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الموضوع: رواية

  1. #1
    انجليزي مبدع الصورة الرمزية لحن الخريف
    تاريخ التسجيل
    Oct 2008
    الدولة
    In another world ...
    المشاركات
    554
    معدل تقييم المستوى
    466

    A082 رواية

    السلام عليكم

    الله يسعدكم الي عنده رواية
    a mother in mannville

    مترجمة يجيبها لي والله محتاجتها
    سبحان الله و بحمده, سبحان الله العظيم

  2. #2
    انجليزي مبدع الصورة الرمزية لحن الخريف
    تاريخ التسجيل
    Oct 2008
    الدولة
    In another world ...
    المشاركات
    554
    معدل تقييم المستوى
    466

    رد: رواية

    معقوله محد عندو القصة؟؟؟؟؟؟؟؟؟

    الله يسعدكم اختباري الاثنين
    سبحان الله و بحمده, سبحان الله العظيم

  3. #3
    انجليزي مبدع الصورة الرمزية لحن الخريف
    تاريخ التسجيل
    Oct 2008
    الدولة
    In another world ...
    المشاركات
    554
    معدل تقييم المستوى
    466

    رد: رواية

    فينكم يا أهل الخير

    معقوله ماتعرفوا القصة

    فيصل

    تراى

    keaper

    moon lass

    فينكم ترى مو شرط تجيبولي رابط للقصة مترجمة بس لو تحكوني القصة كذا من فهمكم بس بدون اختصار

    انا عارفة انى ثقلت عليكم بس والله مالى احد غيركم واختباري الاثنين وانا مو فاهمة شي
    سبحان الله و بحمده, سبحان الله العظيم

  4. #4
    انجليزي مشارك الصورة الرمزية MOON LASS
    تاريخ التسجيل
    Feb 2007
    المشاركات
    55
    معدل تقييم المستوى
    65

    رد: رواية

    بسم الله الرحمن الرحيم

    اهلين اختي لحن واتمنى اساعدك والله بس مااعرف هذه القصة اذا تبغين تفهمينها ابحثي في جوجل عنها واقرأي

    summaryلانه مايمديك تقرين الtext وانا لقيت لك عض الاشياء ان شاء الله تفيدك اقرايها وافهمي القصة بعدين في

    الاختبار عبري من عنك وعادة في الروايات والقصص المهم فيهم themes.characters and their ananlys. the

    technique that the writer used such as 1st person of narrationيعني القصة كلها من وجهة نظر شخص واحد كأنة هو يحكي القصة
    and third person of narrationكل واحد يبين رأيه ركزي على هذة الاشياء واحفظي كم مقطع من القصة عشان تدعمين اجابتك والله معااااااااااك


    هنا جبت لك تحليل عن القصة يمكن يفيدك
    I thought this story was very strong. By strong I mean that the author is able to give off a good lesson. I started off thinking that this kid was a show-off and tried to talk about what he could do too much. Soon I realized that the kid wasn't a show-off at all. He was a shy kid who slowly got very sociable with the narrator. I think in the end something sad involving Jerry will happen. The narrator will be shocked about it.

    After Reading:


    The story takes place in the mountains of North Carolina with the narrator enjoying the peaces that she got living there. The plot starts off with the narrator having Jerry, a boy from the orphanage, come down to her house to chop wood for her. She doesn't think much of Jerry at first because of his size but after she see the pile that he made she is amazed and tells him to come back on the next day. This is when the conflict arises. She doesn't know whether to care for Jerry or to finish her work. The next day he comes again and makes another huge pile that the narrator is extremely pleased with. That night he comes back and knocks on the door and asks her to talk. She invites him in and they begin to talk. Suddenly, the subject of Jerry's mother comes up. He talks about all of the stuff that she gave him like boots and how he wanted to buy her a pair of gloves. Right here is where the turning point is. She now thinks that Jerry has a mother who cares for him and that she can continue on with her writing. The next day she tells Jerry that she is moving and Jerry then gets very sad again. Later that day, when the narrator was checking out from the cabin, she sees Mrs. Clark, a lady who works at the orphanage, and gives her money and tells her to buy a really nice present for Jerry, as his mother did, and to say goodbye to Jerry. The lady seemed puzzled and says that Jerry has no mother and he has no boots. The theme of the story is "Always tell the truth about yourself."
    The character types used in this story are round for Jerry. Jerry's character type is round because he would always change from being quiet to being talkative and friendly. I can tell this because of the different parts of the story. In the beginning, he starts off very quiet, but as he gets to know the narrator he becomes more talkative. The character type for the narrator is flat. Her character type is flat because she is always very open and friendly toward Jerry.

