The Bride Comes to Yellow Sky
By Stephen Crane
The great pullman was whirling onward with such dignity of motion that a glance from the window seemed simply to prove that the plains of Texas were pouring eastward. Vast flats of green grass, dull-hued spaces of mesquite and cactus, little groups of frame houses, woods of light and tender trees, all were sweeping into the east, sweeping over the horizon, a precipice.
A newly married pair had boarded this coach at San Antonio. The man's face was reddened from many days in the wind and sun, and a direct result of his new black clothes was that his brick-colored hands were constantly performing in a most conscious fashion. From time to time he looked down respectfully at his attire. He sat with a hand on each knee, like a man waiting in a barber's shop. The glances he devoted to other passengers were furtive and shy.
The bride was not pretty, nor was she very young. She wore a dress of blue cashmere, with small reservations of velvet here and there and with steel buttons abounding. She continually twisted her head to regard her puff sleeves, very stiff, straight, and high. They embarrassed her. It was quite apparent that she had cooked, and that she expected to cook, dutifully. The blushes caused by the careless scrutiny of some passengers as she had entered the car were strange to see upon this plain, under-class countenance, which was drawn in placid, almost emotionless lines.
They were evidently very happy. "Ever been in a parlor-car before?" he asked, smiling with delight.
"No," she answered, "I never was. It's fine, ain't it?"
"Great! And then after a while we'll go forward to the diner and get a big layout. Finest meal in the world. Charge a dollar."
"Oh, do they?" cried the bride. "Charge a dollar? Why, that's too much -- for us -- ain't it, Jack?"
"Not this trip, anyhow," he answered bravely. "We're going to go the whole thing."
Later, he explained to her about the trains. "You see, it's a thousand miles from one end of Texas to the other, and this train runs right across it and never stops but four times." He had the pride of an owner. He pointed out to her the dazzling fittings of the coach, and in truth her eyes opened wider as she contemplated the sea-green figured velvet, the shining brass, silver, and glass, the wood that gleamed as darkly brilliant as the surface of a pool of oil. At one end a bronze figure sturdily held a support for a separated chamber, and at convenient places on the ceiling were frescoes in olive and silver.
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To the minds of the pair, their surroundings reflected the glory of their marriage that morning in San Antonio. This was the environment of their new estate, and the man's face in particular beamed with an elation that made him appear ridiculous to the negro porter. This individual at times surveyed them from afar with an amused and superior grin. On other occasions he bullied them with skill in ways that did not make it exactly plain to them that they were being bullied. He subtly used all the manners of the most unconquerable kind of snobbery. He oppressed them, but of this oppression they had small knowledge, and they speedily forgot that infrequently a number of travelers covered them with stares of derisive enjoyment. Historically there was supposed to be something infinitely humorous in their situation.
"We are due in Yellow Sky at 3:42," he said, looking tenderly into her eyes.
"Oh, are we?" she said, as if she had not been aware of it. To evince surprise at her husband's statement was part of her wifely amiability. She took from a pocket a little silver watch, and as she held it before her and stared at it with a frown of attention, the new husband's face shone.
"I bought it in San Anton' from a friend of mine," he told her gleefully.
"It's seventeen minutes past twelve," she said, looking up at him with a kind of shy and clumsy coquetry. A passenger, noting this play, grew excessively sardonic, and winked at himself in one of the numerous mirrors.
TEXT №4
The Dancing Partnerby Jerome K. Jerome "This story," commenced MacShaugnassy, "comes from Furtwangen, a small town in the Black Forest. There lived there a very wonderful old fellow named Nicholaus Geibel. His business was the making of mechanical toys, at which work he had acquired an almost European reputation. He made rabbits thatwould emerge from the heart of a cabbage, flop their ears, smooth their whiskers, and disappear again; cats that would wash their faces, and mew so naturally that dogs would mistake them for real cats and fly at them; dolls with phonographs concealed within them, that would raise their hats and say, “Good morning; how do you do?” and some that would even sing a song. "But, he was something more than a mere mechanic; he was an artist. His work was with him a hobby, almost a passion. His shop was filled with all manner of strange things that never would, or could, be sold - things he had made for the pure love of making them. He had contrived a mechanical donkey that would trot for two hours by means of stored electricity, and trot, too, much faster than the live article, and with less need for exertion on the part of the driver, a bird that would shoot up into the air, fly round and round in a circle, and drop to earth at the exact spot from where it started; a skeleton that, supported by an upright iron bar, would dance a hornpipe, a life-size lady doll that could play the fiddle, and a gentleman with a hollow inside who could smoke a pipe and drink more lager beer than anythree average German students put together, which is saying much. "Indeed, it was the belief of the town that old Geibel could make a mancapable of doing everything that a respectable man need want to do. One dayhe made a man who did too much, and it