SEMESTER – III

Part II English Poetry, Prose, Extensive Reading and Communicative English - III
Course Code: 24UGEN31 Hrs / Week: 6 Hrs / Semester: 90 Credits:3

Unit I – Poem
William Blake (1757- 1827) : A Poison Tree
Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792- 1822) : Ozymandias
William Wordsworth (1770- 1850) : The Stolen Boat
Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941) : Fairyland
W.H. Davies (1871-1940) : Leisure

Unit II – Prose
A.G. Gardiner (1865- 1946) : On Cats and Dogs
Anees Jung (1944- Present) : Lost Spring

Unit III – Short Story

Leo Tolstoy (1828 – 1910) : How Much Land Does a Man Need
O’ Henry (1862- 1910) : The Gift of the Magi
Washington Irving (1783 – 1859) : Rip Van Wrinkle

Unit IV – Grammar
Phrasal Verbs & Idioms Modals and Auxiliaries
Verb Phrases – Gerund, Participle and Infinitives

Unit V – Composition / Writing Skills

Brochures for Programmes and Events (Drafting Invitations)
Official Correspondence – Leave Letter, Letter of Application & Permission Letter

Text Books (Latest Editions)

Joseph, K.V. A Textbook of English Grammar and Usage. Chennai: Vijay Nicole Imprints
Private Limited, 2006.
Green, David. Contemporary English Grammar Structures and Composition. 2nd Edition.
Bengaluru: Trinity Press, 1971.

Open Educational Resources

[Link]
[Link] [Link]

1
 A Poison Tree – William Blake

William Blake was born in London on November 28, 1757, to James, a hosier, and Catherine
Blake. Two of his six siblings died in infancy. From early
childhood, Blake spoke of having visions—at four he
saw God “put his head to the window”; around age nine,
while walking through the countryside, he saw a tree
filled with angels. Although his parents tried to
discourage him from “lying,” they did observe that he
was different from his peers and did not force him to
attend a conventional school. Instead, he learned to read
and write at home. At age ten, Blake expressed a wish to
become a painter; so, his parents sent him to drawing
school. Two years later, Blake began writing poetry.
When he turned fourteen, he apprenticed with an
engraver because art school proved too costly. He was known for his unique and imaginative
works that blended poetry and visual art. He was a key figure in the Romantic movement,
which emphasized emotion, imagination, and individual experience. Blake's most famous
works include the " Songs of Innocence, in 1789 and followed it, in 1794, with Songs of
Experience," “The French Revolution” (1791), “America, a Prophecy” (1793), “Visions of the
Daughters of Albion” (1793), and “Europe, a Prophecy” (1794). Blake believed that his
poetry could be read and understood by common people, but he was determined not to
sacrifice his vision in order to become popular. His final years were made comfortable and
productive through his friendship with John Linnell, who introduced him to patrons like
Robert John Thornton. Despite a decline in physical health, Blake remained mentally sharp,
continuing to work on his art until shortly before his death. He died peacefully on August 12,
1827, surrounded by loved ones, and his final words were reportedly about his anticipation of
entering the "country" he had always wished to see.

A Poison Tree

I was angry with my friend;

I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I waterd it in fears,

Night & morning with my tears:
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night.

Till it bore an apple bright.
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine.

And into my garden stole,

When the night had veild the pole;
In the morning glad I see;
My foe outstretched beneath the tree.

2
Glossary

Water’d – Nourished or fed, especially with water (used metaphorically for emotions).
Sunned – Exposed to sunlight; here, it means helping something grow with attention.
Deceitful – Dishonest; meant to mislead or hide the truth.
Wiles – Clever tricks or strategies meant to deceive someone.
Beheld – Saw or observed (past tense of "behold").
Stole – Moved quietly or secretly (past tense of "steal").
Veil’d – Covered or hidden from view (poetic form of "veiled").
Foe – Enemy or opponent.
Outstretched – Spread or extended fully.
Beneath – Under or lower than something.

Summary

William Blake’s “A Poison Tree” is a short but deeply symbolic poem that explores the
destructive effects of suppressed anger and the human tendency to hide true emotions. Blake,
the speaker expressed his anger with a friend. It was resolved and they were reunited. It
reflects the healthy way of dealing with emotions—through communication and
reconciliation. In contrast, the speaker describes being angry with an enemy but he chooses to
suppress the emotion. He allows the anger to grow by feeding it with fear, tears, and deceit.
But anger, rather than fading away, festers within and becomes stronger over time.

Blake uses the symbolization of a tree to symbolize wrath. The anger takes root in the
speaker’s heart and is nurtured like a plant. The speaker metaphorically “waters” it day and
night with his fears and negative thoughts, and “suns” it with his fake smiles and tricks. The
tree of anger grows and eventually bears fruit—a bright, shiny apple. The apple is not
ordinary; it is poisoned, symbolizing the deadly consequences of repressed emotions.

The enemy, unaware of the danger and attracted by the beauty of the fruit, sneaks into the
speaker’s garden at night and eats the apple. In the morning, the speaker finds the enemy
lying dead under the tree. Though the speaker says this without emotion, the tone implies a
cold satisfaction at the enemy’s fate.

The poet has a moral that if anger, is openly acknowledged and resolved, it loses its power.
But when it is hidden and nurtured in silence, it creates destruction. Blake shows that the real
danger lies not in feeling anger, which is a natural human emotion, but in refusing to express
it. When a person hides the emotions, it can harm himself and others.

Blake’s use of simple language and strong imagery makes the poem accessible yet profound.
The apple reminds readers of the Biblical story of Adam and Eve—another instance of
temptation leading to downfall. This connection adds depth to the poem, suggesting that the
poisoned fruit of anger can lead to moral and spiritual destruction, just as it led to death in the
poem.

In conclusion, “A Poison Tree,” is a moral and psychological exploration of how hidden

emotions can be more dangerous than those expressed. Blake warns readers about the
consequences of bottling up anger and choosing revenge over resolution. Blake urges the
readers to speak honestly, forgive when possible, and not let anger take roots and create
destruction in lives.

3
 Ozymandias - Percy Bysshe Shelley

Percy Bysshe Shelley (born Aug. 4, 1792, Field Place, near Horsham, Sussex, England. He
was an English Romantic poet whose passionate
search for personal love and social justice was
gradually channeled from overt actions into poems
that rank with the greatest in the English language.
He was one of the most important English Romantic
poets known for his passionate expression,
revolutionary ideas, and lyrical style. Shelley often
wrote about themes like nature, freedom, love, and
the impermanence of power. Some of his famous
works include Ozymandias, To a Skylark, and Ode to
the West Wind. He believed in the power of
imagination and poetry to bring social change. Though he was not widely recognized during
his lifetime, Shelley is now celebrated as one of the greatest poets in English literature.

Percy Bysshe Shelley’s Ozymandias’ was first published in 1818 in The Examiner of London
under Shelley’s pen name, “Gilrastes.” In this sonnet, Shelley’s speaker encounters a traveler
from an antique land. The traveler describes the colossal wreckage of a great pharaoh’s statue.
He not only notices how the parts of the statue stand on the sand but also depicts the
surroundings. Collectively, the desert and the worn-out statue hint at the central idea of the
sonnet, the futility of human actions. It also taps on the themes of the impermanence of
power, fate, and the inevitability of rulers’ fall.

I met a traveller from an antique land,

Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal, these words appear:
My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”

Glossary:

Antique- old
trunkless- without the upper body (the main part of the body of a human being or an animal,
excluding the head, neck, and limbs)
sunk- to descend below the surface of something
shattered -broken into pieces
visage - face
frown - expression of anger or displeasure
wrinkled - marks of lines or folds

4
 sneer - facial expression of scorn or hostility in which the upper lip may be raised
cold- without feelings for others
command- domination or control
sculptor- an artist who makes sculptures
passions- refers to the expressions on the king’s face
read- interpreted
survive- continue to exist after his death
stamped- sculpted, printed or engraved
mocked -to copy something
pedestal- the base or support on which a statue stands.
colossal - extremely large or huge.
Wreck – The remains of something that has been destroyed or ruined.

Summary:

"Ozymandias" is a powerful sonnet written by Percy Bysshe Shelley that explores the decline
of all leaders and empires, no matter how mighty they once were. The poem presents a
valuablemessage on human pride, ambition, and the impermanence of power.

The poem begins with the speaker recounting a story told to him by a traveller from a distant
land. This traveller describes the ruins of a once-great statue that he saw in the desert. The
statue was of Ozymandias, a powerful king who once ruled over a vast empire. All that
remains of the statue now are two trunkless legs of stone standing in the sand and a shattered
face (visage) lying nearby, half-buried in the desert.

The face of the statue still carries the expression of the sculpted king, with a frown, a wrinkled
lip, and a sneer of cold command. The expression reveals the arrogance and proud nature of
Ozymandias, a ruler who thought himself all-powerful and invincible. The sculptor had
skillfully captured these emotions, and even though the statue is now broken, the "passions"
of the king still survive through the art carved into stone.

Around the ruins of the statue, there is nothing but endless, "boundless and bare" sand. All
the power and greatness Ozymandias once had is gone, leaving only a "colossal wreck" in the
empty desert. The statue, once meant to glorify the king, now stands as a symbol of decay and
forgotten pride.

Shelley warns the readers about the dangers of arrogance and the false belief in everlasting
power. No matter how powerful a ruler may be, time will eventually erase all traces of their
might. The poem reflects the insignificance of man in the face of nature and time. It also
subtly criticizes rulers who abuse their power and forget their responsibility to humanity.

In conclusion, "Ozymandias" is not just about a fallen statue, but about the fall of human
ambition. It reminds us that no matter how great our achievements seem, they too will fade
with time. Only art and nature remain as silent witnesses to the rise and fall of human
empires.

5
 The Stolen Boat
William Wordsworth

William Wordsworth was a leading English Romantic

poet, born on April 7, 1770, in Cockermouth,
Cumberland, and died on April 23, 1850. He is
renowned for his poems celebrating nature and his
exploration of human emotion and memory. His
collaboration with Samuel Taylor Coleridge on Lyrical
Ballads in 1798 is considered a foundational text of the
Romantic movement in English literature.
Early Life and Education: Wordsworth's early life was
marked by the deaths of both parents, which deeply
affected him and led to a period of loneliness and
anxiety. He attended Hawkshead Grammar School and
later St. John's College, Cambridge. His experiences in France during the French Revolution,
where he supported the republican movement, also significantly shaped his worldview.
Literary Career: Wordsworth is best known for his nature poetry, often reflecting on the
beauty of the Lake District where he spent much of his life. His most famous works include
Tintern Abbey, Ode: Intimations of Immortality, and The Prelude, an autobiographical poem
exploring his personal growth and his relationship with nature. He also collaborated with
Coleridge on Lyrical Ballads, a collection that introduced revolutionary poetic ideas about
language and subject matter.
Later Life: Wordsworth served as Poet Laureate of the United Kingdom from 1843 until his
death in 1850. He received honorary degrees from Durham and Oxford, solidifying his status
as a celebrated literary figure
The Stolen Boat

One summer evening (led by her) I found

A little boat tied to a willow tree
Within a rocky cave, its usual home.

Straight I unloosed her chain, and stepping in

Pushed from the shore. It was an act of stealth
And troubled pleasure, nor without the voice
Of mountain-echoes did my boat move on;
Leaving behind her still, on either side,
Small circles glittering idly in the moon,
Until they melted all into one track
Of sparkling light. But now, like one who rows,
Proud of his skill, to reach a chosen point
With an unswerving line, I fixed my view
Upon the summit of a craggy ridge,
The horizon's utmost boundary; far above
Was nothing but the stars and the grey sky.
She was an elfin pinnace; lustily

6
I dipped my oars into the silent lake,
And, as I rose upon the stroke, my boat
Went heaving through the water like a swan;
When, from behind that craggy steep till then
The horizon's bound, a huge peak, black and huge,
As if with voluntary power instinct,
Upreared its head. I struck and struck again,
And growing still in stature the grim shape
Towered up between me and the stars, and still,
For so it seemed, with purpose of its own
And measured motion like a living thing,

Strode after me. With trembling oars I turned,

And through the silent water stole my way
Back to the covert of the willow tree;

There in her mooring-place I left my bark,--

And through the meadows homeward went, in grave

And serious mood; but after I had seen 390
That spectacle, for many days, my brain
Worked with a dim and undetermined sense
Of unknown modes of being; o'er my thoughts
There hung a darkness, call it solitude
Or blank desertion. No familiar shapes
Remained, no pleasant images of trees,
Of sea or sky, no colours of green fields;
But huge and mighty forms, that do not live

Like living men, moved slowly through the mind

By day, and were a trouble to my dreams.

7
 The Stolen Boat: A Reflection on Nature and Self in Wordsworth's "The Prelude"

Introduction: William Wordsworth's "The Prelude" is a seminal work in English literature

that captures the poet's reflections on his life and the natural world. One of the most poignant
episodes within this epic is "The Stolen Boat," which serves as a crucial moment of self-
discovery and a profound encounter with the sublime power of nature. This episode not only
highlights Wordsworth's Romantic ideals but also delves deep into the human psyche, revealing
the transformative impact of nature on the individual's inner world.

The Adventure and the Act of Transgression: The passage begins with a young
Wordsworth engaging in a seemingly innocent act of adventure: taking a boat without
permission. This act of transgression sets the stage for a deeper exploration of human
consciousness. The initial joy and exhilaration Wordsworth feels as he rows away from the
shore reflect the youthful spirit of adventure and the desire to explore the unknown. This
phase of the journey symbolizes innocence and the carefree nature of childhood, unburdened by
the weight of moral consequences.

The Sublime Encounter: As Wordsworth rows further into the lake, he becomes increasingly
aware of the natural world's grandeur around him. The poem's imagery shifts dramatically as he
describes the "huge peak, black and huge," that seems to rise from the water and grow larger as
he approaches. This encounter with the towering mountain is a quintessential Romantic
moment, where nature's sublime power overwhelms the individual. The peak's sudden and
imposing presence evokes a sense of awe and fear, transforming Wordsworth's initial
excitement into dread and reverence.

The mountain, personified as a living, breathing entity, embodies the sublime—an aesthetic
concept central to Romanticism that refers to the simultaneous experience of beauty and
terror. This moment of confrontation with the sublime forces Wordsworth to reckon with his
own insignificance and the vastness of the natural world. It becomes a moment of profound
self-awareness and introspection, where the young poet recognizes the limits of his power and
control.

The Return and Moral Reflection: Overwhelmed by fear and a sense of guilt, Wordsworth
turns the boat around and hastily returns it to its rightful place. This act of retreat is not merely
a physical movement but a symbolic return to a state of moral consciousness. The stolen boat
episode becomes a moment of moral reckoning, where Wordsworth acknowledges the weight
of his transgression and the importance of respecting the natural world.

The impact of this experience lingers in Wordsworth's memory, shaping his understanding of
nature and his place within it. The episode teaches him about the profound
interconnectedness between humans and the environment, highlighting the need for humility
and reverence. Wordsworth's reflections on this event illustrate the transformative power of
nature, which not only inspires awe and wonder but also serves as a catalyst for personal growth
and moral development.

Conclusion: "The Stolen Boat" episode in "The Prelude" encapsulates many of the themes
central to Wordsworth's poetic vision: the innocence of childhood, the sublime power of
nature, and the moral and spiritual growth that arises from personal experiences. Through
vivid imagery and emotional depth, Wordsworth conveys the lasting impact of this formative
encounter, demonstrating how moments of awe and fear can lead to profound self-discovery
and a deeper appreciation for the natural world. It is a powerful testament to the enduring
influence of nature on the human soul, a core tenet of Wordsworth's Romantic philosophy.
8
 Fairyland
Rabindranath Tagore

Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941) was the youngest son of Debendranath Tagore, a leader of
the Brahmo Samaj, which was a new religious sect in nineteenth-century Bengal and which
attempted a revival of the ultimate monistic basis of Hinduism
as laid down in the Upanishads. He was educated at home;
and although at seventeen he was sent to England for formal
schooling, he did not finish his studies there. In his mature
years, in addition to his many-sided literary activities, he
managed the family estates, a project which brought him into
close touch with common humanity and increased his interest
in social reforms. He also started an experimental school at
Shantiniketan where he tried his Upanishadic ideals of
education. From time to time he participated in the Indian
nationalist movement, though in his own non-sentimental and
visionary way; and Gandhi, the political father of modern
India, was his devoted friend. Tagore was knighted by the
ruling British Government in 1915, but within a few years he
resigned the honour as a protest against British policies in
India.

Tagore had early success as a writer in his native Bengal. With his translations of some of his
poems he became rapidly known in the West. In fact his fame attained a luminous height,
taking him across continents on lecture tours and tours of friendship. For the world he became
the voice of India’s spiritual heritage; and for India, especially for Bengal, he became a great
living institution.

