peered around the class in an attempt to locate my non-descript brown face amongst a sea of forty knowing smiles. ‘Oh, there you are, dear.’ I had been cowering behind the girl in front of me, with my hands stuffed between my legs in an attempt to prevent further trickles.
‘Sally has, for the first time this year, managed to complete her test correctly. In fact, this week she is the only one to have done so.’ Pausing, she allowed time for the greatness of my achievement to sink in. Everyone knew what was coming next, and, mistaking the smothered raspberries and giggles for eagerness, she said: ‘Well, come on Sally. Come out to the front and hold up your book. I . . . can tell the class is anxious to see your work.’
Miss Roberts waited patiently as I rose carefully to my feet. I hurriedly twisted the wet part of my dress around as far as I could, holding it tightly bunched in my left hand. With my knees locked together, and my left elbow jutting out at an unusual angle behind my back, I jerked spasmodically forward. Fortunately, Miss Roberts was gazing in amazement at my test book, and so was not confronted with the sight of my contorted body.
I . . . want you to hold it up to the class so they can all see it. Look how eager they are to see a test that has scored one hundred per cent!’

Question: How does Sally feel about her achievement in the test?

Triumph and Disgrace
(MY PLACE by Sally Morgan)

Towards the end of first term, I had an encounter with Miss Roberts that wiped out any confidence I might have had for the rest of the year.
Our school seats comprised a heavy metal frame, with jarrah slats spaced across the seat and back. This proved unfortunate for me, because one day, after what seemed hours of holding my arm in the air trying to attract Miss Roberts’ attention, I was unable to avoid wetting myself.
Miss Roberts had been intent on marking our latest tests and had failed to notice my desperately flailing arm. But one of the clean, shiny-haired, no-cavity girls next to me began to chant quietly, ‘You’ve wet ya pa-ants, you’ve wet ya pa-ants!’
T have not,’ I denied hotly, ‘it’s just water under my chair.’
‘Oh yeah, well then, how come you’ve dumped all those hankies on it?’ She had me there.
By this time, most of the surrounding children were starting to giggle.
Miss Roberts raised her horn-rimmed eyes and said firmly, ‘Quiet please!’ She stared at us a few seconds longer, obviously waiting for her eagle-like gaze to have its usual effect. When the last giggle was giggled, she pushed back her solid wooden chair, breathed deeply and said: ‘I… have an announcement to make.’
We were very impressed with Miss Roberts’ use of the word ‘I’. For the whole term, I had been convinced Miss Roberts was even more important than the headmistress.
‘I . . . have finished marking your test papers.’ There was complete silence after this statement. Under Miss Roberts’ reign, our weekly tests had assumed great importance. We all waited anxiously to hear who had missed the mark this time.
I … must commend you all on your efforts. All, except Rrrodney.’ She always rolled her R’s when she said Rodney. You’d think he was her favourite with the amount of attention she gave him. In fact, the opposite was true, Rodney could do nothing right.
‘Rrrodney,’ she continued, ‘how many times have I told you bottom is spelt b-o-t-t-o-m not b-u-m!’
Rodney grinned, and we all snickered, but were instantly checked by Miss Roberts’ look of disgust. She disliked anything even slightly earthy. I had a grudging admiration for Rodney. He’d been spelling bottom like that for three weeks now. He was my kind of person.
‘Now,’ she said, in a way that made us all straighten up and give full attention, ‘where is Sally, hmmmn?’ Resting her chin on her neck, she peered around the class in an attempt to locate my non-descript brown face amongst a sea of forty knowing smiles. ‘Oh, there you are, dear.’ I had been cowering behind the girl in front of me, with my hands stuffed between my legs in an attempt to prevent further trickles.
‘Sally has, for the first time this year, managed to complete her test correctly. In fact, this week she is the only one to have done so.’ Pausing, she allowed time for the greatness of my achievement to sink in. Everyone knew what was coming next, and, mistaking the smothered raspberries and giggles for eagerness, she said: ‘Well, come on Sally. Come out to the front and hold up your book. I . . . can tell the class is anxious to see your work.’
Miss Roberts waited patiently as I rose carefully to my feet. I hurriedly twisted the wet part of my dress around as far as I could, holding it tightly bunched in my left hand. With my knees locked together, and my left elbow jutting out at an unusual angle behind my back, I jerked spasmodically forward. Fortunately, Miss Roberts was gazing in amazement at my test book, and so was not confronted with the sight of my contorted body.
I . . . want you to hold it up to the class so they can all see it. Look how eager they are to see a test that has scored one hundred per cent!’

Question: How many students were in the class?

Striking Old Man

When grandfather first came to us We did not know how old he was Nor how reliable.
Regular as clockwork he wound up our day And simply by his presence
Reminded us of things we had not done. Not that he ever complained
And we liked him for that.
They had got tired of him at the other house,
So he arrived unceremoniously one afternoon in a van, The few things that were his in a case.
They said he had been too much trouble, He hardly fitted their way of life.
We came to love him.
On his face you could see what time had done And quite a lot that had defeated time.
Sometimes his secrets were unlocked. Then we would see right through
To the frailty and simplicity
Of something that had gone on working Through so many changes.
His voice was occasionally sharp But we knew he was just run down And so we would make allowances. Adjustment was easy.
For much of the day he was quiet And we heard him mostly at night Breathing throughout the house
In a satisfied old-fashioned way. When visitors came he was good:
We saw them admiring his hands – He had a certain veneer.
In time he was part of our lives. The children lived by his looks. He made us all feel at home.
Alasdair Aston

Question: What is the poem’s primary theme?

The Killing
(WHALE by Jeremy Lucas)

The moment he had planned, the moment he had hoped for. Now it was here it was somehow unreal, impossible. He lifted the gun very slowly. It was a heavy, old gun, a 0.44 calibre that had been used for stags back in his mainland days. He stared along the sights as another wave washed gently over Orion’s back. Like a stationary submarine the whale just wallowed in the swell. And then he started forward, and in that movement his back nudged above the surface. Orion, in a carefree glow of triumph after the intense joy of his kill, began to turn. The man’s finger closed over the trigger as he watched the dark shape inch over the sand. He could see every detail in the now clear water, even the white splash behind the whale’s eye.
The huge rounded flippers wafted gently to and fro. Quietly the immense dorsal lifted high above the waves, followed by the back and the smooth round head; and then even the white splash poked above the surface.
The brief, trigger-squeezing moment changed everything. The rifle’s crash was stunning in its intensity: an alien, evil sound in a peaceful Hebridean isle.
The seals on the beach kicked up sand in their panic. Many rushed for the sea, ignoring the threat of the killer whale. Others repeatedly circled their calves, barking insistently and continuously, not knowing what to do, not understanding this new threat. The gulls again rose screaming into the air. A falcon, making a plummeting dive on a rock-dove over the moor, suddenly met the shock wave, broke off his attack, and fled for the sanctuary of his eyrie in the cliffs not far away.
A surge of water had been passing over Orion’s back as the bullet struck. A column of white shot into the air, but the water was a flimsy shield. It was not enough. The bullet slammed and exploded in the the whale’s neck, boring through the blubber as if it did not exist. Then two vertebrae splintered. The fragments of bone and lead tore through the upper part of his body, causing agony in their travel. Some pierced a lung, and the pain flooded uncontrollably over his entire body.
He jerked convulsively, tail flukes lashing for the very last time above the waves. Releasing the air he had taken in on his last blow in one long, drawn-out submarine scream, blood and air rushed from his blow hole, and foamed obscenely on the surface. He kicked twice, and then again, as he moved weakly away from the beach towards the open sea, leaving behind him a plume of blood like dark smoke hanging in the air; Orion’s life-blood welling out into the ocean, leaving a streak like a scar on the face of the deep.
He managed to reach the surface, and made an agonised rasping noise that was a pitiful gasp for air, while the nausea swept through him. Air bubbled and foamed from both his blow hole and the wound. He kicked and bucked. Helpless in the confusion, the shock and the pain, he rolled in the disgustingly crimson sea all around him. He sank, spinning and twisting, choking and drowning in his own blood.
Sabre and his mother were half a mile off the beach when the bullet struck. They heard the thud of the impact followed by the terrifying scream. They both burst into a pulsing swim towards Orion, totally oblivious to any danger that must lie with him. They knew only that he was in terrible pain, that he needed them. By the time they reached Orion he was bumping on the sea-bed, enveloped in a large cloud of blood still billowing from the wound.
The big bull was twice their size, but between them they lifted him towards the surface, turned him, and forced his back above the waves. He drew a hoarse weak breath and wallowed uselessly in the water, his great dorsal slapping the waves as it rolled drunkenly from side to side.
In his own state of shock the crofter stared at the scene unfolding before him. It was all outside his previous experience: some nightmare that just could not be real. He dropped the gun and it fell unnoticed on to the rocks. How could it happen? Deer and rabbits would bolt from their stricken comrades. Why should Grampus behave like this? How could a beast that killed like the whale act like this? Even as the first blood rose to the surface, and Orion screamed, the man saw the two shadows streaking towards the beach. Why didn’t they go? Why must it be like this? The killer whale rolling helplessly out there, with his family struggling to keep him on the surface and push him to safety.

Question: What happens to Orion’s blood after he is shot?

Triumph and Disgrace
(MY PLACE by Sally Morgan)

Towards the end of first term, I had an encounter with Miss Roberts that wiped out any confidence I might have had for the rest of the year.
Our school seats comprised a heavy metal frame, with jarrah slats spaced across the seat and back. This proved unfortunate for me, because one day, after what seemed hours of holding my arm in the air trying to attract Miss Roberts’ attention, I was unable to avoid wetting myself.
Miss Roberts had been intent on marking our latest tests and had failed to notice my desperately flailing arm. But one of the clean, shiny-haired, no-cavity girls next to me began to chant quietly, ‘You’ve wet ya pa-ants, you’ve wet ya pa-ants!’
T have not,’ I denied hotly, ‘it’s just water under my chair.’
‘Oh yeah, well then, how come you’ve dumped all those hankies on it?’ She had me there.
By this time, most of the surrounding children were starting to giggle.
Miss Roberts raised her horn-rimmed eyes and said firmly, ‘Quiet please!’ She stared at us a few seconds longer, obviously waiting for her eagle-like gaze to have its usual effect. When the last giggle was giggled, she pushed back her solid wooden chair, breathed deeply and said: ‘I… have an announcement to make.’
We were very impressed with Miss Roberts’ use of the word ‘I’. For the whole term, I had been convinced Miss Roberts was even more important than the headmistress.
‘I . . . have finished marking your test papers.’ There was complete silence after this statement. Under Miss Roberts’ reign, our weekly tests had assumed great importance. We all waited anxiously to hear who had missed the mark this time.
I … must commend you all on your efforts. All, except Rrrodney.’ She always rolled her R’s when she said Rodney. You’d think he was her favourite with the amount of attention she gave him. In fact, the opposite was true, Rodney could do nothing right.
‘Rrrodney,’ she continued, ‘how many times have I told you bottom is spelt b-o-t-t-o-m not b-u-m!’
Rodney grinned, and we all snickered, but were instantly checked by Miss Roberts’ look of disgust. She disliked anything even slightly earthy. I had a grudging admiration for Rodney. He’d been spelling bottom like that for three weeks now. He was my kind of person.
‘Now,’ she said, in a way that made us all straighten up and give full attention, ‘where is Sally, hmmmn?’ Resting her chin on her neck, she peered around the class in an attempt to locate my non-descript brown face amongst a sea of forty knowing smiles. ‘Oh, there you are, dear.’ I had been cowering behind the girl in front of me, with my hands stuffed between my legs in an attempt to prevent further trickles.
‘Sally has, for the first time this year, managed to complete her test correctly. In fact, this week she is the only one to have done so.’ Pausing, she allowed time for the greatness of my achievement to sink in. Everyone knew what was coming next, and, mistaking the smothered raspberries and giggles for eagerness, she said: ‘Well, come on Sally. Come out to the front and hold up your book. I . . . can tell the class is anxious to see your work.’
Miss Roberts waited patiently as I rose carefully to my feet. I hurriedly twisted the wet part of my dress around as far as I could, holding it tightly bunched in my left hand. With my knees locked together, and my left elbow jutting out at an unusual angle behind my back, I jerked spasmodically forward. Fortunately, Miss Roberts was gazing in amazement at my test book, and so was not confronted with the sight of my contorted body.
I . . . want you to hold it up to the class so they can all see it. Look how eager they are to see a test that has scored one hundred per cent!’