came about in this way: "Young Doctor Follen had a baby, and the baby had a birthday. Its first birthday put Doctor Follen's household into somewhat of a flurry, but on the occasion of its second birthday, Mrs. Doctor Follen gave a ball in honour of the event. Old Geibel and his daughter Olga were among the guests. "During the afternoon of the next day some three or four of Olga's bosomfriends, who had also been present at the ball, dropped in to have a chat about it. They naturally fell to discussing the men, and to criticizing their dancing. Old Geibel was in the room, but he appeared to be absorbed in his newspaper, and the girls took no notice of him. "There seem to be fewer men who can dance at every ball you go to,' saidone of the girls. ''Yes, and don't the ones who can give themselves airs,' said another; 'theymake quite a favor of asking you.'' ''And how stupidly they talk,' added a third. ''They always say exactly thesame things: "How charming you are looking to-night." "Do you often go to Vienna? Oh, you should, it's delightful." "What a charming dress you have on." "What a warm day it has been." "Do you like Wagner?" ''I do wish they'd think of something new.'' ''Oh, I never mind how they talk,'' said a forth. ''If a man dances well he may be a fool for all I care.'' "He generally is,'' slipped in a thin girl, rather spitefully."I go to a ball to dance,'' continued the previous speaker, not noticing the interruption. ''All I ask is that he shall hold me firmly, take me round steadily, and not get tired before I do.'' "A clockwork figure would be the thing for you,'' said the girl who had interrupted. "Bravo!'' cried one of the others, clapping her hands, ''what a capital idea!'' "What's a capital idea?' they asked. "Why, a clockwork dancer, or, better still, one that would go by electricity and never run down.'' The girls took up the idea with enthusiasm."Oh, what a lovely partner he would make,' said one; ''he would never kick you, or tread on your toes.''"Or tear your dress,'' said another."Or get out of step.''"Or get giddy and lean on you.''"And he would never want to mop his face with his handkerchief. I do hateto see a man do that after every dance.''"And wouldn't want to spend the whole evening in the supper-room.'' "Why, with a phonograph inside him to grind out all the stock remarks, you would not be able to tell him from a real man,'' said the girl who had firstsuggested the idea. "Oh yes, you would,'' said the thin girl, ''he would be so much nicer.'' Old Geibel had laid down his paper, and was listening with both his ears.On one of the girls glancing in his direction, however, he hurriedly hid himself again behind it. After the girls were gone, he went into his workshop, where Olga heard him walking up and down, and every now and then chuckling to himself; and thatnight he talked to her a good deal about dancing and dancing men – asked what dances were most popular - what steps were gone through, with many other questions bearing on the subject. Then for a couple of weeks he kept much to his factory, and was verythoughtful and busy, though prone at unexpected moments to break into a quiet low laugh, as if enjoying a joke that nobody else knew of. A month later another ball took place in Furtwangen. On this occasion itwas given by old Wenzel, the wealthy timber merchant, to celebrate his niece's betrothal, and Geibel and his daughter were again among the invited. TEXT № 5 The Traveller’s Story of a Terribly Strange Bedby Wilkie Collins Shortly after my education at college was finished, I happened to be staying at Paris with an English friend. We were both young men then, and lived, I am afraid, rather a wild life, in the delightful city of our sojourn. One night we were idling about the neighborhood of the Palais Royal, doubtful to what amusement we should next betake ourselves. My friend proposed a visit to Frascati's; but his suggestion was not to my taste. I knew Frascati's, as the French saying is, by heart; had lost and won plenty of five-franc pieces there, merely for amusement's sake, until it was amusement no longer, and was thoroughly tired, in fact, of all the ghastly respectabilities of such a social anomaly as a respectable gambling-house. "For Heaven's sake," said I to my friend, "let us go somewhere where we can see a little genuine, blackguard, poverty-stricken gaming with no false gingerbread glitter thrown over it all. Let us get away from fashionable Frascati's, to a house where they don't mind letting in a man with a ragged coat, or a man with no coat, ragged or otherwise." "Very well," said my friend, "we needn't go out of the Palais Royal to find the sort of company you want. Here's the place just before us; as blackguard a place, by all report, as you could possibly wish to see." In another minute we arrived at the door, and entered the house, the back of which you have drawn in your sketch. When we got upstairs, and had left our hats and sticks with the doorkeeper, we were admitted into the chief gambling-room. We did not find many people assembled there. But, few as the men were who looked up at us on our entrance, they were all types--lamentably true types - of their respective classes.We had come to see blackguards; but these men were something worse. There is a comic side, more or less appreciable, in all blackguardism - here there was nothing but tragedy--mute, weird tragedy. The quiet in the room was horrible.The thin, haggard, long-haired young man, whose sunken eyes fiercely watched the turning up of the cards, never spoke; the flabby, fat-faced, pimply player, who pricked his piece of pasteboard perseveringly, to register how often black won, and how often red--never spoke; the dirty, wrinkled old man, with the vulture eyes and the darned great-coat, who had lost his last soul, and still