Although Tagore wrote successfully in all literary genres, he was first of all a poet. Among
his fifty and odd volumes of poetry are Manasi (1890) [The Ideal One], Sonar Tari (1894)
[The Golden Boat], Gitanjali (1910) [Song Offerings], Gitimalya (1914) [Wreath of Songs],
and Balaka (1916) [The Flight of Cranes]. The English renderings of his poetry, which
include The Gardener (1913), Fruit-Gathering (1916), and The Fugitive (1921), do not
generally correspond to particular volumes in the original Bengali; and in spite of its
title, Gitanjali: Song Offerings (1912), the most acclaimed of them, contains poems from
other works besides its namesake. Tagore’s major plays are Raja (1910) [The King of the
Dark Chamber], Dakghar (1912) [The Post Office], Achalayatan (1912) [The
Immovable], Muktadhara (1922) [The Waterfall], and Raktakaravi (1926) [Red Oleanders].
He is the author of several volumes of short stories and a number of novels, among
them Gora (1910), Ghare-Baire (1916) [The Home and the World], and Yogayog (1929)
[Crosscurrents]. Besides these, he wrote musical dramas, dance dramas, essays of all types,
travel diaries, and two autobiographies, one in his middle years and the other shortly before
his death in 1941. Tagore also left numerous drawings and paintings, and songs for which he
wrote the music himself. Rabindranath Tagore died on August 7, 1941.

9
 Fairy Land
If people came to know where my king's palace is, it would vanish
into the air.
The walls are of white silver and the roof of shining gold.
The queen lives in a palace with seven courtyards, and she
wears a jewel that cost all the wealth of seven kingdoms.
But let me tell you, mother, in a whisper, where my king's
palace is.
It is at the corner of our terrace where the pot of the tulsi
plant stands.
The princess lies sleeping on the far-away shore of the seven
impassable seas.
There is none in the world who can find her but myself.
She has bracelets on her arms and pearl drops in her ears; her
hair sweeps down upon the floor.
She will wake when I touch her with my magic wand and jewels
will fall from her lips when she smiles.
But let me whisper in your ear, mother; she is there in the
corner of our terrace where the pot of the tulsi plant stands.
When it is time for you to go to the river for your bath, step
up to that terrace on the roof.
I sit in the corner where the shadow of the walls meet
together.
Only puss is allowed to come with me, for she know where the
barber in the story lives.
But let me whisper, mother, in your ear where the barber in
the story lives.
It is at the corner of the terrace where the pot of the tulsi
plant stands.

10
 Exploring the Ethereal: An Analysis of Rabindranath Tagore’s "Fairyland”

Introduction: Rabindranath Tagore, a luminary in the world of literature, often delved into
themes of nature, spirituality, and the ethereal. His poem "Fairyland" is a remarkable piece
that captures the whimsical beauty and profound wonder of a fantastical realm. Through his
masterful use of imagery, language, and thematic depth, Tagore invites readers into a world
that transcends the ordinary, offering a glimpse into the magical and the divine.

Imagery and Language:Tagore’s "Fairyland" is rich with vivid imagery that brings the
fantastical world to life. He describes scenes with a painter’s precision, using words to create
a tapestry of colors and sensations that evoke the enchanting nature of the realm he envisions.
The landscapes in "Fairyland" are painted with hues of light and shadow, where every
element, from the whispering trees to the glistening streams, is imbued with a sense of magic.

The language in "Fairyland" is lyrical and flowing, mirroring the gentle, dream-like quality of
the world Tagore describes. His use of rhythm and cadence enhances the ethereal atmosphere,
allowing readers to be carried along on a wave of poetic beauty. The poem’s musicality is a
testament to Tagore’s skill as a poet, creating a sense of harmony and peace that permeates the
entire piece.

Themes of Wonder and Innocence: At the heart of "Fairyland" is a deep sense of wonder and
innocence. Tagore’s portrayal of this magical realm is infused with a child-like awe, reflecting
a pure and untainted appreciation for the beauty of the world. This theme is reminiscent of the
Romantic idealization of nature and the belief in the inherent goodness and purity of the
natural world.

In "Fairyland," Tagore explores the idea that such a realm exists beyond the reach of adult
understanding, accessible only through the eyes of a child or the imagination. This notion is
echoed in lines that suggest a return to innocence and a rekindling of the ability to see the
world with fresh, unspoiled eyes. Tagore’s fairyland is a sanctuary of purity and simplicity,
where the complexities and corruptions of the real world have no place.

Spiritual and Mystical Elements: Tagore’s work is often characterized by its spiritual and
mystical dimensions, and "Fairyland" is no exception. The poem is imbued with a sense of the
divine, where the natural world and the spiritual realm are seamlessly intertwined. Tagore’s
fairyland is not just a place of physical beauty but also a space of spiritual refuge and
enlightenment.

The presence of spiritual themes in "Fairyland" reflects Tagore’s belief in the

interconnectedness of all things and the presence of the divine in the natural world. His
depiction of this magical realm serves as a reminder of the deeper truths and mysteries that lie
beneath the surface of everyday life. Tagore’s fairyland is a place where the soul can find solace
and inspiration, where the boundaries between the material and the spiritual are blurred.

A Journey to the Heart of Wonder: Rabindranath Tagore’s "Fairyland" is a poetic

masterpiece that captures the essence of wonder, innocence, and spirituality. Through his
evocative imagery, lyrical language, and profound themes, Tagore creates a world that
transcends the ordinary and invites readers into a space of enchantment and reflection.
"Fairyland" is not just a depiction of a fantastical realm but a journey into the heart of what it
means to see the world with awe and reverence. Tagore’s poem serves as a timeless reminder
of the beauty and mystery that lie all around us, waiting to be discovered through the eyes of
imagination and the soul of wonder.

11
 Analysis of Rabindranath Tagore’s “Fairyland”
The “Fairy Land” by Rabindranath Tagore is a poem that affords interpretations of
different dimensions. It can be interpreted at three levels: fantasy, spiritual and creative. At
the first level, a child’s imagination is at play. The child fantasizes the world as a secret
kingdom. The lines, “If people came to know where my king’s palace is, it would vanish/ into
the air,” shows that the dreamer’s world belongs to him alone and marks the transient nature
of dreams. The grandeur of the child’s imagination rests on the description of walls as “of
white silver and the roof of shining gold”. The magnificence and splendour is further built
on the imagination, that the queen lives in a palace with seven courtyard and wears “a jewel
that cost all the wealth of seven kingdoms”. The child tells about her dream princess who lies
far-away on the shore of seven impassable seas. Again she says, no one but she alone can find
her, symbolizing the elusive nature of the child’s [Link] magnificence of the princess
rests on the description of the rich jewellery she wears, and how the child’s touch makes her
to respond. The child possesses a magic wand that can awaken the princess and make jewels
fall from her lips, hinting at the transformative power of imagination. It might also denote,
that the precious jewels may represent the sounds emanating from the lips. They are like
jewels so precious to her.
The charm still more lies in the endearment of the child telling its mother where the
king’s palace, and the princesses dwelling is. It likes to confide the secret world of her
imagination to its mother only. No matter how private and self-centered the child’s dream
world might be, the only one who can come closer is the mother alone. The child calls her
mother to come and see where she loves to reside, before she went to have her bath in the
river. She lets her mother know, that her land of dreams, the palace, the princesses’ dwelling
is nowhere but, “in the corner of our terrace where the pot of the tulsi plant stands.”
The loneliness of the child is apparent with the child living secluded, followed by the
cat as a companion, to whom she tells the story of the barber. Now the child is ready to share
where the barber in the story lives to her mother. The barber’s house also dwells “at the
corner of the terrace where the pot of the tulsi plant stands,” she says. The poem’s simple
language and repeated whispers evoke the child’s eagerness to share its secret while
maintaining its exclusivity.
The poem can be read in the narrator, Tagore’s point of view. The spiritual element
can be felt between the lines, which are rich in imagery. This simple but deep reaching poem
touches and weaves the spiritual and the material, profane and the sacred, and most of all the
sublime and the mundane. The king’s palace, the princesses far-away land, the place on the
terrace, that is home, and the shift to where the barber resides, show case the range of space
humans both the high and lowly inhabit. Despite their distance and proximity, they converge
at one place only, and that is where the tulsi plant stands.
Tulsi symbolises the dwelling of God, and before Him all are equal, from king to
barber. Therefore, the narrator, finds the place on the terrace where the tulsi stands a secure
one. Tulsi plant in Indian homes symbolizes fortune, repels negativity, encourages immunity,
symbolizes love and devotion, and brings positivity and good health. In such an atmosphere
the narrator seeks the enlightenment of equality. All become equally important to him. When
he speaks of the unattainable king, far-reaching princess, eluding mother, the anonymous
barber, and the animal world represented by cat all take a dwelling in his heart. The narrator’s
spiritual state is obvious, in the transcending metaphysical experience he gains with the
godhead, who takes all forms and resides in the plant world represented by the tulsi.
Configuration of space denoted by the seven courtyard, seven kingdoms and seven
seas, signify the spiritual power associated with number ‘seven’ in all religions. It represents,
completeness, perfection and abundance, security and peace. It is also said to stand for the
union of the four physical elements (earth, water, air, fire) and three spiritual realms (earth,
mid heaven and paradise), where the godhead dwells. The grandeur of images evolved around

12
the imperial, as portrayed by the narrator, expresses the exotic paraphernalia against the pot
that holds the tulsi, representing the mundane and earthy.
The narrator’s intent to whisper the secrets of his dreams to his mother, throw a
psychological insight into the poet’s longing for his mother’s concern. She passed away when
he was just six years old. Rabindranath Tagore expressed his pain about not receiving
adequate love, care and affection from her. “Never got to see Ma from close quarters”. In
1908, Tagore spoke about a dream sitting in a temple of Santiniketan, when he felt that was
motherless since childhood. Even when he grew up, his mother seemed mostly non-existent
for him. He says, “Last night, I saw that I am still stuck in childhood. Ma is sitting in a room
of a farm house just beside the Ganga. She was there as always without making her presence
felt. Without paying any heed to her, I passed by. When I reached the balcony, I went to the
balcony and something struck me. I went inside and touched her feet. She touched my hand
and said, ‘You have come!’ This is where the dream ended.” What he did not get in real life,
he gets it fulfilled in his dreams what in Freudian terms ‘wish fulfillment’. In “Fairyland” he
desires his mother to come closer to him the closeness he deserved and desired as a child.
“Fairyland” can be also held as a reflection of the narrator’s poetic process. Tagore is
akin to William Wordsworth regarding the creative unity of imagination. In the introduction
to his writing “Creative Unity” Tagore writes, “This One in me knows the universe of the
many. But, in whatever it knows, it knows the One in different aspects”. He goes on to say,
“This One in me is creative. Its creations are a pastime, through which it gives expression to
an ideal of unity in its endless show of variety.” This probably is the variety exhibited in the
poem, from king to the barber, palace to the terrace underscoring the intertwining of reality
and fantasy, thereby celebrating childhood imagination. The poet’s sojourn in the fairy land
thus encompasses his world of imagination and makes his creative output flower with
luxuriant imagination.

13
 Leisure
W H Davies
Poet and writer William Henry Davies was born in Newport, Wales. His father died when he
was three years old, and after his mother’s subsequent remarriage, Davies was raised by his
grandparents. He attended school until age 14 and then
apprenticed with a picture framer while attending night
school. At age 22, with a small inheritance, he boarded a
ship to New York and spent the following six years train
hopping across the United States and Canada, supporting
himself through casual labor and panhandling. After a
March 1899 train hopping injury that necessitated the
amputation of his right leg below the knee, Davies returned
to Wales and then settled in London, where he devoted his
time to writing poetry.

In his poems, grounded in realism, Davies often engaged themes of hardship, the natural
world, and city life. His 20 collections of poetry include The Soul’s Destroyer and Other
Poems (1905), Nature Poems and Others (1908), Foliage (1913), and The Bird of Paradise
and Other Poems (1914). After serving as apprentice to a picture framer, Davies tramped
through the United States, crossed the Atlantic many times on cattle boats, lost a foot while
trying to jump a train headed for the Klondike region in Canada, became a peddler and street
singer in England. The Autobiography of a Super-Tramp (1907)—the best known of his prose
works—appeared with a preface by George Bernard Shaw, followed by Nature Poems and
Others (1908). His poetry includes Forty New Poems (1918), Poems 1930–31 (1932), and The
Loneliest Mountain (1939). The first of the collected editions appeared in 1916. Although his
work achieved wide popularity, Davies lived the life of a recluse. His Collected
Poems appeared in 1942. Davies received an honorary doctorate from the University of Wales
and is honored by a plaque at the Church House Inn in Newport, Wales. A selection of his
papers and manuscripts is held at the National Library of Wales.

WHAT is this life if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare?—

No time to stand beneath the boughs,

And stare as long as sheep and cows:

No time to see, when woods we pass,

Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass:

No time to see, in broad daylight,

Streams full of stars, like skies at night:

No time to turn at Beauty's glance,

And watch her feet, how they can dance:

No time to wait till her mouth can

Enrich that smile her eyes began?

A poor life this if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare.
14
 Analysis
"Leisure" first appeared in W. H. Davies's 1911 collection, Songs of Joy and Others. The
speaker argues that a life without leisure is really no life at all. Excessive "care" (anxiety,
worries, and general busyness) threatens to distract people from the beauty of the world, and
the poem encourages readers to slow down and appreciate the natural wonders that exist all
around them. With its steady iambic meter and use of rhyming couplets, "Leisure" has a
sweet, lighthearted music that makes its message all the more memorable.
W. H. Davies's "Leisure" urges readers to relax, reflect, and simply be present rather
than spend all their time rushing around and worrying. People's lives lose purpose, the
speaker, suggests, if they do not "stop and stare" at the world. In short, the speaker insists that
life is there to be enjoyed and appreciated—to be lived—and sometimes that means slowing
down and embracing the journey over the destination.
A life "full of care," the speaker says, is really no life at all. By "care," the speaker
means anxiety, worry, and general busyness—things that the poem argues deny people the
invaluable chance to "stop" and take in the world around them. Hurried people will not enjoy
the way sunlight glitters on the surface of a stream, making the water look like it is filled with
stars in the middle of the way. They will miss smaller details too, like the determined industry
of a squirrel hoarding nuts for the winter. Such things aren't frivolous or trivial, in the
speaker's estimation: they are the stuff of life itself. Taking the “time” to "stare" at the
world—that is, to engage with it fully without some ulterior motive or end goal—is the whole
point.
To illustrate this idea, the speaker personifies "Beauty" as a dancing woman whose
"smile" slowly spreads from her eyes to her mouth. Turn away too soon, and you won't see
how that full smile "Enrich[es]" Beauty's face—that is, makes her even more beautiful.
Without granting themselves "time to wait," people won't get to experience the true beauty of
the world. Their own smiles, the poem hints, will never be quite as full as they otherwise
could, and this "life" will be a very "poor" one indeed. The poem encourages its readers to
seize the day, but not in the sense of filling their time with as much as they can. Instead, they
should take the time to enjoy what's always been right there in front of them—if only they'd
stand still long enough to notice.
"Leisure" celebrates the joy and importance of relaxation while also painting a vivid
picture of the natural world. Nature is not in a hurry or "full of care" in the same way that
people so often are, the poem implies, and nature's beauty can be a balm to the anxious soul.
The poem presents the countryside as a lovely, harmonious place. There are sheep and cows
lounging for hours beneath the trees, relaxing in the shade and "star[ing]" at the world around
them. Sunlight sparkles on the surface of a stream in a way that calls to mind a starry night
sky, hinting that even this humble scene offers a glimpse of the universe—of the heavens—
itself.
Nature is not all stationary sheep and cows, either. There is activity in nature, but it
contrasts with the kind of "care" that seems to dominate the human world. Squirrels "hide
their nuts in grass," for example, while "Beauty," personified in the poem as a woman,
dances around happily in the forest. While the poem never explicitly mentions city life, its
celebration of nature's rhythms implies that human cares are shallow and meaningless by
contrast. Indeed, the poem suggests that people can and should learn from nature's example
and that nature's immense, harmonious beauty puts human "care" into perspective.

15
 On Cats and Dogs
A. G. Gardiner

Alfred George Gardiner (2 June 1865 – 3 March 1946) was an English journalist, editor and
author. Gardiner was born in Chelmsford, the son of Henry James Gardiner, a cabinet-maker
and alcoholic,and his wife, Su sanna Taylor. As a boy he
worked at the Chelmsford Chronicle and the Bournemouth
Directory. He joined the Northern Daily Telegraph in 1887
which had been founded the year before by Thomas Purvis
Ritzema. In 1899, he was appointed editor of the Blackburn
Weekly Telegraph. His essays, written under the pen name
"Alpha of the Plough", are highly regarded. His essays,
known for their wit and insightful observations on everyday
life, have been appreciated for their engaging style and
philosophical depth. He was the editor of the Daily News
from 1902 to 1919 and authored numerous essays and books,
including Prophets, Priests, and Kings, Pillars of Society, Pebbles on the Shore, and Leaves in
the Wind. His writing style is known for its elegant and amusing manner, insightful
observations on human nature, and liberal views on social issues. One of his notable essays,
"Cats and Dogs," humorously explores the differences between these two popular pets and
what their behavior reveals about human nature.
Text

A friend of mine calling to see me the other day and observing my faithful Airedale--"Quilp"
by name--whose tail was in a state of violent emotion at the prospect of a walk, remarked that
when the new taxes came in I should have to pay a guinea for the privilege of keeping that
dog. I said I hoped that Mr. McKenna would do nothing so foolish. In fact, I said, I am sure he
will do nothing so foolish. I know him well, and I have always found him a sensible man. Let
him, said I, tax us all fairly according to our incomes, but why should he interfere with the
way in which we spend the money that he leaves us? Why should he deny the friendship of
that most friendly animal the dog to a poor man and make it the exclusive possession of the
well-to-do?