    How will the narrator help Jerry with his mother situation but still finish her story that she is writing? The turning point was when Jerry told the narrator that he had a mother that had bought him a lot of stuff and that she visits every summer. I found this because after he said that on page 24 in paragraph 11, "finding that he had a mother shocked me."

    There were many different literary techniques used in this short story. One of the literary techniques used was personification. Personification was used when the narrator said that the sun touched Jerry. The sun cannot touch anything so that would be personification. Another literary technique used in this story is simile. That is used when the narrator was saying that Jerry's eyes were like the mountain sky when rain was pending.

    The narrator meets a boy named Jerry and the get to know each other very well. He lies to her about having a mother and she finally finds out after she has decided to continue on with her life, by going to Alaska, and Mexico, and finishing her story.

    Personal Response:

    I thought this story was shocking but good. At first I didn't like how the kid just showed up on her doorstep and how he said that even though he is small, he can chop well. That is up for the lady that he is chopping for to decide. After he had made such a big pile of wood on the first day, the narrator invited him to come back the next day. He continues to do a good job and at this point I am starting to like him. One night he knocks on the narrator's door and the narrator invites him in. He starts making good conversation and brings up his mother. This is where suspected that there would be a twist near the end of the story. If there wasn't a twist at then end, this part would have been pointless.

    I thought that the narrator was really nice to Jerry during the story. When Jerry mentioned his mother, she was shocked that anyone would let such a nice boy go. I though it was great that she actually cared about him, not just as a kid who chops wood. I think it would be a whole different story if Jerry hadn't of lied to the narrator. I'm kind of curious what would have happened if that were the case. I think the narrator would have stayed to help Jerry, but then she wouldn't have been able to get her writing done.

    باختصااااااااار
    القصة كاتبتها امرأه وهي the narratorو قابلت ولد يتيم كان عايش في دار ايتام واخذتة عشان يساعده في تقطيع الخشب واعجبها قوتة و نشاطة ونادتة عندها وتحدثت معه واخبرها ان عنده ام وتشتري له اغراض وانصدمت المراه بعد فتره زارت العامله في الميتم وقالت العاملة ان جيري ماعندة ام هناtheme عدم اختبار الحقيقة

    شخصية جيري متقلبة و متغيره من بداية القصة الى النهاية

    http://www.authorstream.com/Presentation/Estelle-16434-Mother-Mannville-Mannvilleby-Marjorie-Kinnan-Rawlings-Themes-Ideas-Setting-real-thing-Looking-Gla-veronarda-Entertainment-ppt-powerpoint/

    هنا نزلت رابط عن موقع فية power point عن القصة يمكن يفيدك فيه مكان حدوث القصةو...و....

    موفقة يااااااارب اتمنى اننب افدتك واذا تحتاجي شيء ان شاء الله اساعدك باللي اقدر




    Moon lass

  5. #5
    شخصية بارزة الصورة الرمزية فـيصـل
    تاريخ التسجيل
    Nov 2008
    الدولة
    my mother's heart
    المشاركات
    2,842
    معدل تقييم المستوى
    21465

    رد: رواية

    اسف على التأخير

    ااااااااااسف

    شوفي انا جبت لك اللى قدرت عليه
    وحااولت ان يكون مفيد


    The orphanage is high in the Carolina Mountains. Sometimes in winter the snowdrifts are so deep that the institution is cut off from the village below, from all the world. Fog hides the mountain peaks, the snow swirls down the valleys, and a wind blows so bitterly that the orphanage boys who take the milk twice daily to the baby cottage reach the door with fingers stiff in an agony of numbness.

    “Or when we carry trays from the cookhouse for the ones that are sick,” Jerry said, “we get our faces frostbit, because we can’t put our hands over them. I have gloves,” he added. “Some of the boys don’t have any.”

    He liked the late spring, he said. The rhododendron was in bloom, a carpet of color, across the mountainsides, soft as the May winds that stirred the hemlocks. He called it laurel.

    “It’s pretty when the laurel blooms,” he said, “Some of it’s pink and some of it’s white.”

