Passage 1: The Crow and the River
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A crow sat alone on a branch one dry day,
His feathers gone dull and his spirit grown gray.
The sun beat like hammers on stone and on sand,
And he dreamed of cool water across the hot land.
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"I'll fly," said the crow, "till I find what I seek,
A river to dip my dry wings in and beak."
He spread his dark wings and he rose in the air,
And searched every canyon and cliff in his care.
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At last, far below, shone a ribbon of blue,
The river sang softly, and his tired heart knew.
He dove toward the water — but stopped with a cry:
The banks were too steep and the ledge was too high.
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He tried once, he tried twice, he tried a third time,
But the slippery rock made each effort a crime.
"I cannot reach water," the crow sadly said,
"And if I stay here, I am sure to drop dead."
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But then the crow noticed a tall clay-brown jar,
Left by some traveler who'd wandered afar.
He peered inside eagerly — water was there!
Yet only an inch at the bottom, laid bare.
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His beak could not reach it, however he tried.
He thought and he thought as he sat there and sighed.
Then bright was the notion that sparkled his eye:
He'd drop little pebbles until water rose high!
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Plink — went a pebble; plink — went one more.
He worked without stopping till his wings grew sore.
Up, up crept the water, a slow silver line,
Till at last it rose near to the jar's very brine.
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He dipped his beak in and he drank long and deep,
His thirst was a mountain — now fallen asleep.
He lifted his head and he shook out his wings,
And filled all the valley with crow-happy rings.
"The Crow and the River" by M. J. Carroll. Original work.
Passage 2: Rosa and the Garden Well
determined: having made up your mind to do something no matter what
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Rosa loved her grandmother's garden more than any place in the world. Every summer she helped water the tomatoes, pull the weeds, and chase the rabbits away from the bean rows.
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One August the rains stopped early. The soil cracked like old pottery and the tomato plants drooped as if bowing their heads. "Abuela," Rosa said, "the plants look terrible."
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"The well is low," her grandmother replied, setting down her straw hat. "Only a little water at the bottom. The bucket cannot reach it."
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Rosa walked to the stone well and stared down into the cool dark. The water glimmered far below — two feet at least out of reach. She thought about it all through lunch, and all through her afternoon chores.
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That evening Rosa came back to the well carrying her little brother's marble bag. One by one she dropped the marbles into the well. Plink. Plink. Plink. Each marble pushed the water up just a little — not much, but enough to notice.
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Her grandmother stood in the doorway of the house and watched. "Rosa, what on earth are you doing?" she called.
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"Filling the well, Abuela," Rosa called back, and kept dropping marbles.
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Her grandmother laughed softly — a warm sound, like wind through corn — and went inside to get the second bag of marbles she kept in the kitchen drawer.
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Together they worked until the stars came out. By the time the moon was high, the water had risen just enough for the bucket to scoop a full load. Rosa watered every tomato plant while her grandmother held the lantern.
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"You are determined," her grandmother told her as they walked back to the house. "That is the best thing a person can be."
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Rosa looked back at the garden. In the lantern light the tomato plants already seemed to stand a little straighter.
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"Maybe," Rosa said, "but I didn't do it alone."
"Rosa and the Garden Well" by M. J. Carroll. Original work.
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GUEST, STUDENT