The emotion of Quilp's tail kept pace with the fervour of my remarks. He knew that he was
the subject of the conversation, and his large brown eyes gleamed with intelligence, and his
expressive eyebrows were eloquent of self-pity and appeal. He was satisfied that whatever the
issue I was on his side, and at half a hint he would have given my friend a taste of the rough
side of his tongue. But he is a well-mannered brute, and knows how to restrain his feelings in
company.

What would be the result of your high tax? I continued with passion. It would be a blow at the
democracy of dogs. It would reduce the whole of dogdom to a pampered class of degenerates.
Is there anything more odious than the spectacle of a fat woman in furs nursing a lap dog in
furs, too? It is as degrading to the noble family of dogs as a footman in gold buttons and gold
braid is to the human family. But it is just these degenerates whom a high tax would protect.
Honest fellows like Quilp here (more triumphant tail flourishes), dogs that love you like a
brother, that will run for you, carry for you, bark for you, whose candour is so transparent and
whose faithfulness has been the theme of countless poets--dogs like these would be taxed out
of existence.

16
Now cats, I continued--(at the thrilling word Quilp became tense with excitement), cats are
another affair. Personally I don't care two pence if Mr. McKenna taxes them a guinea a
whisker. There is only one moment in the life of a cat that is tolerable, and that is when it is
not a cat but a kitten. Who was the Frenchman who said that women ought to be born at
seventeen and die at thirty? Cats ought to die when they cease to be kittens and become cats.

Cats, said my friend coldly, are the spiritual superiors of dogs. The dog is a flunkey, a serf, an
underling, a creature that is eternally watching its master. Look at Quilp at this moment. What
a spectacle of servility. You don't see cats making themselves the slaves of men. They like to
be stroked, but they have no affection for the hand that strokes them. They are not parasites,
but independent souls, going their own way, living their own lives, indifferent to applause,
calling no man master. That is why the French consider them so superior to dogs.

I do not care what the French think, I said with warmth.

But they are our Allies, said my friend severely. The Germans, on the other hand, prefer dogs.
I hope you are not a pro-German.

On the cat-and-dog issue I am, and I don't care who knows it, I said recklessly. And I hate
these attempts to drag in prejudice. Moreover, I would beg you to observe that it was a great
Frenchman, none other than Pascal, who paid the highest of all tributes to the dog. "The more
I see of men," he said, "the better I like dogs." I challenge you to produce from any French
source such an encomium on the cat.

No, I continued, the dog is a generous, warmhearted, chivalrous fellow, who will play with
you, mourn for you, or die for you. Why, literature is full of his heroism. Who has climbed
Helvellyn without being haunted by that shepherd's dog that inspired Scott and Byron? Or the
Pass of St. Bernard without remembering the faithful hounds of the great monastery? But the
cat is a secret and alien creature, selfish and mysterious, a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. See her
purring on the hearth-rug in front of the fire, and she seems the picture of innocence and
guileless content. All a blind, my dear fellow, all a blind. Wait till night comes. Then where is
demure Mistress Puss? Is she at home keeping vigil with the good dog Tray? No, the house
may be in blazes or ransacked by burglars for all she cares. She is out on the tiles and in back
gardens pursuing her unholy ritual--that strange ritual that seems so Oriental, so sinister, so
full of devilish purpose. I can understand the old association of witchcraft with cats. The sight
of cats almost makes me believe in witchcraft, in spite of myself. I can believe anything about
a cat. She is heartless and mercenary. Her name has become the synonym of everything that is
mean, spiteful, and vicious. "An old cat" is the unkindest thing you can say about a woman.

But the dog wears his heart on his sleeve. His life is as open as the day. He has his
indecorums, but he has no secrets. You may see the worst of him at a glance, but the best of
him is inexhaustible. A cat is as remote from your life as a lizard, but a dog is as intimate as
your own thoughts or your own shadow, and his loyalty is one of the consolations of a
disloyal world. You remember that remark of Charles Reade's: "He was only a man, but he
was as faithful as a dog." It was the highest tribute he could pay to his hero--that he was as
faithful as a dog. And think of his services--see him drawing his cart in Belgium, rounding up
the sheep into the fold on the Yorkshire fells, tending the cattle by the highway, warning off
the night prowler from the lonely homestead, always alert, always obedient, always the friend
of man, be he never so friendless.... Shall we go for a walk?

At the joyous word Quilp leapt on me with a frenzied demonstration. "Good dog," I said. "If
Mr. McKenna puts a guinea tax on you I'll never say a good word for him again."
17
 Analysis
A.G. Gardiner's essay "On Cats and Dogs" explores the contrasting personalities and
perceived characteristics of cats and dogs, using them as metaphors for human traits. The
essay highlights the themes of loyalty, friendship, trust, companionship, and independence,
while also touching on the idea of rules and their application in different situations. The essay
begins by establishing the contrasting personalities of cats and dogs, painting dogs as loyal,
open, and devoted, while cats are depicted as independent, secretive, and sometimes even
spiteful.

Loyalty and Companionship: The essay contrasts the dog's overt loyalty and dependence
on humans with the cat's more aloof and independent nature.
Friendship and Trust: Dogs are portrayed as open books, their emotions readily visible,
while cats are seen as more mysterious and inscrutable.
Rules and Flexibility: The essay uses the incident of a woman boarding a bus with a dog to
illustrate the difference between rigid rules and those that can be bent or broken with
common sense and consideration for others.
Human Nature: Ultimately, the essay uses the animal comparisons to offer insights into
human nature, suggesting that some people are more like cats, while others are more like
dogs in their interactions and emotional expression.

Features: Gardiner uses vivid language to describe the dog's unwavering loyalty, citing
Charles Reade's quote about a man being "as faithful as a dog," as the highest compliment.
The essay acknowledges that while dogs may have their "indecorums," their best qualities are
always present and readily available to those who understand them.
The essay also touches on the idea of rules and how they should be applied, using the bus
incident as an example of when bending the rules is acceptable.
Ultimately, the essay suggests that both cats and dogs, with their contrasting personalities,
have valuable qualities that can be appreciated, mirroring the diversity and complexity of
human nature.

18
 Lost Spring
Anees Jung

Anees Jung (1944) was born in Rourkela and spent her childhood and adolescence in
Hyderabad. She received her education in Hyderabad and in
the United States of America. Her parents were both writers.
Anees Jung began her career as a writer in India. She has been
an editor and columnist for major newspapers in India and
abroad, and has authored several books. The following is an
excerpt from her book titled Lost Spring, Stories of Stolen
Childhood. Here she analyses the grinding poverty and
traditions which condemn these children to a life of
exploitation.

‘Sometimes I find a Rupee in the garbage’ “Why do you do this?” I ask Saheb whom I
encounter every morning scrounging for gold in the garbage dumps of my neighbourhood.
Saheb left his home long ago. Set amidst the green fields of Dhaka, his home is not even a
distant memory. There were many storms that swept away their fields and homes, his mother
tells him. That’s why they left, looking for gold in the big city where he now lives. “I have
nothing else to do,” he mutters, looking away. “Go to school,” I say glibly, realising
immediately how hollow the advice must sound. “There is no school in my neighbourhood.
When they build one, I will go.” “If I start a school, will you come?” I ask, half-joking.
“Yes,” he says, smiling broadly. A few days later I see him running up to me. “Is your school
ready?” “It takes longer to build a school,” I say, embarrassed at having made a promise that
was not meant. But promises like mine abound in every corner of his bleak world. After
months of knowing him, I ask him his name. “Saheb-eAlam,” he announces. He does not
know what it means. If he knew its meaning — lord of the universe — he would have a hard
time believing it. Unaware of what his name represents, he roams the streets with his friends,
an army of barefoot boys who appear like the morning birds and disappear at noon. Over the
months, I have come to recognise each of them. “Why aren’t you wearing chappals?” I ask
one. “My mother did not bring them down from the shelf,” he answers simply. “Even if she
did he will throw them off,” adds another who is wearing shoes that do not match. When I
comment on it, he shuffles his feet and says nothing. “I want shoes,” says a third boy who has
never owned a pair all his life. Travelling across the country I have seen children walking
barefoot, in cities, on village roads. It is not lack of money but a tradition to stay barefoot, is
one explanation. I wonder if this is only an excuse to explain away a perpetual state of
poverty. I remember a story a man from Udipi once told me. As a young boy he would go to
school past an old temple, where his father was a priest. He would stop briefly at the temple
and pray for a pair of shoes. Thirty years later I visited his town and the temple, which was
now drowned in an air of desolation. In the backyard, where lived the new priest, there were
red and white plastic chairs. A young boy dressed in a grey uniform, wearing socks and shoes,
arrived panting and threw his school bag on a folding bed. Looking at the boy, I remembered
the prayer another boy had made to the goddess when he had finally got a pair of shoes, “Let
me never lose them.” The goddess had granted his prayer. Young boys like the son of the
priest now wore shoes. But many others like the ragpickers in my neighbourhood remain
shoeless. My acquaintance with the barefoot ragpickers leads me to Seemapuri, a place on the
periphery of Delhi yet miles away from it, metaphorically. Those who live here are squatters
who came from Bangladesh back in 1971. Saheb’s family is among them. Seemapuri was
then a wilderness. It still is, but it is no longer empty. In structures of mud, with roofs of tin

19
and tarpaulin, devoid of sewage, drainage or running water, live 10,000 ragpickers. They have
lived here for more than thirty years without an identity, without permits but with ration cards
that get their names on voters’ lists and enable them to buy grain. Food is more important for
survival than an identity. “If at the end of the day we can feed our families and go to bed
without an aching stomach, we would rather live here than in the fields that gave us no grain,”
say a group of women in tattered saris when I ask them why they left their beautiful land of
green fields and rivers. Wherever they find food, they pitch their tents that become transit
homes. Children grow up in them, becoming partners in survival. And survival in Seemapuri
means rag-picking. Through the years, it has acquired the proportions of a fine art. Garbage to
them is gold. It is their daily bread, a roof over their heads, even if it is a leaking roof. But for
a child it is even more. “I sometimes find a rupee, even a ten-rupee note,” Saheb says, his
eyes lighting up. When you can find a silver coin in a heap of garbage, you don’t stop
scrounging, for there is hope of finding more. It seems that for children, garbage has a
meaning different from what it means to their parents. For the children it is wrapped in
wonder, for the elders it is a means of survival. One winter morning I see Saheb standing by
the fenced gate of the neighbourhood club, watching two young men dressed in white, playing
tennis. “I like the game,” he hums, content to watch it standing behind the fence. “I go inside
when no one is around,” he admits. “The gatekeeper lets me use the swing.” Saheb too is
wearing tennis shoes that look strange over his discoloured shirt and shorts. “Someone gave
them to me,” he says in the manner of an explanation. The fact that they are discarded shoes
of some rich boy, who perhaps refused to wear them because of a hole in one of them, does
not bother him. For one who has walked barefoot, even shoes with a hole is a dream come
true. But the game he is watching so intently is out of his reach. This morning, Saheb is on his
way to the milk booth. In his hand is a steel canister. “I now work in a tea stall down the
road,” he says, pointing in the distance. “I am paid 800 rupees and all my meals.” Does he
like the job? I ask. His face, I see, has lost the carefree look. The steel canister seems heavier
than the plastic bag he would carry so lightly over his shoulder. The bag was his. The canister
belongs to the man who owns the tea shop. Saheb is no longer his own master! “I want to
drive a car” Mukesh insists on being his own master. “I will be a motor mechanic,” he
announces. “Do you know anything about cars?” I ask. “I will learn to drive a car,” he
answers, looking straight into my eyes. His dream looms like a mirage amidst the dust of
streets that fill his town Firozabad, famous for its bangles. Every other family in Firozabad is
engaged in making bangles. It is the centre of India’s glass-blowing industry where families
have spent generations working around furnaces, welding glass, making bangles for all the
women in the land it seems. Mukesh’s family is among them. None of them know that it is
illegal for children like him to work in the glass furnaces with high temperatures, in dingy
cells without air and light; that the law, if enforced, could get him and all those 20,000
children out of the hot furnaces where they slog their daylight hours, often losing the
brightness of their eyes. Mukesh’s eyes beam as he volunteers to take me home, which he
proudly says is being rebuilt. We walk down stinking lanes choked with garbage, past homes
that remain hovels with crumbling walls, wobbly doors, no windows, crowded with families
of humans and animals coexisting in a primeval state. He stops at the door of one such house,
bangs a wobbly iron door with his foot, and pushes it open. We enter a half-built shack. In one
part of it, thatched with dead grass, is a firewood stove over which sits a large vessel of
sizzling spinach leaves. On the ground, in large aluminium platters, are more chopped
vegetables. A frail young woman is cooking the evening meal for the whole family. Through
eyes filled with smoke she smiles. She is the wife of Mukesh’s elder brother. Not much older
in years, she has begun to command respect as the bahu, the daughter-in-law of the house,

20
already in charge of three men — her husband, Mukesh and their father. When the older man
enters, she gently withdraws behind the broken wall and brings her veil closer to her face. As
custom demands, daughters-in-law must veil their faces before male elders. In this case the
elder is an impoverished bangle maker. Despite long years of hard labour, first as a tailor, then
a bangle maker, he has failed to renovate a house, send his two sons to school. All he has
managed to do is teach them what he knows — the art of making bangles. “It is his karam, his
destiny,” says Mukesh’s grandmother, who has watched her own husband go blind with the
dust from polishing the glass of bangles. “Can a god-given lineage ever be broken?” she
implies. Born in the caste of bangle makers, they have seen nothing but bangles — in the
house, in the yard, in every other house, every other yard, every street in Firozabad. Spirals of
bangles — sunny gold, paddy green, royal blue, pink, purple, every colour born out of the
seven colours of the rainbow — lie in mounds in unkempt yards, are piled on fourwheeled
handcarts, pushed by young men along the narrow lanes of the shanty town. And in dark
hutments, next to lines of flames of flickering oil lamps, sit boys and girls with their fathers
and mothers, welding pieces of coloured glass into circles of bangles. Their eyes are more
adjusted to the dark than to the light outside. That is why they often end up losing their
eyesight before they become adults Savita, a young girl in a drab pink dress, sits alongside an
elderly woman, soldering pieces of glass. As her hands move mechanically like the tongs of a
machine, I wonder if she knows the sanctity of the bangles she helps make. It symbolises an
Indian woman’s suhaag, auspiciousness in marriage. It will dawn on her suddenly one day
when her head is draped with a red veil, her hands dyed red with henna, and red bangles
rolled onto her wrists. She will then become a bride. Like the old woman beside her who
became one many years ago. She still has bangles on her wrist, but no light in her eyes. “Ek
waqt ser bhar khana bhi nahin khaya,” she says, in a voice drained of joy. She has not enjoyed
even one full meal in her entire lifetime — that’s what she has reaped! Her husband, an old
man with a flowing beard, says, “I know nothing except bangles. All I have done is make a
house for the family to live in.” Hearing him, one wonders if he has achieved what many have
failed in their lifetime. He has a roof over his head! The cry of not having money to do
anything except carry on the business of making bangles, not even enough to eat, rings in
every home. The young men echo the lament of their elders. Little has moved with time, it
seems, in Firozabad. Years of mind-numbing toil have killed all initiative and the ability to
dream. “Why not organise yourselves into a cooperative?” I ask a group of young men who
have fallen into the vicious circle of middlemen who trapped their fathers and forefathers.
“Even if we get organised, we are the ones who will be hauled up by the police, beaten and
dragged to jail for doing something illegal,” they say. There is no leader among them, no one
who could help them see things differently. Their fathers are as tired as they are. They talk
endlessly in a spiral that moves from poverty to apathy to greed and to injustice. Listening to
them, I see two distinct worlds— one of the family, caught in a web of poverty, burdened by
the stigma of caste in which they are born; the other a vicious circle of the sahukars, the
middlemen, the policemen, the keepers of law, the bureaucrats and the politicians. Together
they have imposed the baggage on the child that he cannot put down. Before he is aware, he
accepts it as naturally as his father. To do anything else would mean to dare. And daring is not
part of his growing up. When I sense a flash of it in Mukesh I am cheered. “I want to be a
motor mechanic,’ he repeats. He will go to a garage and learn. But the garage is a long way
from his home. “I will walk,” he insists. “Do you also dream of flying a plane?” He is
suddenly silent. “No,” he says, staring at the ground. In his small murmur there is an
embarrassment that has not yet turned into regret. He is content to dream of cars that he sees
hurtling down the streets of his town. Few airplanes fly over Firozabad.

