kids Can Read

معرفي كتاب روز برای کودکان 

همانطور که از نام کتاب بر میاید(kids can read),موضوع اين نوشته توانايي بچه ها در امر خواندن است.

ما مي توانيم با دادن نقشه هاي جغرافيايي(maps),كره هاي جغرافياي(globes)و مواردي از اين قبيل به بچه ها و تشويق انها به خواندن,مهارت خواندن را در انها تقويت كنيم.بر اساس سن خواندن(reading age)از كودكان انتظار ميرود از تعليماتي كه براي يادگيري خواندن به انها داده ميشود نهايت بهره برداري را داشته باشند و در اين رابطه به امادگي لازم برسند.خواندن يكي از مهمترين مهارت هاي زباني است كه قسمت قابل توجهي از دانش انسان از طريق ان كسب ميشود وعلاوه بر اين يك فعاليت تفريحي نيز ميباشد و باعث سرگرمي انسان ميشود.در هر حال از انجايي كه در اين نوشته و در عنوان ان مهارت خواندن بسيار مورد توجه قرار گرفته است,در قسمت endnote اين كتاب نكاتي مهم در رابطه با مهارت خواندن و نيز نكاتي در رابطه با مهارت نوشتن كه در ارتباطي تنگاتنگ با مهارت خواندن ميباشد,ارائه شده است.لازم به ذكر است براي علاقه مندان به زبان انگليسي اصل اثر به زبان ياد شده در قسمتappendix اين كتاب اورده شده است.

لازم به ذكر است كه در قسمت endnote‌اين كتاب مطالبي اورده شده كه باعث بالا بردن سطح علمي معلم و همينطور والدين كودك در زمينه ي زبان انگليسي و اموزش ان به كودك ميشود كه خود باعث به وجود امدن يك همكاري دقيق,زيبا و البته دوطرفه خواهد شد.

نويسنده كتاب: جيل اگلتن

مترجم:سعيده جانقربانيان

 علاقه مندان به این کتاب میتوانند ان را در سایت "ادینه بوک" خریداری کنند

بر روی "ادينه بوك/بچه ها می تونن بخونن" کلیک کنید.

براي تهيه اين كتاب ميتوانيد......................(در ادامه مطلب بخوانيد)

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عنوان کتاب:

 

 نام کتاب(Rupert's Ice cream shop),موضوع اين نوشته اشنایی کودکان با برخی از رنگ ها است.

یکی از مهمترین نکات رابطه با این کتاب اشنایی کودکان با برخی از رنگ ها و خصوصا تاثیری است که رنگها بر روحیه و رفتار انها دارد.کودکان غالبا اشیاء و پدیده های دارای چند رنگ مختلف را بیشتر از اشیاء فقط دارای یک رنگ خاص دوست دارند و به همین دلیل است که در این نوشته مشاهده میشود که یک بستنی هفت رنگ بیشتر مورد نظر کودکان تا یک بستنی صرفا سفید است.لازم به ذكر است براي علاقه مندان به زبان انگليسي اصل اثر به زبان ياد شده در قسمتappendix اين كتاب اورده شده است.

نويسنده كتاب: جيل اگلتن

مترجم: ندا مهدي زاده

 براي تهيه اين كتاب ميتوانيد......................(در ادامه مطلب بخوانيد)

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Short Story of ANTON CHEKHOV

آنتوان چخوف/joy

IT was twelve o'clock at night.

Mitya Kuldarov, with excited face and ruffled hair, flew into his parents' flat, and hurriedly ran through all the rooms. His parents had already gone to bed. His sister was in bed, finishing the last page of a novel. His schoolboy brothers were asleep.

"Where have you come from?" cried his parents in amazement. "What is the matter with you?

"Oh, don't ask! I never expected it; no, I never expected it! It's . . . it's positively incredible!"

Mitya laughed and sank into an armchair, so overcome by happiness that he could not stand on his legs.

"It's incredible! You can't imagine! Look!"

His sister jumped out of bed and, throwing a quilt round her, went in to her brother. The schoolboys woke up.

"What's the matter? You don't look like yourself!"

"It's because I am so delighted, Mamma! Do you know, now all Russia knows of me! All Russia! Till now only you knew that there was a registration clerk called Dmitry Kuldarov, and now all Russia knows it! Mamma! Oh, Lord!"

Mitya jumped up, ran up and down all the rooms, and then sat down again.

"Why, what has happened? Tell us sensibly!"

"You live like wild beasts, you don't read the newspapers and take no notice of what's published, and there's so much that is interesting in the papers. If anything happens it's all known at once, nothing is hidden! How happy I am! Oh, Lord! You know it's only celebrated people whose names are published in the papers, and now they have gone and published mine!"

"What do you mean? Where?"

The papa turned pale. The mamma glanced at the holy image and crossed herself. The schoolboys jumped out of bed and, just as they were, in short nightshirts, went up to their brother.

"Yes! My name has been published! Now all Russia knows of me! Keep the paper, mamma, in memory of it! We will read it sometimes! Look!"

Mitya pulled out of his pocket a copy of the paper, gave it to his father, and pointed with his finger to a passage marked with blue pencil.

"Read it!"

The father put on his spectacles.

"Do read it!"

The mamma glanced at the holy image and crossed herself. The papa cleared his throat and began to read: "At eleven o'clock on the evening of the 29th of December, a registration clerk of the name of Dmitry Kuldarov . . ."

"You see, you see! Go on!"

". . . a registration clerk of the name of Dmitry Kuldarov, coming from the beershop in Kozihin's buildings in Little Bronnaia in an intoxicated condition. . ."

"That's me and Semyon Petrovitch. . . . It's all described exactly! Go on! Listen!"

". . . intoxicated condition, slipped and fell under a horse belonging to a sledge-driver, a peasant of the village of Durikino in the Yuhnovsky district, called Ivan Drotov. The frightened horse, stepping over Kuldarov and drawing the sledge over him, together with a Moscow merchant of the second guild called Stepan Lukov, who was in it, dashed along the street and was caught by some house-porters. Kuldarov, at first in an unconscious condition, was taken to the police station and there examined by the doctor. The blow he had received on the back of his head. . ."

"It was from the shaft, papa. Go on! Read the rest!"

". . . he had received on the back of his head turned out not to be serious. The incident was duly reported. Medical aid was given to the injured man. . . ."

"They told me to foment the back of my head with cold water. You have read it now? Ah! So you see. Now it's all over Russia! Give it here!"

Mitya seized the paper, folded it up and put it into his pocket.

"I'll run round to the Makarovs and show it to them. . . . I must show it to the Ivanitskys too, Natasya Ivanovna, and Anisim Vassilyitch. . . . I'll run! Good-bye!"

Mitya put on his cap with its cockade and, joyful and triumphant, ran into the street.

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short story of Virginia Woolf

A Haunted House

 

 

 

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."

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