Question: What was the situation that Sally found embarrassing?

Triumph and Disgrace
(MY PLACE by Sally Morgan)

Towards the end of first term, I had an encounter with Miss Roberts that wiped out any confidence I might have had for the rest of the year.
Our school seats comprised a heavy metal frame, with jarrah slats spaced across the seat and back. This proved unfortunate for me, because one day, after what seemed hours of holding my arm in the air trying to attract Miss Roberts’ attention, I was unable to avoid wetting myself.
Miss Roberts had been intent on marking our latest tests and had failed to notice my desperately flailing arm. But one of the clean, shiny-haired, no-cavity girls next to me began to chant quietly, ‘You’ve wet ya pa-ants, you’ve wet ya pa-ants!’
T have not,’ I denied hotly, ‘it’s just water under my chair.’
‘Oh yeah, well then, how come you’ve dumped all those hankies on it?’ She had me there.
By this time, most of the surrounding children were starting to giggle.
Miss Roberts raised her horn-rimmed eyes and said firmly, ‘Quiet please!’ She stared at us a few seconds longer, obviously waiting for her eagle-like gaze to have its usual effect. When the last giggle was giggled, she pushed back her solid wooden chair, breathed deeply and said: ‘I… have an announcement to make.’
We were very impressed with Miss Roberts’ use of the word ‘I’. For the whole term, I had been convinced Miss Roberts was even more important than the headmistress.
‘I . . . have finished marking your test papers.’ There was complete silence after this statement. Under Miss Roberts’ reign, our weekly tests had assumed great importance. We all waited anxiously to hear who had missed the mark this time.
I … must commend you all on your efforts. All, except Rrrodney.’ She always rolled her R’s when she said Rodney. You’d think he was her favourite with the amount of attention she gave him. In fact, the opposite was true, Rodney could do nothing right.
‘Rrrodney,’ she continued, ‘how many times have I told you bottom is spelt b-o-t-t-o-m not b-u-m!’
Rodney grinned, and we all snickered, but were instantly checked by Miss Roberts’ look of disgust. She disliked anything even slightly earthy. I had a grudging admiration for Rodney. He’d been spelling bottom like that for three weeks now. He was my kind of person.
‘Now,’ she said, in a way that made us all straighten up and give full attention, ‘where is Sally, hmmmn?’ Resting her chin on her neck, she peered around the class in an attempt to locate my non-descript brown face amongst a sea of forty knowing smiles. ‘Oh, there you are, dear.’ I had been cowering behind the girl in front of me, with my hands stuffed between my legs in an attempt to prevent further trickles.
‘Sally has, for the first time this year, managed to complete her test correctly. In fact, this week she is the only one to have done so.’ Pausing, she allowed time for the greatness of my achievement to sink in. Everyone knew what was coming next, and, mistaking the smothered raspberries and giggles for eagerness, she said: ‘Well, come on Sally. Come out to the front and hold up your book. I . . . can tell the class is anxious to see your work.’
Miss Roberts waited patiently as I rose carefully to my feet. I hurriedly twisted the wet part of my dress around as far as I could, holding it tightly bunched in my left hand. With my knees locked together, and my left elbow jutting out at an unusual angle behind my back, I jerked spasmodically forward. Fortunately, Miss Roberts was gazing in amazement at my test book, and so was not confronted with the sight of my contorted body.
I . . . want you to hold it up to the class so they can all see it. Look how eager they are to see a test that has scored one hundred per cent!’

Question: How does Miss Roberts react to the giggles in the class?

The Killing
(WHALE by Jeremy Lucas)

The moment he had planned, the moment he had hoped for. Now it was here it was somehow unreal, impossible. He lifted the gun very slowly. It was a heavy, old gun, a 0.44 calibre that had been used for stags back in his mainland days. He stared along the sights as another wave washed gently over Orion’s back. Like a stationary submarine the whale just wallowed in the swell. And then he started forward, and in that movement his back nudged above the surface. Orion, in a carefree glow of triumph after the intense joy of his kill, began to turn. The man’s finger closed over the trigger as he watched the dark shape inch over the sand. He could see every detail in the now clear water, even the white splash behind the whale’s eye.
The huge rounded flippers wafted gently to and fro. Quietly the immense dorsal lifted high above the waves, followed by the back and the smooth round head; and then even the white splash poked above the surface.
The brief, trigger-squeezing moment changed everything. The rifle’s crash was stunning in its intensity: an alien, evil sound in a peaceful Hebridean isle.
The seals on the beach kicked up sand in their panic. Many rushed for the sea, ignoring the threat of the killer whale. Others repeatedly circled their calves, barking insistently and continuously, not knowing what to do, not understanding this new threat. The gulls again rose screaming into the air. A falcon, making a plummeting dive on a rock-dove over the moor, suddenly met the shock wave, broke off his attack, and fled for the sanctuary of his eyrie in the cliffs not far away.
A surge of water had been passing over Orion’s back as the bullet struck. A column of white shot into the air, but the water was a flimsy shield. It was not enough. The bullet slammed and exploded in the the whale’s neck, boring through the blubber as if it did not exist. Then two vertebrae splintered. The fragments of bone and lead tore through the upper part of his body, causing agony in their travel. Some pierced a lung, and the pain flooded uncontrollably over his entire body.
He jerked convulsively, tail flukes lashing for the very last time above the waves. Releasing the air he had taken in on his last blow in one long, drawn-out submarine scream, blood and air rushed from his blow hole, and foamed obscenely on the surface. He kicked twice, and then again, as he moved weakly away from the beach towards the open sea, leaving behind him a plume of blood like dark smoke hanging in the air; Orion’s life-blood welling out into the ocean, leaving a streak like a scar on the face of the deep.
He managed to reach the surface, and made an agonised rasping noise that was a pitiful gasp for air, while the nausea swept through him. Air bubbled and foamed from both his blow hole and the wound. He kicked and bucked. Helpless in the confusion, the shock and the pain, he rolled in the disgustingly crimson sea all around him. He sank, spinning and twisting, choking and drowning in his own blood.
Sabre and his mother were half a mile off the beach when the bullet struck. They heard the thud of the impact followed by the terrifying scream. They both burst into a pulsing swim towards Orion, totally oblivious to any danger that must lie with him. They knew only that he was in terrible pain, that he needed them. By the time they reached Orion he was bumping on the sea-bed, enveloped in a large cloud of blood still billowing from the wound.
The big bull was twice their size, but between them they lifted him towards the surface, turned him, and forced his back above the waves. He drew a hoarse weak breath and wallowed uselessly in the water, his great dorsal slapping the waves as it rolled drunkenly from side to side.
In his own state of shock the crofter stared at the scene unfolding before him. It was all outside his previous experience: some nightmare that just could not be real. He dropped the gun and it fell unnoticed on to the rocks. How could it happen? Deer and rabbits would bolt from their stricken comrades. Why should Grampus behave like this? How could a beast that killed like the whale act like this? Even as the first blood rose to the surface, and Orion screamed, the man saw the two shadows streaking towards the beach. Why didn’t they go? Why must it be like this? The killer whale rolling helplessly out there, with his family struggling to keep him on the surface and push him to safety.

Question: What is the immediate impact of the bullet on the water?

The Killing
(WHALE by Jeremy Lucas)

The moment he had planned, the moment he had hoped for. Now it was here it was somehow unreal, impossible. He lifted the gun very slowly. It was a heavy, old gun, a 0.44 calibre that had been used for stags back in his mainland days. He stared along the sights as another wave washed gently over Orion’s back. Like a stationary submarine the whale just wallowed in the swell. And then he started forward, and in that movement his back nudged above the surface. Orion, in a carefree glow of triumph after the intense joy of his kill, began to turn. The man’s finger closed over the trigger as he watched the dark shape inch over the sand. He could see every detail in the now clear water, even the white splash behind the whale’s eye.
The huge rounded flippers wafted gently to and fro. Quietly the immense dorsal lifted high above the waves, followed by the back and the smooth round head; and then even the white splash poked above the surface.
The brief, trigger-squeezing moment changed everything. The rifle’s crash was stunning in its intensity: an alien, evil sound in a peaceful Hebridean isle.
The seals on the beach kicked up sand in their panic. Many rushed for the sea, ignoring the threat of the killer whale. Others repeatedly circled their calves, barking insistently and continuously, not knowing what to do, not understanding this new threat. The gulls again rose screaming into the air. A falcon, making a plummeting dive on a rock-dove over the moor, suddenly met the shock wave, broke off his attack, and fled for the sanctuary of his eyrie in the cliffs not far away.
A surge of water had been passing over Orion’s back as the bullet struck. A column of white shot into the air, but the water was a flimsy shield. It was not enough. The bullet slammed and exploded in the the whale’s neck, boring through the blubber as if it did not exist. Then two vertebrae splintered. The fragments of bone and lead tore through the upper part of his body, causing agony in their travel. Some pierced a lung, and the pain flooded uncontrollably over his entire body.
He jerked convulsively, tail flukes lashing for the very last time above the waves. Releasing the air he had taken in on his last blow in one long, drawn-out submarine scream, blood and air rushed from his blow hole, and foamed obscenely on the surface. He kicked twice, and then again, as he moved weakly away from the beach towards the open sea, leaving behind him a plume of blood like dark smoke hanging in the air; Orion’s life-blood welling out into the ocean, leaving a streak like a scar on the face of the deep.
He managed to reach the surface, and made an agonised rasping noise that was a pitiful gasp for air, while the nausea swept through him. Air bubbled and foamed from both his blow hole and the wound. He kicked and bucked. Helpless in the confusion, the shock and the pain, he rolled in the disgustingly crimson sea all around him. He sank, spinning and twisting, choking and drowning in his own blood.
Sabre and his mother were half a mile off the beach when the bullet struck. They heard the thud of the impact followed by the terrifying scream. They both burst into a pulsing swim towards Orion, totally oblivious to any danger that must lie with him. They knew only that he was in terrible pain, that he needed them. By the time they reached Orion he was bumping on the sea-bed, enveloped in a large cloud of blood still billowing from the wound.
The big bull was twice their size, but between them they lifted him towards the surface, turned him, and forced his back above the waves. He drew a hoarse weak breath and wallowed uselessly in the water, his great dorsal slapping the waves as it rolled drunkenly from side to side.
In his own state of shock the crofter stared at the scene unfolding before him. It was all outside his previous experience: some nightmare that just could not be real. He dropped the gun and it fell unnoticed on to the rocks. How could it happen? Deer and rabbits would bolt from their stricken comrades. Why should Grampus behave like this? How could a beast that killed like the whale act like this? Even as the first blood rose to the surface, and Orion screamed, the man saw the two shadows streaking towards the beach. Why didn’t they go? Why must it be like this? The killer whale rolling helplessly out there, with his family struggling to keep him on the surface and push him to safety.

Question: What is the immediate impact of the bullet on the water?

