Thursday, December 26, 2024

The Fun They Had - Issac Asimov

 The Fun They Had – Isaac Asimov

 

[Science fiction is a kind of fantasy that usually concern changes that science may bring about in the future. Many science fiction stories take you to an imaginary world, such as another planet, the future on Earth, or a spaceship in another galaxy. 

 

This story was written in 1951 was written in 1951, many years before computers became common teaching instruments in schools and at home. As you read, think about how the writer feels about these “mechanical teachers.”  Have any of his predictions come true? How do you predict computers will be used in classrooms by the year 2155?]

 

Margie even wrote about it that night in her diary. On the page headed may 17, 2155, she wrote, “Today Tommy found a real book!”

 

It was a very old book. Margie’s grandfather once said that when he was a little boy his grandfather told him that there was a time when all stories were printed on paper.

 

They turned the pages, which were yellow and crinkly, and it was awfully funny to read words that stood still instead of moving the way they were supposed to – on a screen, you know. And then, when they turned back to the page before, it had the same words on it that it had had when they read it the first time.

 

“Gee,” said Tommy, “What a waste. When you’re through with the book, you just throw it away, I guess, Our Television screen must have had a million books on it and it’s good for plenty more. I wouldn’t throw it away.”

 

“Same with mine,” said Margie. She was eleven and hadn’t seen as many telebooks as Tommy had. He was thirteen.

 

She said, “Where did you find it?”

 

“In my house.” He pointed without looking, because he was busy reading. “In the attic.”

 

“What’s it about?”

 

“School.”

 

Margie was careful. “School? What’s there to write about school? I hate school.” Margie always hated school, but now she hated it more than ever. The mechanical teacher had been giving her test after test in geography and she had been doing worse and worse until her mother had shaken her head sorrowfully and sent for the County Inspector.

 

He was a round little man with a red face and a whole box of tolls with dials and wires. He smiled at her and gave her an apple, then took the teacher apart. Margie had hoped he wouldn’t know how to put it together again, but he knew how all right and, after hour or so, there it was again, large and ugly with big screen on which all the lessons were shown and the questions were asked. That wasn’t so bad. The part she hated most was the slot where she had to put homework and test papers. She always had to write them out in a punch code they made her learn when she was six years old, and the mechanical teacher calculated the mark in no time.

 

The inspector had smiled after he was finished and patted her head. He said to her mother, “It’s not the little girl’s fault. Mrs. Jones, I think the geography sector was geared a little too quick. Those things happen sometimes. I’ve slowed it up to an average ten-year level. Actually, the overall pattern of her progress is quite satisfactory.”  And he patted Margie’s head again.

 

Margie was disappointed. She had been hoping they would take the teacher away altogether. They had once taken Tommy’s teacher away for nearly a month because the history sector had blanked out completely.

 

So she said to Tommy. “Why would anyone write about school?”

 

Tommy looked at her with very superior eyes. “Because it’s not our kind of school, stupid. This is the old kind of school that they had hundreds and hundreds of years ago.” He added loftily, pronouncing the word carefully, Centuries ago.”  

Margie was hurt. “Well, I don’t know what kind of school they had all that rime ago.” She read the book over his shoulder for a while, then said, “Anyway, they had a teacher.”

 

“Sure they had a teacher, but it wasn’t a regular teacher. It was a man.”

 

“A man? How could a man be a teacher?”

 

“Well, he just told the boys and girls things and gave them homework and asked them questions.”

 

“A man isn’t smart enough.”

 

“Sure he is. My father knows as much as my teacher.”

 

“He can’t. A man can’t know as much as a teacher.”

 

“He knows almost as much I betcha.”

 

Margie wasn’t prepared to dispute that. She said. “I wouldn’t want a strange man in my house to teach me.”

 

Tommy screamed with laughter, “You don’t know much, Margie. The teachers didn’t live in the house. They had a special building and all the kids went there.”

 

“And all the kids learned the same thing?”

 

“Sure, if they were the same age.”

 

“But my mother says teacher has to be adjusted to fit the mind of each boy and girl it teaches and that each kid has to be taught differently.”

 

“Just the same, they didn’t do it that way then If you don’t like it, you don’t have to read the book.”

 

“I didn’t say I didn’t like it.” Margie said quickly. She wanted to read about those funny schools.

 

They weren’t even half finished when Margie’s mother called. “Margie! School!”

 

Margie looked up. “Not yet Mamma.”

 

“Now,” said Mrs. Jones “And It’s probably time for Tommy, too…”

 

Margie said to Tommy, “Can I read the book some more with you after school?”

 

“Maybe.” He said, nonchalantly. He walked away whistling, the dusty old bool tucked beneath his arm.

 

Margie went into the schoolroom. It was right next to her bedroom, and the mechanical teacher was on and waiting for her. It was always on at the same time every day except Saturday and Sunday, because her mother said little girls learned better if they learned at regular hours. 

