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учебно-методический материал (10 класс) на тему

I. Vocabulary words from this article:

crowd

extravagant

festivity

float

identity

mask

mystery

parade

sponsor

trinket

II. Pre-Reading Questions

What kinds of things would you expect to see at a parade?

Have you ever heard the expression "Fat Tuesday?"

Mardi Gras Season in New Orleans

A Local Legacy

Do you celebrate Fat Tuesday? If you live in New Orleans, Louisiana, or any place else along the coast of the Gulf of Mexico, you probably do.

Every year, the people of New Orleans celebrate Mardi Gras, which is French for "Fat Tuesday." This holiday is the day before Ash Wednesday, and it begins a season of fasting, called Lent, for many Christians leading up to Easter Sunday. It's called Fat Tuesday because it's the last day that many people eat meat and fatty foods before Lent begins.

Today, Mardi Gras season in New Orleans is a time of merry-making and festivity. Many clubs in the city, called krewes (pronounced "crews"), sponsor extravagant parades and masked balls in the weeks leading up to Fat Tuesday. It's a lot of fun to try to catch the trinkets that are thrown to the crowds from the parade floats. Every krewe has a king and queen, whose identities are kept secret until the night of the ball. It's all part of the fun and mystery of Mardi Gras.

IV. Post-Reading Questions

1. How often is the celebration of Mardi Gras held? 

a. every month

b. once a week

c. every season

d. once a year

2. Mardi Gras is the day before

a. Easter Sunday

b. Ash Wednesday

c. Fat Tuesday

d. Rainy Monday

True or False?

3. Fat Tuesday in New Orleans is a time of merry-making and festivity.

4. The identities of the king and queen are kept secret until the night of the ball (big dance).

A Haunted House

Virginia Woolf

Whatever hour you woke there was a door shutting. From room to room they went, hand in hand, lifting here, opening there, making sure--a ghostly couple.

"Here we left it," she said. And he added, "Oh, but here tool" "It's upstairs," she murmured. "And in the garden," he whispered. "Quietly," they said, "or we shall wake them."

But it wasn't that you woke us. Oh, no. "They're looking for it; they're drawing the curtain," one might say, and so read on a page or two. "Now they've found it,' one would be certain, stopping the pencil on the margin. And then, tired of reading, one might rise and see for oneself, the house all empty, the doors standing open, only the wood pigeons bubbling with content and the hum of the threshing machine sounding from the farm. "What did I come in here for? What did I want to find?" My hands were empty. "Perhaps its upstairs then?" The apples were in the loft. And so down again, the garden still as ever, only the book had slipped into the grass.

But they had found it in the drawing room. Not that one could ever see them. The windowpanes reflected apples, reflected roses; all the leaves were green in the glass. If they moved in the drawing room, the apple only turned its yellow side. Yet, the moment after, if the door was opened, spread about the floor, hung upon the walls, pendant from the ceiling--what? My hands were empty. The shadow of a thrush crossed the carpet; from the deepest wells of silence the wood pigeon drew its bubble of sound. "Safe, safe, safe" the pulse of the house beat softly. "The treasure buried; the room . . ." the pulse stopped short. Oh, was that the buried treasure?

A moment later the light had faded. Out in the garden then? But the trees spun darkness for a wandering beam of sun. So fine, so rare, coolly sunk beneath the surface the beam I sought always burned behind the glass. Death was the glass; death was between us, coming to the woman first, hundreds of years ago, leaving the house, sealing all the windows; the rooms were darkened. He left it, left her, went North, went East, saw the stars turned in the Southern sky; sought the house, found it dropped beneath the Downs. "Safe, safe, safe," the pulse of the house beat gladly. 'The Treasure yours."

The wind roars up the avenue. Trees stoop and bend this way and that. Moonbeams splash and spill wildly in the rain. But the beam of the lamp falls straight from the window. The candle burns stiff and still. Wandering through the house, opening the windows, whispering not to wake us, the ghostly couple seek their joy.

"Here we slept," she says. And he adds, "Kisses without number." "Waking in the morning--" "Silver between the trees--" "Upstairs--" 'In the garden--" "When summer came--" 'In winter snowtime--" "The doors go shutting far in the distance, gently knocking like the pulse of a heart.

Nearer they come, cease at the doorway. The wind falls, the rain slides silver down the glass. Our eyes darken, we hear no steps beside us; we see no lady spread her ghostly cloak. His hands shield the lantern. "Look," he breathes. "Sound asleep. Love upon their lips."

Stooping, holding their silver lamp above us, long they look and deeply. Long they pause. The wind drives straightly; the flame stoops slightly. Wild beams of moonlight cross both floor and wall, and, meeting, stain the faces bent; the faces pondering; the faces that search the sleepers and seek their hidden joy.

"Safe, safe, safe," the heart of the house beats proudly. "Long years--" he sighs. "Again you found me." "Here," she murmurs, "sleeping; in the garden reading; laughing, rolling apples in the loft. Here we left our treasure--" Stooping, their light lifts the lids upon my eyes. "Safe! safe! safe!" the pulse of the house beats wildly. Waking, I cry "Oh, is this your buried treasure? The light in the heart."