The Killing
(WHALE by Jeremy Lucas)

The moment he had planned, the moment he had hoped for. Now it was here it was somehow unreal, impossible. He lifted the gun very slowly. It was a heavy, old gun, a 0.44 calibre that had been used for stags back in his mainland days. He stared along the sights as another wave washed gently over Orion’s back. Like a stationary submarine the whale just wallowed in the swell. And then he started forward, and in that movement his back nudged above the surface. Orion, in a carefree glow of triumph after the intense joy of his kill, began to turn. The man’s finger closed over the trigger as he watched the dark shape inch over the sand. He could see every detail in the now clear water, even the white splash behind the whale’s eye.
The huge rounded flippers wafted gently to and fro. Quietly the immense dorsal lifted high above the waves, followed by the back and the smooth round head; and then even the white splash poked above the surface.
The brief, trigger-squeezing moment changed everything. The rifle’s crash was stunning in its intensity: an alien, evil sound in a peaceful Hebridean isle.
The seals on the beach kicked up sand in their panic. Many rushed for the sea, ignoring the threat of the killer whale. Others repeatedly circled their calves, barking insistently and continuously, not knowing what to do, not understanding this new threat. The gulls again rose screaming into the air. A falcon, making a plummeting dive on a rock-dove over the moor, suddenly met the shock wave, broke off his attack, and fled for the sanctuary of his eyrie in the cliffs not far away.
A surge of water had been passing over Orion’s back as the bullet struck. A column of white shot into the air, but the water was a flimsy shield. It was not enough. The bullet slammed and exploded in the the whale’s neck, boring through the blubber as if it did not exist. Then two vertebrae splintered. The fragments of bone and lead tore through the upper part of his body, causing agony in their travel. Some pierced a lung, and the pain flooded uncontrollably over his entire body.
He jerked convulsively, tail flukes lashing for the very last time above the waves. Releasing the air he had taken in on his last blow in one long, drawn-out submarine scream, blood and air rushed from his blow hole, and foamed obscenely on the surface. He kicked twice, and then again, as he moved weakly away from the beach towards the open sea, leaving behind him a plume of blood like dark smoke hanging in the air; Orion’s life-blood welling out into the ocean, leaving a streak like a scar on the face of the deep.
He managed to reach the surface, and made an agonised rasping noise that was a pitiful gasp for air, while the nausea swept through him. Air bubbled and foamed from both his blow hole and the wound. He kicked and bucked. Helpless in the confusion, the shock and the pain, he rolled in the disgustingly crimson sea all around him. He sank, spinning and twisting, choking and drowning in his own blood.
Sabre and his mother were half a mile off the beach when the bullet struck. They heard the thud of the impact followed by the terrifying scream. They both burst into a pulsing swim towards Orion, totally oblivious to any danger that must lie with him. They knew only that he was in terrible pain, that he needed them. By the time they reached Orion he was bumping on the sea-bed, enveloped in a large cloud of blood still billowing from the wound.
The big bull was twice their size, but between them they lifted him towards the surface, turned him, and forced his back above the waves. He drew a hoarse weak breath and wallowed uselessly in the water, his great dorsal slapping the waves as it rolled drunkenly from side to side.
In his own state of shock the crofter stared at the scene unfolding before him. It was all outside his previous experience: some nightmare that just could not be real. He dropped the gun and it fell unnoticed on to the rocks. How could it happen? Deer and rabbits would bolt from their stricken comrades. Why should Grampus behave like this? How could a beast that killed like the whale act like this? Even as the first blood rose to the surface, and Orion screamed, the man saw the two shadows streaking towards the beach. Why didn’t they go? Why must it be like this? The killer whale rolling helplessly out there, with his family struggling to keep him on the surface and push him to safety.

Question: What is the immediate impact of the bullet on the water?

The Killing
(WHALE by Jeremy Lucas)

The moment he had planned, the moment he had hoped for. Now it was here it was somehow unreal, impossible. He lifted the gun very slowly. It was a heavy, old gun, a 0.44 calibre that had been used for stags back in his mainland days. He stared along the sights as another wave washed gently over Orion’s back. Like a stationary submarine the whale just wallowed in the swell. And then he started forward, and in that movement his back nudged above the surface. Orion, in a carefree glow of triumph after the intense joy of his kill, began to turn. The man’s finger closed over the trigger as he watched the dark shape inch over the sand. He could see every detail in the now clear water, even the white splash behind the whale’s eye.
The huge rounded flippers wafted gently to and fro. Quietly the immense dorsal lifted high above the waves, followed by the back and the smooth round head; and then even the white splash poked above the surface.
The brief, trigger-squeezing moment changed everything. The rifle’s crash was stunning in its intensity: an alien, evil sound in a peaceful Hebridean isle.
The seals on the beach kicked up sand in their panic. Many rushed for the sea, ignoring the threat of the killer whale. Others repeatedly circled their calves, barking insistently and continuously, not knowing what to do, not understanding this new threat. The gulls again rose screaming into the air. A falcon, making a plummeting dive on a rock-dove over the moor, suddenly met the shock wave, broke off his attack, and fled for the sanctuary of his eyrie in the cliffs not far away.
A surge of water had been passing over Orion’s back as the bullet struck. A column of white shot into the air, but the water was a flimsy shield. It was not enough. The bullet slammed and exploded in the the whale’s neck, boring through the blubber as if it did not exist. Then two vertebrae splintered. The fragments of bone and lead tore through the upper part of his body, causing agony in their travel. Some pierced a lung, and the pain flooded uncontrollably over his entire body.
He jerked convulsively, tail flukes lashing for the very last time above the waves. Releasing the air he had taken in on his last blow in one long, drawn-out submarine scream, blood and air rushed from his blow hole, and foamed obscenely on the surface. He kicked twice, and then again, as he moved weakly away from the beach towards the open sea, leaving behind him a plume of blood like dark smoke hanging in the air; Orion’s life-blood welling out into the ocean, leaving a streak like a scar on the face of the deep.
He managed to reach the surface, and made an agonised rasping noise that was a pitiful gasp for air, while the nausea swept through him. Air bubbled and foamed from both his blow hole and the wound. He kicked and bucked. Helpless in the confusion, the shock and the pain, he rolled in the disgustingly crimson sea all around him. He sank, spinning and twisting, choking and drowning in his own blood.
Sabre and his mother were half a mile off the beach when the bullet struck. They heard the thud of the impact followed by the terrifying scream. They both burst into a pulsing swim towards Orion, totally oblivious to any danger that must lie with him. They knew only that he was in terrible pain, that he needed them. By the time they reached Orion he was bumping on the sea-bed, enveloped in a large cloud of blood still billowing from the wound.
The big bull was twice their size, but between them they lifted him towards the surface, turned him, and forced his back above the waves. He drew a hoarse weak breath and wallowed uselessly in the water, his great dorsal slapping the waves as it rolled drunkenly from side to side.
In his own state of shock the crofter stared at the scene unfolding before him. It was all outside his previous experience: some nightmare that just could not be real. He dropped the gun and it fell unnoticed on to the rocks. How could it happen? Deer and rabbits would bolt from their stricken comrades. Why should Grampus behave like this? How could a beast that killed like the whale act like this? Even as the first blood rose to the surface, and Orion screamed, the man saw the two shadows streaking towards the beach. Why didn’t they go? Why must it be like this? The killer whale rolling helplessly out there, with his family struggling to keep him on the surface and push him to safety.

Question: What is the immediate impact of the bullet on the water?

The Killing
(WHALE by Jeremy Lucas)

The moment he had planned, the moment he had hoped for. Now it was here it was somehow unreal, impossible. He lifted the gun very slowly. It was a heavy, old gun, a 0.44 calibre that had been used for stags back in his mainland days. He stared along the sights as another wave washed gently over Orion’s back. Like a stationary submarine the whale just wallowed in the swell. And then he started forward, and in that movement his back nudged above the surface. Orion, in a carefree glow of triumph after the intense joy of his kill, began to turn. The man’s finger closed over the trigger as he watched the dark shape inch over the sand. He could see every detail in the now clear water, even the white splash behind the whale’s eye.
The huge rounded flippers wafted gently to and fro. Quietly the immense dorsal lifted high above the waves, followed by the back and the smooth round head; and then even the white splash poked above the surface.
The brief, trigger-squeezing moment changed everything. The rifle’s crash was stunning in its intensity: an alien, evil sound in a peaceful Hebridean isle.
The seals on the beach kicked up sand in their panic. Many rushed for the sea, ignoring the threat of the killer whale. Others repeatedly circled their calves, barking insistently and continuously, not knowing what to do, not understanding this new threat. The gulls again rose screaming into the air. A falcon, making a plummeting dive on a rock-dove over the moor, suddenly met the shock wave, broke off his attack, and fled for the sanctuary of his eyrie in the cliffs not far away.
A surge of water had been passing over Orion’s back as the bullet struck. A column of white shot into the air, but the water was a flimsy shield. It was not enough. The bullet slammed and exploded in the the whale’s neck, boring through the blubber as if it did not exist. Then two vertebrae splintered. The fragments of bone and lead tore through the upper part of his body, causing agony in their travel. Some pierced a lung, and the pain flooded uncontrollably over his entire body.
He jerked convulsively, tail flukes lashing for the very last time above the waves. Releasing the air he had taken in on his last blow in one long, drawn-out submarine scream, blood and air rushed from his blow hole, and foamed obscenely on the surface. He kicked twice, and then again, as he moved weakly away from the beach towards the open sea, leaving behind him a plume of blood like dark smoke hanging in the air; Orion’s life-blood welling out into the ocean, leaving a streak like a scar on the face of the deep.
He managed to reach the surface, and made an agonised rasping noise that was a pitiful gasp for air, while the nausea swept through him. Air bubbled and foamed from both his blow hole and the wound. He kicked and bucked. Helpless in the confusion, the shock and the pain, he rolled in the disgustingly crimson sea all around him. He sank, spinning and twisting, choking and drowning in his own blood.
Sabre and his mother were half a mile off the beach when the bullet struck. They heard the thud of the impact followed by the terrifying scream. They both burst into a pulsing swim towards Orion, totally oblivious to any danger that must lie with him. They knew only that he was in terrible pain, that he needed them. By the time they reached Orion he was bumping on the sea-bed, enveloped in a large cloud of blood still billowing from the wound.
The big bull was twice their size, but between them they lifted him towards the surface, turned him, and forced his back above the waves. He drew a hoarse weak breath and wallowed uselessly in the water, his great dorsal slapping the waves as it rolled drunkenly from side to side.
In his own state of shock the crofter stared at the scene unfolding before him. It was all outside his previous experience: some nightmare that just could not be real. He dropped the gun and it fell unnoticed on to the rocks. How could it happen? Deer and rabbits would bolt from their stricken comrades. Why should Grampus behave like this? How could a beast that killed like the whale act like this? Even as the first blood rose to the surface, and Orion screamed, the man saw the two shadows streaking towards the beach. Why didn’t they go? Why must it be like this? The killer whale rolling helplessly out there, with his family struggling to keep him on the surface and push him to safety.

Question: What do the fragments of bone and lead cause?

The Killing
(WHALE by Jeremy Lucas)

The moment he had planned, the moment he had hoped for. Now it was here it was somehow unreal, impossible. He lifted the gun very slowly. It was a heavy, old gun, a 0.44 calibre that had been used for stags back in his mainland days. He stared along the sights as another wave washed gently over Orion’s back. Like a stationary submarine the whale just wallowed in the swell. And then he started forward, and in that movement his back nudged above the surface. Orion, in a carefree glow of triumph after the intense joy of his kill, began to turn. The man’s finger closed over the trigger as he watched the dark shape inch over the sand. He could see every detail in the now clear water, even the white splash behind the whale’s eye.
The huge rounded flippers wafted gently to and fro. Quietly the immense dorsal lifted high above the waves, followed by the back and the smooth round head; and then even the white splash poked above the surface.
The brief, trigger-squeezing moment changed everything. The rifle’s crash was stunning in its intensity: an alien, evil sound in a peaceful Hebridean isle.
The seals on the beach kicked up sand in their panic. Many rushed for the sea, ignoring the threat of the killer whale. Others repeatedly circled their calves, barking insistently and continuously, not knowing what to do, not understanding this new threat. The gulls again rose screaming into the air. A falcon, making a plummeting dive on a rock-dove over the moor, suddenly met the shock wave, broke off his attack, and fled for the sanctuary of his eyrie in the cliffs not far away.
A surge of water had been passing over Orion’s back as the bullet struck. A column of white shot into the air, but the water was a flimsy shield. It was not enough. The bullet slammed and exploded in the the whale’s neck, boring through the blubber as if it did not exist. Then two vertebrae splintered. The fragments of bone and lead tore through the upper part of his body, causing agony in their travel. Some pierced a lung, and the pain flooded uncontrollably over his entire body.
He jerked convulsively, tail flukes lashing for the very last time above the waves. Releasing the air he had taken in on his last blow in one long, drawn-out submarine scream, blood and air rushed from his blow hole, and foamed obscenely on the surface. He kicked twice, and then again, as he moved weakly away from the beach towards the open sea, leaving behind him a plume of blood like dark smoke hanging in the air; Orion’s life-blood welling out into the ocean, leaving a streak like a scar on the face of the deep.
He managed to reach the surface, and made an agonised rasping noise that was a pitiful gasp for air, while the nausea swept through him. Air bubbled and foamed from both his blow hole and the wound. He kicked and bucked. Helpless in the confusion, the shock and the pain, he rolled in the disgustingly crimson sea all around him. He sank, spinning and twisting, choking and drowning in his own blood.
Sabre and his mother were half a mile off the beach when the bullet struck. They heard the thud of the impact followed by the terrifying scream. They both burst into a pulsing swim towards Orion, totally oblivious to any danger that must lie with him. They knew only that he was in terrible pain, that he needed them. By the time they reached Orion he was bumping on the sea-bed, enveloped in a large cloud of blood still billowing from the wound.
The big bull was twice their size, but between them they lifted him towards the surface, turned him, and forced his back above the waves. He drew a hoarse weak breath and wallowed uselessly in the water, his great dorsal slapping the waves as it rolled drunkenly from side to side.
In his own state of shock the crofter stared at the scene unfolding before him. It was all outside his previous experience: some nightmare that just could not be real. He dropped the gun and it fell unnoticed on to the rocks. How could it happen? Deer and rabbits would bolt from their stricken comrades. Why should Grampus behave like this? How could a beast that killed like the whale act like this? Even as the first blood rose to the surface, and Orion screamed, the man saw the two shadows streaking towards the beach. Why didn’t they go? Why must it be like this? The killer whale rolling helplessly out there, with his family struggling to keep him on the surface and push him to safety.

