Aawaa

2008-03-23T03:30:00.000-07:00

Once there was a little pink Rosebud, and she lived down in a little dark house under the ground. One day she was sitting there, all by herself, and it was very still. Suddenly, she heard a little TAP, TAP, TAP, at the door.

"Who is that?" she said.

"It's the Rain, and I want to come in;" said a soft, sad, little voice.

"No, you can't come in," the little Rosebud said.

By and by she heard another little TAP, TAP, TAP on the window pane.

"Who is there?" she said.

The same soft little voice answered, "It's the Rain, and I want to come in!"

"No, you can't come in," said the little Rosebud.

Then it was very still for a long time. At last, there came a little rustling, whispering
sound, all round the window: RUSTLE, WHISPER, WHISPER.

"Who is there?" said the little Rosebud.

"It's the Sunshine," said a little, soft, cheery voice, "and I want to come in!"

"N--no," said the little pink rose, "you can't come in." And she sat still again.

Pretty soon she heard the sweet little rustling noise at the key-hole.

"Who is there?" she said.

"It's the Sunshine," said the cheery little voice, "and I want to come in, I want to come in!"

"No, no," said the little pink rose, "you cannot come in."

By and by, as she sat so still, she heard TAP, TAP, TAP, and RUSTLE, WHISPER, RUSTLE, all up and down the window pane, and on the door, and at the key-hole.

"WHO IS THERE?" she said.

"It's the Rain and the Sun, the Rain and the Sun," said two little voices,
together, "and we want to come in! We want to come in! We want to come in!"

"Dear, dear!" said the little Rosebud, "if there are two of you, I s'pose I shall
have to let you in."

So she opened the door a little wee crack, and in they came. And one took
one of her little hands, and the other took her other little hand, and they ran,
ran, ran with her, right up to the top of the ground. Then they said,--

"Poke your head through!"

So she poked her head through; and she was in the midst of a beautiful garden.
It was springtime, and all the other flowers had their heads poked through; and
she was the prettiest little pink rose in the whole garden!

Story from the Children's Hour collection
- Dari version of this story

THE SNOWMAN

2008-03-03T20:55:00.000-08:00

THE Snow Man stood very stiff and straight in the garden. He had two triangular pieces of tile in his head instead of eyes. His mouth was made of an old rake, so he had some very fine teeth. He had been born amid the happy shouts of little boys, and welcomed by the merry sound of sleigh bells and the snap of whips.
"It is so wonderfully cold that my whole body crackles," said the Snow Man. "This is the kind of weather to blow life into one. How the gleaming one, up yonder, is staring at me!"
(It was the sun he meant, which was just about to set.)
"He shall not make me wink. I shall manage to keep the pieces."
The sun went down and the moon rose clear and beautiful in the blue sky.
"If I only knew how to move from this place I should like so much to go," sighed the Snow Man. "If I could, I would slide along on the ice with the boys; but I don't understand sliding—I don't know how to run."
"Bow, wow," barked the Yard Dog, "the sun will teach you to run. It will come some morning, and it will make you run down into the ditch by the wall. We shall soon have a change in the weather. I feel it in my bones."
The weather really changed a little. Toward morning there was a thick fog over all the garden. Then came an icy wind, and when the sun rose—oh, was it not beautiful? The branches were covered with hoar frost, and they glistened like diamonds. Where the sun shone it looked as if big diamonds had been dropped upon the snowy carpet of earth.
"Bow, wow," barked the Yard Dog, creeping out of his kennel; "a fine morning."
"The cold is charming," said the Snow Man. "Tell me, did you always lie out here in the cold, fastened to a chain?"
"Bow, wow; no, indeed," barked the Yard Dog. "I used to lie in a chair covered with velvet up in master's house. From where you are standing you can see into the room. I had my own cushion, and there was a stove there—the finest thing in the world in cold weather. I went under the stove, and I could lie beneath it. Oh, I still sometimes dream of that stove. Bow, wow!"
"Does a stove look anything like me?" asked the Snow Man.
"It's quite different," said the Dog. "It's black as a crow, with a long neck and a brazen drum. It eats firewood, and the fire spurts out of its mouth. You can see the stove through the window there."
And the Snow Man looked and saw a bright polished thing with a brazen drum and the fire gleaming from the lower part of it. The Snow Man felt strangely and his teeth chattered.
"Why did you leave her?" he asked, for he thought the stove must surely be a lady.
"I was obliged to go," said the Yard Dog. "I bit the youngest master because he kicked my bone. That was the end of the matter. They chained me up out here. Bow, wow!"
But the Snow Man was looking in the window, and he did not hear the Yard Dog. He was looking at the stove standing there on its four iron legs.
"I want to go in and lean against her," he said, "if I have to break the window!"
"You'll never get in there," said the Yard Dog. "If you go near her, you'll break up."
"I'm nearly gone now," said the Snow Man.
The whole day the Snow Man stood peering in through the window. Toward night the stove looked pleasanter than ever, for it had been given some wood to eat. The red light shone out of the window and straight into the Snow Man's face.
"Oh," he said, "how beautiful she looks when she stretches out her tongue!"
Before long, though, the windows were covered with frost. There were the most wonderful snow flowers any snow man could want, but the Snow Man was unhappy. He could no longer see the stove.
In the morning the weather had changed a great deal. It began to thaw, and the warmer it grew the smaller grew the Snow Man. At last he broke down; and, behold! Where he had stood there was something like a broomstick standing up in the ground. It was the pole about which the boys had built him.
"I wonder why he liked the stove so much," said the Yard Dog, looking at the pool of water which lay where the Snow Man had stood; but he saw directly. There was a coal shovel fastened to the broomstick, and that had been the Snow Man's head. The Snow Man had a stove rake in his body, too.
"I see," said the Yard Dog. "Bow, wow!"
And nobody thought any more about the Snow Man.

