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Think English
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Робота в Українi
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Каналы, которые цитирует @one_story
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Think English
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Story 17 Sep, 18:00
🇬🇧 Сегодня хотим порекомендовать вам еще один крутой канал по английскому языку @thinkenglish с детальным разбором устойчивых фраз и выражений. К тому же на канале постоянно публикуются книги, учебники, интересные и обучающие статьи, которые помогают в изучении языка.
Story 17 Sep, 10:59
A Fashion Item by Mark Twain
Written about 1867

At General G----'s reception the other night, the most fashionably dressed lady was Mrs. G. C. She wore a pink satin dress, plain in front but with a good deal of rake to it--to the train, I mean; it was said to be two or three yards long. One could see it creeping along the floor some little time after the woman was gone. Mrs. C. wore also a white bodice, cut bias, with Pompadour sleeves, flounced with ruches; low neck, with the inside handkerchief not visible, with white kid gloves. She had on a pearl necklace, which glinted lonely, high up the midst of that barren waste of neck and shoulders. Her hair was frizzled into a tangled chaparral, forward of her ears, aft it was drawn together, and compactly bound and plaited into a stump like a pony's tail, and furthermore was canted upward at a sharp angle, and ingeniously supported by a red velvet crupper, whose forward extremity was made fast with a half-hitch around a hairpin on the top of her head. Her whole top hamper was neat and becoming. She had a beautiful complexion when she first came, but it faded out by degrees in an unaccountable way. However, it is not lost for good. I found the most of it on my shoulder afterward. (I stood near the door when she squeezed out with the throng.) There were other ladies present, but I only took notes of one as a specimen. I would gladly enlarge upon the subject were I able to do it justice.
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Story 16 Sep, 15:10
The Bird by Leo Tolstoy

It was Serozha's birthday, and he received many different gifts; peg tops, and hobby horses, and pictures. But Serozha's uncle gave him a gift that he prized above all the rest; it was a trap for snaring birds.

The trap was constructed in such a way that a board was fitted on the frame and shut down upon the top. If seed was scattered on the board, and the trap was put out in the yard, the little bird would fly down, hop upon the board, the board would give way, and the trap would shut with a clap.

Serozha was delighted, and he ran into the house to show his mother the trap.

His mother said:

"It is not a good plaything. What do you want to do with birds? Why do you want to torture them?"

"I am going to put them in a cage," Serozha said. "They will sing, and I will feed them."

He got some seed, scattered it on the board, and set the trap in the garden. And he stood by and expected the birds to fly down. But the birds were afraid of him and would not come near the cage. Serozha ran in to get something to eat, and left the cage.

After dinner he went to look at it. The cage had shut, and in it a little bird was beating against the bars.

Serozha took up the bird, and carried it into the house.

"Mother, I have caught a bird!" he cried. "I think it is a nightingale; and how its heart beats!"

His mother said it was a wild canary. "Be careful! Don't hurt it; you would better let it go."

"No," he said. "I am going to give it something to eat and drink."

Serozha put the bird in a cage, and for two days gave it seed and water, and cleaned the cage. But on the third day he forgot all about it, and did not change the water.

And his mother said, "See here, you have forgotten your bird. You would better let it go."

Serozha thrust his hand in the cage and began to clean it, but the little bird was frightened and fluttered. After Serozha had cleaned the cage, he went to get some water. His mother saw that he had forgotten to shut the cage door, and she called after him.

"Serozha, shut up your cage, else your bird will fly out and hurt itself."

She had hardly spoken the words when the bird found the door, was delighted, spread its wings, and flew around the room toward the window. Serozha came running in, picked up the bird, and put it back in the cage. The bird was still alive, but it lay on its breast, with its wings spread out, and breathed heavily. Serozha looked and looked at it, and began to cry.

"Mother, what can I do now?" he asked.

"You can do nothing now," she replied.

Serozha stayed by the cage all day. He did nothing but look at the bird. And all the time the bird lay on its breast and breathed hard and fast.

When Serozha went to bed, the bird was dead. Serozha could not get to sleep for a long time; every time that he shut his eyes he seemed to see the bird still lying and sighing.

In the morning when Serozha went to his cage, he saw the bird lying on its back, with its legs crossed, and all stiff.