Question: What do the fragments of bone and lead cause?

The Killing
(WHALE by Jeremy Lucas)

The moment he had planned, the moment he had hoped for. Now it was here it was somehow unreal, impossible. He lifted the gun very slowly. It was a heavy, old gun, a 0.44 calibre that had been used for stags back in his mainland days. He stared along the sights as another wave washed gently over Orion’s back. Like a stationary submarine the whale just wallowed in the swell. And then he started forward, and in that movement his back nudged above the surface. Orion, in a carefree glow of triumph after the intense joy of his kill, began to turn. The man’s finger closed over the trigger as he watched the dark shape inch over the sand. He could see every detail in the now clear water, even the white splash behind the whale’s eye.
The huge rounded flippers wafted gently to and fro. Quietly the immense dorsal lifted high above the waves, followed by the back and the smooth round head; and then even the white splash poked above the surface.
The brief, trigger-squeezing moment changed everything. The rifle’s crash was stunning in its intensity: an alien, evil sound in a peaceful Hebridean isle.
The seals on the beach kicked up sand in their panic. Many rushed for the sea, ignoring the threat of the killer whale. Others repeatedly circled their calves, barking insistently and continuously, not knowing what to do, not understanding this new threat. The gulls again rose screaming into the air. A falcon, making a plummeting dive on a rock-dove over the moor, suddenly met the shock wave, broke off his attack, and fled for the sanctuary of his eyrie in the cliffs not far away.
A surge of water had been passing over Orion’s back as the bullet struck. A column of white shot into the air, but the water was a flimsy shield. It was not enough. The bullet slammed and exploded in the the whale’s neck, boring through the blubber as if it did not exist. Then two vertebrae splintered. The fragments of bone and lead tore through the upper part of his body, causing agony in their travel. Some pierced a lung, and the pain flooded uncontrollably over his entire body.
He jerked convulsively, tail flukes lashing for the very last time above the waves. Releasing the air he had taken in on his last blow in one long, drawn-out submarine scream, blood and air rushed from his blow hole, and foamed obscenely on the surface. He kicked twice, and then again, as he moved weakly away from the beach towards the open sea, leaving behind him a plume of blood like dark smoke hanging in the air; Orion’s life-blood welling out into the ocean, leaving a streak like a scar on the face of the deep.
He managed to reach the surface, and made an agonised rasping noise that was a pitiful gasp for air, while the nausea swept through him. Air bubbled and foamed from both his blow hole and the wound. He kicked and bucked. Helpless in the confusion, the shock and the pain, he rolled in the disgustingly crimson sea all around him. He sank, spinning and twisting, choking and drowning in his own blood.
Sabre and his mother were half a mile off the beach when the bullet struck. They heard the thud of the impact followed by the terrifying scream. They both burst into a pulsing swim towards Orion, totally oblivious to any danger that must lie with him. They knew only that he was in terrible pain, that he needed them. By the time they reached Orion he was bumping on the sea-bed, enveloped in a large cloud of blood still billowing from the wound.
The big bull was twice their size, but between them they lifted him towards the surface, turned him, and forced his back above the waves. He drew a hoarse weak breath and wallowed uselessly in the water, his great dorsal slapping the waves as it rolled drunkenly from side to side.
In his own state of shock the crofter stared at the scene unfolding before him. It was all outside his previous experience: some nightmare that just could not be real. He dropped the gun and it fell unnoticed on to the rocks. How could it happen? Deer and rabbits would bolt from their stricken comrades. Why should Grampus behave like this? How could a beast that killed like the whale act like this? Even as the first blood rose to the surface, and Orion screamed, the man saw the two shadows streaking towards the beach. Why didn’t they go? Why must it be like this? The killer whale rolling helplessly out there, with his family struggling to keep him on the surface and push him to safety.

Question: What do the fragments of bone and lead cause?

The Killing
(WHALE by Jeremy Lucas)

The moment he had planned, the moment he had hoped for. Now it was here it was somehow unreal, impossible. He lifted the gun very slowly. It was a heavy, old gun, a 0.44 calibre that had been used for stags back in his mainland days. He stared along the sights as another wave washed gently over Orion’s back. Like a stationary submarine the whale just wallowed in the swell. And then he started forward, and in that movement his back nudged above the surface. Orion, in a carefree glow of triumph after the intense joy of his kill, began to turn. The man’s finger closed over the trigger as he watched the dark shape inch over the sand. He could see every detail in the now clear water, even the white splash behind the whale’s eye.
The huge rounded flippers wafted gently to and fro. Quietly the immense dorsal lifted high above the waves, followed by the back and the smooth round head; and then even the white splash poked above the surface.
The brief, trigger-squeezing moment changed everything. The rifle’s crash was stunning in its intensity: an alien, evil sound in a peaceful Hebridean isle.
The seals on the beach kicked up sand in their panic. Many rushed for the sea, ignoring the threat of the killer whale. Others repeatedly circled their calves, barking insistently and continuously, not knowing what to do, not understanding this new threat. The gulls again rose screaming into the air. A falcon, making a plummeting dive on a rock-dove over the moor, suddenly met the shock wave, broke off his attack, and fled for the sanctuary of his eyrie in the cliffs not far away.
A surge of water had been passing over Orion’s back as the bullet struck. A column of white shot into the air, but the water was a flimsy shield. It was not enough. The bullet slammed and exploded in the the whale’s neck, boring through the blubber as if it did not exist. Then two vertebrae splintered. The fragments of bone and lead tore through the upper part of his body, causing agony in their travel. Some pierced a lung, and the pain flooded uncontrollably over his entire body.
He jerked convulsively, tail flukes lashing for the very last time above the waves. Releasing the air he had taken in on his last blow in one long, drawn-out submarine scream, blood and air rushed from his blow hole, and foamed obscenely on the surface. He kicked twice, and then again, as he moved weakly away from the beach towards the open sea, leaving behind him a plume of blood like dark smoke hanging in the air; Orion’s life-blood welling out into the ocean, leaving a streak like a scar on the face of the deep.
He managed to reach the surface, and made an agonised rasping noise that was a pitiful gasp for air, while the nausea swept through him. Air bubbled and foamed from both his blow hole and the wound. He kicked and bucked. Helpless in the confusion, the shock and the pain, he rolled in the disgustingly crimson sea all around him. He sank, spinning and twisting, choking and drowning in his own blood.
Sabre and his mother were half a mile off the beach when the bullet struck. They heard the thud of the impact followed by the terrifying scream. They both burst into a pulsing swim towards Orion, totally oblivious to any danger that must lie with him. They knew only that he was in terrible pain, that he needed them. By the time they reached Orion he was bumping on the sea-bed, enveloped in a large cloud of blood still billowing from the wound.
The big bull was twice their size, but between them they lifted him towards the surface, turned him, and forced his back above the waves. He drew a hoarse weak breath and wallowed uselessly in the water, his great dorsal slapping the waves as it rolled drunkenly from side to side.
In his own state of shock the crofter stared at the scene unfolding before him. It was all outside his previous experience: some nightmare that just could not be real. He dropped the gun and it fell unnoticed on to the rocks. How could it happen? Deer and rabbits would bolt from their stricken comrades. Why should Grampus behave like this? How could a beast that killed like the whale act like this? Even as the first blood rose to the surface, and Orion screamed, the man saw the two shadows streaking towards the beach. Why didn’t they go? Why must it be like this? The killer whale rolling helplessly out there, with his family struggling to keep him on the surface and push him to safety.

Question: What do the fragments of bone and lead cause?

The Killing
(WHALE by Jeremy Lucas)

The moment he had planned, the moment he had hoped for. Now it was here it was somehow unreal, impossible. He lifted the gun very slowly. It was a heavy, old gun, a 0.44 calibre that had been used for stags back in his mainland days. He stared along the sights as another wave washed gently over Orion’s back. Like a stationary submarine the whale just wallowed in the swell. And then he started forward, and in that movement his back nudged above the surface. Orion, in a carefree glow of triumph after the intense joy of his kill, began to turn. The man’s finger closed over the trigger as he watched the dark shape inch over the sand. He could see every detail in the now clear water, even the white splash behind the whale’s eye.
The huge rounded flippers wafted gently to and fro. Quietly the immense dorsal lifted high above the waves, followed by the back and the smooth round head; and then even the white splash poked above the surface.
The brief, trigger-squeezing moment changed everything. The rifle’s crash was stunning in its intensity: an alien, evil sound in a peaceful Hebridean isle.
The seals on the beach kicked up sand in their panic. Many rushed for the sea, ignoring the threat of the killer whale. Others repeatedly circled their calves, barking insistently and continuously, not knowing what to do, not understanding this new threat. The gulls again rose screaming into the air. A falcon, making a plummeting dive on a rock-dove over the moor, suddenly met the shock wave, broke off his attack, and fled for the sanctuary of his eyrie in the cliffs not far away.
A surge of water had been passing over Orion’s back as the bullet struck. A column of white shot into the air, but the water was a flimsy shield. It was not enough. The bullet slammed and exploded in the the whale’s neck, boring through the blubber as if it did not exist. Then two vertebrae splintered. The fragments of bone and lead tore through the upper part of his body, causing agony in their travel. Some pierced a lung, and the pain flooded uncontrollably over his entire body.
He jerked convulsively, tail flukes lashing for the very last time above the waves. Releasing the air he had taken in on his last blow in one long, drawn-out submarine scream, blood and air rushed from his blow hole, and foamed obscenely on the surface. He kicked twice, and then again, as he moved weakly away from the beach towards the open sea, leaving behind him a plume of blood like dark smoke hanging in the air; Orion’s life-blood welling out into the ocean, leaving a streak like a scar on the face of the deep.
He managed to reach the surface, and made an agonised rasping noise that was a pitiful gasp for air, while the nausea swept through him. Air bubbled and foamed from both his blow hole and the wound. He kicked and bucked. Helpless in the confusion, the shock and the pain, he rolled in the disgustingly crimson sea all around him. He sank, spinning and twisting, choking and drowning in his own blood.
Sabre and his mother were half a mile off the beach when the bullet struck. They heard the thud of the impact followed by the terrifying scream. They both burst into a pulsing swim towards Orion, totally oblivious to any danger that must lie with him. They knew only that he was in terrible pain, that he needed them. By the time they reached Orion he was bumping on the sea-bed, enveloped in a large cloud of blood still billowing from the wound.
The big bull was twice their size, but between them they lifted him towards the surface, turned him, and forced his back above the waves. He drew a hoarse weak breath and wallowed uselessly in the water, his great dorsal slapping the waves as it rolled drunkenly from side to side.
In his own state of shock the crofter stared at the scene unfolding before him. It was all outside his previous experience: some nightmare that just could not be real. He dropped the gun and it fell unnoticed on to the rocks. How could it happen? Deer and rabbits would bolt from their stricken comrades. Why should Grampus behave like this? How could a beast that killed like the whale act like this? Even as the first blood rose to the surface, and Orion screamed, the man saw the two shadows streaking towards the beach. Why didn’t they go? Why must it be like this? The killer whale rolling helplessly out there, with his family struggling to keep him on the surface and push him to safety.

Question: What is the man’s feeling towards Orion before pulling the trigger?

