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J. K. Rowling
The Tales of Beedle the Bard

The Wizard and the Hopping Pot
There was once a kindly old wizard who used his magic generously and wisely for the benefit of his neighbours. Rather than reveal the true source of his power, he pretended that his potions, charms and antidotes sprang ready-made from the little cauldron he called his lucky cooking pot. From miles around people came to him with their troubles, and the wizard was pleased to give his pot a stir and put things right.

This well-beloved wizard lived to a goodly age, then died, leaving all his chattels to his only son. This son was of a very different disposition to his gentle father. Those who could not work magic were, to the son’s mind, worthless, and he had often quarrelled with his father’s habit of dispensing magical aid to their neighbours.

Upon the father’s death, the son found hidden inside the old cooking pot a small package bearing his name. He opened it, hoping for gold, but found instead a soft, thick slipper, much too small to wear, and with no pair. A fragment of parchment within the slipper bore the words “In the fond hope, my son, that you will never need it.

The son cursed his father’s age-softened mind, then threw the slipper back into the cauldron, resolving to use it henceforth as a rubbish pail.

That very night a peasant woman knocked on the front door.

“My granddaughter is afflicted by a crop of warts, sir,” she told him. “Your father used to mix a special poultice in that old cooking pot “Begone!” cried the son. “What care I for your brat’s warts?”

And he slammed the door in the old woman’s face.

At once there came a loud clanging and banging from his kitchen. The wizard lit his wand and opened the door, and there, to his amazement, he saw his father’s old cooking pot: it had sprouted a single foot of brass, and was hopping on the spot, in the middle of the floor, making a fearful noise upon the flagstones. The wizard approached it in wonder, but fell back hurriedly when he saw that the whole of the pot’s surface was covered in warts.

“Disgusting object!” he cried, and he tried firstly to Vanish the pot, then to clean it by magic, and finally to force it out of the house. None of his spells worked, however, and he was unable to prevent the pot hopping after him out of the kitchen, and then following him up to bed, clanging and banging loudly on every wooden stair.

The wizard could not sleep all night for the banging of the warty old pot by his bedside, and next morning the pot insisted upon hopping after him to the breakfast table. Clang, clang, clang, went the brass-footed pot, and the wizard had not even started his porridge when there came another knock on the door. An old man stood on the doorstep.

“’Tis my old donkey, sir,” he explained. “Lost, she is, or stolen, and without her I cannot take my wares to market, and my family will go hungry tonight.”

“And I am hungry now!” roared the wizard, and he slammed the door upon the old man.

Clang, clang, clang, went the cooking pot’s single brass foot upon the floor, but now its clamour was mixed with the brays of a donkey and human groans of hunger, echoing from the depths of the pot.

“Be still. Be silent!” shrieked the wizard, but not all his magical powers could quieten the warty pot, which hopped at his heels all day, braying and groaning and clanging, no matter where he went or what he did.

That evening there came a third knock upon the door, and there on the threshold stood a young woman sobbing as though her heart would break.

“My baby is grievously ill,” she said. “Won’t you please help us? Your father bade me come if troubled.

But the wizard slammed the door on her.

And now the tormenting pot filled to the brim with salt water, and slopped tears all over the floor as it hopped, and brayed, and groaned, and sprouted more warts.

Though no more villagers came to seek help at the wizard’s cottage for the rest of the week, the pot kept him informed of their many ills. Within a few days, it was not only braying and groaning and slopping and hopping and sprouting warts, it was also choking and retching, crying like a baby, whining like a dog, and spewing out bad cheese and sour milk and a plague of hungry slugs.
The wizard could not sleep or eat with the pot beside him, but the pot refused to leave, and he could not silence it or force it to be still.

At last the wizard could bear it no more.

“Bring me all your problems, all your troubles and your woes!” he screamed, fleeing into the night, with the pot hopping behind him along the road into the village. “Come! Let me cure you, mend you and comfort you! I have my father’s cooking pot, and I shall make you well!”

And with the foul pot still bounding along behind him, he ran up the street, casting spells in every direction.

Inside one house the little girl’s warts vanished as she slept; the lost donkey was summoned from a distant briar patch and set down softly in its stable; the sick baby was doused in dittany and woke, well and rosy. At every house of sickness and sorrow, the wizard did his best, and gradually the cooking pot beside him stopped groaning and retching, and became quiet, shiny and clean.