After that Serozha never again snared birds.
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Story 15 Sep, 17:00
Приглашаем в интересный канал о киноискусстве.
Автор пишет обо всем что связано с миром кино: ежедневные советы фильмов, только свежие новости и интересные факты.
🎬 Подписывайтесь, это интересно 👉🏻 @newsreel_shot
Story 15 Sep, 11:08
Bad guy - Billie Eilish
смотреть клип

White shirt now red, my bloody nose
Sleeping, you're on your tippy toes
Creeping around like no one knows
Think you're so criminal
Bruises, on both my knees for you
Don't say thank you or please
I do what I want when I'm wanting to
My soul? So cynical

So you're a tough guy
Like it really rough guy
Just can't get enough guy
Chest always so puffed guy
I'm that bad type
Make your mama sad type
Make your girlfriend mad tight
Might seduce your dad type
I'm the bad guy, duh

I'm the bad guy

I like it when you take control
Even if you know that you don't
Own me, I'll let you play the role
I'll be your animal
My mommy likes to sing along with me
But she won't sing this song
If she reads all the lyrics
She'll pity the men I know

So you're a tough guy
Like it…
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Story 14 Sep, 18:01
Павел Дуров не только есть сырую рыбу и купается высоко в горах в ледяных озёрах, но и тренирует свой интеллект и вам советует подписаться на эти каналы, чтоб всегда оставаться лучше других:

@biblio - короткие рассказы для чтения в метро или автобусе.

@kartiny - интриги мировых шедевров. Галереи и рассказы о художниках.

@stihipoet - первоклассные стихи на канале фотохудожника Сергея Берменьева.

@fifty_two_books - делимся бесплатно книгами. Только качественная литература.

@shkolamishlenia - весёлые загадки, занимательные задачи и хитро... головоломки.

@book_hit - найду для Вас любую книгу. Быстро и бесплатно!

@stihoman - стихи лучших поэтов сделают ваш день прекрасней!

@brodsky_poet - стихотворения и высказывания Иосифа Бродского.

@skazkiaudio - аудио-сказки для детей и взрослых. Тексты прилагаются.

@exponat - художественные экспонаты со всех концов света.

@short_read - иллюстрированные рассказы любимых классиков.

@child_book - нет, я люблю мультфильмы. А вы? - тогда заходите.

@audistbrain - аудиокниги и лекции, развивающие интеллект. Попробуйте на слух!

@bagnenkotext - автор написал книгу. Помогает написать и вашу.

@mansoznanie - нами управляют, даже когда мы спим. Подпишись, чтобы знать как.
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Story 14 Sep, 10:40
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Story 14 Sep, 10:10
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Story 14 Sep, 10:10
All The World's A Stage
by William Shakespeare

A monologue from William Shakespeare's As You Like It, spoken by the melancholy Jaques in Act II, Scene VII.

All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
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Story 13 Sep, 11:45
Life After Death by Arnaba Saha

Damini was about to call Kabir when the door bell rang. she was sitting alone in her drawing room anxiously waiting for her husband. it was pretty late now though back in her mind she knew why he was getting late but she only wanted know what was happening there.

"How's Nishi?" asked Damini as she sat on the couch beside her husband.

"She is fine," said Kabir letting a sigh.

Damini did not say anything for a long time, She knew it very well that Kabir has a little troubled by the course of the events. first his sister Muskaan's untimely death then his mother's ill state of health and now his best friend Ashok's daughter's accident. everything within a time span of six months. now this was too much he could take.

After a long silence she said "I think you need some rest. get up and freshen up first." she got up but didn't move as she noticed that Kabir didn't make any sign of moving. "Anything wrong?" inquired Damini as she looked tensed.

"Nothing," replied Kabir. Then turned to look at Damini and asked her "Kids off to bed?"


"Something strange happened" said Kabir now looking at the glass he was holding.

"What" asked Damini arching both her brows.

"Ashok kind of thanked me."

Damini kept silent still bearing the look of inquisitiveness.

So that Kabir continued "For something which I never did."

"What do you mean by that?"

"He thanked me because Muskaan was my sister." he paused.

When was kind of searching words as he could not understand how put it in words what seemed to hurt, confuse, make him proud- all at once.

He thanked me because as he said he could not thank her himself.

Finally Damini could not resist her curiosity and asked "why he wanted to thank Muskaan"

Kabir did not reply for another few moments then said "because he thinks it was Muskaan's eyes that his daughter got.

He let out a sigh and then continued. "Actually he is not sure where those corneas belong to Muskaan or not but he was thanking muskaan for her gesture. god I never thought I would get my answer this way. he choked "remember how I castigated her when she said she has donated her eyes."