- این داستان به دری
- Baldwin Project

Do What You Can

2008-02-19T00:29:00.000-08:00

THERE was once a farmer who had a large field of corn. He harrowed it and weeded it with the greatest care, for he wanted to sell the corn and buy good things for his family with the money. But after he had worked hard, he saw the corn wither and droop, for no rain fell, and he began to fear that he was to have no crop. He felt very sad, and every morning he went out to the field and looked at the thirsty stalks and wished for the rain to fall.

One day, as he stood looking up at the sky, two little raindrops saw him, and one said to the other: "Look at that farmer. I feel very sorry for him. He took such pains with his field of corn, and now it is drying up. I wish I might help him."

"Yes," said the other, "but you are only a little raindrop. What can you do? You can't wet even one hill."

"Well," said the first, "I know, to be sure, I cannot do much; but perhaps I can cheer the farmer a little, and I am going to do my best. I'll go to the field to show my good will, if I can't do anything more. Here I go!"

The first raindrop had no sooner started for the field than the second one said:

"Well, if you really insist upon going, I think I will go, too. Here I come!" And down went the raindrops. One came—pat—on the farmer's nose, and one fell on a thirsty stalk of corn.

"Dear me," said the farmer, "what's that? A raindrop! Where did it come from? I do believe we shall have a shower."

By this time a great many raindrops had come together to see what all the commotion was about. When they saw the two kind little drops going down to cheer the farmer, and water his corn, one said:

"If you two are going on such a good errand, I'll go, too!" And down he came. "And I!" said another. "And I!" And so said they all, until a whole shower came and the corn was watered. Then the corn grew and ripened—all because one little raindrop tried to do what it could.

- این داستان به دری
- Baldwin Project

Grandfather's Penny

2008-02-11T21:17:00.000-08:00

ONCE upon a time, when it was so long ago that there were no trolley cars or telephones, Grandfather was a little, little boy named John.
He lived in a wee, red farmhouse set in the middle of wide fields, and there were woods all about, and only a cow path to walk in across the meadows until you came to the stage road.
In the summer Grandfather used to have just the best time, for he knew the places where the biggest blackberries hid, and he could find the patches of checker-berries in the woods, and he knew where the brook ran swiftest to sail his boats, and he could climb the tallest apple tree that ever grew.
But in the winter it was quite different. Then Grandfather wore a little cap made of coonskin, and a bright-green tippet, and a home-spun suit, and a pair of hide boots. It was always so very cold in the country in the winter time, and Grandfather had to walk two miles to the schoolhouse, with his little tin dinner pail hung over his arm. When school was let out, he must hurry home to help with the chores, for there were kindlings to split, and the cows to fodder, and paths to dig. At night he was a tired little John, and he tumbled upstairs to bed in the attic, where the walls were all hung with strings of dried apples, and the spinning-wheel in the corner pointed its long finger at him, till he pulled the patchwork quilt high up over his cold little nose and went fast asleep.
One morning when Grandfather woke up, and jumped into his clothes, and hurried down to the [138] kitchen, he found that a dreadful thing had happened. The fire in the fireplace had gone out over-night, and nobody could set it going again, for they had no matches in those days, and the tinder box was lost. The water in the tea-kettle was all ice. There could be no breakfast until the fire burned once more.
"You'll have to take the lantern, John," said Great Grandmother, "and go to Mr. Stone's for a light. I'm sorry, little lad. Pull your cap down tight over your ears, and hurry."
So Grandfather took the big brass lantern and hurried off in the early morning, across the snowy fields, for a light. It was so biting cold that not even the wood rabbits were out, and Grandfather's toes ached, and he had to blow on his fingers to keep them from freezing—and it was a mile to Mr. Stone's! But he got there at last, lighted his lantern at Mr. Stone's fireplace, and carried it home very carefully, lest the flame go out. Then Great Grandmother started the fire, and boiled the water in the tea-kettle, and they had breakfast.
When the kitchen was warm, and breakfast was over, Great Grandmother went to the blue china mug on the chimney-piece and took out of it a big copper penny as large as a silver dollar.
"This is for you, John," she said. "You had a long walk this morning. You may buy yourself a peppermint stick."
Oh, how Grandfather's eyes danced! Pennies were scarce in the little red farmhouse, and didn't he know just how beautifully red and twisted the peppermint sticks looked in the glass jar at the store; and hadn't he wished for one all winter?
So he started out early for school—the store was such a long way off the road—skipping along, with his penny held fast in his little red mitten, thinking how good the peppermint stick was going to taste.
The snow was deep, and Grandfather had to wade through the drifts, and climb the fences; and one snow bank was so high that it came up to his waist, but he didn't mind. There was the store at the crossroads, and Grandfather opened his little red fist to look at the penny—but where was it? The penny was not there at all; it was quite gone. Grandfather had dropped his penny in the high snow bank!
Poor little boy! All the morning, as he sat on the hard bench in the schoolhouse, saying his A B, AB's. and doing pothooks in his copy book, he had to squeeze back the tears. And when he went home Great Grandmother said she was sorry, but there were no more pennies in the blue china mug. She didn't know when he could have another. So Grandfather took his shovel and dug all around in the snow bank, but he could not find his penny.
Well, the winter was very long; but, one day, the red-winged blackbirds came back to sing in the south pasture, and the song-sparrows twittered in the swamp. The blue flag blossomed, and it was spring. Grandfather laid away his coon-skin cap, and began making willow whistles, and forgot all about his penny.
One morning he took a basket of eggs to the store, to change them for sugar and tea, and he went the same way that he had gone that other morning; and he was just as happy as he skipped along down the road.
"Here's the place where the big snow bank was," he said, "right in this fence corner, but it's all melted now. Why-ee, here's my penny!"
Yes; there it was—sticking up out of the mud, not bright and shining any more, but a good copper penny just the same. All winter it had been waiting there for Grandfather to take it to the store and buy a peppermint stick. And this is the true story of how Grandfather bought his peppermint stick, after all. And this is the reason why Grandfather gives you so many pennies, dear—because he remembers how he was a little boy once, with only just one.