“Well, Pot?” asked the trembling wizard, as the sun began to rise. The pot burped out the single slipper he had thrown into it, and permitted him to fit it on to the brass foot. Together, they set off back to the wizard’s house, the pot’s footstep muffled at last. But from that day forward, the wizard helped the villagers like his father before him, lest the pot cast off its slipper, and begin to hop once more.

Gerald Durrell: rytmus mořských vln

Každý text má svůj charakter, svůj rytmus, podobný pohupování mořských vln.

1. Zjistěte si základní údaje o autorovi. Čím byl? Kdy a kde kniha vznikla? Kdo je autorův bratr Larry a čím se proslavil?

2. přečtěte si pomalu a v klidu celou ukázku. Ve slovníku vyhledávejte pouze klíčová slova. Zkuste si několik vět přečíst polohlasně, vnímejte rytmus řeči, řazení synonym, cílené opakování větných struktur.

3. Přeložte tučně vyznačené části textu.

Gerald Durrell - My Family and Other Animals

The Migration

July had been blown out like a candle by a biting wind that ushered in a leaden August

sky. A sharp, stinging drizzle fell, billowing into opaque grey sheets when the wind

caught it. Along the Bournemouth sea-front the beach-huts turned blank wooden faces

towards a greeny-grey, froth-chained sea that leapt eagerly at the cement bulwark of the

shore. The gulls had been tumbled inland over the town, and they now drifted above the

house-tops on taut wings, whining peevishly. It was the sort of weather calculated to try

anyone's endurance.

Considered as a group my family was not a very prepossessing sight that afternoon, for

the weather had brought with it the usual selection of ills to which we were prone. For

me, lying on the floor, labelling my collection of shells, it had brought catarrh, pouring it

into my skull like cement, so that I was forced to breath stertorously through open

mouth. For my brother Leslie, hunched dark and glowering by the fire, it had inflamed the

convolutions of his ears so that they bled delicately but persistently. To my sister Margo it

had delivered a fresh dappling of acne spots to a face that was already blotched like a red

veil. For my mother there was a rich, bubbling cold, and a twinge of rheumatism to season

it. Only my eldest brother, Larry, was untouched, but it was sufficient that he was irritated

by our failings.

It was Larry, of course, who started it. The rest of us felt too apathetic to think of

anything except our own ills, but Larry was designed by Providence to go through life

like a small, blond firework, exploding ideas in other people's minds, and then curling

up with cat-like unctuousness and refusing to take any blame for the consequences. He

had become increasingly irritable as the afternoon wore on. At length, glancing moodily

round the room, he decided to attack Mother, as being the obvious cause of the

trouble.

'Why do we stand this bloody climate ?' he asked suddenly, making a gesture towards

the rain-distorted window. 'Look at it I And, if it comes to that, look at us.... Margo

swollen up like a plate of scarlet porridge . . . Leslie wandering around with fourteen

fathoms of cotton wool in each ear . . . Gerry sounds as though he's had a cleft palate

from birth... . And look at you: you're looking more decrepit and hag-ridden every day.'

Mother peered over the top of a large volume entitled Easy Recipes from Rajputana.

'Indeed I'm not,' she said indignantly.

'You are,' Larry insisted; 'you're beginning to look like an Irish washerwoman... and your

family looks like a series of illustrations from a medical encyclopedia.'

Mother could think of no really crushing reply to this, so she contented herself with a

glare before retreating once more behind her book.

'What we need is sunshine,' Larry continued; 'don't you agree, Les ?... Les... Les!'

Leslie unravelled a large quantity of cotton-wool from one ear.

'What d'you say?' he asked.

"There you are I' said Larry, turning triumphantly to Mother, 'it's become a major

operation to hold a conversation with him. I ask you, what a position to be in I One

brother can't hear what you say, and the other one can't be understood. Really, it's time

something was done. I can't be expected to produce deathless prose in an atmosphere

of gloom and eucalyptus.'

'Yes, dear,' said Mother vaguely.

'What we all need,' said Larry, getting into his stride again, 'is sunshine... a country

where we can grow.'

'Yes, dear, that would be nice,' agreed Mother, not really listening.

'I had a letter from George this morning - he says Corfu's wonderful. Why don't we

pack up and go to Greece ?'