Kabir gave a jitter of unease. Damini put her hand over his shoulder to console him.

"I was being such moron. I belittled her noble gesture. I don't know what got into my mind then." again turning to look at Damini he said "Remember how she used to say that she wanted to do something for which people would always remember her."

As he said that a smile went across his lips as he slid into a reminiscence about Muskaan.

"That simple idea took so long to penetrate through my thick skin. it never made sense to me that why people are going to remember anyone for whatever they did? but obviously she was talking of something exceptional; something that is going to touch someone' life."

He had tears in his eyes as he said "Ashok's words made me realise what she meant when she used to say that she wanted to live after death. Now I know. After all this is Life After Death.
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Story 11 Sep, 12:19
Есть трудности с грамматикой?

Прокачайте её с помощью онлайн-тренажёра! Lingbase — это ресурс для изучения правил английского языка, в котором нет ничего лишнего. Каждое правило отрабатывается в интерактивных упражнениях шести различных типов.

Можно выбирать интересующую тему или заниматься пошагового по одной из программ — есть уровни beginner и intermediate.

Попробуйте бесплатно: 👇
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Story 11 Sep, 09:41
The Shadow by Laura E. Richards

The Shadow is a wonderful allegory to share with young children. Face the sunny-side of life and share it with others, The shadow and grey sadness is still there, just keep it behind you. From Ms. Richards' collection of morality tales and poems, The Pig Brother and Other Fables and Stories (1881).

N Angel heard a child crying one day, and came
to see what ailed it. He found the little one sitting on the ground, with the sun at its back (for the day was young), looking at its own shadow, which lay on the ground before it, and weeping bitterly.

“What ails you, little one?” asked the Angel.

“The world is so dark!” said the child. “See, it is all dusky gray, and there is no beauty in it. Why must I stay in this sad, gray world?”

“Do you not hear the birds singing, and the other children calling at their play?” asked the Angel.

“Yes,” said the child; “I hear them, but I do not know where they are. I cannot see them, I see only the shadow. Moreover, if they saw it, they would not sing and call, but would weep as I do.”

The Angel lifted the child, and set it on its feet, with its face to the early sun.

“Look!” said the Angel.

The child brushed away the tears from its eyes and looked. Before them lay the fields all green and gold, shining with dewdrops, and the other children were running to and fro, laughing and shouting, and crowning one another with blossoms.

“Why, there are the children!” said the little one.

“Yes,” said the Angel; “there they are.”

“And the sun is shining!” cried the child.

“Yes,” said the Angel; “it was shining all the time.”

“And the shadow is gone!”

“Oh, no!” said the Angel; “the shadow is behind you, where it belongs. Run, now, and gather flowers for the littlest one, who sits in the grass there!”
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Story 7 Sep, 12:18
The Tale of Tom Kitten by Beatrix Potter

Once upon a time there were three little kittens, and their names were Mittens, Tom Kitten, and Moppet.
They had dear little fur coats of their own; and they tumbled about the doorstep and played in the dust.

But one day their mother--Mrs. Tabitha Twitchit--expected friends to tea; so she fetched the kittens indoors, to wash and dress them, before the fine company arrived.

First she scrubbed their faces (this one is Moppet).
Then she brushed their fur (this one is Mittens).
Then she combed their tails and whiskers (this is Tom Kitten).
Tom was very naughty, and he scratched.

Mrs. Tabitha dressed Moppet and Mittens in clean pinafores and tuckers; and then she took all sorts of elegant uncomfortable clothes out of a chest of drawers, in order to dress up her son Thomas.

Tom Kitten was very fat, and he had grown; several buttons burst off. His mother sewed them on again.
When the three kittens were ready, Mrs. Tabitha unwisely turned them out into the garden, to be out of the way while she made hot buttered toast.

"Now keep your frocks clean, children! You must walk on your hind legs. Keep away from the dirty ash- pit, and from Sally Henny Penny, and from the pigsty and the Puddle- ducks."

Moppet and Mittens walked down the garden path unsteadily. Presently they trod upon their pinafores and fell on their noses.
When they stood up there were several green smears!
"Let us climb up the rockery and sit on the garden wall," said Moppet.

They turned their pinafores back to front and went up with a skip and a jump; Moppet's white tucker fell down into the road.

Tom Kitten was quite unable to jump when walking upon his hind legs in trousers. He came up the rockery by degrees, breaking the ferns and shedding buttons right and left.