    I was there in the autumn. I wanted quiet, isolation, to do some troublesome writing. I wanted mountain air to blow out the malaria from too long a time in the subtropics. I was homesick, too, for the flaming of maples in October, and for corn shocks and pumpkins and black-walnut trees and the lift of hills. I found them all, living in a cabin that belonged to the orphanage, half a mile beyond the orphanage farm. When I took the cabin, I asked for a boy or man to come and chop wood for the fireplace. The first few days were warm, I found what wood I needed about the cabin, no one came, and I forgot the order.



    I looked up from my typewriter one late afternoon, a little startled. A boy stood at the door, and my pointer dog, my companion, was at his side and had not barked to warn me. The boy was probably twelve years old but undersized. He wore overalls and a torn shirt, and was barefooted.

    He said, “I can chop some wood today.” I said, “But I have a boy coming from the orphanage.”

    “I’m the boy.”

    “You? But you’re small.”

    “Size don’t matter, chopping wood,” he said. “Some of the big boys don’t chop good. I’ve been chopping wood at the orphanage a long time.”

    I visualized mangled and inadequate branches for my fires. I was well into my work and not inclined to conversation. I was a little blunt.

    “Very well. There’s the ax. Go ahead and see what you can do.”

    I went back to work, closing the door. At first the sound of the boy dragging brush annoyed me. Then he began to chop. The blows were rhythmic and steady, and shortly I had forgotten him, the sound no more of an interruption than a consistent rain. I suppose an hour and a half passed, for when I stopped and stretched, and heard the boy’s steps on the cabin stoop, the sun was dropping behind the farthest mountain, and the valleys were purple with something deeper than the asters.

    The boy said, “I have to go to supper now. I can come again tomorrow evening.”

    I said, “I’ll pay you now for what you’ve done,” thinking I should probably have to insist on an older boy. “Ten cents an hour?”

    “Anything is all right.”

    We went together back of the cabin. An astonishing amount of solid wood had been cut. There were cherry logs and heavy roots of rhododendron, and blocks from the waste pine and oak left from the building of the cabin.

    “But you’ve done as much as a man,” I sad. “This is a splendid pile.”

    I looked at him, actually, for the first time. His hair was the color of the corn shocks, and his eyes, very direct, were like the mountain sky when rain is pending-gray, with a shadowing of that miraculous blue. As I spoke, a light came over him, as though the setting sun had touched him with the same suffused glory with which it touched the mountains. I gave him a quarter.

    “You may come tomorrow,” I said, “and thank you very much.” He looked at me and the coin, and seemed to want to speak, but could not and turned away.

    “I’ll split kindling tomorrow,” he said over his thin, ragged shoulder. “You’ll need kindling and medium wood and logs and backlogs.”



    At daylight I was half wakened by the sound of chopping. Again it was so even in texture that I went back to sleep. When I left my bed in the cool morning, the boy had come and gone, and a stack of kindling was neat against the cabin wall. He came again after school in the afternoon and worked until time to return to the orphanage. His name was Jerry; he was twelve years old, and he had been at the orphanage since he was four. I could picture him at four, with the same grave gray-blue eyes and the same- independence? No, the word that comes to me is “integrity.”

    The word means something very special to me, and the quality for which I use it is a rare one. My father had it-there is another of whom I am almost sure- but almost no man of my acquaintance possesses it with the clarity, the purity, the simplicity of a mountain steam. But the boy Jerry had it. It is bedded on courage, but it is more than brave. It is honest, but it is more than honest. The ax handle broke one day. Jerry said the woodshop at the orphanage would repair it. I brought money to pay for the job, and he refused it.

    “I’ll pay for it,” he said. “I broke it. I brought the ax down careless.” “But no one hits accurately every time,” I told him. “The fault was in the wood of the handle. I’ll see the man from whom I bought it.”

    It was only then that he would take the money. He was standing back of his own carelessness. He was a free-will agent, and he chose to do careful work; and if he failed, he took the responsibility without subterfuge.

    And he did for me the unnecessary thing, the gracious thing, that we find done only by the great of heart. Things no training can teach, for they are done on the instant, with no predicated experience. He found a cubbyhole beside the fireplace that I had not noticed. There, of his own accord, he put kindling and “medium” wood, so that I might have dry fire material ready in case of sudden wet weather. A stone was loose in the rough walk to the cabin. He dug a deeper hole and steadied it, although he came, himself, by a shortcut over the bank. I found that when I tried to return his thoughtfulness with such things as candy and apples, he was wordless. “Thank you” was, perhaps, an expression for which he had no use, for his courtesy was instinctive. He only looked at the gift and at me, and a curtain lifted, so that I saw deep into the clear well of his eyes, and gratitude was there, and affection, soft over the firm granite of his character.