- Read this story in Dari
- Baldwin Project

THE SNOWFLAKE AND THE LEAF

2008-02-03T21:04:00.000-08:00

THE big sky above the hard, frozen ground was dark. The little stars had hidden their winking, yellow eyes, and the round old moon had forgotten to [118] shine. Big, black clouds were hurrying past each other, back and forth, from east to west.
Up on the old oak tree, at the corner of the lane, a little leaf still clung. He was very tiny, very brown, and very much wrinkled; but still he kept a tight hold on the stiff old branch where he had lived all his life.
"Ugh!" he said, as he shivered, and clung still closer, "it's going to rain again. I'm sure I felt a drop just then."
But it was not a drop of rain, but a soft, cold something else, which nestled down among the brown wrinkles. The leaf stirred, and then shivered again.
"What is the matter?" queried a sweet voice.
"I'm very cold," said the leaf.
"Are you? What makes you cold?" asked the voice.
"I think it is—you," said the leaf, slowly; for he did not want to hurt any one's feelings.
"Oh, no; I'm sure it's not I, because I'm not cold; and if I made you cold I would be cold, too, wouldn't I?"
"I suppose you would," said the leaf, thoughtfully. "But, anyway, I'm not as warm as I am in the summertime. I'm lonesome, too, up here alone—that is, I am when you are not here," he added, politely.
"What is summer?" asked the snowflake. "I never heard about it."
"It is a very nice time," said the leaf, hugging the old tree, and drawing his tight edges close. "It's the time when you are green and soft—and warm," he added, with a sigh.
"I don't believe we have it, then, up where I live," said the snowflake; "for I never remember being green."
[119] "It is very pleasant in summer," went on the leaf. "The birds perch upon the branches here, and sing so sweetly. Once a robin built a beautiful nest just here, where we are now. It was a large nest made of hay and threads, woven nicely together. One day, after the nest was built, and the mother bird had been staying there nearly all the time, I saw four tiny birds, with great big mouths, wide open. It seemed to me that they were always calling to be fed, and the mother and father were busy from morning till night fetching worms for those hungry little ones. But before long they learned to fly, and, one by one, they left the nest and flew out into the world.
"I am never alone in the summer, for the tree is full of leaves, but they have all fallen off until only I am left. Every time the wind blows, I expect to go, too."
"Where will you go?" asked the snowflake, with much interest.
"Oh, I shall drop to the ground below, and grow smaller and smaller. Then I shall sink down underneath, where the new grass is getting ready to sprout in the spring and the violets are waiting for the sun to bid them unfold their buds."
"Is it nice down there, in the dark?" asked the snowflake.
"Oh, yes," said the leaf. "It is very warm and sweet, and not a bit lonely, for the worms and bugs and roots and seeds are all busy, getting ready for the spring."
Just then a heavy gust of wind shook the old oak tree, and down fell the little brown leaf and the snowflake, too. The snowflake melted at once, but the little leaf waited happily there until he should reach the busy little world under the ground.

- نسخه دری این داستان
- Baldwin Project

THE TOMATO STORY

2008-01-16T21:00:00.001-08:00

[53] "HAVE another tomato, Johnny," said Grandma, as she saw the last red slice disappear from Johnny's plate; "I think you like tomatoes."

"I do," said Johnny; "I like them raw, and stewed, and baked, and 'most any way."