The Killing
(WHALE by Jeremy Lucas)

The moment he had planned, the moment he had hoped for. Now it was here it was somehow unreal, impossible. He lifted the gun very slowly. It was a heavy, old gun, a 0.44 calibre that had been used for stags back in his mainland days. He stared along the sights as another wave washed gently over Orion’s back. Like a stationary submarine the whale just wallowed in the swell. And then he started forward, and in that movement his back nudged above the surface. Orion, in a carefree glow of triumph after the intense joy of his kill, began to turn. The man’s finger closed over the trigger as he watched the dark shape inch over the sand. He could see every detail in the now clear water, even the white splash behind the whale’s eye.
The huge rounded flippers wafted gently to and fro. Quietly the immense dorsal lifted high above the waves, followed by the back and the smooth round head; and then even the white splash poked above the surface.
The brief, trigger-squeezing moment changed everything. The rifle’s crash was stunning in its intensity: an alien, evil sound in a peaceful Hebridean isle.
The seals on the beach kicked up sand in their panic. Many rushed for the sea, ignoring the threat of the killer whale. Others repeatedly circled their calves, barking insistently and continuously, not knowing what to do, not understanding this new threat. The gulls again rose screaming into the air. A falcon, making a plummeting dive on a rock-dove over the moor, suddenly met the shock wave, broke off his attack, and fled for the sanctuary of his eyrie in the cliffs not far away.
A surge of water had been passing over Orion’s back as the bullet struck. A column of white shot into the air, but the water was a flimsy shield. It was not enough. The bullet slammed and exploded in the the whale’s neck, boring through the blubber as if it did not exist. Then two vertebrae splintered. The fragments of bone and lead tore through the upper part of his body, causing agony in their travel. Some pierced a lung, and the pain flooded uncontrollably over his entire body.
He jerked convulsively, tail flukes lashing for the very last time above the waves. Releasing the air he had taken in on his last blow in one long, drawn-out submarine scream, blood and air rushed from his blow hole, and foamed obscenely on the surface. He kicked twice, and then again, as he moved weakly away from the beach towards the open sea, leaving behind him a plume of blood like dark smoke hanging in the air; Orion’s life-blood welling out into the ocean, leaving a streak like a scar on the face of the deep.
He managed to reach the surface, and made an agonised rasping noise that was a pitiful gasp for air, while the nausea swept through him. Air bubbled and foamed from both his blow hole and the wound. He kicked and bucked. Helpless in the confusion, the shock and the pain, he rolled in the disgustingly crimson sea all around him. He sank, spinning and twisting, choking and drowning in his own blood.
Sabre and his mother were half a mile off the beach when the bullet struck. They heard the thud of the impact followed by the terrifying scream. They both burst into a pulsing swim towards Orion, totally oblivious to any danger that must lie with him. They knew only that he was in terrible pain, that he needed them. By the time they reached Orion he was bumping on the sea-bed, enveloped in a large cloud of blood still billowing from the wound.
The big bull was twice their size, but between them they lifted him towards the surface, turned him, and forced his back above the waves. He drew a hoarse weak breath and wallowed uselessly in the water, his great dorsal slapping the waves as it rolled drunkenly from side to side.
In his own state of shock the crofter stared at the scene unfolding before him. It was all outside his previous experience: some nightmare that just could not be real. He dropped the gun and it fell unnoticed on to the rocks. How could it happen? Deer and rabbits would bolt from their stricken comrades. Why should Grampus behave like this? How could a beast that killed like the whale act like this? Even as the first blood rose to the surface, and Orion screamed, the man saw the two shadows streaking towards the beach. Why didn’t they go? Why must it be like this? The killer whale rolling helplessly out there, with his family struggling to keep him on the surface and push him to safety.

Question: How do the other animals react to the gunshot?

The Killing
(WHALE by Jeremy Lucas)

The moment he had planned, the moment he had hoped for. Now it was here it was somehow unreal, impossible. He lifted the gun very slowly. It was a heavy, old gun, a 0.44 calibre that had been used for stags back in his mainland days. He stared along the sights as another wave washed gently over Orion’s back. Like a stationary submarine the whale just wallowed in the swell. And then he started forward, and in that movement his back nudged above the surface. Orion, in a carefree glow of triumph after the intense joy of his kill, began to turn. The man’s finger closed over the trigger as he watched the dark shape inch over the sand. He could see every detail in the now clear water, even the white splash behind the whale’s eye.
The huge rounded flippers wafted gently to and fro. Quietly the immense dorsal lifted high above the waves, followed by the back and the smooth round head; and then even the white splash poked above the surface.
The brief, trigger-squeezing moment changed everything. The rifle’s crash was stunning in its intensity: an alien, evil sound in a peaceful Hebridean isle.
The seals on the beach kicked up sand in their panic. Many rushed for the sea, ignoring the threat of the killer whale. Others repeatedly circled their calves, barking insistently and continuously, not knowing what to do, not understanding this new threat. The gulls again rose screaming into the air. A falcon, making a plummeting dive on a rock-dove over the moor, suddenly met the shock wave, broke off his attack, and fled for the sanctuary of his eyrie in the cliffs not far away.
A surge of water had been passing over Orion’s back as the bullet struck. A column of white shot into the air, but the water was a flimsy shield. It was not enough. The bullet slammed and exploded in the the whale’s neck, boring through the blubber as if it did not exist. Then two vertebrae splintered. The fragments of bone and lead tore through the upper part of his body, causing agony in their travel. Some pierced a lung, and the pain flooded uncontrollably over his entire body.
He jerked convulsively, tail flukes lashing for the very last time above the waves. Releasing the air he had taken in on his last blow in one long, drawn-out submarine scream, blood and air rushed from his blow hole, and foamed obscenely on the surface. He kicked twice, and then again, as he moved weakly away from the beach towards the open sea, leaving behind him a plume of blood like dark smoke hanging in the air; Orion’s life-blood welling out into the ocean, leaving a streak like a scar on the face of the deep.
He managed to reach the surface, and made an agonised rasping noise that was a pitiful gasp for air, while the nausea swept through him. Air bubbled and foamed from both his blow hole and the wound. He kicked and bucked. Helpless in the confusion, the shock and the pain, he rolled in the disgustingly crimson sea all around him. He sank, spinning and twisting, choking and drowning in his own blood.
Sabre and his mother were half a mile off the beach when the bullet struck. They heard the thud of the impact followed by the terrifying scream. They both burst into a pulsing swim towards Orion, totally oblivious to any danger that must lie with him. They knew only that he was in terrible pain, that he needed them. By the time they reached Orion he was bumping on the sea-bed, enveloped in a large cloud of blood still billowing from the wound.
The big bull was twice their size, but between them they lifted him towards the surface, turned him, and forced his back above the waves. He drew a hoarse weak breath and wallowed uselessly in the water, his great dorsal slapping the waves as it rolled drunkenly from side to side.
In his own state of shock the crofter stared at the scene unfolding before him. It was all outside his previous experience: some nightmare that just could not be real. He dropped the gun and it fell unnoticed on to the rocks. How could it happen? Deer and rabbits would bolt from their stricken comrades. Why should Grampus behave like this? How could a beast that killed like the whale act like this? Even as the first blood rose to the surface, and Orion screamed, the man saw the two shadows streaking towards the beach. Why didn’t they go? Why must it be like this? The killer whale rolling helplessly out there, with his family struggling to keep him on the surface and push him to safety.

Question: What do Sabre and his mother do to Orion after reaching him?

The Killing
(WHALE by Jeremy Lucas)

The moment he had planned, the moment he had hoped for. Now it was here it was somehow unreal, impossible. He lifted the gun very slowly. It was a heavy, old gun, a 0.44 calibre that had been used for stags back in his mainland days. He stared along the sights as another wave washed gently over Orion’s back. Like a stationary submarine the whale just wallowed in the swell. And then he started forward, and in that movement his back nudged above the surface. Orion, in a carefree glow of triumph after the intense joy of his kill, began to turn. The man’s finger closed over the trigger as he watched the dark shape inch over the sand. He could see every detail in the now clear water, even the white splash behind the whale’s eye.
The huge rounded flippers wafted gently to and fro. Quietly the immense dorsal lifted high above the waves, followed by the back and the smooth round head; and then even the white splash poked above the surface.
The brief, trigger-squeezing moment changed everything. The rifle’s crash was stunning in its intensity: an alien, evil sound in a peaceful Hebridean isle.
The seals on the beach kicked up sand in their panic. Many rushed for the sea, ignoring the threat of the killer whale. Others repeatedly circled their calves, barking insistently and continuously, not knowing what to do, not understanding this new threat. The gulls again rose screaming into the air. A falcon, making a plummeting dive on a rock-dove over the moor, suddenly met the shock wave, broke off his attack, and fled for the sanctuary of his eyrie in the cliffs not far away.
A surge of water had been passing over Orion’s back as the bullet struck. A column of white shot into the air, but the water was a flimsy shield. It was not enough. The bullet slammed and exploded in the the whale’s neck, boring through the blubber as if it did not exist. Then two vertebrae splintered. The fragments of bone and lead tore through the upper part of his body, causing agony in their travel. Some pierced a lung, and the pain flooded uncontrollably over his entire body.
He jerked convulsively, tail flukes lashing for the very last time above the waves. Releasing the air he had taken in on his last blow in one long, drawn-out submarine scream, blood and air rushed from his blow hole, and foamed obscenely on the surface. He kicked twice, and then again, as he moved weakly away from the beach towards the open sea, leaving behind him a plume of blood like dark smoke hanging in the air; Orion’s life-blood welling out into the ocean, leaving a streak like a scar on the face of the deep.
He managed to reach the surface, and made an agonised rasping noise that was a pitiful gasp for air, while the nausea swept through him. Air bubbled and foamed from both his blow hole and the wound. He kicked and bucked. Helpless in the confusion, the shock and the pain, he rolled in the disgustingly crimson sea all around him. He sank, spinning and twisting, choking and drowning in his own blood.
Sabre and his mother were half a mile off the beach when the bullet struck. They heard the thud of the impact followed by the terrifying scream. They both burst into a pulsing swim towards Orion, totally oblivious to any danger that must lie with him. They knew only that he was in terrible pain, that he needed them. By the time they reached Orion he was bumping on the sea-bed, enveloped in a large cloud of blood still billowing from the wound.
The big bull was twice their size, but between them they lifted him towards the surface, turned him, and forced his back above the waves. He drew a hoarse weak breath and wallowed uselessly in the water, his great dorsal slapping the waves as it rolled drunkenly from side to side.
In his own state of shock the crofter stared at the scene unfolding before him. It was all outside his previous experience: some nightmare that just could not be real. He dropped the gun and it fell unnoticed on to the rocks. How could it happen? Deer and rabbits would bolt from their stricken comrades. Why should Grampus behave like this? How could a beast that killed like the whale act like this? Even as the first blood rose to the surface, and Orion screamed, the man saw the two shadows streaking towards the beach. Why didn’t they go? Why must it be like this? The killer whale rolling helplessly out there, with his family struggling to keep him on the surface and push him to safety.

Question: How does Orion initially react to the man?