 

Then screen was lit up, and it said: “Today’s arithmetic lesson is on the addition of proper fractions. Please insert yesterday’s homework in the proper slot.”

 

Matgie did so with a sigh. She was thinking about the schools they had when her grandfather’s grandfather was a little boy. All the kids from the whole neighborhood came, laughing and shouting in the schoolyard, sitting together in the schoolroom, going home together at the end of the day. They learned the same things so they could help one another on the homework and talk about it. 

 

And the teachers were people….

 

The mechanical teacher was flashing on the screen: “When we add the fractions ½ and ¼ ……”

 

Margie was thinking about how the kids must have loved it in the old days. She was thinking about the fun they had.

 

 

 

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ed by mastanappa puletipalli 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sunday, November 03, 2024

తెనుగు సామితలు (Telugu Proverbs with English Translations)

 తెనుగు సామితలు (Telugu Proverbs with English Translations)

 

1.     అంగట్లోఅన్నీ వున్నవి, అల్లునినోట్లో శని వున్నది.

There is everything in the shop, but Saturn is in the mouth of the son-in-law.

2.    అంధునకె అద్దము చూపినట్టు.

Like showing a blind man a looking glass.

3.    అంబలి తాగేవాడికి మీసాలు యెగబెట్టే వాడుఒకడు.

Do man that lives on porridge keep man to hold up his mustaches?

4.    అందరికి శకునచెప్పే బల్లి కుడితిలో పడ్డట్టు.

The lizard which tells the fortunes of all fell itself into the tub of rice-washings.

5.    అడకత్తేరలొ పోక. 

Like a nut in the nippers.

 


mastanappa puletipalli

Friday, November 01, 2024

పోతన గారి పద్యము

 పోతన గారి పద్యము

 

ఎవ్వనిచే జనించు జగమెవ్వని లోపల నుండు లీనమై

యెవ్వని యందుడిందు పరమేశ్వరు డెవ్వడు మూలకారణం

బెవ్వడనాది మధ్య లయుడెవ్వడు సర్వము దానయైన వా

డెవ్వడు వాని నాత్మభవు నీశ్వరునే శరణంబు వేడదన్ |



Quranic prayer


Praise be to God, Lord of the worlds!

The compassionate, the merciful!

King on the day of Judgement!

Thee only do we worship,

And to Thee do we cry for help.

Guide Thou us on the right path,

The path of those to whom Thou art gracious,

Not of those with whom Thou art emerged,

Nor of those who go away.



 పోతన గారి పద్యము 2


అల వైకుంఠ పురంబులో నగరిలో నా మూల సౌధంబు

దాపల మందార వనాంతరామృత సరః ప్రాంతేందు కాంతోప లో

త్పల పర్యంక రమావినోది యగు నాపన్నప్రసన్నుండు వి

హ్వల నాగేంద్రము "పాహి పాహియనఁగు య్యలించి సంరంభియై ||

 

 

(అక్కడెక్కడో వైకుంఠ పురములొని ఓమూల సౌధము (మేడ)

ఆమేడ పరిసరల్లోమందార వనంఅందులో అమృత సరస్సు,

అక్కడ పర్యంకము (మంచముపై లక్ష్మిదేవి తో వినోదిoచు

శ్రీమన్నారాయణుడుకి ఏనుగు"పాహి పాహి" (రక్షించురక్షించు

అని పెట్టిన కేక వినిపించగనే వెంటనే బయలు దెరాడు

భక్తుని రక్షించడానికి  భగవంతుడు బయలు దేరిన తీరు అమోఘము)

 

 



mastanappa puletipalli

Tuesday, October 29, 2024

Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood -- William Wordsworth

Ode: Intimations of immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood

—William Wordsworth

 

The child is father of the man;

And I could wish my days to be 

Bound each to each by natural piety.

(Wordsworth, “My Heart Leaps Up”)

 

There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,

The earth, and every common sight,

To me did seem

Apparelled in celestial light,

The glory and the freshness of a dream.

It is not now as it hath been of yore;—

Turn wheresoe’er I may,

By night or day.

The things which I have seen I now can see no more.

 

The Rainbow comes and goes,

And lovely is the Rose,

The moon doth with delight

Look round her when the heavens are bare,

Waters on a starry night

Are beautiful and fair; 

The sunshine is a glorious birth;

But yet I know, where’er I go,

That there hath past away a glory from the earth.

 

Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,

And while the young lambs bound

As to the tabor’s sound,

To me alone there came a thought of grief:

A timely utterance gave that thought relief;

And I again am strong:

The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep;

No more shall grief of mine the season wrong;

I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng,

The winds come to me from the fields of sleep,

And all the earth is gay;

Land and sea 

Give themselves up to jollity,

And with the heart of May

Doth every Beast keep holiday; —

Thou Child of Joy,

Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Shepherd-boy. 

 

Ye blessèd creatures, I have heard the call 

Ye to each other make; I See

The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;

My heart is at your festival,

The fulness of your bliss, I feel —I feel it all.