"Didn't you like tomatoes when you were little, Grandma?" Johnny asked, as he saw Grandma looking down at her plate with a smile in her eyes.

"No," Grandma said, "but that was because I was a big girl before I ever tasted one. I never saw any until I was thirteen years old.

"I can remember it so well. A peddler who came by our farm once a month, bringing buttons and thread and such little things to sell, brought the seed to mother.

"He used to carry seeds and cuttings of plants from one farmer's wife to the next, and they liked to see him come. He could tell all the news, too, from up the road and down.

"One spring morning he came, and after mother had bought all she needed from his big, red wagon, and he had fed his horse and was sitting by the kitchen fire waiting for his dinner, he began fumbling about [54] in his pockets in search of something. Finally he drew out a very small package, and handed it to mother.

" 'I've brought you some love-apple seeds,' he said. 'I got them in the city, and I gave my sister half and brought half to you.'

" 'Thank you, kindly,' mother said, as she looked at the little yellow seeds. 'I'm right glad to get them. What kind of a plant is the love-apple?'

" 'Well,' said the peddler, 'the man who gave the seeds to me had his plants last year in a sunny fence corner. The flowers are small, but the fruit is bright red, and is very pretty among the dark-green leaves. You can't eat the fruit, though—it's poisonous. It's something new—the man who gave me the seeds got them from a captain of a ship from South America. They grow wild there.'

"So mother planted her love-apple seeds in a warm fence corner, and they grew, and the little yellow blossoms came, and after them the pretty red fruit. We children would go out and look at it, and talk about it, and wonder if it would hurt us if we just tasted it.

"One day mother heard us talking about it, and she called us away, and told us if we could not be satisfied with the pretty red fruit just to look at, without wanting to eat it, she would have to pull up the love-apple vines and throw them away, for the peddler had said it was poisonous.

"We knew she would hate to do that, for no one else about had them, so we kept away from the fence corner, and the vine grew and blossomed, and the red showed in new places every day. The birds did not seem to be at all afraid of the poison fruit, but ate all they wanted of it.

[55] "One day, in the early fall, my uncle came from New York to make us a visit. When he went out in the garden he stopped in surprise. 'Why, Mary,' he said, 'what fine tomato vines you have! Where did you get them?'

" 'We call them love-apples,' mother said, and then she told him how the peddler brought the seed. But when my uncle found that we were afraid to eat them he had a hearty laugh, and then he showed mother how to get some ready for supper. And that was my first taste of tomato, Johnny," Grandma said, "and you shall have some for supper fixed the same way—with cream and sugar."

- این داستان به دری

- About Baldwin Project

An Anxious Leaf

2008-01-07T20:30:00.000-08:00

ONCE upon a time a little leaf was heard to sigh and cry, as leaves often do when the wind is about. And the twig said: "What is the matter, little leaf?"

And the little leaf said: "The wind just told me that one day it would pull me off and throw me to die on the ground!"

The twig told it to the branch on which it grew, and the branch told it to the tree. And when the tree heard it, it rustled all over, and sent back word to the leaf: "Do not be afraid; hold on tightly, and you shall not go till you want to."

And so the leaf stopped sighing, and went on nestling and singing. Every time the tree shook itself and stirred up all its leaves, the branches shook themselves, and the little twig shook itself, and the little leaf danced up and down merrily, as if nothing could ever pull it off. And so it grew all summer long till October.

[121] And when the bright days of autumn came the little leaf saw all the other leaves around it becoming very beautiful. Some were yellow, and some were scarlet, and some were striped with both colors. Then it asked the tree what it meant; and the tree said: "All the leaves are getting ready to fly away, and they are putting on these beautiful colors because of joy."

Then the little leaf began to want to go, and grew very beautiful in thinking of it, and when it was very gay in color it saw that the branches of the tree had no color at all in them, and so the leaf said: "Oh, branches, why are you lead color and we golden?"

And the branches said: "We must keep on our work clothes, for our life is not done; but your clothes are for holiday, for your tasks are over."

Just then a little puff of wind came, and the leaf let go without thinking, and the wind took it up, and whirled it over and over, and tossed it like a spark of fire in the air, and then it fell gently down under the edge of the fence among hundreds of other leaves; and it fell into a dream and never waked up to tell what it dreamed about.

By Carolyn S. Bailey
Dari version of this story

Missing You, My Family

2007-12-08T00:59:00.000-08:00

by Kavalnainin
Teenager from New York

A child is blessed with many gifts,
And a loving family
This is the gift that God gives
This gift I have received

The gifts mean nothing,
As much as the family does
I love them all
O so Very much

A smile was on my face
Since the day that I was born
Because they were there
To make me feel at home

As I grew older
We shared memories
Then all of a sudden
They all had to leave

I was all alone
Tears in my eyes
Where did they have to go?
And I wonder why?

I stayed in the cold
No arms to keep me warm
No one to protect me
During the storms

I was struck by lightning
And yelled at by thunder
Tears streamed down my face
As I screamed in wonder

Why did they leave?
Why did they go?
I wanted them back
But they didn't know

Here I am
And here I'll stay
I will remember them
And for them I'll wait

I'll wait through hail, sleet, and snow
Until they come back
Until they know...