looked on desperately, after he could play no longer - never spoke. Even the voice of the croupier sounded as if it were strangely dulled and thickened in the atmosphere of the room. I had entered the place to laugh, but the spectacle before me was something to weep over. I soon found it necessary to take refuge in excitement from the depression of spirits which was fast stealing on me. Unfortunately I sought the nearest excitement, by going to the table and beginning to play. Still more unfortunately, as the event will show, I won - won prodigiously; won incredibly; won at such a rate that the regular players at the table crowded round me; and staring at my stakes with hungry, superstitious eyes, whispered to one another that the English stranger was going to break the bank. The game was Rouge et Noir. I had played at it in every city in Europe,without, however, the care or the wish to study the Theory of Chances – that philosopher's stone of all gamblers! And a gambler, in the strict sense of the word, I had never been. I was heart-whole from the corroding passion for play. My gaming was a mere idle amusement. I never resorted to it by necessity, because I never knew what it was to want money. I never practiced it so incessantly as to lose more than I could afford, or to gain more than I could coolly pocket without being thrown off my balance by my good luck. In short, I had hitherto frequented gambling-tables--just as I frequented ball-rooms and opera-houses--because they amused me, and because I had nothing better to do with my leisure hours. But on this occasion it was very different - now, for the first time in mylife, I felt what the passion for play really was. My success first bewildered, and then, in the most literal meaning of the word, intoxicated me. Incredible as it may appear, it is nevertheless true, that I only lost when I attempted to estimate chances, and played according to previous calculation. If I left everything to luck, and staked without any care or consideration, I was sure to win--to win in the face of every recognized probability in favor of the bank. At first some of the men present ventured their money safely enough on my color; but I speedily increased my stakes to sums which they dared not risk. One after another they left off playing, and breathlessly looked on at my game. Still, time after time, I staked higher and higher, and still won. The excitement in the room rose to fever pitch. The silence was interrupted by a deep-muttered chorus of oaths and exclamations in different languages, every time the gold was shoveled across to my side of the table - even the imperturbable croupier dashed his rake on the floor in a (French) fury of astonishment at my success. But one man present preserved his self-possession, and that man was my friend. He came to my side, and whispering in English, begged me to leave the place, satisfied with what I had already gained. I must do him the justice to say that he repeated his warnings and entreaties several times, and only left me and went away after I had rejected his advice (I was to all intents and purposes gambling drunk) in terms which rendered it impossible for him to address me again that night. Shortly after he had gone, a hoarse voice behind me cried: "Permit me, my dear sir - permit me to restore to their proper place two napoleons which you have dropped. Wonderful luck, sir! I pledge you my word of honor, as an old soldier, in the course of my long experience in this sort of thing, I never saw such luck as yours - never! Go on, sir - SacrŽ mille bombes! Go on boldly, and break the bank!" I turned round and saw, nodding and smiling at me with inveterate civility, a tall man, dressed in a frogged and braided surtout. If I had been in my senses, I should have considered him, personally, as being rather a suspicious specimen of an old soldier. He had goggling, bloodshot eyes, mangy mustaches, and a broken nose. His voice betrayed a barrack-room intonation of the worst order, and he had the dirtiest pair of hands I ever saw - even in France. These little personal peculiarities exercised, however, no repelling influence on me. In the mad excitement, the reckless triumph of that moment, I was ready to "fraternize" with anybody who encouraged me in my game. I accepted the old soldier's offered pinch of snuff; clapped him on the back, and swore he was the honestest fellow in the world--the most glorious relic of the Grand Army that I had ever met with. "Go on!" cried my military friend, snapping his fingers in ecstasy--"Go on, and win! Break the bank--Mille tonnerres! My gallant English comrade, break the bank!" And I did go on - went on at such a rate, that in another quarter of an hour the croupier called out, "Gentlemen, the bank has discontinued for to-night." All the notes, and all the gold in that "bank," now lay in a heap under my hands; the whole floating capital of the gambling-house was waiting to pour into my pockets!
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СОДЕРЖАНИЕ
ПОЯСНИТЕЛЬНАЯ ЗАПИСКА............................................................ 5
МЕТОДИЧЕСКИЕ РЕКОМЕНДАЦИИ............................................... 7
РАЗДЕЛ 1: ОБЩЕСТВЕННО-ПОЛИТИЧЕСКИЕ ТЕКСТЫ................. 8
РАЗДЕЛ 2: ЭКОНОМИЧЕСКИЕ ТЕКСТЫ............................................. 19
РАЗДЕЛ 3: НАУЧНО-ТЕХНИЧЕСКИЕ ТЕКСТЫ.................................. 32
РАЗДЕЛ 4: ЮРИДИЧЕСКИЕ ТЕКСТЫ.................................................. 49
РАЗДЕЛ 5: МЕДИЦИНСКИЕ ТЕКСТЫ.................................................. 61
РАЗДЕЛ 6: ДОКУМЕНТЫ ФИЗИЧЕСКИХ И ЮРИДИЧЕСКИХ ЛИЦ 72
РАЗДЕЛ 7: РЕКЛАМНЫЕ ТЕКСТЫ....................................................... 75
РАЗДЕЛ 8: ХУДОЖЕСТВЕННЫЕ ТЕКСТЫ.......................................... 95
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