The Killing
(WHALE by Jeremy Lucas)

The moment he had planned, the moment he had hoped for. Now it was here it was somehow unreal, impossible. He lifted the gun very slowly. It was a heavy, old gun, a 0.44 calibre that had been used for stags back in his mainland days. He stared along the sights as another wave washed gently over Orion’s back. Like a stationary submarine the whale just wallowed in the swell. And then he started forward, and in that movement his back nudged above the surface. Orion, in a carefree glow of triumph after the intense joy of his kill, began to turn. The man’s finger closed over the trigger as he watched the dark shape inch over the sand. He could see every detail in the now clear water, even the white splash behind the whale’s eye.
The huge rounded flippers wafted gently to and fro. Quietly the immense dorsal lifted high above the waves, followed by the back and the smooth round head; and then even the white splash poked above the surface.
The brief, trigger-squeezing moment changed everything. The rifle’s crash was stunning in its intensity: an alien, evil sound in a peaceful Hebridean isle.
The seals on the beach kicked up sand in their panic. Many rushed for the sea, ignoring the threat of the killer whale. Others repeatedly circled their calves, barking insistently and continuously, not knowing what to do, not understanding this new threat. The gulls again rose screaming into the air. A falcon, making a plummeting dive on a rock-dove over the moor, suddenly met the shock wave, broke off his attack, and fled for the sanctuary of his eyrie in the cliffs not far away.
A surge of water had been passing over Orion’s back as the bullet struck. A column of white shot into the air, but the water was a flimsy shield. It was not enough. The bullet slammed and exploded in the the whale’s neck, boring through the blubber as if it did not exist. Then two vertebrae splintered. The fragments of bone and lead tore through the upper part of his body, causing agony in their travel. Some pierced a lung, and the pain flooded uncontrollably over his entire body.
He jerked convulsively, tail flukes lashing for the very last time above the waves. Releasing the air he had taken in on his last blow in one long, drawn-out submarine scream, blood and air rushed from his blow hole, and foamed obscenely on the surface. He kicked twice, and then again, as he moved weakly away from the beach towards the open sea, leaving behind him a plume of blood like dark smoke hanging in the air; Orion’s life-blood welling out into the ocean, leaving a streak like a scar on the face of the deep.
He managed to reach the surface, and made an agonised rasping noise that was a pitiful gasp for air, while the nausea swept through him. Air bubbled and foamed from both his blow hole and the wound. He kicked and bucked. Helpless in the confusion, the shock and the pain, he rolled in the disgustingly crimson sea all around him. He sank, spinning and twisting, choking and drowning in his own blood.
Sabre and his mother were half a mile off the beach when the bullet struck. They heard the thud of the impact followed by the terrifying scream. They both burst into a pulsing swim towards Orion, totally oblivious to any danger that must lie with him. They knew only that he was in terrible pain, that he needed them. By the time they reached Orion he was bumping on the sea-bed, enveloped in a large cloud of blood still billowing from the wound.
The big bull was twice their size, but between them they lifted him towards the surface, turned him, and forced his back above the waves. He drew a hoarse weak breath and wallowed uselessly in the water, his great dorsal slapping the waves as it rolled drunkenly from side to side.
In his own state of shock the crofter stared at the scene unfolding before him. It was all outside his previous experience: some nightmare that just could not be real. He dropped the gun and it fell unnoticed on to the rocks. How could it happen? Deer and rabbits would bolt from their stricken comrades. Why should Grampus behave like this? How could a beast that killed like the whale act like this? Even as the first blood rose to the surface, and Orion screamed, the man saw the two shadows streaking towards the beach. Why didn’t they go? Why must it be like this? The killer whale rolling helplessly out there, with his family struggling to keep him on the surface and push him to safety.

Question: How does Orion react after being shot?

The Killing
(WHALE by Jeremy Lucas)

The moment he had planned, the moment he had hoped for. Now it was here it was somehow unreal, impossible. He lifted the gun very slowly. It was a heavy, old gun, a 0.44 calibre that had been used for stags back in his mainland days. He stared along the sights as another wave washed gently over Orion’s back. Like a stationary submarine the whale just wallowed in the swell. And then he started forward, and in that movement his back nudged above the surface. Orion, in a carefree glow of triumph after the intense joy of his kill, began to turn. The man’s finger closed over the trigger as he watched the dark shape inch over the sand. He could see every detail in the now clear water, even the white splash behind the whale’s eye.
The huge rounded flippers wafted gently to and fro. Quietly the immense dorsal lifted high above the waves, followed by the back and the smooth round head; and then even the white splash poked above the surface.
The brief, trigger-squeezing moment changed everything. The rifle’s crash was stunning in its intensity: an alien, evil sound in a peaceful Hebridean isle.
The seals on the beach kicked up sand in their panic. Many rushed for the sea, ignoring the threat of the killer whale. Others repeatedly circled their calves, barking insistently and continuously, not knowing what to do, not understanding this new threat. The gulls again rose screaming into the air. A falcon, making a plummeting dive on a rock-dove over the moor, suddenly met the shock wave, broke off his attack, and fled for the sanctuary of his eyrie in the cliffs not far away.
A surge of water had been passing over Orion’s back as the bullet struck. A column of white shot into the air, but the water was a flimsy shield. It was not enough. The bullet slammed and exploded in the the whale’s neck, boring through the blubber as if it did not exist. Then two vertebrae splintered. The fragments of bone and lead tore through the upper part of his body, causing agony in their travel. Some pierced a lung, and the pain flooded uncontrollably over his entire body.
He jerked convulsively, tail flukes lashing for the very last time above the waves. Releasing the air he had taken in on his last blow in one long, drawn-out submarine scream, blood and air rushed from his blow hole, and foamed obscenely on the surface. He kicked twice, and then again, as he moved weakly away from the beach towards the open sea, leaving behind him a plume of blood like dark smoke hanging in the air; Orion’s life-blood welling out into the ocean, leaving a streak like a scar on the face of the deep.
He managed to reach the surface, and made an agonised rasping noise that was a pitiful gasp for air, while the nausea swept through him. Air bubbled and foamed from both his blow hole and the wound. He kicked and bucked. Helpless in the confusion, the shock and the pain, he rolled in the disgustingly crimson sea all around him. He sank, spinning and twisting, choking and drowning in his own blood.
Sabre and his mother were half a mile off the beach when the bullet struck. They heard the thud of the impact followed by the terrifying scream. They both burst into a pulsing swim towards Orion, totally oblivious to any danger that must lie with him. They knew only that he was in terrible pain, that he needed them. By the time they reached Orion he was bumping on the sea-bed, enveloped in a large cloud of blood still billowing from the wound.
The big bull was twice their size, but between them they lifted him towards the surface, turned him, and forced his back above the waves. He drew a hoarse weak breath and wallowed uselessly in the water, his great dorsal slapping the waves as it rolled drunkenly from side to side.
In his own state of shock the crofter stared at the scene unfolding before him. It was all outside his previous experience: some nightmare that just could not be real. He dropped the gun and it fell unnoticed on to the rocks. How could it happen? Deer and rabbits would bolt from their stricken comrades. Why should Grampus behave like this? How could a beast that killed like the whale act like this? Even as the first blood rose to the surface, and Orion screamed, the man saw the two shadows streaking towards the beach. Why didn’t they go? Why must it be like this? The killer whale rolling helplessly out there, with his family struggling to keep him on the surface and push him to safety.

Question: What do Sabre and his mother do after Orion is shot?

The Killing
(WHALE by Jeremy Lucas)

The moment he had planned, the moment he had hoped for. Now it was here it was somehow unreal, impossible. He lifted the gun very slowly. It was a heavy, old gun, a 0.44 calibre that had been used for stags back in his mainland days. He stared along the sights as another wave washed gently over Orion’s back. Like a stationary submarine the whale just wallowed in the swell. And then he started forward, and in that movement his back nudged above the surface. Orion, in a carefree glow of triumph after the intense joy of his kill, began to turn. The man’s finger closed over the trigger as he watched the dark shape inch over the sand. He could see every detail in the now clear water, even the white splash behind the whale’s eye.
The huge rounded flippers wafted gently to and fro. Quietly the immense dorsal lifted high above the waves, followed by the back and the smooth round head; and then even the white splash poked above the surface.
The brief, trigger-squeezing moment changed everything. The rifle’s crash was stunning in its intensity: an alien, evil sound in a peaceful Hebridean isle.
The seals on the beach kicked up sand in their panic. Many rushed for the sea, ignoring the threat of the killer whale. Others repeatedly circled their calves, barking insistently and continuously, not knowing what to do, not understanding this new threat. The gulls again rose screaming into the air. A falcon, making a plummeting dive on a rock-dove over the moor, suddenly met the shock wave, broke off his attack, and fled for the sanctuary of his eyrie in the cliffs not far away.
A surge of water had been passing over Orion’s back as the bullet struck. A column of white shot into the air, but the water was a flimsy shield. It was not enough. The bullet slammed and exploded in the the whale’s neck, boring through the blubber as if it did not exist. Then two vertebrae splintered. The fragments of bone and lead tore through the upper part of his body, causing agony in their travel. Some pierced a lung, and the pain flooded uncontrollably over his entire body.
He jerked convulsively, tail flukes lashing for the very last time above the waves. Releasing the air he had taken in on his last blow in one long, drawn-out submarine scream, blood and air rushed from his blow hole, and foamed obscenely on the surface. He kicked twice, and then again, as he moved weakly away from the beach towards the open sea, leaving behind him a plume of blood like dark smoke hanging in the air; Orion’s life-blood welling out into the ocean, leaving a streak like a scar on the face of the deep.
He managed to reach the surface, and made an agonised rasping noise that was a pitiful gasp for air, while the nausea swept through him. Air bubbled and foamed from both his blow hole and the wound. He kicked and bucked. Helpless in the confusion, the shock and the pain, he rolled in the disgustingly crimson sea all around him. He sank, spinning and twisting, choking and drowning in his own blood.
Sabre and his mother were half a mile off the beach when the bullet struck. They heard the thud of the impact followed by the terrifying scream. They both burst into a pulsing swim towards Orion, totally oblivious to any danger that must lie with him. They knew only that he was in terrible pain, that he needed them. By the time they reached Orion he was bumping on the sea-bed, enveloped in a large cloud of blood still billowing from the wound.
The big bull was twice their size, but between them they lifted him towards the surface, turned him, and forced his back above the waves. He drew a hoarse weak breath and wallowed uselessly in the water, his great dorsal slapping the waves as it rolled drunkenly from side to side.
In his own state of shock the crofter stared at the scene unfolding before him. It was all outside his previous experience: some nightmare that just could not be real. He dropped the gun and it fell unnoticed on to the rocks. How could it happen? Deer and rabbits would bolt from their stricken comrades. Why should Grampus behave like this? How could a beast that killed like the whale act like this? Even as the first blood rose to the surface, and Orion screamed, the man saw the two shadows streaking towards the beach. Why didn’t they go? Why must it be like this? The killer whale rolling helplessly out there, with his family struggling to keep him on the surface and push him to safety.

Question: What is the man’s initial reaction after shooting Orion?

The Killing
(WHALE by Jeremy Lucas)

The moment he had planned, the moment he had hoped for. Now it was here it was somehow unreal, impossible. He lifted the gun very slowly. It was a heavy, old gun, a 0.44 calibre that had been used for stags back in his mainland days. He stared along the sights as another wave washed gently over Orion’s back. Like a stationary submarine the whale just wallowed in the swell. And then he started forward, and in that movement his back nudged above the surface. Orion, in a carefree glow of triumph after the intense joy of his kill, began to turn. The man’s finger closed over the trigger as he watched the dark shape inch over the sand. He could see every detail in the now clear water, even the white splash behind the whale’s eye.
The huge rounded flippers wafted gently to and fro. Quietly the immense dorsal lifted high above the waves, followed by the back and the smooth round head; and then even the white splash poked above the surface.
The brief, trigger-squeezing moment changed everything. The rifle’s crash was stunning in its intensity: an alien, evil sound in a peaceful Hebridean isle.
The seals on the beach kicked up sand in their panic. Many rushed for the sea, ignoring the threat of the killer whale. Others repeatedly circled their calves, barking insistently and continuously, not knowing what to do, not understanding this new threat. The gulls again rose screaming into the air. A falcon, making a plummeting dive on a rock-dove over the moor, suddenly met the shock wave, broke off his attack, and fled for the sanctuary of his eyrie in the cliffs not far away.
A surge of water had been passing over Orion’s back as the bullet struck. A column of white shot into the air, but the water was a flimsy shield. It was not enough. The bullet slammed and exploded in the the whale’s neck, boring through the blubber as if it did not exist. Then two vertebrae splintered. The fragments of bone and lead tore through the upper part of his body, causing agony in their travel. Some pierced a lung, and the pain flooded uncontrollably over his entire body.
He jerked convulsively, tail flukes lashing for the very last time above the waves. Releasing the air he had taken in on his last blow in one long, drawn-out submarine scream, blood and air rushed from his blow hole, and foamed obscenely on the surface. He kicked twice, and then again, as he moved weakly away from the beach towards the open sea, leaving behind him a plume of blood like dark smoke hanging in the air; Orion’s life-blood welling out into the ocean, leaving a streak like a scar on the face of the deep.
He managed to reach the surface, and made an agonised rasping noise that was a pitiful gasp for air, while the nausea swept through him. Air bubbled and foamed from both his blow hole and the wound. He kicked and bucked. Helpless in the confusion, the shock and the pain, he rolled in the disgustingly crimson sea all around him. He sank, spinning and twisting, choking and drowning in his own blood.
Sabre and his mother were half a mile off the beach when the bullet struck. They heard the thud of the impact followed by the terrifying scream. They both burst into a pulsing swim towards Orion, totally oblivious to any danger that must lie with him. They knew only that he was in terrible pain, that he needed them. By the time they reached Orion he was bumping on the sea-bed, enveloped in a large cloud of blood still billowing from the wound.
The big bull was twice their size, but between them they lifted him towards the surface, turned him, and forced his back above the waves. He drew a hoarse weak breath and wallowed uselessly in the water, his great dorsal slapping the waves as it rolled drunkenly from side to side.
In his own state of shock the crofter stared at the scene unfolding before him. It was all outside his previous experience: some nightmare that just could not be real. He dropped the gun and it fell unnoticed on to the rocks. How could it happen? Deer and rabbits would bolt from their stricken comrades. Why should Grampus behave like this? How could a beast that killed like the whale act like this? Even as the first blood rose to the surface, and Orion screamed, the man saw the two shadows streaking towards the beach. Why didn’t they go? Why must it be like this? The killer whale rolling helplessly out there, with his family struggling to keep him on the surface and push him to safety.