That I miss them with all my heart
We were so close
A family forever

I will wait even after I die
In heaven to them
I'll cast my light

Then they'll know
And they'll see
Whom I love more than life
My family.

Relateds:
- From KidPub
- This poem in Dari

Happy Birthday

2007-10-20T00:18:00.000-07:00

I've got a lot of presents
that I'd like to give to you.
I'll give you all my Brussels sprouts
and all my liver too.

I'll give you all my gym socks
when they really start to stink.
I'll give you all my pens when
they are running out of ink.

I'll give you all my broken toys
and empty jars of paste.
I'll give you all my bubble gum
that's chewed and lost its taste.

I'll give you all the dust balls that
I found beneath my bed.
I'll give you all my batteries
as soon as they are dead.

So have a happy birthday,
you're a special friend indeed,
and please accept this trashcan
full of stuff that I don't need.

By Kenn Nesbitt

Relateds:
- This poem in Dari

How the dimples came

2007-10-04T21:10:00.000-07:00

One bright, beautiful spring day, when the earth was fresh in its new green dress decked with flowers, while the birds sang their sweetest songs, and the brooks babbled merrily on their way to the rivers, two wee dimples were sent by Mother Nature on a journey to find their work in the world.
It was a delightful journey through the blue sky and past the fleecy white clouds.
They played and danced with the sunbeams who led them on their way to the earth.
The dimples could see nothing for them to do, so on they went, frolicking and playing.
At last they found themselves among the trees and the bright flowers of the earth.
They chased the sunbeams under the leaves, they rode on the butterflies' wings, they sipped the honey with the bees from the flowers. Still, they could find nothing to do. The sunbeams bade the dimples good-by and silently crept home. "Oh," said the dimples, "what shall we do? We have no place to rest tonight." "Here is a bird's nest; let us rest in this," said one dimple. "No, that will never do," said the other dimple, "for there is the mother bird, who rests in her nest all night."
Just then they spied a window swing open on its hinges. The tiny stars came out and peeped into the window, and the lady-moon sent silvery moonbeams down to help the dimples find a resting place. Then the dimples flew through the window, and there, close by, in her crib, curtained around with white, was a wee baby, rosy, sweet, and bright.
"Oh," said one dimple, "I would love to rest on that rosy cheek." "So would I," said the other dimple. And they each took a rosy cheek for a couch, and here they rested the whole night long.
The robins early in the dawn sat on the cheery boughs and sang loud and long, thus waking the dimples, who now knew not what to do. "But," said one dimple, "we have not yet found our work." The other dimple said: "Let us stay here. Baby's eyes are opening, and we must hide," and each dimple nestled away in baby's cheeks. Then her big, blue eyes opened wide, to see the sunbeams that had crept through the windows to her crib.
The sunbeams coaxed the dimples to come out and play, but the dimples would only peep out, and when they did, they brought smiles around baby's rosy lips and sunny eyes.
"So you have found your work at last," said the sunbeams. And they had, for they helped to bring out the smiles in baby's cheeks. If you look the next time you see baby you may see the dimples playing hide and seek.

Relateds:
- More from Spring Stories
- ترجمه اين داستان به دري

Fighting With Words

2007-09-25T20:44:00.000-07:00

by Karthik

"No bread for another day if you don't finish those chores", the white man yelled at Ma and me. He whipped me with a belt and kicked us back into work.
We were slaves. Many slaves were sick of being treated this way and planned to attack their Masters. Over the fence was an example of slaves that were driven to the brink of killing. I watched them every day, planning. I felt sorry for them. They were risking their lives for us and they were probably going to die. They were over-confident and didn't think twice. I overheard them that they were going to attack tonight. They were going to first kill their master then band with the other slaves and kill lots of people. Well, that's all I understood. When I was thinking, I forgot about planting the seeds and I heard my master yelling again. Ma quickly hurried me into doing his chores. At around nine o'clock when we had finished the chores, I forgot about the revolt and drifted to sleep.
I woke up to the sound of Ma's voice. I sat up. Ma looked worried and handed me a newspaper. I read it and was stunned. It said that at 10:00 PM yesterday, five slaves killed their master and provoked an angry mob of blacks. Local police were ordered to shoot against the riot and the thirty slaves were dead. All slave owners were asked to keep constant watch on their slaves. I had a mixture of anger and sadness inside me. I was angry at the whites who shot my friends and had sympathy for the slaves. That night I realized that if this would keep going on. slaves would keep revolting and dying until there would be none left unless somebody did something.
I thought of an idea of stealing bombs and stuff and just blow up the city, but once I thought that one through it seemed stupid. The only way to earn freedom is with a non-violent approach. I have seen pictures of Gandhi and heard about non-violence. Then I got a new idea. I got up and snuck into my masterâ€™s house. I stole his childrenâ€™s English books and began to read. All Africans can read English, just not write. I hid under a hay stack and read the book every day. I read faster when more and more people died. I finally was fluent in the art of writing English. I had practiced in the dirt with a stick and felt pretty good. That night I returned the childrenâ€™s English books and stole a couple of pieces of paper. I went back to the hay stack and went to sleep. The next day I woke up an hour before I was supposed to and started to write with a piece of charcoal. I was going to secretly send this to the mayor and hope for the best.
I wrote,

Dear mayor,
I think slavery is wrong; you should not make someone a slave just because their skin is a different color. You may think that you are better and we are barbaric animals that should be treated like mud. But you are wrong. We have the same blood, heart and brain like you. I speak for a lot of slaves when I say that we deserve the same amount of respect as a regular white man.