He was all in pieces when he reached the top of the wall.
Moppet and Mittens tried to pull him together; his hat fell off, and the rest of his buttons burst.

While they were in difficulties, there was a pit pat, paddle pat! and the three Puddle-ducks came along the hard high road, marching one behind the other and doing the goose step-- pit pat, paddle pat! pit pat, waddle pat!

They stopped and stood in a row and stared up at the kittens. They had very small eyes and looked surprised. Then the two duck-birds, Rebeccah and Jemima Puddle-duck, picked up the hat and tucker and put them on.

Mittens laughed so that she fell off the wall. Moppet and Tom descended after her; the pinafores and all the rest of Tom's clothes came off on the way down.

"Come! Mr. Drake Puddle-duck," said Moppet. "Come and help us to dress him! Come and button up Tom!"

Mr. Drake Puddle-duck advanced in a slow sideways manner and picked up the various articles.

But he put them on HIMSELF! They fitted him even worse than Tom Kitten.

"It's a very fine morning!" said Mr. Drake Puddle-duck.

And he and Jemima and Rebeccah Puddle-duck set off up the road, keeping step--pit pat, paddle pat! pit pat, waddle pat!

Then Tabitha Twitchit came down the garden and found her kittens on the wall with no clothes on.

She pulled them off the wall, smacked them, and took them back to the house.

"My friends will arrive in a minute, and you are not fit to be seen; I am affronted," said Mrs. Tabitha Twitchit.

She sent them upstairs; and I am sorry to say she told her friends that they were in bed with the measles-- which was not true.

Quite the contrary; they were not in bed: NOT in the least.

Somehow there were very extra-- ordinary noises overhead, which disturbed the dignity and repose of the tea party.

And I think that some day I shall have to make another, larger book, to tell you more about Tom Kitten!

As for the Puddle-ducks--they went into a pond.

The clothes all came off directly, because there were no buttons.

And Mr. Drake Puddle-duck, and Jemima and Rebeccah, have been looking for them ever since.
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Story 5 Sep, 14:14
Сейчас системное мышление и умение противостоять психологическим уловкам – важные качества успешного человека. В рекомендациях сегодня – канал @mental_models, его автор рассказывает про развитие мышления и полезные ментальные модели.

В @mental_models учат, как бороться с общественным давлением и не поддаваться уловкам рекламщиков и политиков. Заходите
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Story 5 Sep, 09:05
Reginald's Peace Poem by H.H. Munro (SAKI)

Reginald's Peace Poem is reminiscent of nonsense words in Lewis Carroll or Dr. Seuss's rhyming verses. Turns out an "assvogel" is real: an Afrikaan vulture (aas) + Dutch bird (vogel). Reginald can attest (though he'd never admit it) that writing a rhyming "peace" is harder than it seems. Enjoy H.H. Munro (SAKI's) other amusing "Reginald" stories.

"I'm writing a poem on Peace," said Reginald, emerging from a sweeping operation through a tin of mixed biscuits, in whose depths a macaroon or two might yet be lurking.

"Something of the kind seems to have been attempted already," said the Other.

"Oh, I know; but I may never have the chance again. Besides, I've got a new fountain pen. I don't pretend to have gone on any very original lines; in writing about Peace the thing is to say what everybody else is saying, only to say it better. It begins with the usual ornithological emotion -

'When the widgeon westward winging Heard the folk Vereeniginging, Heard the shouting and the singing'" -

"Vereeniginging is good, but why widgeon?"

"Why not? Anything that winged westward would naturally begin with a W."

"Need it wing westward?"

"The bird must go somewhere. You wouldn't have it hang around and look foolish. Then I've brought in something about the heedless hartebeest galloping over the deserted veldt."

"Of course you know it's practically extinct in those regions?"

"I can't help that, it gallops so nicely. I make it have all sorts of unexpected yearnings -

'Mother, may I go and maffick, Tear around and hinder traffic?'

Of course you'll say there would be no traffic worth bothering about on the bare and sun-scorched veldt, but there's no other word that rhymes with maffick."


Reginald considered. "It might do, but I've got a lot about angels later on. You must have angels in a Peace poem; I know dreadfully little about their habits."

"They can do unexpected things, like the hartebeest."

"Of course. Then I turn on London, the City of Dreadful Nocturnes, resonant with hymns of joy and thanksgiving -

'And the sleeper, eye unlidding, Heard a voice for ever bidding Much farewell to Dolly Gray; Turning weary on his truckle- Bed he heard the honey-suckle Lauded in apiarian lay.'