Question: How does the man feel after seeing Sabre and his mother help Orion?

Shark!
(THE OLD MAN AND THE SEA by Ernest Hemingway)

He made the fish fast to bow and stern and to the middle thwart. He was so big it was like lashing a much bigger skiff alongside. He cut a piece of line and tied the fish’s lower jaw against his bill so his mouth would not open and they would sail as cleanly as possible. Then he stepped the mast and, with the stick that was his gaff and with his boom rigged, the patched sail drew, the boat began to move, and half lying in the stern he sailed south-west.
They sailed well and the old man soaked his hands in the salt water and tried to keep his head clear. There were high cumulus clouds and enough cirrus above them so that the old man knew the breeze would last all night. The old man looked at the fish constantly to make sure it was true. It was an hour before the first shark hit him.
The shark was not an accident. He had come up from deep down in the water as the dark cloud of blood had settled and dispersed in the mile-deep sea. He had come up so fast and absolutely without caution that he broke the surface of the blue water and was in the sun. Then he fell back into the sea and picked up the scent and started swimming on the course the skiff and the fish had taken.
Sometimes he lost the scent. But he would pick it up again, or have just a trace of it, and he swam fast and hard on the course. He was a very big Mako shark built to swim as fast as the fastest fish in the sea and everything about him was beautiful except his jaws. His back was as blue as a swordfish’s and his belly was silver and his hide was smooth and handsome. He was built as a swordfish except for his huge jaws which were tight shut now as he swam fast, just under the surface with his high dorsal fin knifing through the water without wavering. Inside the closed double lip of his jaws all of his eight rows of teeth were slanted inwards. They were not the ordinary pyramid-shaped teeth of most sharks. They were shaped like a man’s fingers when they are crisped like claws. They were nearly as long as the fingers of the old man and they had razor-sharp cutting edges on both sides. This was a fish built
to feed on all the fishes in the sea, that were so fast and strong and well armed that they had no other enemy. Now he speeded up as he smelled the fresher scent and his blue dorsal fin cut the water.
When the old man saw him coming he knew that this was a shark that had no fear at all and would do exactly what he wished. He prepared the harpoon and made the rope fast while he watched the shark come in. The rope was short as it lacked what he had cut away to lash the fish.
The old man’s head was clear and good now and he was full of resolution but he had little hope. It was too good to last, he thought. He took one look at the great fish as he watched the shark close in. It might as well have been a dream, he thought. I cannot keep him from hitting me but maybe I can get him. Dentuso, he thought. Bad luck to your mother.
The shark closed fast astern and when he hit the fish the old man saw his mouth open and his strange eyes and the clicking chop of the teeth as he drove forward in the meat just above the tail. The shark’s head was out of water and his back was coming out and the old man could hear the noise of skin and flesh ripping on the big fish when he rammed the harpoon down onto the shark’s head at a spot where the line between his eyes intersected with the line that ran straight back from his nose. There were no such lines. There was only the heavy sharp blue head and the big eyes and the clicking, thrusting, all-swallowing jaws. But that was the location of the brain and the old man hit it. He hit it with his blood-mushed hands driving a good harpoon with all his strength. He hit it without hope but with resolution and complete malignancy.
The shark swung, over and the old man saw his eye was not alive and then he swung over once again, wrapping himself in two loops of the rope. The old man knew that he was dead but the shark would not accept it. Then, on his back, with his tail lashing and his jaws clicking, the shark ploughed over the water as a speed-boat does. The water was white where his tail beat it and three-quarters of his body was clear above the water when the rope came
taut, shivered, and then snapped. The shark lay quietly for a little while on the surface and the old man watched him. Then he went down very slowly.
‘He took about forty pounds,’ the old man said aloud. He took my harpoon too and all the rope, he thought, and now my fish bleeds again and there will be others.
He did not like to look at the fish any more since he had been mutilated. When the fish had been hit it was as though he himself were hit.
But I killed the shark that hit my fish, he thought. And he was the biggest dentuso that I have ever seen. And God knows that I have seen big ones.
It was too good to last, he thought. I wish it had been a dream now and that I had never hooked the fish.

Question: What did the old man use to tie the fish’s lower jaw?

Shark!
(THE OLD MAN AND THE SEA by Ernest Hemingway)

He made the fish fast to bow and stern and to the middle thwart. He was so big it was like lashing a much bigger skiff alongside. He cut a piece of line and tied the fish’s lower jaw against his bill so his mouth would not open and they would sail as cleanly as possible. Then he stepped the mast and, with the stick that was his gaff and with his boom rigged, the patched sail drew, the boat began to move, and half lying in the stern he sailed south-west.
They sailed well and the old man soaked his hands in the salt water and tried to keep his head clear. There were high cumulus clouds and enough cirrus above them so that the old man knew the breeze would last all night. The old man looked at the fish constantly to make sure it was true. It was an hour before the first shark hit him.
The shark was not an accident. He had come up from deep down in the water as the dark cloud of blood had settled and dispersed in the mile-deep sea. He had come up so fast and absolutely without caution that he broke the surface of the blue water and was in the sun. Then he fell back into the sea and picked up the scent and started swimming on the course the skiff and the fish had taken.
Sometimes he lost the scent. But he would pick it up again, or have just a trace of it, and he swam fast and hard on the course. He was a very big Mako shark built to swim as fast as the fastest fish in the sea and everything about him was beautiful except his jaws. His back was as blue as a swordfish’s and his belly was silver and his hide was smooth and handsome. He was built as a swordfish except for his huge jaws which were tight shut now as he swam fast, just under the surface with his high dorsal fin knifing through the water without wavering. Inside the closed double lip of his jaws all of his eight rows of teeth were slanted inwards. They were not the ordinary pyramid-shaped teeth of most sharks. They were shaped like a man’s fingers when they are crisped like claws. They were nearly as long as the fingers of the old man and they had razor-sharp cutting edges on both sides. This was a fish built
to feed on all the fishes in the sea, that were so fast and strong and well armed that they had no other enemy. Now he speeded up as he smelled the fresher scent and his blue dorsal fin cut the water.
When the old man saw him coming he knew that this was a shark that had no fear at all and would do exactly what he wished. He prepared the harpoon and made the rope fast while he watched the shark come in. The rope was short as it lacked what he had cut away to lash the fish.
The old man’s head was clear and good now and he was full of resolution but he had little hope. It was too good to last, he thought. He took one look at the great fish as he watched the shark close in. It might as well have been a dream, he thought. I cannot keep him from hitting me but maybe I can get him. Dentuso, he thought. Bad luck to your mother.
The shark closed fast astern and when he hit the fish the old man saw his mouth open and his strange eyes and the clicking chop of the teeth as he drove forward in the meat just above the tail. The shark’s head was out of water and his back was coming out and the old man could hear the noise of skin and flesh ripping on the big fish when he rammed the harpoon down onto the shark’s head at a spot where the line between his eyes intersected with the line that ran straight back from his nose. There were no such lines. There was only the heavy sharp blue head and the big eyes and the clicking, thrusting, all-swallowing jaws. But that was the location of the brain and the old man hit it. He hit it with his blood-mushed hands driving a good harpoon with all his strength. He hit it without hope but with resolution and complete malignancy.
The shark swung, over and the old man saw his eye was not alive and then he swung over once again, wrapping himself in two loops of the rope. The old man knew that he was dead but the shark would not accept it. Then, on his back, with his tail lashing and his jaws clicking, the shark ploughed over the water as a speed-boat does. The water was white where his tail beat it and three-quarters of his body was clear above the water when the rope came
taut, shivered, and then snapped. The shark lay quietly for a little while on the surface and the old man watched him. Then he went down very slowly.
‘He took about forty pounds,’ the old man said aloud. He took my harpoon too and all the rope, he thought, and now my fish bleeds again and there will be others.
He did not like to look at the fish any more since he had been mutilated. When the fish had been hit it was as though he himself were hit.
But I killed the shark that hit my fish, he thought. And he was the biggest dentuso that I have ever seen. And God knows that I have seen big ones.
It was too good to last, he thought. I wish it had been a dream now and that I had never hooked the fish.

Question: How did the shark find the skiff and the fish?

Shark!
(THE OLD MAN AND THE SEA by Ernest Hemingway)

He made the fish fast to bow and stern and to the middle thwart. He was so big it was like lashing a much bigger skiff alongside. He cut a piece of line and tied the fish’s lower jaw against his bill so his mouth would not open and they would sail as cleanly as possible. Then he stepped the mast and, with the stick that was his gaff and with his boom rigged, the patched sail drew, the boat began to move, and half lying in the stern he sailed south-west.
They sailed well and the old man soaked his hands in the salt water and tried to keep his head clear. There were high cumulus clouds and enough cirrus above them so that the old man knew the breeze would last all night. The old man looked at the fish constantly to make sure it was true. It was an hour before the first shark hit him.
The shark was not an accident. He had come up from deep down in the water as the dark cloud of blood had settled and dispersed in the mile-deep sea. He had come up so fast and absolutely without caution that he broke the surface of the blue water and was in the sun. Then he fell back into the sea and picked up the scent and started swimming on the course the skiff and the fish had taken.
Sometimes he lost the scent. But he would pick it up again, or have just a trace of it, and he swam fast and hard on the course. He was a very big Mako shark built to swim as fast as the fastest fish in the sea and everything about him was beautiful except his jaws. His back was as blue as a swordfish’s and his belly was silver and his hide was smooth and handsome. He was built as a swordfish except for his huge jaws which were tight shut now as he swam fast, just under the surface with his high dorsal fin knifing through the water without wavering. Inside the closed double lip of his jaws all of his eight rows of teeth were slanted inwards. They were not the ordinary pyramid-shaped teeth of most sharks. They were shaped like a man’s fingers when they are crisped like claws. They were nearly as long as the fingers of the old man and they had razor-sharp cutting edges on both sides. This was a fish built
to feed on all the fishes in the sea, that were so fast and strong and well armed that they had no other enemy. Now he speeded up as he smelled the fresher scent and his blue dorsal fin cut the water.
When the old man saw him coming he knew that this was a shark that had no fear at all and would do exactly what he wished. He prepared the harpoon and made the rope fast while he watched the shark come in. The rope was short as it lacked what he had cut away to lash the fish.
The old man’s head was clear and good now and he was full of resolution but he had little hope. It was too good to last, he thought. He took one look at the great fish as he watched the shark close in. It might as well have been a dream, he thought. I cannot keep him from hitting me but maybe I can get him. Dentuso, he thought. Bad luck to your mother.
The shark closed fast astern and when he hit the fish the old man saw his mouth open and his strange eyes and the clicking chop of the teeth as he drove forward in the meat just above the tail. The shark’s head was out of water and his back was coming out and the old man could hear the noise of skin and flesh ripping on the big fish when he rammed the harpoon down onto the shark’s head at a spot where the line between his eyes intersected with the line that ran straight back from his nose. There were no such lines. There was only the heavy sharp blue head and the big eyes and the clicking, thrusting, all-swallowing jaws. But that was the location of the brain and the old man hit it. He hit it with his blood-mushed hands driving a good harpoon with all his strength. He hit it without hope but with resolution and complete malignancy.
The shark swung, over and the old man saw his eye was not alive and then he swung over once again, wrapping himself in two loops of the rope. The old man knew that he was dead but the shark would not accept it. Then, on his back, with his tail lashing and his jaws clicking, the shark ploughed over the water as a speed-boat does. The water was white where his tail beat it and three-quarters of his body was clear above the water when the rope came
taut, shivered, and then snapped. The shark lay quietly for a little while on the surface and the old man watched him. Then he went down very slowly.
‘He took about forty pounds,’ the old man said aloud. He took my harpoon too and all the rope, he thought, and now my fish bleeds again and there will be others.
He did not like to look at the fish any more since he had been mutilated. When the fish had been hit it was as though he himself were hit.
But I killed the shark that hit my fish, he thought. And he was the biggest dentuso that I have ever seen. And God knows that I have seen big ones.
It was too good to last, he thought. I wish it had been a dream now and that I had never hooked the fish.