I drew a picture of a white man whipping a black man. Then I drew the same picture and scribbled over the white man so his skin was black.

See what difference it makes if your face is covered in charcoal.
From,
A Desperate and Hopeful Slave

Then I wrapped this sheet of paper in the other sheets of paper and wrote "TO THE MAYOR" on it. Then I dashed to the post office and when I was about to drop it in the mail box, a man stopped me and said, "What do you think you are doing, dirt scum?â€
I thought fast and said, "Master told me to mail this letter." and acted as stupid as I could. He kicked me out and slapped me, but let me mail my letter. I dashed back to my master's farm and started working on the crops. Ma asked me where I was and told me that I was four minutes late. I mumbled that I was getting freedom. She looked concerned, but didn't say anything. At ten o'clock a wave of excitement rushed over me as I thought about freedom, but then it disappeared as I thought about what would happen if it didn't work. I couldn't sleep until late.
The next day Ma woke me up by shaking me violently and handed me a crumpled newspaper. It read that the mayor is trying to pass a law against slavery after he received a strongly worded letter from a slave. No one knows who sent it, and how he learned to write, but he is very persuasive. It showed a picture of my letter. I told Ma that I wrote that letter with charcoal and explained to her how I learned to write and such. She looked proud of me. I was happy that I had just sent a message to the slaves that a pen is mightier than a sword. Now I hope that the fight for freedom can be won.

Relateds:
- ترجمه اين داستان به دري
- PubKid (more pieces by kids)