    He made simple excuses to come and sit with me. I could no more have turned him away than if he had been physically hungry. I suggested once that the best time for us to visit was just before supper, when I left off my writing. After that, he waited always until my typewriter had been some time quiet. One day I worked until nearly dark. I went outside the cabin, having forgotten him. I saw him going up over the hill in the twilight toward the orphanage. When I sat down on my stoop, a place was warm from his body where he had been sitting.

    He became intimate, of course, with my pointer, Pat there is a strange communion between a boy and a dog. Perhaps they possess the same singleness of spirit, the same kind of wisdom. It is difficult to explain, but it exists. When I went across the state for a weekend, I left the dog in Jerry’s charge. I gave him the dog whistle and the key to the cabin, and left sufficient food. He was to come two of three times a day and let out the dog, and feed and exercise him. I should return Sunday night, and Jerry would take out the dog for the last time Sunday afternoon and then leave the key under an agreed hiding place.

    My return was belated, and fog filled the mountain passes so treacherously that I dared not drive at night. The fog held the next morning, and it was Monday noon before I reached the cabin. The dog had been fed and cared for that morning. Jerry came early in the afternoon, anxious.

    “The superintendent said nobody would drive in the fog,” he said.
    ”I came just before bedtime last night and you hadn’t come. So I brought Pat some of my breakfast this morning. I wouldn’t have let anything happen to him.”

    “I was sure of that I didn’t worry.”

    “When I heard about the fog, I thought you’d know.”

    He was needed for work at the orphanage, and he had to return at once. I gave him a dollar in payment, and he looked at it and went away. But that night he came in the darkness and knocked at the door.

    “Come in, Jerry,” I said, “if you’re allowed to be away this late.”

    “I told maybe a story,” he said. “I told them I thought you would want to see me.”

    “That’s true,” I assured him, and I saw his relief. “I want to hear about how you managed with the dog.”

    He sat by the fire with me, with no other light, and told me of their two days together. The dog lay close to him, and found a comfort there that I did not have for him. And it seemed to me that being with my dog, and caring for him, had brought the boy and me, too, together, so that he felt that he belonged to me as well as to the animal.

    “He stayed right with me,” he told me, “except when he ran in the laurel, he likes the laurel. I took him up over the hill and we both ran fast. There was a place where the grass was high and I lay down in it and hid. I could hear Pat hunting for me. He found my trail and he barked. When he found me, he acted crazy, and he ran around and around me, in circles.

    We were very close. He was suddenly impelled to speak of things he had not spoken of before, nor had I cared to ask him.

    “You look a little bit like my mother,” he said. “Especially in the dark, by the fire.”

    “But you were only four, Jerry, when you came here. You have remembered how she looked, all these years?”

    “My mother lives in Mannville,” he said. For a moment, finding that he had a mother shocked me as greatly as anything in my life has ever done, and I did not know why it disturbed me. Then I understood my distress. I was filled with a passionate resentment that any woman should go away and leave her son. A fresh anger added itself. A son like this one—The orphanage was a wholesome place, the executives were kind, good people, the food was more than adequate, the boys were healthy, a ragged shirt was no hardship, not the doing of clean labor. Granted, perhaps, that the boy felt no lack, what blood fed the bowels of a woman who did not yearn over this child’s lean body that had come in parturition of her own? At four he would have looked the same as now. Nothing, I thought nothing in life could change those eyes. His quality must be apparent to an idiot, a fool. I burned with questions I could not ask. In any case, I was afraid, there would be pain.

    “Have you seen her, Jerry—lately?”

    “I see her every summer. She sends for me.”

    I wanted to cry out. “Why are you not with her? How can she let you go away again?”

    He said, “She comes up here from Mannville whenever she can. She doesn’t have a job now.” His face shone in the firelight.

    “She wanted to give me a puppy, but they can’t let any one boy keep a puppy. You remember the suit I had on last Sunday?” he was plainly proud. “She sent me that for Christmas. The Christmas before that”—he drew a long breath, savoring the memory—“she sent me a pair of skates.”

    “Roller skates?”

    My mind was busy, making pictures of her, trying to understand her. She had not, then, entirely deserted or forgotten him. But why, then— I thought, “I must not condemn her without knowing.”

    “Roller skates. I let the other boys use them. They’re always borrowing them. But they’re careful of them.”

    What circumstance other than poverty— “I’m going to take the dollar you gave me for taking care of Pat.” he said, “and buy her a pair of gloves.”