Longfellow at his best wrote nothing like that."

"I agree with you."

"I wish you wouldn't. I've a sweet temper, but I can't stand being agreed with. And I'm so worried about the aasvogel."

Reginald stared dismally at the biscuit-tin, which now presented an unattractive array of rejected cracknels.

"I believe," he murmured, "if I could find a woman with an unsatisfied craving for cracknels, I should marry her."

"What is the tragedy of the aasvogel?" asked the Other sympathetically.

"Oh, simply that there's no rhyme for it. I thought about it all the time I was dressing--it's dreadfully bad for one to think whilst one's dressing--and all lunch-time, and I'm still hung up over it. I feel like those unfortunate automobilists who achieve an unenviable motoriety by coming to a hopeless stop with their cars in the most crowded thoroughfares. I'm afraid I shall have to drop the aasvogel, and it did give such lovely local colour to the thing."

"Still you've got the heedless hartebeest."

"And quite a decorative bit of moral admonition--when you've worried the meaning out -

'Cease, War, thy bubbling madness that the wine shares, And bid thy legions turn their swords to mine shares.'

Mine shares seems to fit the case better than ploughshares. There's lots more about the blessings of Peace, shall I go on reading it?"

"If I must make a choice, I think I would rather they went on with the war."
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Story 1 Sep, 12:05
Attached file
Story 1 Sep, 12:05
текст песни Enrique Iglesias
Смотреть —

Let me be your hero,

Would you dance,
if I asked you to dance?
Would you run,
and never look back?
Would you cry,
if you saw me crying?
And would you save my soul, tonight?

Would you tremble,
if I touched your lips?
Would you laugh?
Oh please tell me this.
Now would you die,
for the one you love?
Hold me in your arms, tonight.

I can be your hero, baby.
I can kiss away the pain.
I will stand by you forever.
You can take my breath away.

Would you swear,
that you'll always be mine?
Or would you lie?
would you run and hide?
Am I in too deep?
Have I lost my mind?
I don't care...
You're here, tonight.

I can be your hero, baby.
I can kiss away the pain.
I will stand by you forever.
You can take my breath away.

Oh, I just wanted to hold you.
I just wanted to hold you.
Oh yeah.
Am I in too deep?
Have I lost my mind?
Well I don't care...
You're here, tonight.

I can be your hero, baby.
I can kiss away the pain oh yeah
I will stand by you forever.
You can take my breath away.

I can be your hero, baby.
I can kiss away the pain.
And I will stand by you, forever.
You can take my breath away.
You can take my breath away.

I can be your hero.
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Story 25 Aug, 18:18
The Snipe by Guy de Maupassant

Old Baron des Ravots had for forty years been the champion sportsman of his province. But a stroke of paralysis had kept him in his chair for the last five or six years. He could now only shoot pigeons from the window of his drawing-room or from the top of his high doorsteps.

He spent his time in reading.

He was a good-natured business man, who had much of the literary spirit of a former century. He worshipped anecdotes, those little risque anecdotes, and also true stories of events that happened in his neighborhood. As soon as a friend came to see him he asked:

"Well, anything new?"

And he knew how to worm out information like an examining lawyer.

On sunny days he had his large reclining chair, similar to a bed, wheeled to the hall door. A man servant behind him held his guns, loaded them and handed them to his master. Another valet, hidden in the bushes, let fly a pigeon from time to time at irregular intervals, so that the baron should be unprepared and be always on the watch.

And from morning till night he fired at the birds, much annoyed if he were taken by surprise and laughing till he cried when the animal fell straight to the earth or, turned over in some comical and unexpected manner. He would turn to the man who was loading the gun and say, almost choking with laughter:

"Did that get him, Joseph? Did you see how he fell?" Joseph invariably replied:

"Oh, monsieur le baron never misses them."

In autumn, when the shooting season opened, he invited his friends as he had done formerly, and loved to hear them firing in the distance. He counted the shots and was pleased when they followed each other rapidly. And in the evening he made each guest give a faithful account of his day. They remained three hours at table telling about their sport.

They were strange and improbable adventures in which the romancing spirit of the sportsmen delighted. Some of them were memorable stories and were repeated regularly. The story of a rabbit that little Vicomte de Bourril had missed in his vestibule convulsed them with laughter each year anew. Every five minutes a fresh speaker would say:

"I heard 'birr! birr!' and a magnificent covey rose at ten paces from me. I aimed. Pif! paf! and I saw a shower, a veritable shower of birds. There were seven of them!"