Vive La France

2007-09-18T20:21:00.000-07:00

I started for school very late that morning and was in great dread of a scolding, especially because M. Hamel had said that he would question us on participles, and I did not know the first word about them. For a moment I thought of running away and spending the day out of doors. It was so warm, so bright! The birds were chirping at the edge of the woods; and in the open field back of the sawmill the Prussian soldiers were drilling. It was all much more tempting than the rule for participles, but I had the strength to resist, and hurried off to school.
When I passed the town hall there was a crowd in front of the bulletin-board. For the last two years all our bad news had come from there—the lost battles, the draft, the orders of the commanding officer—and I thought to myself, without stopping:
“What can be the matter now?”
Then, as I hurried by as fast as I could go, the blacksmith, Wachter, who was there, with his apprentice, reading the bulletin, called after me:
“Don’t go so fast, bub; you’ll get to your school in plenty of time!”
I thought he was making fun of me, and reached M. Hamel’s little garden all out of breath.
Usually, when school began, there was a great bustle, which could be heard out in the street, the opening and closing of desks, lessons repeated in unison, very loud, with our hands over our ears to understand better, and the teacher’s great ruler rapping on the table. But now it was all so still! I had counted on the commotion to get to my desk without being seen; but, of course, that day everything had to be as quiet as Sunday morning. Through the window I saw my classmates, already in their places, and M. Hamel walking up and down with his terrible iron ruler under his arm. I had to open the door and go in before everybody. You can imagine how I blushed and how frightened I was.
But nothing happened. M. Hamel saw me and said very kindly:
“Go to your place quickly, little Franz. We were beginning without you.”
I jumped over the bench and sat down at my desk. Not till then, when I had got a little over my fright, did I see that our teacher had on his beautiful green coat, his frilled shirt, and the little black silk cap, all embroidered, that he never wore except on inspection and prize days. Besides, the whole school seemed so strange and solemn. But the thing that surprised me most was to see, on the back benches that were always empty, the village people sitting quietly like ourselves; old Hauser, with his three-cornered hat, the former mayor, the former postmaster, and several others besides. Everybody looked sad; and Hauser had brought an old primer, thumbed at the edges, and he held it open on his knees with his great spectacles lying across the pages.
While I was wondering about it all, M. Hamel mounted his chair, and, in the same grave and gentle tone which he had used to me, said:
“My children, this is the last lesson I shall give you. The order has come from Berlin to teach only German in the schools of Alsace and Lorraine. The new master comes to-morrow. This is your last French lesson. I want you to be very attentive.”
What a thunderclap these words were to me!
Oh, the wretches; that was what they had put up at the town-hall!
My last French lesson! Why, I hardly knew how to write! I should never learn any more! I must stop there, then! Oh, how sorry I was for not learning my lessons, for seeking birds’ eggs, or going sliding on the Saar! My books, that had seemed such a nuisance a while ago, so heavy to carry, my grammar, and my history of the saints, were old friends now that I couldn’t give up. And M. Hamel, too; the idea that he was going away, that I should never see him again, made me forget all about his ruler and how cranky he was.
Poor man! It was in honor of this last lesson that he had put on his fine Sunday clothes, and now I understood why the old men of the village were sitting there in the back of the room. It was because they were sorry, too, that they had not gone to school more. It was their way of thanking our master for his forty years of faithful service and of showing their respect for the country that was theirs no more.
While I was thinking of all this, I heard my name called. It was my turn to recite. What would I not have given to be able to say that dreadful rule for the participle all through, very loud and clear, and without one mistake? But I got mixed up on the first words and stood there, holding on to my desk, my heart beating, and not daring to look up. I heard M. Hamel say to me:
“I won’t scold you, little Franz; you must feel bad enough. See how it is! Every day we have said to ourselves: ‘Bah! I’ve plenty of time. I’ll learn it to-morrow.’ And now you see where we’ve come out. Ah, that’s the great trouble with Alsace; she puts off learning till to-morrow. Now those fellows out there will have the right to say to you: ‘How is it; you pretend to be Frenchmen, and yet you can neither speak nor write your own language?’ But you are not the worst, poor little Franz. We’ve all a great deal to reproach ourselves with.
“Your parents were not anxious enough to have you learn. They preferred to put you to work on a farm or at the mills, so as to have a little more money. And I? I’ve been to blame also. Have I not often sent you to water my flowers instead of learning your lessons? And when I wanted to go fishing, did I not just give you a holiday?”
Then, from one thing to another, M. Hamel went on to talk of the French language, saying that it was the most beautiful language in the world—the clearest, the most logical; that we must guard it among us and never forget it, because when a people are enslaved, as long as they hold fast to their language it is as if they had the key to their prison. Then he opened a grammar and read us our lesson. I was amazed to see how well I understood it. All he said seemed so easy, so easy! I think, too, that I had never listened so carefully, and that he had never explained everything with so much patience. It seemed almost as if the poor man wanted to give us all he knew before going away, and to put it all into our heads at one stroke.
After the grammar, we had a lesson in writing. That day M. Hamel had new copies for us, written in a beautiful round hand: France, Alsace, France, Alsace. They looked like little flags floating everywhere in the school-room, hung from the rod at the top of our desks. You ought to have seen how every one set to work, and how quiet it was! The only sound was the scratching of the pens over the paper. Once some beetles flew in; but nobody paid any attention to them, not even the littlest ones, who worked right on tracing their fish-hooks, as if that was French, too. On the roof the pigeons cooed very low, and I thought to myself:
“Will they make them sing in German, even the pigeons?”
Whenever I looked up from my writing I saw M. Hamel sitting motionless in his chair and gazing first at one thing, then at another, as if he wanted to fix in his mind just how everything looked in that little school-room. Fancy! For forty years he had been there in the same place, with his garden outside the window and his class in front of him, just like that. Only the desks and benches had been worn smooth; the walnut-trees in the garden were taller, and the hop-vine that he had planted himself twined about the windows to the roof. How it must have broken his heart to leave it all, poor man; to hear his sister moving about in the room above, packing their trunks! For they must leave the country next day.
But he had the courage to hear every lesson to the very last. After the writing, we had a lesson in history, and then the babies chanted their ba, be bi, bo, bu. Down there at the back of the room old Hauser had put on his spectacles and, holding his primer in both hands, spelled the letters with them. You could see that he, too, was crying; his voice trembled with emotion, and it was so funny to hear him that we all wanted to laugh and cry. Ah, how well I remember it, that last lesson!
All at once the church-clock struck twelve. Then the Angelus. At the same moment the trumpets of the Prussians, returning from drill, sounded under our windows. M. Hamel stood up, very pale, in his chair. I never saw him look so tall.
“My friends,” said he, “I—I—” But something choked him. He could not go on.
Then he turned to the blackboard, took a piece of chalk, and, bearing on with all his might, he wrote as large as he could:
“Vive La France!”
Then he stopped and leaned his head against the wall, and, without a word, he made a gesture to us with his hand:
“School is dismissed—you may go.”

Relateds:
- ترجمه اين داستان به دري
- More from World English

Small changes count

2007-09-16T00:19:00.000-07:00

His beautiful eyes take to a combination of hope and fear. Dread of a subtle fate lurking at each corner, that presses his childish heart. I look deep into his eyes , and gently tap on his hands – they are cracked and battered.

It was about two months ago, I saw him in the downtown on a wildly hot summer day. A heavy box of cigarettes draped on his shoulder and his footprints could be traced on the dusty roads of Kabul.

His look was filled with pressure of responsibility. His look, for a moment, took me to my own childhood…. To our childhood… Now I feel away, and close too!

I wanted to began overtures…. His look wanted me to keep away!

Few moments later….. he smiles…. Shares few words with me… says he is six years old… I wouldn’t get all he said, he couldn’t enunciate well yet.

I feel a fire stinging on my heart, watching his childhood on the edge of devastation. I wish I could own some of his pains…. Not to let them lie in his beautiful eyes and trample over his dreams – a dreadful, tough, alien and backbreaking pain.