    I could only say, “That will be nice. Do you know her size?”

    “I think it’s 8½,” he said.

    He looked at my hands.

    “Do you wear 8½?” he asked.

    “No I wear a smaller size, a 6.”

    “Oh! Then I guess her hands are bigger than yours.”

    I hated her. Poverty or no, there was other food than bread, and the soul could starve as quickly as the body. He was taking his dollar to buy gloves for her big stupid hands, and she lived away from him, in Mannville, and contented herself with sending him skates.

    “She likes white gloves,” he said. “Do you think I can get them for a dollar?”

    “I think so,” I said.

    I decided that I should not leave the mountains without seeing her and knowing for myself why she had done this thing.

    The human mind scatters its interests as though made of thistledown, and every wind stirs and moves it. I finished my work. It did not please me, and I gave my thoughts to another field. I should need some Mexican material.

    I made arrangements to close my Florida place. Mexico immediately, and doing the writing there, if conditions were favorable. Then, Alaska with my brother. After that, heaven knew what of where.



    I did not take time to go to Mannville to see Jerry’s mother, or even to talk with the orphanage officials about her. I was a trifle abstracted about the boy, because of my work and plans. And after my first fury at her—we did not speak of her again—we did not speak of her again—his having a mother, any sort at all, not far away, in Mannville, relived me of the ache I had had about him. He did not question the anomalous relation. He was not lonely. It was none of my concern.

    He came every day and cut my wood and did small helpful favors and stayed to talk. The days had become cold, and often I let him come inside the cabin. He would lie on the floor in front of the fire, with one arm across the pointer, and they would both doze and wait quietly for me. Other days they ran with a common ecstasy through the laurel, and since the asters were now gone, he brought, me back vermillion maple leaves, and chestnut boughs dripping with imperial yellow. I was ready to go.

    I said to him, “You have been my good friend, Jerry. I shall often think of you and miss you. Pat will miss you too. I am leaving tomorrow.”

    He did not answer. When he went away, I remember that a new moon hung over the mountains, and I watched him go in silence up the hill I expected him the next day, but he did not come. The details of packing my personal belongings, loading my car, arranging the bed over the seat, where the dog would ride, occupied, me until late in the day. I closed the cabin and started the car, noticing that the sun was in the west and I should do well to be out of the mountains by nightfall. I stopped by the orphanage and left the cabin key and money for my light hill with Miss Clark.

    “And will you call Jerry for me to say goodbye to him?”

    “I don’t know where he is,” she said. “I’m afraid he’s not well. He didn’t eat his dinner this noon. One of the other boys saw him going over the hill into the laurel. He was supposed to fire the boiler this afternoon. It’s not like him; he’s actually usually reliable.”

    I was almost relieved, for I knew I should never see him again, and it would be easier not to say goodbye to him.

    I said, “I wanted to talk with you about his mother—why he’s here—but I’m in more of a hurry than I expected to be. It’s out of the question for me to see her now too. But here’s some money I’d like to leave with you to buy things for him at Christmas and on his birthday. It will be better tan for me to try to send him things. I could so easily duplicate—skates, for instance.”

    She blinked her eyes.

    “There’s not much use for skates here,” she said.

    Her stupidity annoyed me.

    “What I mean,” I said, “is that I don’t want to duplicate things his mother sends him. I might have chosen skates if I didn’t know she had already given them to him.”

    She stared at me. “I don’t understand,” she said. “He has no mother. He has no skates.”

    By Majorie Kinnan Rawlings
    من وجد الله فماذا فقد , ومن فقد الله فماذا وجد

  6. #6
    انجليزي مبدع الصورة الرمزية لحن الخريف
    تاريخ التسجيل
    Oct 2008
    الدولة
    In another world ...
    المشاركات
    554
    معدل تقييم المستوى
    466

    رد: رواية

    moon lass

    الله يسعدك والله مرة ساعدتيني

    مو عارفة ايش اقولك الله يسهلك كل صعب

    ويوفقك دنيا و اخرا





    فيصل والله انا الي اسفة تعبتك مرة

    الله يسعدك ويوفقك

    روح الله يفتحها في وجهك وين ماتروح
    سبحان الله و بحمده, سبحان الله العظيم

المواضيع المتشابهه

  1. احبائي من قرأ منكم رواية بنات الرياض يعطيني نقد لها
    بواسطة smartteacher في المنتدى المنتدى التعليمي العام
    مشاركات: 19
    آخر مشاركة: 24-06-2006, 05:21 AM

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