THE TOMATO STORY

[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

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

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

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

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

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 master’s house. I stole his children’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 children’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?”
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

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