Two Months later:

My sweet Pari,

I would like to thank you for being with me in doing this.

Pari and I (or Aawaa) have decided to open a bank account (please find details below) and invite you all to contribute to bringing smiles to the lips of the Afghan street children, ambiguity of whose future is overshadowing their lives. Let us add to their hopes for future and wash the pains away from their tiny hearts.

Your generous donations will be used for providing immediate needs of children sans shelter in Afghanistan and, of course, the details of process will be published here, and the pictures on Zubaida's photo blog.

Aawaa aims to deliver your considerations to the children before upcoming cruel winter. If you wish to streamline your donations through any children charity in Afghanistan, please do let us know. However, we would prefer to direct delivery of donations, being it cash or items, to children or their families rather than using a third channel. Our focus mainly lies on children of repatriates, tent-dwellers and children doing tough labours in market. Any suggestion you make in this respect would be most welcome.

Ali and Pari

Bank Account details:

Account No: 1001201053315

SWIFT Code: KABUAFKA

Relateds:
- اين متن به دري

Loneliness

2007-09-14T23:00:00.000-07:00

by Kavalnain
in New York

Loneliness is a darkness
That sinks into your skin
A terrible feeling
That is felt within

Every morning
A child awakes
To either face this loneliness
Or make it go away

A child myself
I couldn't run
Away from this loneliness
Before it begun

It haunted my mornings
And hung in the shadowy nights
It bodied my windows and closed my curtains
And threatened my life

Quiet as it came
Quiet as it hid
Against the walls
And under my bed

I tried to hide
Within the light
But everywhere I went
It followed right behind

Still I am lost
Still I am afraid
Of this frightening shadow
Of loneliness.

Relateds:
- About the Poet
- ترجمه شعر

Miss me

2007-09-14T22:56:00.001-07:00

by Kavalnain
A teenager from New York

I was sent on a voyage,
Across the depths of the seas,
Though lately I've been wondering,
If you missed me.

I stare across the ocean,
Day and night,
Only one thought that is stirring in my mind.

The sun only glares,
while the world only stares.
Nobody answering.
I cannot admit,
I'd be acting too foolish.
Too young for my age,
I do wish to act,
I'd be classified as a brat.

Though, as I look across the seas,
The waves answer,
and I know you miss me.

Relateds:
- About the Poet
- آوا به دري

Little Sister

2007-09-14T22:48:00.000-07:00

by Kavalnain (A teenager)
in New York

My little sister isn't average,
We all know that she is much more,
Though I have more than one sibling,
She is the silliest out of the four.

I only get one chance to play,
Before I'm piled with work,
Though, day by day,
She always has time to call me a "jerk"!

And, when tears flow down my face,
When nobody knows how I feel,
That's when my little sister is there,
That's when our love proves to be real.

When I am happy,
She's there to share the joy,
Though, everything to her is just a game and a toy.

When I am bored,
And I am lying down in my bed,
She gets up in the middle of the night,
And jumps on my head.

When nightmares surround me,
And I shiver with fear,
My sister is always there to hug,
She's always so near.

My sister isn't average,
We all know that she is much more,
Though when it's time to kiss her,
You get a nice one back from my little sister.

Relateds:
- About the Poet
- آوا به دري

Opening words

2007-09-14T21:59:00.000-07:00

Hello Friends,
On Aawaa you could go through writings and translations by Zubaida Akbar and Ali Kazemi. To state the obvious, this page is new and the writers of it hope it will fall useful and interesting to the respectable viewers.

The content of this page evolve around Dari translation of poems and short stories specifically addressed to the children. A question could be raised in your mind as to why targeting the children?! Perhaps the complication of adults’ world could be considered one reason. Or that the children of Afghanistan have not gained the due attention they deserve. These are the grounds that prove the task of translation easy for those new in the field. Children’s realm is simple, austere and Spartan. Wishes and wants of children, being she a 10-year-old Uzbek girl in the dusty avenues of Sheberghan (North of Afghanistan) rollicking around, or a dark-skinned girl stepping in mud in Africa, or being he a blonde blue-eyed boy that is practicing becoming a “David Bekham” in Northampton, if not very same, they are similar or at least understandable! Perhaps there are many lessons we have to learn from them. Anyways….

To you (Viewers) from us: We (Ali Kazemi and Zubaida Akbar) welcome you to this page and are grateful to your kind comments sand criticisms.
On this page, our focus lies on the shortcomings and deficiencies at children’s literature in Afghanistan, which has missed to gain enough attention so far, and in fulfilling this task, we do need you adults’ contribution through sharing views and opinions and even if possible those of children’s themselves, as both of us experience our first shots in this field. With respectful thanks!

And at the end, who are we?
Ali Kazemi and Zubaida Akbar have shared a long while of knowing each other. Loitering through the dusty avenues of Kabul, chatting with begging kids in Shahr Naw, now they feel they have gone through different stages of life together. As a means of further strengthening this relationship, Ali and Zubaida have initiated this joint translation project and wish their joint venture brings a news source of discoveries for children’s literature and even more.

Relateds:
- همين متن به دري
- آوا به دري