21
 "How Much Land Does a Man Need?"
Leo Tolstoy

Leo Tolstoy (born August 28 [September 9, New Style], 1828, Yasnaya Polyana,
Tula province, Russian Empire—died November 7
[November 20], 1910, Astapovo, Ryazan province)
was a Russian author, a master of realistic fiction, and
one of the world’s greatest novelists. He is best known
for his two longest works, War and Peace (1865–69)
and Anna Karenina (1875–77), which are commonly
regarded as among the finest novels ever written. War
and Peace virtually defines this form for many readers
and critics. Among Tolstoy’s shorter works, The
Death of Ivan Ilyich (1886) is usually classed among
the best examples of the novella.

I
An elder sister came to visit her younger sister in the country. The elder was married to a
tradesman in town, the younger to a peasant in the village. As the sisters sat over their tea
talking, the elder began to boast of the advantages of town life: saying how comfortably they
lived there, how well they dressed, what fine clothes her children wore, what good things they
ate and drank, and how she went to the theater, promenades, and entertainments.

The younger sister was piqued, and in turn disparaged the life of a tradesman and stood up for
that of a peasant.

"I would not change my way of life for yours," said she. "We may live roughly, but at least we
are free from anxiety. You live in better style than we do, but though you often earn more than
you need, you are very likely to lose all you have. You know the proverb, 'Loss and gain are
brothers twain.' It often happens that people who are wealthy one day are begging their bread
the next. Our way is safer. Though a peasant's life is not a fat one, it is a long one. We shall
never grow rich, but we shall always have enough to eat."

The elder sister said sneeringly: "Enough? Yes, if you like to share with the pigs and calves.
What do you know of elegance or manners! However much your good man may slave, you
will die as you are living—on a dung heap—and your children the same."

"Well, what of that?" replied the younger. "Of course our work is rough and coarse. But, on the
other hand, it is sure; and we need not bow to anyone. But you, in your towns, are surrounded
by temptations; today all may be right, but tomorrow the Evil One may tempt your husband
with cards, wine, or women, and all will go to ruin. Don't such things happen often enough?"

Pahom, the master of the house, was lying on the top of the stove and listened to the women's
chatter.

"It is perfectly true," thought he. "Busy as we are from childhood tilling Mother Earth, we
peasants have no time to let any nonsense settle in our heads. Our only trouble is that we haven't
land enough. If I had plenty of land, I shouldn't fear the Devil himself!"

The women finished their tea, chatted a while about dress, and then cleared away the tea-things
and lay down to sleep. But the Devil had been sitting behind the stove, and had heard all that
22
was said. He was pleased that the peasant's wife had led her husband into boasting, and that he
had said that if he had plenty of land he would not fear the Devil himself.

"All right," thought the Devil. "We will have a tussle. I'll give you land enough; and by means
of that land I will get you into my power."
II
Close to the village there lived a lady, a small landowner, who had an estate of about three
hundred acres. She had always lived on good terms with the peasants until she engaged as her
steward an old soldier, who took to burdening the people with fines. However careful Pahom
tried to be, it was impossible for him to escape fines. The steward took the smallest opportunity
to impose a fine. Pahom gave up going to the communal meetings, and began to lease land
from the local authorities. He obtained the land, but it was so far from the village that he had
to give up working it. Pahom was in despair when he heard that the lady was willing to sell her
estate and he began to save money. He would pay off his debts, sow more wheat, get up earlier,
and go to bed later.

Pahom saved enough money to buy forty acres of the lady's land. He bought the land and was
delighted. He ploughed the land and sowed it, and he had a splendid crop. Pahom was very
pleased with his purchase. He now had plenty of arable land and pasture, and could keep as
many cows as he liked. Everything would have been all right if the neighboring peasants had
not been stealing his wood. Pahom complained, and they stopped stealing, but the village
watchman began stealing. Pahom spoke to the village elder, but they did not stop. Pahom went
to the local magistrate. He was awarded compensation for his losses, but there was still much
difficulty in enforcing the law. Pahom went to court, and lost a great deal of time and money.
This embittered him against his neighbors.

About this time Pahom heard that many peasants were settling in the land beyond the Volga,
and that land there was being given to peasants who settled on it for nothing. Pahom was
delighted and gathered together his household. He sold his land and cattle and moved with his
family to the new settlement. He settled in a new commune, and was allotted twenty-five acres
of land per head. He was ten times better off than he had been. He built himself a house and
bought cattle. Pahom was well contented. All would have been well if he had not heard from a
peasant passing through that in the land of the Bashkirs there was better land, and that the
Bashkirs were foolish people who would sell land for next to nothing.

Pahom got up early and started on his journey. He traveled through several provinces until he
reached the land of the Bashkirs. He took presents and bribed the local officials. He was well
received and the Bashkirs were very kind to him. They listened to him and were eager to sell
their land for a small price. Pahom told them what he wanted and they agreed to sell the land.
The Chief said that they could sell him land for a thousand roubles a day. Pahom did not
understand what he meant, so he asked him to explain. The Chief said, "As much land as you
can walk round in a day will be yours for a thousand roubles."

Pahom was delighted. He gathered the money and set off to mark out the land. He walked as
far as he could and marked it with sticks. The further he went the better the land seemed, and
he kept walking. He was very tired but he could not stop. He wanted to mark out as much land
as possible. He kept going even when his legs gave way. He was very thirsty, but he would not
stop. He saw the sun going down, and he realized that he must get back to the starting point or
he would lose everything. He ran back, but he was very tired. He fell down and could not get
up. He died of exhaustion. His servant picked up the spade and dug a grave for him. Six feet
from his head to his heels was all the land he needed.
23
 The Paradox of Greed and Contentment in Leo Tolstoy’s
“How Much Land Does a Man Need?”

Introduction: Leo Tolstoy’s short story “How Much Land Does a Man Need?” is a masterful
exploration of human greed and the ultimate futility of materialism. Through the tale of a
peasant named Pahom, Tolstoy delves into themes of ambition, contentment, and the moral
consequences of unbridled desire. The narrative is both a simple parable and a profound
commentary on human nature, examining the paradox of how the pursuit of more can lead to
the loss of everything.

The Allure of Land and the Seeds of Discontent: At the heart of the story is Pahom, a
peasant who is initially content with his life but becomes increasingly obsessed with acquiring
more land. The story begins with a conversation between Pahom’s wife and her sister,
contrasting the lives of peasants and city dwellers. This discussion plants the seed of discontent
in Pahom, as he muses that with enough land, he would have nothing to fear—not even the
Devil. This statement is both ironic and foreshadowing, as it invites the very greed that will
lead to Pahom’s downfall.

Tolstoy uses this initial moment to highlight a critical aspect of human nature: the insatiable
desire for more. Despite having enough to live a comfortable life, Pahom becomes convinced
that more land will solve all his problems. This mirrors a universal human tendency to believe
that material wealth is the key to happiness and security.

The Escalation of Greed: As the story progresses, Pahom’s journey towards acquiring more
land becomes a relentless pursuit. He first buys land from a local lady, which makes him
happy for a time. However, disputes with neighbors and the realization that his land is still not
enough drive him to seek more fertile and expansive territories. His greed escalates when he
hears about the Bashkirs, who offer as much land as a man can walk around in a day for a
modest price.

This part of the story serves as a critique of the capitalist mindset and the belief in limitless
expansion. Tolstoy portrays Pahom’s increasing dissatisfaction despite his growing
landholdings, suggesting that greed is a self-perpetuating cycle. The more Pahom acquires, the
more he desires, leading to a never-ending chase for satisfaction that remains perpetually out
of reach.

The Climactic Irony and Moral Lesson: The climax of the story is both dramatic and tragic.
Pahom’s ambition drives him to attempt covering a vast amount of land within one day. He is
so consumed by his desire to claim as much land as possible that he pushes himself to the
brink of physical collapse. As the day ends, he realizes he must rush back to the starting point
to secure the land he has walked around. Exhausted and dehydrated, Pahom makes it back
just in time, only to collapse and die from exhaustion. The irony of Pahom’s fate is stark and
poignant.

In his quest for more land, he ends up with nothing but the small plot required to bury him.
Tolstoy uses this tragic ending to underscore the story’s moral lesson: the pursuit of excessive
material wealth can lead to one’s downfall. Pahom’s death is a powerful metaphor for the
ultimate futility of greed. Despite his belief that more land would grant him security and
happiness, it instead leads to his demise.

24
Themes of Contentment and Moral Integrity: Tolstoy’s story is not merely a condemnation
of greed but also an advocacy for contentment and moral integrity. Through Pahom’s
downfall, Tolstoy illustrates that true happiness and security come not from the accumulation
of wealth but from appreciating and making the most of what one already has. The simplicity
of Pahom’s life at the beginning of the story contrasts sharply with the complexity and
anxiety brought about by his relentless pursuit of more land.

The story also suggests that moral integrity is compromised by unchecked ambition. Pahom’s
dealings with his neighbors and his manipulation to acquire more land reveal a decline in his
ethical standards. Tolstoy warns that the pursuit of material gain at the expense of moral values
leads to spiritual and, ultimately, physical ruin.

Conclusion: “How Much Land Does a Man Need?” is a timeless tale that resonates with
contemporary issues of materialism and ethical living. Tolstoy masterfully uses Pahom’s story
to explore the destructive nature of greed and the importance of contentment. The narrative
serves as a powerful reminder that in the grand scheme of life, the pursuit of excessive wealth
and possessions can lead to one’s downfall, while true fulfillment lies in appreciating and
nurturing what one already has. Through this profound parable, Tolstoy encourages readers to
reflect on their own lives and the true sources of happiness and contentment.

25
 The Gift of the Magi

O. Henry

O. Henry, whose real name was William Sydney Porter, was an American short story writer
best known for his tales of life in New York City, often featuring surprise endings. Born in
1862, he faced personal hardships, including a conviction for embezzlement, which led him to
adopt the pseudonym O. Henry after his release from
prison. He became a prolific writer, publishing
hundreds of stories characterized by their wit, irony,
and unexpected twists. In 1902 O. Henry arrived in
New York—his “Bagdad on the Subway.” From
December 1903 to January 1906, he produced a story a
week for the New York Sunday World magazine and
also wrote for other magazines. His first
book, Cabbages and Kings (1904), depicted fantastic
characters against exotic Honduran backgrounds.
Both The Four Million (1906) and The Trimmed
Lamp (1907) explored the lives of the multitude of New
York in their daily routines and searchings for romance and adventure, and the former
contained the widely popular story “The Gift of the Magi.” Heart of the West (1907)
presented accurate and fascinating tales of the Texas range.

Then in rapid succession came The Voice of the City (1908), The Gentle
Grafter (1908), Roads of Destiny (1909), Options (1909), Strictly Business (1910),
and Whirligigs (1910). Whirligigs contains perhaps Porter’s funniest story, “The Ransom of
Red Chief.” Despite his popularity, O. Henry’s final years were marred by ill health, a
desperate financial struggle, and alcoholism. A second marriage in 1907 was unhappy. After
his death three more collected volumes appeared: Sixes and Sevens (1911), Rolling
Stones (1912), and Waifs and Strays (1917). Later seven fugitive stories and poems, O.
Henryana (1920), Letters to Lithopolis (1922), and two collections of his early work on
the Houston Post, Postscripts (1923) and O. Henry Encore (1939), were published. Foreign
translations and adaptations for other art forms, including films and television, attest his
universal application and appeal. The O. Henry Prize, given annually to outstanding short
stories, was established in his honour in 1919.

The Gift of the Magi

One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies
saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher
until one's cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing
implied. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty-seven cents. And the next day
would be Christmas.

There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and howl. So Della
did it. Which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles,
with sniffles predominating.

26
While the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding from the first stage to the second, take a
look at the home. A furnished flat at $8 per week. It did not exactly beggar description, but it
certainly had that word on the lookout for the mendicancy squad.

In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no letter would go, and an electric button
from which no mortal finger could coax a ring. Also appertaining thereunto was a card bearing
the name "Mr. James Dillingham Young."

The "Dillingham" had been flung to the breeze during a former period of prosperity when its
possessor was being paid $30 per week. Now, when the income was shrunk to $20, the letters
of "Dillingham" looked blurred, as though they were thinking seriously of contracting to a
modest and unassuming D. But whenever Mr. James Dillingham Young came home and
reached his flat above he was called "Jim" and greatly hugged by Mrs. James Dillingham
Young, already introduced to you as Della. Which is all very good.

Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the powder rag. She stood by the window
and looked out dully at a gray cat walking a gray fence in a gray backyard. Tomorrow would
be Christmas Day, and she had only $1.87 with which to buy Jim a present. She had been saving
every penny she could for months, with this result. Twenty dollars a week doesn't go far.
Expenses had been greater than she had calculated. They always are. Only $1.87 to buy a
present for Jim. Her Jim. Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for
him. Something fine and rare and sterling—something just a little bit near to being worthy of
the honor of being owned by Jim.

There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you have seen a pier-glass
in an $8 flat. A very thin and very agile person may, by observing his reflection in a rapid
sequence of longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks. Della, being
slender, had mastered the art.

Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. Her eyes were shining
brilliantly, but her face had lost its color within twenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down her
hair and let it fall to its full length.

Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in which they both took a
mighty pride. One was Jim's gold watch that had been his father's and his grandfather's. The
other was Della's hair. Had the Queen of Sheba lived in the flat across the airshaft, Della would
have let her hair hang out the window some day to dry just to depreciate Her Majesty's jewels
and gifts. Had King Solomon been the janitor, with all his treasures piled up in the basement,
Jim would have pulled out his watch every time he passed, just to see him pluck at his beard
from envy.

So now Della's beautiful hair fell about her, rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters.
It reached below her knee and made itself almost a garment for her. And then she did it up again
nervously and quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or two
splashed on the worn red carpet.

On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a whirl of skirts and with the
brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street.

27
Where she stopped the sign read: "Mme. Sofronie. Hair Goods of All Kinds." One flight up
Della ran, and collected herself, panting. Madame, large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the
"Sofronie."

"Will you buy my hair?" asked Della.

"I buy hair," said Madame. "Take yer hat off and let's have a sight at the looks of it."

Down rippled the brown cascade.

"Twenty dollars," said Madame, lifting the mass with a practiced hand.

"Give it to me quick," said Della.

Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forget the hashed metaphor. She was
ransacking the stores for Jim's present.

She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else. There was no other like it
in any of the stores, and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a platinum fob chain,
simple and chaste in design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not by
meretricious ornamentation—as all good things should do. It was even worthy of The Watch.
As soon as she saw it, she knew that it must be Jim's. It was like him. Quietness and value—
the description applied to both. Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she hurried
home with the 87 cents. With that chain on his watch Jim might be properly anxious about the
time in any company. Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly on account
of the old leather strap that he used in place of a chain.

When Della reached home her intoxication gave way a little to prudence and reason. She got
out her curling irons and lighted the gas and went to work repairing the ravages made by
generosity added to love. Which is always a tremendous task, dear friends—a mammoth task.

Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, close-lying curls that made her look
wonderfully like a truant schoolboy. She looked at her reflection in the mirror long, carefully,
and critically.
"If Jim doesn't kill me," she said to herself, "before he takes a second look at me, he'll say I
look like a Coney Island chorus girl. But what could I do—oh! what could I do with a dollar
and eighty-seven cents?"

At 7 o'clock the coffee was made and the frying-pan was on the back of the stove hot and ready
to cook the chops.

Jim was never late. Della doubled the fob chain in her hand and sat on the corner of the table
near the door that he always entered. Then she heard his step on the stair away down on the
first flight, and she turned white for just a moment. She had a habit for saying little silent
prayers about the simplest everyday things, and now she whispered: "Please God, make him
think I am still pretty."

The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and very serious. Poor fellow,
he was only twenty-two—and to be burdened with a family! He needed a new overcoat and he
was without gloves.
28
Jim stopped inside the door, as immovable as a setter at the scent of quail. His eyes were fixed
upon Della, and there was an expression in them that she could not read, and it terrified her. It
was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments that she had
been prepared for. He simply stared at her fixedly with that peculiar expression on his face.

Della wriggled off the table and went for him.

"Jim, darling," she cried, "don't look at me that way. I had my hair cut off and sold because I
couldn't have lived through Christmas without giving you a present. It'll grow out again—you
won't mind, will you? I just had to do it. My hair grows awfully fast. Say 'Merry Christmas!'
Jim, and let's be happy. You don't know what a nice—what a beautiful, nice gift I've got for
you."

