any of a class (Chilopoda) of long flattened many-segmented predaceous arthropods with each segment bearing one pair of legs of which the foremost pair is modified into poison fangs.
WHEN I saw my sister, Delia, beating my dog with a stick, I felt hate heave like a caged, angry beast in my chest. Out in the sun, the hair of my sister glinted like metal and, in her brown dress, she looked like a sheathed dagger. Biryuk hugged the earth and screamed but I could not bound forward nor cry out to my sister. She had a weak heart and she must not be surprised. So I held myself, my throat swelled, and I felt hate rear and plunge in its cage of ribs.
I WAS thirteen when my father first took me hunting. All through the summer of that year, I had tramped alone and unarmed the fields and forest around our farm. Then one afternoon in late July my father told me I could use his shotgun.
Beyond the ipil grove, in a grass field we spotted a covey of brown pigeons. In the open, they kept springing to the air and gliding away every time we were within range. But finally they dropped to the ground inside a wedge of guava trees. My father pressed my shoulder and I stopped. Then slowly, in a half-crouch, we advanced. The breeze rose lightly; the grass scuffed against my bare legs. My father stopped again. He knelt down and held my hand.
“Wait for the birds to rise and then fire,” he whispered.
I pushed the safety lever of the rifle off and sighted along the barrel. The saddle of the stock felt greasy on my cheek. The gun was heavy and my arm muscles twitched. My mouth was dry; I felt vaguely sick. I wanted to sit down.
“You forgot to spit,” my father said.
Father had told me that hunters always spat for luck before firing. I spat and I saw the breeze bend the ragged, glassy threads of spittle toward the birds.
“That’s good,” Father said.
“Can’t we throw a stone,” I whispered fiercely. “It’s taking them a long time.”
When he comes home, the workman shows him a centipede that he foundwhile chopping wood. Eddie kills it so that it won't hurt him tocarry it, goes inside, and throws it in his sister's lap. Shescreams, accuses him of trying to kill her, and falls down,clutching her chest in pain, moaning. He feels bad, saying that thecentipede is dead (it can't hurt her), but she doesn't move. That is how the story ends. The reader is left to wonder whathappened to the sister, and what happens next. It seems to be astory about how not allowing our emotions to be vented in some waycan be dangerous, but also about injustice, and how we deal withit.
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Explanation:
sAS
any of a class (Chilopoda) of long flattened many-segmented predaceous arthropods with each segment bearing one pair of legs of which the foremost pair is modified into poison fangs.
Because eddie's sister is eight years old when eddies born their mother died
Delia was jealous of Eddie because their father was focusing on Eddie more than her Just suggesting... My teacher's opinion is that too
Eddie and Delia are not close and they fight always because Daia have a Bad atitude
(Ithink) we alreadyy learn this one
Explanation:
WHEN I saw my sister, Delia, beating my dog with a stick, I felt hate heave like a caged, angry beast in my chest. Out in the sun, the hair of my sister glinted like metal and, in her brown dress, she looked like a sheathed dagger. Biryuk hugged the earth and screamed but I could not bound forward nor cry out to my sister. She had a weak heart and she must not be surprised. So I held myself, my throat swelled, and I felt hate rear and plunge in its cage of ribs.
I WAS thirteen when my father first took me hunting. All through the summer of that year, I had tramped alone and unarmed the fields and forest around our farm. Then one afternoon in late July my father told me I could use his shotgun.
Beyond the ipil grove, in a grass field we spotted a covey of brown pigeons. In the open, they kept springing to the air and gliding away every time we were within range. But finally they dropped to the ground inside a wedge of guava trees. My father pressed my shoulder and I stopped. Then slowly, in a half-crouch, we advanced. The breeze rose lightly; the grass scuffed against my bare legs. My father stopped again. He knelt down and held my hand.
“Wait for the birds to rise and then fire,” he whispered.
I pushed the safety lever of the rifle off and sighted along the barrel. The saddle of the stock felt greasy on my cheek. The gun was heavy and my arm muscles twitched. My mouth was dry; I felt vaguely sick. I wanted to sit down.
“You forgot to spit,” my father said.
Father had told me that hunters always spat for luck before firing. I spat and I saw the breeze bend the ragged, glassy threads of spittle toward the birds.
“That’s good,” Father said.
“Can’t we throw a stone,” I whispered fiercely. “It’s taking them a long time.”
“No, you’ve to wait.”
When he comes home, the workman shows him a centipede that he foundwhile chopping wood. Eddie kills it so that it won't hurt him tocarry it, goes inside, and throws it in his sister's lap. Shescreams, accuses him of trying to kill her, and falls down,clutching her chest in pain, moaning. He feels bad, saying that thecentipede is dead (it can't hurt her), but she doesn't move. That is how the story ends. The reader is left to wonder whathappened to the sister, and what happens next. It seems to be astory about how not allowing our emotions to be vented in some waycan be dangerous, but also about injustice, and how we deal withit.
DELIA- EDDIE'S SISTER
BERTO- IS THE ONE OF THE WORKMEN FOR THE FAMILY
BIRYUK THE DOG- BIRYUK THE LOST DOG THAT HAVE FOUND BY EDDIE WHILE HUNTING
THE FATHER- EDDIE AND DELIA'S DAD
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