And they all went into raptures, amazed, but reciprocally credulous.

But there was an old custom in the house called "The Story of the Snipe."

Whenever this queen of birds was in season the same ceremony took place at each dinner. As they worshipped this incomparable bird, each guest ate one every evening, but the heads were all left in the dish.

Then the baron, acting the part of a bishop, had a plate brought to him containing a little fat, and he carefully anointed the precious heads, holding them by the tip of their slender, needle-like beak. A lighted candle was placed beside him and everyone was silent in an anxiety of expectation.

Then he took one of the heads thus prepared, stuck a pin through it and stuck the pin on a cork, keeping the whole contrivance steady by means of little crossed sticks, and carefully placed this object on the neck of a bottle in the manner of a tourniquet.

All the guests counted simultaneously in a loud tone--


And the baron with a fillip of the finger made this toy whirl round.

The guest to whom the long beak pointed when the head stopped became the possessor of all the heads, a feast fit for a king, which made his neighbors look askance.

He took them one by one and toasted them over the candle. The grease sputtered, the roasting flesh smoked and the lucky winner ate the head, holding it by the beak and uttering exclamations of enjoyment.

And at each head the diners, raising their glasses, drank to his health.

When he had finished the last head he was obliged, at the baron's orders, to tell an anecdote to compensate the disappointed ones.

Here are some of the stories.
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Story 24 Aug, 18:02
Почти 20 лет назад в Нижнепыхтинской сельской библиотеке произошел пожар. Пострадал весь фонд - детская и юношеская литература сгорела полностью. Библиотека не закрылась, она работает!

Но вот ее фонд приходит в негодность - рассыпаются страницы, книги ветшают (2100 экз.).
В селе же по-прежнему востребованы книги всех жанров, детская, юношеская и историческая литература. Но новые книги в библиотеку не поступают, и сельчане читают одну и ту же книгу по несколько раз.

Библиотека располагается в одном здании с сельским клубом с 1952 года, сейчас на ее территории есть летняя площадка для чтения и кинозал. Дети и подростки села стремятся сюда, чтобы найти занятие по душе, ведь работники библиотеки используют новые формы работы по продвижению книги и чтения – литературные квесты, библиосумерки, акции, краеведческие посиделки и др. Плюс проводятся культурно-просветительные мероприятия для социально незащищённых групп населения с ограниченными возможностями и семей из группы социального риска. Для подготовки к таким мероприятиям очень нужен принтер.

Давайте поможем Нижнепыхтинской библиотеке собрать 39 500 рублей на новые книги, настольные игры, мультфильмы и принтер!

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(Указать в комментарии название проекта «Помощь сельской библиотеке»).
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Story 23 Aug, 12:53
Memory by H. P. Lovecraft

In the valley of Nis the accursed waning moon shines thinly, tearing a path for its light with feeble horns through the lethal foliage of a great upas-tree. And within the depths of the valley, where the light reaches not, move forms not meant to be beheld. Rank is the herbage on each slope, where evil vines and creeping plants crawl amidst the stones of ruined palaces, twining tightly about broken columns and strange monoliths, and heaving up marble pavements laid by forgotten hands. And in trees that grow gigantic in crumbling courtyards leap little apes, while in and out of deep treasure-vaults writhe poison serpents and scaly things without a name. Vast are the stones which sleep beneath coverlets of dank moss, and mighty were the walls from which they fell. For all time did their builders erect them, and in sooth they yet serve nobly, for beneath them the grey toad makes his habitation.

At the very bottom of the valley lies the river Than, whose waters are slimy and filled with weeds. From hidden springs it rises, and to subterranean grottoes it flows, so that the Daemon of the Valley knows not why its waters are red, nor whither they are bound.

The Genie that haunts the moonbeams spake to the Daemon of the Valley, saying, "I am old, and forget much. Tell me the deeds and aspect and name of them who built these things of Stone." And the Daemon replied, "I am Memory, and am wise in lore of the past, but I too am old. These beings were like the waters of the river Than, not to be understood. Their deeds I recall not, for they were but of the moment. Their aspect I recall dimly, it was like to that of the little apes in the trees. Their name I recall clearly, for it rhymed with that of the river. These beings of yesterday were called Man."

So the Genie flew back to the thin horned moon, and the Daemon looked intently at a little ape in a tree that grew in a crumbling courtyard.
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