"You've cut off your hair?" asked Jim, laboriously, as if he had not arrived at that patent fact
yet even after the hardest mental labor.

"Cut it off and sold it," said Della. "Don't you like me just as well, anyhow? I'm me without
my hair, ain't I?"

Jim looked about the room curiously.

"You say your hair is gone?" he said, with an air almost of idiocy.

"You needn't look for it," said Della. "It's sold, I tell you—sold and gone, too. It's Christmas
Eve, boy. Be good to me, for it went for you. Maybe the hairs of my head were numbered," she
went on with a sudden serious sweetness, "but nobody could ever count my love for you. Shall
I put the chops on, Jim?"

Out of his trance Jim seemed quickly to wake. He enfolded his Della. For ten seconds let us
regard with discreet scrutiny some inconsequential object in the other direction. Eight dollars
a week or a million a year—what is the difference? A mathematician or a wit would give you
the wrong answer. The magi brought valuable gifts, but that was not among them. This dark
assertion will be illuminated later on.

Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon the table.

"Don't make any mistake, Dell," he said, "about me. I don't think there's anything in the way
of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that could make me like my girl any less. But if you'll
unwrap that package you may see why you had me going a while at first."

White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And then an ecstatic scream of joy; and
then, alas! a quick feminine change to hysterical tears and wails, necessitating the immediate
employment of all the comforting powers of the lord of the flat.

For there lay The Combs—the set of combs, side and back, that Della had worshiped long in a
Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell, with jeweled rims—just the shade to
wear in the beautiful vanished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew, and her heart had
simply craved and yearned over them without the least hope of possession. And now, they were
hers, but the tresses that should have adorned the coveted adornments were gone.

But she hugged them to her bosom, and at length she was able to look up with dim eyes and a
29
smile and say: "My hair grows so fast, Jim!"

And then Della leaped up like a little singed cat and cried, "Oh, oh!"

Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him eagerly upon her open palm.
The dull precious metal seemed to flash with a reflection of her bright and ardent spirit.

"Isn't it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You'll have to look at the time a hundred
times a day now. Give me your watch. I want to see how it looks on it."

Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands under the back of his
head and smiled.

"Dell," said he, "let's put our Christmas presents away and keep 'em a while. They're too nice
to use just at present. I sold the watch to get the money to buy your combs. And now suppose
you put the chops on."

The magi, as you know, were wise men—wonderfully wise men—who brought gifts to the
Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts
were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication.
And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat
who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last
word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest.
O all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are
the magi.

30
 Analysis and Themes

Love and Sacrifice:

The central theme of "The Gift of the Magi" is the deep love and mutual sacrifice between Jim
and Della. Despite their poverty, both are willing to part with their most prized possessions to
give the other a meaningful Christmas gift. This act of sacrifice is the ultimate demonstration
of their love, highlighting the selflessness and devotion in their relationship.

Irony:
O. Henry is known for his twist endings, and "The Gift of the Magi" is a prime example. The
situational irony lies in the fact that both Jim and Della's sacrifices render the other's gift
useless: Della sells her hair to buy a chain for Jim's watch, while Jim sells his watch to buy
combs for Della's hair. This twist not only adds a poignant and humorous element to the story
but also underscores the depth of their love.

Value and Worth:

The story challenges the conventional notions of value and worth. Jim and Della's gifts are
rendered materially useless, but their real value lies in the love and sacrifice they represent. O.
Henry suggests that the true worth of a gift is not in its material value but in the thought and
sacrifice behind it.

Contentment and Joy:

Despite their financial hardships, Jim and Della find joy and contentment in each other. Their
actions show that true happiness comes from love and selflessness rather than material
possessions. This theme resonates with the broader message of the Christmas season,
emphasizing the importance of giving and loving over receiving.

Conclusion:
"The Gift of the Magi" remains a timeless story that beautifully captures the spirit of love,
sacrifice, and the true meaning of giving. Through the characters of Jim and Della, O. Henry
reminds readers that the greatest gifts are those given from the heart, and that love and sacrifice
are the true measures of wealth. The story’s enduring appeal lies in its universal message and
the touching portrayal of a young couple’s devotion to each other.

31
 Rip Van Winkle

Washington Irving

Washington Irving (born April 3, 1783, New York, New York, U.S.—died November 28,
1859, Tarrytown, New York) was described as the “first American man of letters.” He wrote
numerous works but is best known for “The Legend of Sleepy
Hollow” and “Rip Van Winkle,” which have been called the first
American short stories. He wrote a series of whimsically satirical
essays over the signature of Jonathan Oldstyle, Gent., published in
Peter Irving’s newspaper, the Morning Chronicle, in 1802–03. He
made several trips up the Hudson, another into Canada for his
health, and took an extended tour of Europe in 1804–06. On his
return he passed the bar examination late in 1806 and soon set up as
a lawyer.

In 1815 Irving went to Liverpool to look after the interests of his

brothers’ firm. In London he met Sir Walter Scott, who encouraged
him to renewed effort. The result was The Sketch Book of Geoffrey
Crayon, Gent (1819–20), a collection of stories and essays that
mix satire and whimsicality with fact and fiction. Most of the book’s 30-odd pieces concern
Irving’s impressions of England, but six chapters deal with American subjects. Of these, the
tales “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow” and “Rip Van Winkle” have been called the first American
short stories. They are both Americanized versions of German folktales. The main character of
“Rip Van Winkle” is a henpecked husband who sleeps for 20 years and awakes as an old man to
find his wife dead, his daughter happily married, and America now an independent country. The
tremendous success of The Sketch Book in both England and the United States assured Irving that
he could live by his pen. In 1822 he produced Bracebridge Hall, a sequel to The Sketch Book. He
traveled in Germany, Austria, France, Spain, the British Isles, and later in his own country.

Early in 1826 he accepted the invitation of Alexander H. Everett to attach himself to the American
legation in Spain, where he wrote his Columbus (1828), followed by The Companions of
Columbus (1831). Meanwhile, Irving had become absorbed in the legends of the Moorish past and
wrote A Chronicle of the Conquest of Granada (1829) and The Alhambra (1832), a Spanish
counterpart of The Sketch Book. After a 17-year absence Irving returned to New York in 1832,
where he was warmly received. He made a journey west and produced in rapid succession A Tour
of the Prairies (1835), Astoria (1836), and The Adventures of Captain Bonneville (1837). Except
for four years (1842–46) as minister to Spain, Irving spent the remainder of his life at his home,
“Sunnyside,” in Tarrytown, on the Hudson River, where he devoted himself to literary pursuits.

32
 A POSTHUMOUS WRITING OF DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER.

[The following Tale was found among the papers of the late Diedrich Knickerbocker, an
old gentleman of New York, who was very curious in the Dutch history of the province, and
the manners of the descendants from its primitive settlers. His historical researches, however,
did not lie so much among books as among men; for the former are lamentably scanty on
his favorite topics; whereas he found the old burghers, and still more their wives, rich in that
legendary lore, so invaluable to true history. Whenever, therefore, he happened upon a
genuine Dutch family, snugly shut up in its low-roofed farm-house, under a spreading
sycamore, he looked upon it as a little clasped volume of black-letter, and studied it with the
zeal of a book-worm.
The result of all these researches was a history of the province during the reign of the
Dutch governors, which he published some years since. There have been various opinions as
to the literary character of his work, and, to tell the truth, it is not a whit better than it should
be. Its chief merit is its scrupulous accuracy, which indeed was a little questioned, on its first
appearance, but has since been completely established; and it is now admitted into all
historical collections, as a book of unquestionable authority.
The old gentleman died shortly after the publication of his work, and now that he is dead
and gone, it cannot do much harm to his memory to say, that his time might have been much
better employed in weightier labors. He, however, was apt to ride his hobby his own way; and
though it did now and then kick up the dust a little in the eyes of his neighbors, and grieve the
spirit of some friends, for whom he felt the truest deference and affection; yet his errors and
follies are remembered “more in sorrow than in anger,” and it begins to be suspected, that he
never intended to injure or offend. But however his memory may be appreciated by critics, it
is still held dear among many folk, whose good opinion is well worth having; particularly by
certain biscuit-bakers, who have gone so far as to imprint his likeness on their new-year
cakes; and have thus given him a chance for immortality, almost equal to the being stamped
on a Waterloo Medal, or a Queen Anne’s Farthing.]

Rip Van Winkle

WHOEVER has made a voyage up the Hudson must remember the Kaatskill
mountains. They are a dismembered branch of the great Appalachian family, and are seen
away to the west of the river, swelling up to a noble height, and lording it over the
surrounding country. Every change of season, every change of weather, indeed every hour
of the day, produces some change in the magical hues and shapes of these mountains, and
they are regarded by all the good wives, far and near, as perfect barometers. When
the weather is fair and settled, they are clothed in blue and purple, and print their bold
outlines on the clear evening sky; but
sometimes, when the rest of the landscape is cloudless, they will gather a hood of gray vapors
about their summits, which, in the last rays of the setting sun, will glow and light up like a
crown of glory.
At the foot of these fairy mountains, the voyager may have descried the light smoke
curling up from a village, whose shingle-roofs gleam among the trees, just where the blue
tints of the upland melt away into the fresh green of the nearer landscape. It is a little village,
of great antiquity, having been founded by some of the Dutch colonists, in the early times of
the province, just about the beginning of the government of the good Peter Stuyvesant, (may
he rest in peace!) and there were some of the houses of the original settlers standing within a
few years, built of small yellow bricks brought from Holland, having latticed windows and
gable fronts, surmounted with weathercocks.
In that same village, and in one of these very houses (which, to tell the precise truth, was
33
sadly time-worn and weather-beaten), there lived many years since, while the country was yet
a province of Great Britain, a simple good-natured fellow, of the name of Rip Van Winkle. He
was a descendant of the Van Winkles who figured so gallantly in the chivalrous days of Peter
Stuyvesant, and accompanied him to the siege of Fort Christina. He inherited, however, but
little of the martial character of his ancestors. I have observed that he was a simple good-
natured man; he was, moreover, a kind neighbor, and an obedient hen-pecked husband.
Indeed, to the latter circumstance might be owing that meekness of spirit which gained him
such universal popularity; for those men are most apt to be obsequious and conciliating
abroad, who are under the discipline of shrews at home. Their tempers, doubtless, are
rendered pliant and malleable in the fiery furnace of domestic tribulation, and a curtain
lecture is worth all the sermons in the world for teaching the virtues of patience and long-
suffering. A termagant wife may, therefore, in some respects, be considered a tolerable
blessing; and if so, Rip Van Winkle was thrice blessed.
Certain it is, that he was a great favorite among all the good wives of the village, who, as
usual with the amiable sex, took his part in all family squabbles; and never failed, whenever
they talked those matters over in their evening gossipings, to lay all the blame on Dame Van
Winkle. The children of the village, too, would shout with joy whenever he approached.
He assisted at their sports, made their playthings, taught them to fly kites and shoot
marbles, and told them long stories of ghosts, witches, and Indians. Whenever he went
dodging about the village, he was surrounded by a troop of them, hanging on his skirts,
clambering on his back, and playing a thousand tricks on him with impunity; and not a dog
would bark at him throughout the neighborhood.
The great error in Rip’s composition was an insuperable aversion to all kinds of
profitable labor. It could not be from the want of assiduity or perseverance; for he would sit
on a wet rock, with a rod as long and heavy as a Tartar’s lance, and fish all day without a
murmur, even though he should not be encouraged by a single nibble. He would carry a
fowling- piece on his shoulder for hours together, trudging through woods and swamps, and
up hill and down dale, to shoot a few squirrels or wild pigeons. He would never refuse to
assist a neighbor even in the roughest toil, and was a foremost man at all country frolics for
husking Indian corn, or building stone-fences; the women of the village, too, used to
employ him to run their errands, and to do such little odd jobs as their less obliging husbands
would not do for them. In a word, Rip was ready to attend to anybody’s business but his own;
but as to doing family duty, and keeping his farm in order, he found it impossible.
In fact, he declared it was of no use to work on his farm; it was the most pestilent little
piece of ground in the whole country; everything about it went wrong, and would go wrong,
in spite of him. His fences were continually falling to pieces; his cow would either go astray,
or get among the cabbages; weeds were sure to grow quicker in his fields than anywhere else;
the rain always made a point of setting in just as he had some out- door work to do; so that
though his patrimonial estate had dwindled away under his management, acre by acre, until
there was little more left than a mere patch of Indian corn and potatoes, yet it was the worst-
conditioned farm in the neighborhood.
His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they belonged to nobody. His son Rip, an
urchin begotten in his own likeness, promised to inherit the habits, with the old clothes of his
father. He was generally seen trooping like a colt at his mother’s heels, equipped in a pair of
his father’s cast-off galligaskins, which he had much ado to hold up with one hand, as a fine
lady does her train in bad weather.
Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy mortals, of foolish, well-oiled
dispositions, who take the world easy, eat white bread or brown, whichever can be got with
least thought or trouble, and would rather starve on a penny than work for a pound. If left to
himself, he would have whistled life away in perfect contentment; but his wife kept
continually dinning in his ears about his idleness, his carelessness, and the ruin he was
34
bringing on his family. Morning, noon, and night, her tongue was incessantly going, and
every thing he said or did was sure to produce a torrent of household eloquence. Rip had but
one way of replying to all lectures of the kind, and that, by frequent use, had grown into a
habit. He shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, cast up his eyes, but said nothing. This,
however, always provoked a fresh volley from his wife; so that he was fain to draw off his
forces, and take to the outside of the house—the only side which, in truth, belongs to a hen-
pecked husband.
Rip’s sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who was as much hen- pecked as his
master; for Dame Van Winkle regarded them as companions in idleness, and even looked
upon Wolf with an evil eye, as the cause of his master’s going so often astray. True it is, in all
points of spirit befitting an honorable dog, he was as courageous an animal as ever scoured
the woods—but what courage can withstand the ever-during and all-besetting terrors of a
woman’s tongue? The moment Wolf entered the house his crest fell, his tail drooped to the
ground or curled between his legs, he sneaked about with a gallows air, casting many a
sidelong glance at Dame Van Winkle, and at the least flourish of a broomstick or ladle, he
would fly to the door with yelping precipitation.
Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle as years of matrimony rolled on; a
tart temper never mellows with age, and a sharp tongue is the only edged tool that grows
keener with constant use. For a long while he used to console himself, when driven from
home, by frequenting a kind of perpetual club of the sages, philosophers, and other idle
personages of the village; which held its sessions on a bench before a small inn, designated by
a rubicund portrait of His Majesty George the Third. Here they used to sit in the shade
through a long, lazy summer’s day, talking listlessly over village gossip, or telling endless
sleepy stories about nothing. But it would have been worth any statesman’s money to have
heard the profound discussions that sometimes took place when by chance an old newspaper
fell into their hands from some passing traveller. How solemnly they would listen to the
contents, as drawled out by Derrick Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, a dapper, learned little
man, who was not to be daunted by the most gigantic word in the dictionary; and how sagely
they would deliberate upon public events some months after they had taken place.
The opinions of this junto were completely controlled by Nicholas Vedder, a patriarch of the
village, and landlord of the inn, at the door of which he took his seat from morning till night,
just moving sufficiently to avoid the sun and keep in the shade of a large tree; so that the
neighbors could tell the hour by his movements as accurately as by a sun-dial. It is true, he
was rarely heard to speak, but smoked his pipe incessantly. His adherents, however, (for
every great man has his adherents), perfectly understood him, and knew how to gather his
opinions. When any thing that was read or related displeased him, he was observed to smoke
his pipe vehemently, and to send forth short, frequent, and angry puffs; but when pleased, he
would inhale the smoke slowly and tranquilly, and emit it in light and placid clouds; and
sometimes, taking the pipe from his mouth, and letting the fragrant vapor curl about his nose,
would gravely nod his head in token of perfect approbation.
From even this stronghold the unlucky Rip was at length routed by his termagant wife,
who would suddenly break in upon the tranquillity of the assemblage, and call the members
all to nought; nor was that august personage, Nicholas Vedder himself, sacred from the daring
tongue of this terrible virago, who charged him outright with encouraging her husband in
habits of idleness.
Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair; and his only alternative, to escape from
the labor of the farm and the clamor of his wife, was to take gun in hand and stroll away into
the woods. Here he would sometimes seat himself at the foot of a tree, and share the contents
of his wallet with Wolf, with whom he sympathized as a fellow-sufferer in persecution. “Poor
Wolf,” he would say, “thy mistress leads thee a dog’s life of it; but never mind, my lad, whilst
I live thou shalt never want a friend to stand by thee!” Wolf would wag his tail, look wistfully
35
in his master’s face, and if dogs can feel pity I verily believe he reciprocated the sentiment
with all his heart.