Question: What kind of shark was it?

Shark!
(THE OLD MAN AND THE SEA by Ernest Hemingway)

He made the fish fast to bow and stern and to the middle thwart. He was so big it was like lashing a much bigger skiff alongside. He cut a piece of line and tied the fish’s lower jaw against his bill so his mouth would not open and they would sail as cleanly as possible. Then he stepped the mast and, with the stick that was his gaff and with his boom rigged, the patched sail drew, the boat began to move, and half lying in the stern he sailed south-west.
They sailed well and the old man soaked his hands in the salt water and tried to keep his head clear. There were high cumulus clouds and enough cirrus above them so that the old man knew the breeze would last all night. The old man looked at the fish constantly to make sure it was true. It was an hour before the first shark hit him.
The shark was not an accident. He had come up from deep down in the water as the dark cloud of blood had settled and dispersed in the mile-deep sea. He had come up so fast and absolutely without caution that he broke the surface of the blue water and was in the sun. Then he fell back into the sea and picked up the scent and started swimming on the course the skiff and the fish had taken.
Sometimes he lost the scent. But he would pick it up again, or have just a trace of it, and he swam fast and hard on the course. He was a very big Mako shark built to swim as fast as the fastest fish in the sea and everything about him was beautiful except his jaws. His back was as blue as a swordfish’s and his belly was silver and his hide was smooth and handsome. He was built as a swordfish except for his huge jaws which were tight shut now as he swam fast, just under the surface with his high dorsal fin knifing through the water without wavering. Inside the closed double lip of his jaws all of his eight rows of teeth were slanted inwards. They were not the ordinary pyramid-shaped teeth of most sharks. They were shaped like a man’s fingers when they are crisped like claws. They were nearly as long as the fingers of the old man and they had razor-sharp cutting edges on both sides. This was a fish built
to feed on all the fishes in the sea, that were so fast and strong and well armed that they had no other enemy. Now he speeded up as he smelled the fresher scent and his blue dorsal fin cut the water.
When the old man saw him coming he knew that this was a shark that had no fear at all and would do exactly what he wished. He prepared the harpoon and made the rope fast while he watched the shark come in. The rope was short as it lacked what he had cut away to lash the fish.
The old man’s head was clear and good now and he was full of resolution but he had little hope. It was too good to last, he thought. He took one look at the great fish as he watched the shark close in. It might as well have been a dream, he thought. I cannot keep him from hitting me but maybe I can get him. Dentuso, he thought. Bad luck to your mother.
The shark closed fast astern and when he hit the fish the old man saw his mouth open and his strange eyes and the clicking chop of the teeth as he drove forward in the meat just above the tail. The shark’s head was out of water and his back was coming out and the old man could hear the noise of skin and flesh ripping on the big fish when he rammed the harpoon down onto the shark’s head at a spot where the line between his eyes intersected with the line that ran straight back from his nose. There were no such lines. There was only the heavy sharp blue head and the big eyes and the clicking, thrusting, all-swallowing jaws. But that was the location of the brain and the old man hit it. He hit it with his blood-mushed hands driving a good harpoon with all his strength. He hit it without hope but with resolution and complete malignancy.
The shark swung, over and the old man saw his eye was not alive and then he swung over once again, wrapping himself in two loops of the rope. The old man knew that he was dead but the shark would not accept it. Then, on his back, with his tail lashing and his jaws clicking, the shark ploughed over the water as a speed-boat does. The water was white where his tail beat it and three-quarters of his body was clear above the water when the rope came
taut, shivered, and then snapped. The shark lay quietly for a little while on the surface and the old man watched him. Then he went down very slowly.
‘He took about forty pounds,’ the old man said aloud. He took my harpoon too and all the rope, he thought, and now my fish bleeds again and there will be others.
He did not like to look at the fish any more since he had been mutilated. When the fish had been hit it was as though he himself were hit.
But I killed the shark that hit my fish, he thought. And he was the biggest dentuso that I have ever seen. And God knows that I have seen big ones.
It was too good to last, he thought. I wish it had been a dream now and that I had never hooked the fish.

Question: How were the shark’s teeth described?

Shark!
(THE OLD MAN AND THE SEA by Ernest Hemingway)

He made the fish fast to bow and stern and to the middle thwart. He was so big it was like lashing a much bigger skiff alongside. He cut a piece of line and tied the fish’s lower jaw against his bill so his mouth would not open and they would sail as cleanly as possible. Then he stepped the mast and, with the stick that was his gaff and with his boom rigged, the patched sail drew, the boat began to move, and half lying in the stern he sailed south-west.
They sailed well and the old man soaked his hands in the salt water and tried to keep his head clear. There were high cumulus clouds and enough cirrus above them so that the old man knew the breeze would last all night. The old man looked at the fish constantly to make sure it was true. It was an hour before the first shark hit him.
The shark was not an accident. He had come up from deep down in the water as the dark cloud of blood had settled and dispersed in the mile-deep sea. He had come up so fast and absolutely without caution that he broke the surface of the blue water and was in the sun. Then he fell back into the sea and picked up the scent and started swimming on the course the skiff and the fish had taken.
Sometimes he lost the scent. But he would pick it up again, or have just a trace of it, and he swam fast and hard on the course. He was a very big Mako shark built to swim as fast as the fastest fish in the sea and everything about him was beautiful except his jaws. His back was as blue as a swordfish’s and his belly was silver and his hide was smooth and handsome. He was built as a swordfish except for his huge jaws which were tight shut now as he swam fast, just under the surface with his high dorsal fin knifing through the water without wavering. Inside the closed double lip of his jaws all of his eight rows of teeth were slanted inwards. They were not the ordinary pyramid-shaped teeth of most sharks. They were shaped like a man’s fingers when they are crisped like claws. They were nearly as long as the fingers of the old man and they had razor-sharp cutting edges on both sides. This was a fish built
to feed on all the fishes in the sea, that were so fast and strong and well armed that they had no other enemy. Now he speeded up as he smelled the fresher scent and his blue dorsal fin cut the water.
When the old man saw him coming he knew that this was a shark that had no fear at all and would do exactly what he wished. He prepared the harpoon and made the rope fast while he watched the shark come in. The rope was short as it lacked what he had cut away to lash the fish.
The old man’s head was clear and good now and he was full of resolution but he had little hope. It was too good to last, he thought. He took one look at the great fish as he watched the shark close in. It might as well have been a dream, he thought. I cannot keep him from hitting me but maybe I can get him. Dentuso, he thought. Bad luck to your mother.
The shark closed fast astern and when he hit the fish the old man saw his mouth open and his strange eyes and the clicking chop of the teeth as he drove forward in the meat just above the tail. The shark’s head was out of water and his back was coming out and the old man could hear the noise of skin and flesh ripping on the big fish when he rammed the harpoon down onto the shark’s head at a spot where the line between his eyes intersected with the line that ran straight back from his nose. There were no such lines. There was only the heavy sharp blue head and the big eyes and the clicking, thrusting, all-swallowing jaws. But that was the location of the brain and the old man hit it. He hit it with his blood-mushed hands driving a good harpoon with all his strength. He hit it without hope but with resolution and complete malignancy.
The shark swung, over and the old man saw his eye was not alive and then he swung over once again, wrapping himself in two loops of the rope. The old man knew that he was dead but the shark would not accept it. Then, on his back, with his tail lashing and his jaws clicking, the shark ploughed over the water as a speed-boat does. The water was white where his tail beat it and three-quarters of his body was clear above the water when the rope came
taut, shivered, and then snapped. The shark lay quietly for a little while on the surface and the old man watched him. Then he went down very slowly.
‘He took about forty pounds,’ the old man said aloud. He took my harpoon too and all the rope, he thought, and now my fish bleeds again and there will be others.
He did not like to look at the fish any more since he had been mutilated. When the fish had been hit it was as though he himself were hit.
But I killed the shark that hit my fish, he thought. And he was the biggest dentuso that I have ever seen. And God knows that I have seen big ones.
It was too good to last, he thought. I wish it had been a dream now and that I had never hooked the fish.

Question: What did the old man think of the shark’s eyes?

Shark!
(THE OLD MAN AND THE SEA by Ernest Hemingway)

He made the fish fast to bow and stern and to the middle thwart. He was so big it was like lashing a much bigger skiff alongside. He cut a piece of line and tied the fish’s lower jaw against his bill so his mouth would not open and they would sail as cleanly as possible. Then he stepped the mast and, with the stick that was his gaff and with his boom rigged, the patched sail drew, the boat began to move, and half lying in the stern he sailed south-west.
They sailed well and the old man soaked his hands in the salt water and tried to keep his head clear. There were high cumulus clouds and enough cirrus above them so that the old man knew the breeze would last all night. The old man looked at the fish constantly to make sure it was true. It was an hour before the first shark hit him.
The shark was not an accident. He had come up from deep down in the water as the dark cloud of blood had settled and dispersed in the mile-deep sea. He had come up so fast and absolutely without caution that he broke the surface of the blue water and was in the sun. Then he fell back into the sea and picked up the scent and started swimming on the course the skiff and the fish had taken.
Sometimes he lost the scent. But he would pick it up again, or have just a trace of it, and he swam fast and hard on the course. He was a very big Mako shark built to swim as fast as the fastest fish in the sea and everything about him was beautiful except his jaws. His back was as blue as a swordfish’s and his belly was silver and his hide was smooth and handsome. He was built as a swordfish except for his huge jaws which were tight shut now as he swam fast, just under the surface with his high dorsal fin knifing through the water without wavering. Inside the closed double lip of his jaws all of his eight rows of teeth were slanted inwards. They were not the ordinary pyramid-shaped teeth of most sharks. They were shaped like a man’s fingers when they are crisped like claws. They were nearly as long as the fingers of the old man and they had razor-sharp cutting edges on both sides. This was a fish built
to feed on all the fishes in the sea, that were so fast and strong and well armed that they had no other enemy. Now he speeded up as he smelled the fresher scent and his blue dorsal fin cut the water.
When the old man saw him coming he knew that this was a shark that had no fear at all and would do exactly what he wished. He prepared the harpoon and made the rope fast while he watched the shark come in. The rope was short as it lacked what he had cut away to lash the fish.
The old man’s head was clear and good now and he was full of resolution but he had little hope. It was too good to last, he thought. He took one look at the great fish as he watched the shark close in. It might as well have been a dream, he thought. I cannot keep him from hitting me but maybe I can get him. Dentuso, he thought. Bad luck to your mother.
The shark closed fast astern and when he hit the fish the old man saw his mouth open and his strange eyes and the clicking chop of the teeth as he drove forward in the meat just above the tail. The shark’s head was out of water and his back was coming out and the old man could hear the noise of skin and flesh ripping on the big fish when he rammed the harpoon down onto the shark’s head at a spot where the line between his eyes intersected with the line that ran straight back from his nose. There were no such lines. There was only the heavy sharp blue head and the big eyes and the clicking, thrusting, all-swallowing jaws. But that was the location of the brain and the old man hit it. He hit it with his blood-mushed hands driving a good harpoon with all his strength. He hit it without hope but with resolution and complete malignancy.
The shark swung, over and the old man saw his eye was not alive and then he swung over once again, wrapping himself in two loops of the rope. The old man knew that he was dead but the shark would not accept it. Then, on his back, with his tail lashing and his jaws clicking, the shark ploughed over the water as a speed-boat does. The water was white where his tail beat it and three-quarters of his body was clear above the water when the rope came
taut, shivered, and then snapped. The shark lay quietly for a little while on the surface and the old man watched him. Then he went down very slowly.
‘He took about forty pounds,’ the old man said aloud. He took my harpoon too and all the rope, he thought, and now my fish bleeds again and there will be others.
He did not like to look at the fish any more since he had been mutilated. When the fish had been hit it was as though he himself were hit.
But I killed the shark that hit my fish, he thought. And he was the biggest dentuso that I have ever seen. And God knows that I have seen big ones.
It was too good to last, he thought. I wish it had been a dream now and that I had never hooked the fish.

Question: What did the shark do as it approached the fish?