‘Very well, dear, if you like,' said Mother unguardedly.

Where Larry was concerned she was generally very careful not to commit herself.

'When ?' asked Larry, rather surprised at this cooperation.

Mother, perceiving that she had made a tactical error, cautiously lowered Easy

Recipes from Rajputana.

'Well, I think it would be a sensible idea if you were to go on ahead, dear, and arrange

things. Then you can write and tell me if it's nice, and we all can follow,' she said cleverly.

Larry gave her a withering look.

'You said that when I suggested going to Spain,' he reminded her, 'and I sat for two

interminable months in Seville, waiting for you to come out, while you did nothing except

write me massive letters about drains and drinking-water, as though I was the Town

Clerk or something. No, if we're going to Greece, let's all go together.'

'You do exaggerate, Larry,' said Mother plaintively; 'anyway, I can't go just like that. I

have to arrange something about this house.'

'Arrange ? Arrange what, for heaven's sake ? Sell it.'

'I can't do that, dear,' said Mother, shocked.

'Why not?'

'But I've only just bought it.'

'Sell it while it's still untarnished, then.'

'Don't be ridiculous, dear,' said Mother firmly; 'that's quite out of the question. It would

be madness.'

So we sold the house and fled from the gloom of the English summer, like a flock of

migrating swallows.

We all travelled light, taking with us only what we considered to be the bare essentials of

life. When we opened our luggage for Customs inspection, the contents of our bags

were a fair indication of character and interests. Thus Margo's luggage contained a

multitude of diaphanous garments, three books on slimming, and a regiment of small

bottles each containing some elixir guaranteed to cure acne. Leslie's case held a couple

of roll-top pullovers and a pair of trousers which were wrapped round two revolvers, an

air-pistol, a book called Be Your Own Gunsmith, and a large bottle of oil that leaked. Larry

was accompanied by two trunks of books and a brief-case containing his clothes.

Mother's luggage was sensibly divided between clothes and various volumes on cooking

and gardening. I travelled with only those items that I thought necessary to relieve the

tedium of a long journey: four books on natural history, a butterfly net, a dog, and a jamjar

full of caterpillars all in imminent danger of turning into chrysalids. Thus, by our

standards fully equipped, we left the clammy shores of England.

France rain-washed and sorrowful, Switzerland like a Christmas cake; Italy

exuberant, noisy, and smelly, were passed, leaving only confused memories. The tiny

ship throbbed away from the heel of Italy out into the twilit sea, and as we slept in our

stuffy cabins, somewhere in that tract of moon-polished water we passed the invisible

dividing-line and entered the bright, looking-glass world of Greece. Slowly this sense of

change seeped down to us, and so, at dawn, we awoke restless and went on deck.

The sea lifted smooth blue muscles of wave as it stirred in the dawn-light, and the foam

of our wake spread gently behind us like a white peacock's tail, glinting with bubbles.

The sky was pale and stained with yellow on the eastern horizon. Ahead lay a

chocolate-brown smudge of land, huddled in mist, with a frill of foam at its base. This

was Corfu, and we strained our eyes to make out the exact shapes of the mountains, to

discover valleys, peaks, ravines, and beaches, but it remained a silhouette. Then

suddenly the sun shifted over the horizon, and the sky turned the smooth enamelled blue

of a jay's eye. The endless, meticulous curves of the sea flamed for an instant and then

changed to a deep royal purple flecked with green. The mist lifted in quick, lithe

ribbons, and before us lay the island, the mountains as though sleeping beneath a

crumpled blanket of brown, the folds stained with the green of olive-groves. Along the

shore curved beaches as white as tusks among tottering cities of brilliant gold, red, and

white rocks. We rounded the northern cape, a smooth shoulder of rust-red cliff carved into

a series of giant caves. The dark waves lifted our wake and carried it gently towards

them, and then, at their very mouths, it crumpled and hissed thirstily among the rocks.

Rounding the cape, we left the mountains, and the island sloped gently down, blurred

with the silver and green iridescence of olives, with here and there an admonishing

finger of black cypress against the sky. The shallow sea in the bays was butterfly blue, and

even above the sound of the ship's engines we could hear, faintly ringing from the shore 

like a chorus of tiny voices, the shrill, triumphant cries of the cicadas.