In a long ramble of the kind on a fine autumnal day, Rip had unconsciously scrambled to
one of the highest parts of the Kaatskill mountains. He was after his favorite sport of squirrel
shooting, and the still solitudes had echoed and re-echoed with the reports of his gun. Panting
and fatigued, he threw himself, late in the afternoon, on a green knoll, covered with mountain
herbage, that crowned the brow of a precipice. From an opening between the trees he could
overlook all the lower country for many a mile of rich woodland. He saw at a distance the
lordly Hudson, far, far below him, moving on its silent but majestic course, with the
reflection of a purple cloud, or the sail of a lagging bark, here and there sleeping on its glassy
bosom, and at last losing itself in the blue highlands.
On the other side he looked down into a deep mountain glen, wild, lonely, and shagged,
the bottom filled with fragments from the impending cliffs, and scarcely lighted by the
reflected rays of the setting sun. For some time Rip lay musing on this scene; evening was
gradually advancing; the mountains began to throw their long blue shadows over the valleys;
he saw that it would be dark long before he could reach the village, and he heaved a heavy
sigh when he thought of encountering the terrors of Dame Van Winkle.
As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from a distance hallooing, “Rip Van
Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!” He looked round, but could see nothing but a crow winging its
solitary flight across the mountain. He thought his fancy must have deceived him, and turned
again to descend, when he heard the same cry ring through the still evening air: “Rip Van
Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!”—at the same time Wolf bristled up his back, and giving a low
growl, skulked to his master’s side, looking fearfully down into the glen. Rip now felt a vague
apprehension stealing over him; he looked anxiously in the same direction, and perceived a
strange figure slowly toiling up the rocks, and bending under the weight of something he
carried on his back. He was surprised to see any human being in this lonely and unfrequented
place, but supposing it to be some one of the neighborhood in need of his assistance, he
hastened down to yield it.
On nearer approach, he was still more surprised at the singularity of the stranger’s
appearance. He was a short, square-built old fellow, with thick bushy hair, and a grizzled
beard. His dress was of the antique Dutch fashion—a cloth jerkin strapped round the waist—
several pairs of breeches, the outer one of ample volume, decorated with rows of buttons
down the sides and bunches at the knees. He bore on his shoulder a stout keg, that seemed full
of liquor, and made signs for Rip to approach and assist him with the load. Though rather shy
and distrustful of this new acquaintance, Rip complied with his usual alacrity; and mutually
relieving one another, they clambered up a narrow gully, apparently the dry bed of a mountain
torrent. As they ascended, Rip every now and then heard long rolling peals, like distant
thunder, that seemed to issue out of a deep ravine, or rather cleft, between lofty rocks, toward
which their rugged path conducted. He paused for an instant, but supposing it to be the
muttering of one of those transient thunder-showers which often take place in the mountain
heights, he proceeded. Passing through the ravine, they came to a hollow, like a small
amphitheatre, surrounded by perpendicular precipices, over the brinks of which impending
trees shot their branches, so that you only caught glimpses of the azure sky, and the bright
evening cloud. During the whole time, Rip and his companion had labored on in silence; for
though the former marvelled greatly what could be the object of carrying a keg of liquor up
this wild mountain, yet there was something strange and incomprehensible about the
unknown, that inspired awe and checked familiarity.
On entering the amphitheatre, new objects of wonder presented themselves. On a level
spot in the centre was a company of odd-looking personages playing at nine-pins. They were
dressed in quaint outlandish fashion; some wore short doublets, others jerkins, with long
36
knives in their belts, and most of them had enormous breeches, of similar style with that of
the guide’s. Their visages, too, were peculiar; one had a large head, broad face, and small
piggish eyes; the face of another seemed to consist entirely of nose, and was surmounted by a
white sugar-loaf hat, set off with a little red cock’s tail. They all had beards, of various shapes
and colors. There was one who seemed to be the commander. He was a stout old gentleman,
with a weather-beaten countenance; he wore a laced doublet, broad belt and hanger, high-
crowned hat and feather, red stockings, and high-heeled shoes, with roses in them. The whole
group reminded Rip of the figures in an old Flemish painting, in the parlor of Dominie Van
Schaick, the village parson, and which had been brought over from Holland at the time of the
settlement.
What seemed particularly odd to Rip was, that though these folks were evidently
amusing themselves, yet they maintained the gravest face, the most mysterious silence, and
were, withal, the most melancholy party of pleasure he had ever witnessed. Nothing
interrupted the stillness of the scene but the noise of the balls, which, whenever they were
rolled, echoed along the mountains like rumbling peals of thunder.
As Rip and his companion approached them, they suddenly desisted from their play, and
stared at him with such fixed, statue-like gaze, and such strange, uncouth, lack-lustre
countenances, that his heart turned within him, and his knees smote together. His companion
now emptied the contents of the keg into large flagons, and made signs to him to wait upon
the company. He obeyed with fear and trembling; they quaffed the liquor in profound silence,
and then returned to their game.
By degrees Rip’s awe and apprehension subsided. He even ventured, when no eye was
fixed upon him, to taste the beverage, which he found had much of the flavor of excellent
Hollands. He was naturally a thirsty soul, and was soon tempted to repeat the draught. One
taste provoked another; and he reiterated his visits to the flagon so often that at length his
senses were overpowered, his eyes swam in his head, his head gradually declined, and he fell
into a deep sleep.
On waking, he found himself on the green knoll whence he had first seen the old man of
the glen. He rubbed his eyes—it was a bright sunny morning. The birds were hopping and
twittering among the bushes, and the eagle was wheeling aloft, and breasting the pure
mountain breeze. “Surely,” thought Rip, “I have not slept here all night.” He recalled the
occurrences before he fell asleep. The strange man with a keg of liquor— the mountain
ravine—the wild retreat among the rocks—the woebegone party at nine-pins—the flagon—
“Oh! that flagon! that wicked flagon!” thought Rip—“what excuse shall I make to Dame Van
Winkle?”
He looked round for his gun, but in place of the clean, well-oiled fowling-piece, he found
an old firelock lying by him, the barrel incrusted with rust, the lock falling off, and the stock
worm-eaten. He now suspected that the grave roysterers of the mountain had put a trick upon
him, and having dosed him with liquor, had robbed him of his gun. Wolf, too, had
disappeared, but he might have strayed away after a squirrel or partridge. He whistled after
him and shouted his name, but all in vain; the echoes repeated his whistle and shout, but no
dog was to be seen.
He determined to revisit the scene of the last evening’s gambol, and if he met with any of
the party, to demand his dog and gun. As he rose to walk, he found himself stiff in the joints,
and wanting in his usual activity. “These mountain beds do not agree with me,” thought
Rip, “and if this frolic should lay me up with a fit of the rheumatism, I shall have a blessed
time with Dame Van Winkle.” With some difficulty he got down into the glen: he found the
gully up which he and his companion had ascended the preceding evening; but to his
astonishment a mountain stream was now foaming down it, leaping from rock to rock, and
filling the glen with babbling murmurs. He, however, made shift to scramble up its sides,
working his toilsome way through thickets of birch, sassafras, and witch- hazel, and
37
sometimes tripped up or entangled by the wild grape-vines that twisted their coils or tendrils
from tree to tree, and spread a kind of network in his path.
At length he reached to where the ravine had opened through the cliffs to the
amphitheatre; but no traces of such opening remained. The rocks presented a high
impenetrable wall, over which the torrent came tumbling in a sheet of feathery foam, and fell
into a broad deep basin, black from the shadows of the surrounding forest. Here, then, poor
Rip was brought to a stand. He again called and whistled after his dog; he was only answered
by the cawing of a flock of idle crows, sporting high in the air about a dry tree that overhung a
sunny precipice; and who, secure in their elevation, seemed to look down and scoff at the poor
man’s perplexities. What was to be done? the morning was passing away, and Rip felt
famished for want of his breakfast. He grieved to give up his dog and gun; he dreaded to meet
his wife; but it would not do to starve among the mountains. He shook his head, shouldered
the rusty firelock, and, with a heart full of trouble and anxiety, turned his steps homeward.
As he approached the village he met a number of people, but none whom he new, which
somewhat surprised him, for he had thought himself acquainted with every one in the country
round. Their dress, too, was of a different fashion from that to which he was accustomed.
They all stared at him with equal marks of surprise, and whenever they cast their eyes upon
him, invariably stroked their chins. The constant recurrence of this gesture induced Rip,
involuntarily, to do the same, when, to his astonishment, he found his beard had grown a foot
long!
He had now entered the skirts of the village. A troop of strange children ran at his heels,
hooting after him, and pointing at his gray beard. The dogs, too, not one of which he
recognized for an old acquaintance, barked at him as he passed. The very village was
altered; it was larger and more populous. There were rows of houses which he had never seen
before, and those which had been his familiar haunts had disappeared. Strange names were
over the doors—strange faces at the windows—every thing was strange. His mind now
misgave him; he began to doubt whether both he and the world around him were not
bewitched. Surely this was his native village, which he had left but the day before. There
stood the Kaatskill mountains—there ran the silver Hudson at a distance—there was every hill
and dale precisely as it had always been—Rip was sorely perplexed—“That flagon last night,”
thought he, “has addled my poor head sadly!”
It was with some difficulty that he found the way to his own house, which he approached
with silent awe, expecting every moment to hear the shrill voice of Dame Van Winkle. He
found the house gone to decay—the roof fallen in, the windows shattered, and the doors off the
hinges. A half- starved dog that looked like Wolf was skulking about it. Rip called him by
name, but the cur snarled, showed his teeth, and passed on. This was an unkind cut indeed.—
“My very dog,” sighed poor Rip, “has forgotten me!”
He entered the house, which, to tell the truth, Dame Van Winkle had always kept in neat
order. It was empty, forlorn, and apparently abandoned. This desolateness overcame all his
connubial fears—he called loudly for his wife and children—the lonely chambers rang for a
moment with his voice, and then all again was silence.
He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort, the village inn— but it too was
gone. A large rickety wooden building stood in its place, with great gaping windows, some of
them broken and mended with old hats and petticoats, and over the door was painted, “The
Union Hotel, by Jonathan Doolittle.” Instead of the great tree that used to shelter the quiet
little Dutch inn of yore, there now was reared a tall, naked pole, with something on the top
that looked like a red night-cap, and from it was fluttering a flag, on which was a singular
assemblage of stars and stripes— all this was strange and incomprehensible. He recognized
on the sign, however, the ruby face of King George, under which he had smoked so many a
peaceful pipe; but even this was singularly metamorphosed. The red coat was changed for one
of blue and buff, a sword was held in the hand instead of a sceptre, the head was decorated
38
with a cocked hat, and underneath was painted in large characters, GENERAL
WASHINGTON.
There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, but none that Rip recollected. The
very character of the people seemed changed. There was a busy, bustling, disputatious tone
about it, instead of the accustomed phlegm and drowsy tranquillity. He looked in vain for the
sage Nicholas Vedder, with his broad face, double chin, and fair long pipe, uttering clouds of
tobacco smoke, instead of idle speeches; or Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, doling forth the
contents of an ancient newspaper. In place of these, a lean, bilious-looking fellow, with his
pockets full of handbills, was haranguing vehemently about rights of citizens—elections—
members of Congress—liberty—Bunker’s hill—heroes of seventy-six—and other words,
which were a perfect Babylonish jargon to the bewildered Van Winkle.
The appearance of Rip, with his long grizzled beard, his rusty fowling- piece, his
uncouth dress, and an army of women and children at his heels, soon attracted the attention
of the tavern politicians. They crowded round him, eying him from head to foot with great
curiosity. The orator bustled up to him, and, drawing him partly aside, inquired, “on which
side he voted?” Rip stared in vacant stupidity. Another short but busy little fellow pulled him
by the arm, and, rising on tiptoe, inquired in his ear, “whether he was Federal or Democrat?”
Rip was equally at a loss to comprehend the question; when a knowing, self-important old
gentleman in a sharp cocked hat, made his way through the crowd, putting them to the right
and left with his elbows as he passed, and planting himself before Van Winkle, with one arm
akimbo, the other resting on his cane, his keen eyes and sharp hat penetrating, as it were, into
his very soul, demanded, in an austere tone, “what brought him to the election with a gun on
his shoulder, and a mob at his heels, and whether he meant to breed a riot in the village?”
“Alas! gentlemen,” cried Rip, somewhat dismayed, “I am a poor quiet man, a native of the
place, and a loyal subject of the king, God bless him!”
Here a general shout burst from the bystanders—“A tory! a tory! a spy! a refugee! hustle
him! away with him!” It was with great difficulty that the self-important man in the cocked
hat restored order; and, having assumed a tenfold austerity of brow, demanded again of the
unknown culprit, what he came there for, and whom he was seeking? The poor man humbly
assured him that he meant no harm, but merely came there in search of some of his neighbors,
who used to keep about the tavern.
“Well, who are they? Name them.”
Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, “Where’s Nicholas Vedder?”
There was a silence for a little while, when an old man replied, in a thin, piping voice,
“Nicholas Vedder! why, he is dead and gone these eighteen years! There was a wooden
tombstone in the churchyard that used to tell all about him, but that’s rotten and gone too.”
“Where’s Brom Dutcher?”
“Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the war; some say he was killed at the
storming of Stony Point—others say he was drowned in a squall at the foot of Antony’s Nose.
I don’t know—he never came back again.”
“Where’s Van Bummel, the schoolmaster?”
“He went off to the wars, too, was a great militia general, and is now in Congress.”
Rip’s heart died away at hearing of these sad changes in his home and friends, and
finding himself thus alone in the world. Every answer puzzled him too, by treating of such
enormous lapses of time, and of matters which he could not understand: war—Congress—
Stony Point;—he had no courage to ask after any more friends, but cried out in despair, “Does
nobody here know Rip Van Winkle?”
“Oh, Rip Van Winkle!” exclaimed two or three, “Oh, to be sure! that’s Rip Van Winkle
yonder, leaning against the tree.”
Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of himself, as he went up the mountain:
39
apparently as lazy, and certainly as ragged. The poor fellow was now completely confounded.
He doubted his own identity, and whether he was himself or another man. In the midst of his
bewilderment, the man in the cocked hat demanded who he was, and what was his name?
“God knows,” exclaimed he, at his wit’s end; “I’m not myself—I’m somebody else—
that’s me yonder—no—that’s somebody else got into my shoes—I was myself last night, but
I fell asleep on the mountain, and they’ve changed my gun, and every thing’s changed, and
I’m changed, and I can’t tell what’s my name, or who I am!”
The bystanders began now to look at each other, nod, wink significantly, and tap their
fingers against their foreheads. There was a whisper, also, about securing the gun, and
keeping the old fellow from doing mischief, at the very suggestion of which the self-important
man in the cocked hat retired with some precipitation. At this critical moment a fresh, comely
woman pressed through the throng to get a peep at the gray- bearded man. She had a chubby
child in her arms, which, frightened at his looks, began to cry. “Hush, Rip,” cried she, “hush,
you little fool; the old man won’t hurt you.” The name of the child, the air of the mother, the
tone of her voice, all awakened a train of recollections in his mind. “What is your name, my
good woman?” asked he.
“Judith Gardenier.”
“And your father’s name?”
“Ah! poor man, Rip Van Winkle was his name, but it’s twenty years since he went away
from home with his gun, and never has been heard of since—his dog came home without him;
but whether he shot himself, or was carried away by the Indians, nobody can tell. I was then
but a little girl.”
Rip had but one question more to ask; but he put it with a faltering voice:
“Where’s your mother?”
“Oh, she too had died but a short time since; she broke a blood-vessel in a fit of passion
at a New England peddler.”
There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this intelligence. The honest man could contain
himself no longer. He caught his daughter and her child in his arms. “I am your father!” cried
he—“Young Rip Van Winkle once— old Rip Van Winkle now! Does nobody know poor Rip
Van Winkle?”
All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out from among the crowd, put her hand
to her brow, and peering under it in his face for a moment, exclaimed, “Sure enough! it is Rip
Van Winkle—it is himself! Welcome home again, old neighbor. Why, where have you been
these twenty long years?”
Rip’s story was soon told, for the whole twenty long years had been to him but as one
night. The neighbors stared when they heard it; some were seen to wink at each other, and put
their tongues in their cheeks: and the self-important man in the cocked hat, who, when the
alarm was over, had returned to the field, screwed down the corners of his mouth, and shook
his head—upon which there was a general shaking of the head throughout the assemblage.
It was determined, however, to take the opinion of old Peter Vanderdonk, who was seen
slowly advancing up the road. He was a descendant of the historian of that name, who wrote
one of the earliest accounts of the province. Peter was the most ancient inhabitant of the
village, and well versed in all the wonderful events and traditions of the neighborhood. He
recollected Rip at once, and corroborated his story in the most satisfactory manner. He assured
the company that it was a fact, handed down from his ancestor the historian, that the Kaatskill
mountains had always been haunted by strange beings. That it was affirmed that the great
Hendrick Hudson, the first discoverer of the river and country, kept a kind of vigil there every
twenty years, with his crew of the Half-moon; being permitted in this way to revisit the scenes
of his enterprise, and keep a guardian eye upon the river, and the great city called by his
name. That his father had once seen them in their old Dutch dresses playing at nine- pins in a
40
 hollow of the mountain; and that he himself had heard, one summer afternoon, the sound of
their balls, like distant peals of thunder.