Oh evil day! If I were sullen 

While Earth herself is adorning,

This sweet May-morning,

And the Children are culling 

On every side,

In a thousand valleys far and wide,

Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm, 

And the Babe leaps up on his Mother’s arm; — 

I hear, I hear, with joy I hear!

—But there’s a Tree, of many, one, 

A single field which I have looked upon,

Both of them speak of something that is gone;

The Pansy at my feet

Doth the same tale repeat:

Whither is fled the visionary gleam?

Where is it now, the glory and the dream?

 

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:

The Soul that rises with us, our life’s Star,

Hath had elsewhere its setting,

And cometh from afar:

Not in entire forgetfulness,

And not in utter nakedness,

But trailing clouds of glory do we come

From God, who is our home:

Heaven lies about us in our infancy!

Shades of the prison-house begin to close

Upon the growing Boy,

But he beholds, who daily farther from the east

Must travel, still is Nature’s Priest, 

And by the vision splendid 

Is on his way attended;

At length the Man perceives it die away,

And fade into the light of common day.

 

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own;

Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind,

And, even with something of a Mother’s mind,

And no unworthy aim,

The homely Nurse doth all she can

To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man,

Forget the glories he hath known, 

And that imperial palace whence he came.

Behold the child among his new-born blisses,

A six years’ Darling of a pigmy size! 

See, where ‘’mid work of his own hand he likes,

Fretted by sallies of his mother’s kisses,

With light upon him from his father’s eyes!

See, at his feet, some little plan or chart,

Some fragment from his dream of human life,

Shaped by himself with newly-learn{e}d art

A wedding or a festival,

A mourning or a funeral;

And this hath now his heart,

And unto this he frames his song:

Then will he fit his tongue

To dialogues of business, love, or strife;

But it will not be long

Ere this be thrown aside,

And with new joy and pride

The little Actor cons another part;

Filling from time to time his “humorous stage”

With all the Persons, down to palsied Age,

That Life brings with her in her equipage;

As if his whole vocation

Were endless imitation.

 

Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie

Thy Soul’s immensity;

Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep

Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind,

That, deaf and silent, read’st the eternal deep,

Haunted forever by the eternal mind,—

Mighty Prophet! Seer blest!

On whom those truths do rest,

Which we are toiling all our lives to find,

In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave;

Thou, over who why Immortality

Broods loke the Day, a Master o’er a Slave,

A Presence which is not to be put by;

Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might

Of heaven-born freedom on thy being’s height,

Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke

The years to bring the inevitable yoke,

Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife?

Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight,

And custom lie upon thee with a weight,

Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!

 

O Joy! That in our embers

Is something that doth live, 

That Nature yet remembers 

What was so fugitive!

The thought of our past years in me doth breed

Perpetual benediction: not indeed

For that which is most worthy to be blest;

Delight and liberty, the simple creed

Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest,

With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast: —

Not for these I raise

The song of thanks and praise

But for those obstinate questionings

Of sense and outward things,

Fallings from us, vanishings;

Blank misgivings of a Creature

Moving about in worlds not realized,

High instincts before which our mortal Nature

Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised:

But for those first affections,

Those shadowy recollections,

Which, be they what they may

Are yet the fountain-light of all our day,

Are yet a master-light of all our seeing;

Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make

Our noisy years seem moments in the being

Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake,

To perish never;

Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour,

Nor Man nor Boy,

Nor all that is at enmity with joy,

Can utterly abolish or destroy!

Hence is a season of calm weather

Though inland far we be,

Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea

Which brought us hither, 

Can in a moment travel thither,

And see the Children sport upon the shore,

And heart the mighty waters rolling evermore.

 

Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song!

And let the young Lambs bound

As to the tabor’s sound!

We in thought will join your throng,

Ye that pipe and ye that play,

Ye that through your hearts to-day

Feel the gladness of the May!

What though the radiance which was once so bright

Be now for ever taken from my sight,

Though nothing can bring back the hour

Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;

We will grieve not, rather find

Strength in what remains behind;

In the primal sympathy

Which having been must ever be;

In the soothing thoughts that spring

Out of human suffering;

In the faith that looks through death,

In years that bring the philosophic mind.

And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves,

Forebode not any severing of our loves!

Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;

I only have relinquished one delight

To live beneath your more habitual sway.

I love the Brooks which down their channels fret,

Even more than when I tripped lightly as they;

The innocent brightness of a new-born Day

Is lovely yet;

The clouds that gather round the setting sun

Do take a sober colouring from an eye

That hath kept watch o’ver man’s mortality;

Another race hath been, and other palms are won.

Thanks so the human heart by which we live, 

Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,

To me the meanest flower that blows can give

Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

 

››››››0000‹‹‹‹‹‹‹


 



prom ed by mastanappa puletipalli

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

The Fun They Had - Issac Asimov

  The Fun They Had – Isaac Asimov   [ Science fiction is a kind of fantasy that usually concern changes that science may bring about in the ...