To make a long story short, the company broke up, and returned to the more important
concerns of the election. Rip’s daughter took him home to live with her; she had a snug, well-
furnished house, and a stout, cheery farmer for a husband, whom Rip recollected for one of
the urchins that used to climb upon his back. As to Rip’s son and heir, who was the ditto of
himself, seen leaning against the tree, he was employed to work on the farm; but evinced an
hereditary disposition to attend to any thing else but his business.
Rip now resumed his old walks and habits; he soon found many of his former cronies,
though all rather the worse for the wear and tear of time; and preferred making friends among
the rising generation, with whom be soon grew into great favor.
Having nothing to do at home, and being arrived at that happy age when a man can be
idle with impunity, he took his place once more on the bench at the inn door, and was
reverenced as one of the patriarchs of the village, and a chronicle of the old times “before the
war.” It was some time before he could get into the regular track of gossip, or could be made
to comprehend the strange events that had taken place during his torpor. How that there had
been a revolutionary war—that the country had thrown off the yoke of old England—and that,
instead of being a subject to his Majesty George the Third, he was now a free citizen of the
United States. Rip, in fact, was no politician; the changes of states and empires made but little
impression on him; but there was one species of despotism under which he had long groaned,
and that was—petticoat government. Happily that was at an end; he had got his neck out of
the yoke of matrimony, and could go in and out whenever he pleased, without dreading the
tyranny of Dame Van Winkle. Whenever her name was mentioned, however, he shook his
head, shrugged his shoulders, and cast up his eyes; which might pass either for an
expression of resignation to his fate, or joy at his deliverance.
He used to tell his story to every stranger that arrived at Mr. Doolittle’s hotel. He was
observed, at first, to vary on some points every time he told it, which was, doubtless, owing to
his having so recently awaked. It at last settled down precisely to the tale I have related, and
not a man, woman, or child in the neighborhood, but knew it by heart. Some always pretended
to doubt the reality of it, and insisted that Rip had been out of his head, and that this was one
point on which he always remained flighty. The old Dutch inhabitants, however, almost
universally gave it full credit. Even to this day they never hear a thunder-storm of a summer
afternoon about the Kaatskill, but they say Hendrick Hudson and his crew are at their game of
nine-pins; and it is a common wish of all hen-pecked husbands in the neighborhood, when life
hangs heavy on their hands, that they might have a quieting draught out of Rip Van Winkle’s
flagon.

NOTE.

The foregoing Tale, one would suspect, had been suggested to Mr. Knickerbocker by a
little German superstition about the Emperor Frederick der Rothbart, and the Kypphaüser
mountain: the subjoined note, however, which he had appended to the tale, shows that it is an
absolute fact, narrated with his usual fidelity:
“The story of Rip Van Winkle may seem incredible to many, but nevertheless I give it
my full belief, for I know the vicinity of our old Dutch settlements to have been very subject
to marvellous events and appearances. Indeed, I have heard many stranger stories than this, in
the villages along the Hudson; all of which were too well authenticated to admit of a doubt. I
have even talked with Rip Van Winkle myself, who, when I last saw him, was a very
venerable old man, and so perfectly rational and consistent on every other point, that I think
no conscientious person could refuse to take this into the bargain; nay, I have seen a
41
 certificate on the subject taken before a country justice and signed with cross, in the justice’s
own handwriting. The story, therefore, is beyond the possibility of doubt. “D. K.”

"Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson must remember the Kaatskill mountains. They are a
dismembered branch of the great Appalachian family, and are seen away to the west of the river,
swelling up to a noble height and lording it over the surrounding country. Every change of season,
every change of weather, indeed, every hour of the day, produces some change in the magical
hues and shapes of these mountains, and they are regarded by all the good wives, far and near, as
perfect barometers. When the weather is fair and settled, they are clothed in blue and purple, and
print their bold outlines on the clear evening sky; but sometimes when the rest of the landscape is
cloudless, they will gather a hood of gray vapors about their summits, which, in the last rays of the
setting sun, will glow and light up like a crown of glory.
At the foot of these fairy mountains, the voyager may have descried the light smoke curling up
from a village whose shingle roofs gleam among the trees, just where the blue tints of the upland
melt away into the fresh green of the nearer landscape. It is a little village of great antiquity,
having been founded by some of the Dutch colonists, in the early times of the province, just about
the beginning of the government of the good Peter Stuyvesant (may he rest in peace!), and there
were some of the houses of the original settlers standing within a few years, with lattice windows,
gable fronts, and weather-cocks on the roofs, which bore ample testimony to their great age and
durability.

Washington Irving's short story "Rip Van Winkle," published in 1819, is a classic American tale
that intertwines folklore with commentary on the evolving American identity and society. Set in
the years before and after the American Revolution, the story follows the life of Rip Van Winkle, a
simple and good-natured man who lives in a small village in the Catskill Mountains of New York.
Plot - The story begins with Rip Van Winkle, a henpecked and amiable man, who escapes from
his nagging wife by wandering into the mountains with his dog. There, he encounters a group of
mysterious figures playing nine-pins and drinking liquor. Rip joins them, drinks their liquor, and
eventually falls asleep.

When Rip awakens, he returns to his village only to find that everything has changed. He
discovers that the American Revolution has taken place during his long sleep, and his wife has
passed away. Rip's appearance has also drastically changed, adding to the confusion and disbelief
among the villagers. The story concludes with Rip reflecting on the passage of time and his own
sense of displacement in the transformed world.

Themes - Change and Transformation: "Rip Van Winkle" explores the theme of change on
multiple levels. On a personal level, Rip undergoes a physical and emotional transformation
during his long sleep. His appearance changes, and he returns to find his immediate surroundings
and relationships altered. On a broader scale, the story reflects the changes occurring in American
society and identity following the Revolution. Irving uses Rip's experience to comment on the rapid
transformation of American society and the loss of traditional values in the face of progress and
modernization.

Time and Memory: The story also delves into the concepts of time and memory. Rip's long sleep
serves as a suspension of time, highlighting how quickly time can pass and how much can change
in a short period. Rip's inability to recognize the new political landscape and social changes upon
his awakening underscores the fragility of memory and the disorientation that can accompany
significant historical shifts.
42
American Identity: "Rip Van Winkle" is often interpreted as a commentary on American identity
and the nation's relationship with its colonial past. Rip is portrayed as a symbol of the pre-
Revolutionary era— a time of British rule and colonial tradition. His awakening into a new
America symbolizes the nation's transition from its colonial past to an independent and evolving
identity. Through Rip's story, Irving explores themes of independence, nostalgia for the past, and
the challenges of adapting to change.

Folklore and Legend: Irving blends elements of folklore and legend throughout the story,
particularly in the portrayal of the mysterious figures in the mountains and Rip's encounter with
them. The use of supernatural elements adds depth to the narrative and reinforces the story's
themes of transformation and the passage of time.

Conclusion: "Rip Van Winkle" remains a cherished piece of American literature for its
exploration of timeless themes such as change, identity, and memory. Washington Irving's skillful
blending of folklore with social commentary creates a narrative that resonates with readers across
generations. Through Rip's journey, Irving invites readers to reflect on the complexities of history,
memory, and the evolving nature of American society. "Rip Van Winkle" continues to serve as a
poignant reminder of the enduring impact of history on individual lives and collective identity.

43
 Brochures for Programmes and Events (drafting invitations)

A brochure is a printed marketing or promotional material used by businesses and organizations to

convey information about their products, services or brand to a target audience.

Brochures typically consist of folded sheets of paper that contain text, images, graphics and other
visual elements designed to inform, engage and persuade the reader.

Business brochures serve various purposes, including:

• Marketing and promotion

• Information dissemination
• Event promotion
• Educational materials
• Brand awareness
• Sales support

The following sections will outline what to include in your brochure, brochure layouts and a step-
by-step guide on how to create brochures, from researching your target audience to printing
brochures.

What should be included in a brochure?

To create a brochure, you’re going to need content. So, before you get started with brochure
creation, make a folder where you’ll have these essentials at hand.

Cover page content

The cover page of your brochure is where you start building that important first impression.

On the cover page of your brochure, include:

• A catchy headline or slogan: Pique curiosity and get potential customers interested in
your brand.
• Great visuals: Choose relevant images or graphics, and make sure they are clear and
sharp.

Your logo: Print your company logo front and center in the highest resolution Inside pages content

Once you have chosen the assets for your brochure’s cover page, it is time to focus on what goes
inside.

Images

Select a few high-resolution photos of your products or services, and maybe even one of you or
your team.

44
Copy (text)

Your message is important, so spend time drafting what you want to say in advance and make
tweaks later. Your brochure copy should include:

• Intro/About us: The introductory section of your brochure serves as the opening
statement, providing readers with a concise overview of your brand’s mission and values.
• Services/Products: Offer a comprehensive overview of the range of services or products
your business provides. Include detailed descriptions and eye-catching images, and
highlight the key features of each offering.
• Benefits: This is where you show how your products or services can improve your
customers’ lives by solving their problems or meeting their needs.

If you want a multi-page brochure packed with information, you can also add the following
elements:

• Testimonials: Social proof can help reassure readers that your products or services deliver
genuine benefits. Include quotes or testimonials from satisfied customers or clients. Use
real names and, if possible, photographs of the people providing the testimonials.
• Team: Make your brand even more trustworthy by putting a face to the name. Provide the
brief profiles, photos, qualifications, expertise and roles of key team members.

Content for the back of your brochure

Write a strong call to action (CTA) and your contact details on the back page of your brochure so
your audience knows how to contact you and what to do next.

• Contact information: Include your business address, phone number, email, website URL
or social media handles.
• Call to Action (CTA): Encourage readers to take action, such as contacting you,
requesting a quote or visiting your website. Use action-oriented language, like “Call us
today” or “Visit our website for more information.”

How to make a brochure layout

With your content prepared, start creating a clean and easy-to-read brochure layout. This is where
the art of brochure design comes into play. Achieving an effective brochure layout is crucial to
engage your audience and convey your message clearly.

Plan the information hierarchy

Establish a clear information hierarchy. Identify the most important pieces of content and arrange
them logically. Use headlines, subheadings and body text to guide readers through the
information.

Implement a grid system

45
For visual consistency, use a grid system that serves as the foundation for your layout. This grid
will help you align text and images consistently. Think of it as the invisible structure that keeps
everything in place.

Craft smooth page transitions

Consider the flow of the pages of your brochure—ensure that readers can easily follow the logical
sequence of information as they progress through your brochure. Keep in mind how your layout
will appear when the brochure is folded, making sure the important content stays visible on each
panel to create an easy-to-follow reading experience.

Create text boxes and image frames

Text boxes for your written content and image frames for images and graphics create a neat look,
while consistent spacing and alignment will give your brochure a professional feel. Boxes and
frames ensure your brochure doesn’t look too cluttered, and the information is presented in easily
digestible chunks.

Strike a balance between text and visuals

Avoid overwhelming readers with an excessive amount of text or images on a single page. Strive
for a balanced layout where text and visuals work harmoniously to convey your message
effectively.

How to make a brochure step-by-step

Now it’s time to learn how to make a brochure. Let’s walk through the process step by step,
helping to bring your business brochure to life.

Step 1: Determine your brochure’s objective

Clarifying the purpose of your brochure helps emphasize your key message and ensures the
effectiveness of your printed brochure.

Consider what you aim to accomplish with your brochure…

• Is it primarily to promote a particular service, perhaps highlighting its unique benefits?

• Are you looking to introduce your audience to the exciting new features of a product?
• Will your brochure provide essential information about your business or organization,
such as your history, mission or values?
• Is the brochure an invitation, providing details about an upcoming event and encouraging
people to attend?

Exploring these questions will help clarify your brochure’s purpose and lay a solid foundation for
crafting a brochure that resonates with its target audience.

Step 2: Understand your target audience

To better understand how a business brochure can help you achieve your goals, it is important to
learn what your target audience looks for in marketing materials. Firstly, ask yourself whether

46
your target audience reads brochures. Other marketing materials, like flyers or pamphlets, might
engage their attention more effectively.

Before moving on to how to create a brochure, you need to figure out:

• The specific demographics of the people you want to reach with your brochure.
• The key problems or challenges your audience faces that your product or service can help
solve.
• What information is your audience looking for in your brochure?
• The tone of voice that appeals to your audience. Is it formal, informal, friendly or
professional?
• Audience incentives for engaging with your business. Perhaps they are driven by
discounts, convenience or feeling part of something?
• Where your audience is most likely to find and engage with your brochure, whether in-
store, by mail, via other local businesses or handed out at events and trade shows.

Step 3: Create an outline of your business brochure

Now that you understand your audience and objectives, map out the outline of your brochure.
Creating an outline will help keep your content focused, organize your content and engage your
audience. A roadmap will also help allocate time, budget and people power for more efficient
brochure creation.

In your brochure outline, include the sections or topics you intend to address, as well as any visual
elements, such as images or graphics, that you plan to incorporate. Do not forget a compelling call
to action (CTA).

Step 4: Create the brochure copy and visuals

Once you have laid out the brochure outline, start creating your brochure’s content. Maintain
consistent branding with your color palette, logos and brochure fonts, ensuring your brochure
aligns with your brand identity, building brand recognition.

Brochure design

To make your brochure copy more engaging:

• Divide text into paragraphs: Break up your content to enhance readability and engage
readers.
• Try to connect with your reader: Use second-person pronouns like “you” to directly
engage the reader and create a more personal feel.
• Use an active voice: Writing actively rather than passively will enhance readability.
• Keep it brief: To ensure your message is impactful, convey essential information clearly
and succinctly while avoiding unnecessary details.

When it comes to the brochure’s visual elements:

• Consider using custom images: Hire a designer to produce custom graphics aligned with
your brand that differentiate you from your competitors.
47
 • Avoid using stock photos: Otherwise, you risk using the same images as your competitors
and not standing out with your business brochure.

For both copy and images, double-check that your brochure’s content is relevant to the message
you want to convey, on-brand and accessible to your target audience.

Farm brochure cover with custom illustrations

Step 5: Choose the fold of your brochure

Brochure folds, such as bi-fold, tri-fold and Z-fold, offer distinct layouts and are best suited to
specific communication goals. A bi-fold consists of two panels, making it simple and cost-
effective. It’s ideal for conveying essential information when you have limited content or want to
focus on a single message, like a menu or price list.

Bi-fold business brochure

A tri-fold, with six panels, provides more space for content. It’s versatile and commonly used for
brochures that balance visuals and detailed information. Tri-fold brochure templates are great for
product catalogs, event programs and service offerings.

48
Tri-fold pet grooming business brochure

Lastly, the Z-fold is known for its eye-catching presentation. It zigzags when unfolded, revealing
three panels on each side. It’s excellent for brand storytelling or to guide readers through a
sequential narrative, like a journey or process.

Z-fold business brochure

Choosing the right fold depends on your content and objectives:

• Use a bi-fold brochure for simplicity and clarity

• Use a tri-fold brochure for versatility and balance
• Use a Z-fold brochure for impactful storytelling or sequential information

Step 6: Customize a brochure template

While you can design your brochure from scratch, you don’t have to start from a blank page.
Instead, you can browse VistaPrint’s gallery of ready-made brochure design templates, pick the
one best-suited to your brochure goals and customize it to match your brand identity.

Ready-made business brochure design templates

Step 7: Prepare your design document with a safety area. When creating a print-ready file, include
a safe area and crop marks, making sure the design goes all the way to the edge (full bleed size)
while keeping important text and images safely inside the designated area.

Step 8: Order a test print of your business brochure

Before finalizing your design and sending your brochure to print, create a test copy to ensure the
quality of your brochure. Because printed colors sometimes look different from what you see on
49
your computer screen, printing a test copy can help assess if the colors in your brochure match
your brand guidelines or design intentions. You can also check the paper stock, texture and finish
to ensure they meet your expectations.

A printed test copy is an excellent opportunity for a final proofread. Review the text for typos,
grammatical errors or any content-related issues that may have been missed during the digital
review. It also allows stakeholders to provide feedback on the printed brochure, rather than
reviewing digital mock-ups.

Step 9: Print your brochure

Once you have approved your brochure design, it’s time to print. To ensure high-quality
marketing materials, print your brochures with trusted printing services like VistaPrint. When
sending your brochures off for printing, you’ll need to choose paper thickness, brochure size and
paper stock.

Brochure cover page design

Brochures usually come in four types of paper stock, each with its pros and cons:

• Glossy finish: The best option for brochures with vibrant colors or photos, but glossy
paper can be reflective and difficult to read in bright light, so it’s not ideal for text-heavy
designs.
• Matte finish: Perfect for simple black-and-white designs or high-contrast color
combinations. Some people think it looks more professional than glossy, making it a good
choice for corporate brochures.
• Uncoated paper: Natural and easy to read and write on, uncoated paper is versatile and
useful for scribbling down contact information at an event.
• Recycled paper: Made from 100% post-consumer recycled material, recycled paper has a
textured finish. An eco-friendly choice for environmentally-conscious businesses.

Ready to make a brochure?

Seeing your brochure come to life is exciting, but the real value comes when you start putting it to
work. Display your brochures at well-chosen locations to attract potential customers, and hand
them out at your place of business or events. Whatever you choose to do with them, you will find
your brochure is one of your proudest and most versatile marketing materials.

Brochure creation FAQs

How do I make a brochure for my business?

To make a brochure for your business, determine its purpose and target audience. Choose a
brochure layout and template that suits your content, add high-quality images, write concise and
engaging copy, and include key information like services, contact details and a call to action.

What are the different types of brochures?

The most common types of brochures are bi-fold, tri-fold and Z-fold, each offering different panel
configurations for presenting content in a visually appealing way. Other types of brochures

50
include formats designed to communicate specific information such as restaurant menus, service
price lists and event programs.

What is the difference between a brochure, flyer and pamphlet?

A brochure is a multi-page folded document used for detailed information, whereas a flyer is a
single, eye-catching sheet used for quick promotions, and a pamphlet is a small booklet focused on
informing or educating audiences.

What should I include in a brochure?

Include your business logo, a catchy headline, a brief introduction, detailed information about
your products or services, testimonials, contact details and call to action.

What is the best size for a brochure?

The most popular brochure sizes are 8.5″ x 11″ for a tri-fold, 8.5″ x 14″ for more detailed content
and 11″ x 17″ for larger layouts that require more space.

Should I print my brochure or share it digitally?

It depends on your marketing goals. Printed brochures are great for in-person distribution, while
digital brochures are cost-effective and easy to share via email or on your website. Many
businesses opt for both formats for maximum reach.

Brochures for Other Purposes

To create effective brochures for programs and events, focus on clear communication, engaging
visuals, and strategic design. Begin by identifying the purpose and target audience, then craft
compelling copy highlighting the event's benefits. Incorporate eye-catching visuals and choose a
brochure format (bi-fold, tri-fold, etc.) that best suits the content. Finally, utilize design tools
like Canva, Adobe Express, or Microsoft Publisher to create a professional and engaging
brochure.

1. Planning & Preparation:

• Define the purpose and target audience:
Determine what information needs to be conveyed and who you are trying to
reach. Understanding your audience will help you tailor the content and design.
• Outline the brochure:
Create a clear structure, including sections for event details, highlights, and call to action.
• Gather content:
Write engaging copy that is concise and benefit-focused, and gather high-quality images or
graphics that align with your event.
2. Design and Layout:
• Choose a template:
Select a brochure template that aligns with your event's theme and content, or create your
own.

51
• Incorporate visuals:
Use images, illustrations, or other graphics to make the brochure visually appealing and
engaging.
• Use a professional design:
Ensure the brochure is well-organized, easy to read, and reflects the overall tone of your
event.
• Consider the fold:
Choose a fold type (bi-fold, tri-fold, etc.) that best suits the content and layout.
3. Content and Copywriting:
• Include key information: Clearly state the event name, date, time, location, and any
relevant details.
• Highlight the benefits: Focus on what attendees will gain from participating in the event.
• Create a call to action: Tell people what you want them to do (e.g., register, visit a
website, contact for more information).
• Keep it concise: Use clear and concise language that is easy to understand.
• Make it personal: Use a tone that resonates with your target audience.

4. Printing and Distribution:

• Choose a printing method: Select a printing method that aligns with your budget and
desired quality.
• Consider online distribution: Share the brochure digitally as well as in print.
5. Examples of Invitation Content:
• Headline: "You're Invited! [Event Name]"
• Date and Time: "Join us on [Date] at [Time]"
• Location: "At [Location]"
• Brief Description: "Experience [briefly describe the event]"
• Call to Action: "RSVP by [Date] at [Website/Email]"
By following these steps, you can create brochures that effectively promote your programs and
events, attracting attendees and achieving your goals.

52
 Leave Application Letter for the Office

Writing an application letter for the office ensures clarity, professionalism, and a respectful tone. Here
are some of the elements that must be included in the letter to make it look professional and effective.

Subject Line

Write a clear and informative subject line that summarises the purpose of your leave application.
Include the dates of your intended leave in the subject line to provide immediate context.

Salutation

Address your letter with a polite and appropriate salutation, such as "Dear [Recipient's Name]" or "To
Whom It May Concern," followed by a comma or colon.
Use the recipient's preferred title and last name if known, showing respect and professionalism in your
communication.

Body of the Letter

Clearly state the dates of your planned leave, including the start and end dates, to ensure the right
planning and work arrangements.
Provide a brief but informative explanation for your leave request, emphasising the importance of the
time off and expressing gratitude for your employer's understanding.

Thank You Note

Conclude your letter with a sincere thank you note, expressing appreciation for your employer's
consideration and support regarding your leave request.
Highlight any flexibility or accommodations your employer has provided in the past, reinforcing a
positive and appreciative tone in your communication.

Complimentary Closing

Close your letter with a professional and courteous closing, such as "Thank you for your attention to
this matter" or "Best regards," followed by a comma.
Tailor your closing to the tone and formality of your letter, ensuring consistency and professionalism
in your communication.

Name and Job Title

Sign your letter with your full name and job title, as it provides clarity and accountability for your
leave request.
Consider adding your contact information, such as your email address or phone number, below your
name for easy accessibility in case of further questions or follow-up.

53
 Leave Application Letter Format
The templates for the same have been provided below. Check out the template structure for the
letter and the emails.
[Your Name]
[Your Address]
[City, State, Zip Code]
[Your Email Address]
[Your Phone Number]
[Today’s Date]

[Recipient's Name]
[Recipient's Position/Job Title]
[Company Name]
[Company Address]
[City, State, Zip Code]

Dear [Recipient's Name],

Subject: Leave Application

I am writing to formally request a leave of absence from [start date] to [end date] due to [reason
for leave]. I have made arrangements to ensure that my responsibilities are covered during my
absence, and I am committed to completing any pending tasks beforehand. I appreciate your
understanding and consideration of my request.

Thank you for your attention to this matter.

Sincerely,
[Your Name]

Leave Application E-Mail Template

Subject: Leave Application

Dear [Recipient's Name],

I hope this email finds you well. I am writing to inform you of my need to take a leave of absence
from [start date] to [end date] due to [reason for leave]. I have taken all necessary steps to ensure
that my duties are covered during my absence, and I am fully committed to completing any
pending tasks before my departure.
I kindly request your approval of this leave request and would appreciate any guidance or
instructions you may have regarding the process. Thank you for your understanding and support.

Best Regards,
[Your Name]

54
 Writing a Permission Letter
To write a permission letter in English, it is essential to know the basic application format for
permission. If you want to take leave or plan an event, you will have to get permission to take time
off from work. Everything is documented and so you will most often be asked to write a letter for
permission.

Format and Samples of a Formal Letter for Permission

The format of an application for permission is just like that of any other formal letter. The only
thing that would change would be the information you provide in the body of the letter. You will
have to mention why and when you need permission. You can also state when you would be back.
Go through the following sample letters for a clearer idea.

Sample Letter of Request for Permission for 10 Days Leave

S. Varsha
#45, Nandini Layout
Brindavan Nagar
Bangalore – 560032
11th February, 2022

R. Kumar
HR Manager
UI Pvt. Ltd.
Bangalore – 560029

Sub: Seeking permission for 10 days leave

Dear Sir,
I am writing this letter to inform you that I will have to travel to my hometown tomorrow as my
sibling is undergoing an emergency surgery. I will have to take 10 days off since my family needs
my support. I will make the necessary arrangements on my behalf so that the work does not get
delayed in my absence. Kindly understand my concern and grant me permission to go on leave
from 12.02.2022 to 23.02.2022. I shall be highly obliged to you for the same.

Awaiting your response.

Thank you.

Regards,
Signature

55
 Permission Letter for Conducting an Event
From address
Date
To address
Designation
Name of the organisation

Sub: Seeking permission for conducting ____ (event)

Sir/Madam,
With utmost respect, I _____ on behalf of class/batch _____ students, would like to inform that we
are conducting a/an _____(event) on ______(date). We have taken permission from our Class
Teacher/HOD.
We assure you that there will be no disturbances because of the event, and we shall be responsible
for any mishap. Waiting for a positive response from you at the earliest.
Thank you.
Yours sincerely,
Signature
Name
(Monitor/CR)
Class of ____

Frequently Asked Questions on Application for Permission

How do I write a letter to my higher authority for taking permission for leave from office?
You can write an application seeking permission for leave by following the format of a formal
letter. Make sure that the application is written in simple and polite language. Address the letter to
your HR or your higher authority. Mention the dates of your absence.
What is the purpose of writing an application for permission?
An application for permission is written to seek permission from a higher authority to do
something. It is a formal way of taking permission.
How to be polite in the permission letter?
The language you use is what will make your letter sound polite; using simple words and
sentences that indicate humility and politeness will help.

Letter of Application
Application Writing: An application is a formal request regarding a position or want of something, sent to
a person in an authoritative position to seek their permission. It is also defined as the action of putting
something into operation. An application is written in the form of a letter and sent to the concerned
person. To write an effective official letter of application, follow a professional format, clearly
state your purpose and qualifications, and maintain a respectful tone. Ensure the letter is concise,
well-structured, and free of errors.
1. Header:
• Include your full name, address, phone number, and email address.
• Add the date of writing.
• Include the recipient's name, title, and address.
2. Salutation:
• Use a formal salutation like "Dear Mr./Ms./Mx. [Last Name]".

56
 • If you do not know the recipient's name, use "Dear Hiring Manager" or "Dear
[Department] Hiring Manager".
3. Body:
• Introduction:
Clearly state the purpose of your letter – you are applying for a specific position. Mention
where you saw the job posting.
• Paragraph 1 (Qualifications):
Briefly highlight your relevant skills and experience that make you a good fit for the
role. Use keywords from the job description.
• Paragraph 2 (Experience):
Elaborate on your most relevant experiences and accomplishments, demonstrating how you
meet the job requirements.
• Paragraph 3 (Enthusiasm and Next Steps):
Express your enthusiasm for the opportunity and state your desired next steps (e.g.,
interview).
4. Closing:
• Use a formal closing like "Sincerely" or "Respectfully".
• Sign your name and type your name below the signature.
5. Proofreading:
• Carefully proofread your letter for any errors in grammar, spelling, and punctuation.
• Ensure the letter is concise and easy to read.
• Make sure the tone is professional and respectful.
Key Considerations:
• Tailor your letter: Customize each application to the specific job and company.

• Use professional language: Avoid slang and abbreviations.

• Be brief and concise: Keep your letter to one page. Convey your message through shorter
and more concise sentences. Don’t exaggerate your messages.

• Make it easily readable and understandable: Use normal, regular words. Frame
sentences in a manner that is easy to understand.

• Review your application before submission: Check your application for proofreading
before submitting it. Look for any spelling mistakes or grammatical errors. These minute
mistakes create a negative impact on your personality.

• Show positivity: Be positive and enthusiastic: Convey your genuine interest in the
position. Your article must always look like you are positive about your demand. This
makes the receiver think twice before rejecting your application.

• Do not miss out on the format: Since an application letter is formal, it is important
to adhere to the format. Don’t miss out on the small details in the letter. Even the
wrong placement of a comma can lead to a straight rejection of your application.

57
Difference between Application Writing and Letter Writing

An application and a letter are very similar in nature. The only difference between them is that an
application is a formal letter, it is written for formal demands/requests and used in formal setups,
whereas a letter can be both formal and informal. An application is written to seek permission or
make a request, whereas a letter can be written to convey a message, alone.

58
 Idioms
1. A blessing in disguise – Something good that seemed bad at first.
Sentence: Losing that job was a blessing in disguise—it led me to my dream career.
2. Beat around the bush – Avoid saying what you mean.
Sentence: Stop beating around the bush and tell me the truth.
3. Bite the bullet – To endure something unpleasant.
Sentence: I had to bite the bullet and go to the dentist.
4. Break the ice – To initiate conversation in a social setting.
Sentence: He told a joke to break the ice at the meeting.
5. Call it a day – To stop working for the day.
Sentence: We have done enough—let us call it a day.
6. Cut corners – To do something poorly to save time or money.
Sentence: They cut corners on the construction and now the roof leaks.
7. Devil’s advocate – To argue against something for the sake of debate.
Sentence: Let me play devil’s advocate to test your theory.
8. Every cloud has a silver lining – There is something good in every bad situation.
Sentence: Though I failed the test, I learned what to focus on—every cloud has a silver lining.
9. Feel under the weather – To feel ill.
Sentence: I am feeling a bit under the weather today.
10. Give someone the cold shoulder – To ignore someone.
Sentence: She gave me the cold shoulder after our argument.
11. Hit the nail on the head – To be exactly right.
Sentence: You hit the nail on the head with that analysis.
12. In hot water – In trouble.
Sentence: He’s in hot water for missing the deadline.
13. Jump on the bandwagon – To join a popular trend.
Sentence: Everyone is jumping on the bandwagon of eco-friendly living.
14. Kill two birds with one stone – To accomplish two things at once.
Sentence: By visiting my aunt, I killed two birds with one stone—I saw her and picked up
my parcel.
15. Let the cat out of the bag – To reveal a secret.
Sentence: He let the cat out of the bag about the surprise party.
16. Miss the boat – To miss an opportunity.
Sentence: I missed the boat on investing early.
17. Not one’s cup of tea – Not something one enjoys.
Sentence: Reality TV isn’t my cup of tea.
18. Once in a blue moon – Very rarely.
Sentence: We go out for dinner once in a blue moon.
19. Piece of cake – Very easy.
Sentence: That test was a piece of cake.
20. Put all your eggs in one basket – To rely on one plan.
Sentence: Don’t put all your eggs in one basket—diversify your investments.
21. Raining cats and dogs – Raining heavily.
Sentence: It’s raining cats and dogs outside!
22. See eye to eye – To agree.
Sentence: We finally saw eye to eye on the project.
23. Speak of the devil – The person just mentioned appears.
Sentence—there’s John now!
24. Take with a grain of salt – Don’t take it too seriously.
Sentence: Take his advice with a grain of salt.
25. The ball is in your court – It’s your decision now.
59
 Sentence: I’ve done my part—the ball is in your court.
26. Throw in the towel – To give up.
Sentence: After several failed attempts, she threw in the towel.
27. Under the weather – Feeling sick.
Sentence: He’s under the weather and staying home today.
28. Up in the air – Uncertain.
Sentence: Our vacation plans are still up in the air.
29. When pigs fly – Something that will never happen.
Sentence: He’ll clean his room when pigs fly.
30. You can’t judge a book by its cover – Appearances can be deceiving.
Sentence: She may look quiet, but she’s a brilliant speaker—you can’t judge a book by its cover.
31. Add fuel to the fire – To make a bad situation worse.
Sentence: His sarcastic comment only added fuel to the fire.
32. Back to the drawing board – Start again from the beginning.
Sentence: The plan failed, so it’s back to the drawing board.
33. Burn the midnight oil – Work late into the night.
Sentence: She burned the midnight oil to finish her thesis.
34. Cost an arm and a leg – Very expensive.
Sentence: That designer bag costs an arm and a leg!
35. Cry over spilled milk – Worry about something that can’t be changed.
Sentence: It’s done—no use crying over spilled milk.
36. Face the music – Accept the consequences.
Sentence: He had to face the music after breaking the rules.
37. Go the extra mile – Put in more effort than expected.
Sentence: She always goes the extra mile for her students.
38. Hit the sack – Go to bed.
Sentence: I’m exhausted—I’m hitting the sack early tonight.
39. In the same boat – In the same situation.
Sentence: We’re all in the same boat during exam season.
40. Jump the gun – Act too soon.
Sentence: He jumped the gun and announced the results early.
41. Keep your fingers crossed – Hope for good luck.
Sentence: I’m keeping my fingers crossed for your interview.
42. Leave no stone unturned – Try every possible way.
Sentence: The detective left no stone unturned in the investigation.
43. Make a long story short – Summarize.
Sentence: To make a long story short, we missed the flight.
44. Not playing with a full deck – Acting strangely or foolishly.
Sentence: He’s acting like he’s not playing with a full deck today.
45. On thin ice – In a risky situation.
Sentence: You’re on thin ice with your boss after that mistake.
46. Pull yourself together – Calm down and regain control.
Sentence: Take a deep breath and pull yourself together.
47. Read between the lines – Understand the hidden meaning.
Sentence: She didn’t say it directly, but I read between the lines.
48. Sit on the fence – Avoid making a decision.
Sentence: He is sitting on the fence about the proposal.
49. The tip of the iceberg – A small part of a bigger problem.
Sentence: The complaints are just the tip of the iceberg.
50. Rome wasn’t built in a day – Important things take time.
Sentence: Be patient—Rome was not built in a day.
60